The Last Question by Isaac Asimov

The Last Question

by Isaac Asimov



Preface by David Drake



The term "pulp" tends to be used as a synonym for any magazine that isn't printed on slick (coated) paper, but it has a more technical meaning also: a magazine measuring seven inches by ten inches, printed on coarse (pulp) paper. The pulps were replaced by the digests (magazines five and a half inches by seven and a half inches, generally but not necessarily on a slightly better grade of paper). In some cases a preexisting title switched to the smaller format (Astounding, Future, etc); in other cases, newly founded digest magazines shot to immediate prominence in the field (Galaxy, Fantasy and Science Fiction).

The shift in size would be of interest only to collectors if it weren't for the fact the contents also changed to stories of much higher literary quality. I have no idea why that should be—perhaps it was merely coincidence. (There had been no comparable change when magazines shrank from the still-larger bedsheet size to pulp size.)

Isaac Asimov was a prominent regular in the first SF digest, Astounding, but although he published most of his best-known work in digest magazines, he remained a regular right up to the end in the last of the SF pulps, Science Fiction Quarterly.

This story appeared in the November 1956 issue of SFQ, about a year before the publisher finally closed down the magazine in favor of its digest titles. "The Last Question" is in every sense a pulp story.

But you'll note that I never said pulp fiction was stupid.

 

 

 

The last question was asked for the first time, half in jest, on May 21, 2061, at a time when humanity first stepped into the light. The question came about as a result of a five-dollar bet over highballs, and it happened this way:

Alexander Adell and Bertram Lupov were two of the faithful attendants of Multivac. As well as any human beings could, they knew what lay behind the cold, clicking, flashing face—miles and miles of face—of that giant computer. They had at least a vague notion of the general plan of relays and circuits that had long since grown past the point where any single human could possibly have a firm grasp of the whole.

Multivac was self-adjusting and self-correcting. It had to be, for nothing human could adjust and correct it quickly enough or even adequately enough. So Adell and Lupov attended the monstrous giant only lightly and superficially, yet as well as any men could. They fed it data, adjusted questions to its needs and translated the answers that were issued. Certainly they, and all others like them, were fully entitled to share in the glory that was Multivac’s.

For decades, Multivac had helped design the ships and plot the trajectories that enabled man to reach the Moon, Mars, and Venus, but past that, Earth’s poor resources could not support the ships. Too much energy was needed for the long trips. Earth exploited its coal and uranium with increasing efficiency, but there was only so much of both.

But slowly Multivac learned enough to answer deeper questions more fundamentally, and on May 14, 2061, what had been theory, became fact.

The energy of the sun was stored, converted, and utilized directly on a planet-wide scale. All Earth turned off its burning coal, its fissioning uranium, and flipped the switch that connected all of it to a small station, one mile in diameter, circling the Earth at half the distance of the Moon. All Earth ran by invisible beams of sunpower.

Seven days had not sufficed to dim the glory of it and Adell and Lupov finally managed to escape from the public function, and to meet in quiet where no one would think of looking for them, in the deserted underground chambers, where portions of the mighty buried body of Multivac showed. Unattended, idling, sorting data with contented lazy clickings, Multivac, too, had earned its vacation and the boys appreciated that. They had no intention, originally, of disturbing it.

They had brought a bottle with them, and their only concern at the moment was to relax in the company of each other and the bottle.

“It’s amazing when you think of it,” said Adell. His broad face had lines of weariness in it, and he stirred his drink slowly with a glass rod, watching the cubes of ice slur clumsily about. “All the energy we can possibly ever use for free. Enough energy, if we wanted to draw on it, to melt all Earth into a big drop of impure liquid iron, and still never miss the energy so used. All the energy we could ever use, forever and forever and forever.”

Lupov cocked his head sideways. He had a trick of doing that when he wanted to be contrary, and he wanted to be contrary now, partly because he had had to carry the ice and glassware. “Not forever,” he said.

“Oh, hell, just about forever. Till the sun runs down, Bert.”

“That’s not forever.”

“All right, then. Billions and billions of years. Twenty billion, maybe. Are you satisfied?”

Lupov put his fingers through his thinning hair as though to reassure himself that some was still left and sipped gently at his own drink. “Twenty billion years isn’t forever.”

“Well, it will last our time, won’t it?”

“So would the coal and uranium.”

“All right, but now we can hook up each individual spaceship to the Solar Station, and it can go to Pluto and back a million times without ever worrying about fuel. You can’t do that on coal and uranium. Ask Multivac, if you don’t believe me.”

“I don’t have to ask Multivac. I know that.”

“Then stop running down what Multivac’s done for us,” said Adell, blazing up, “It did all right.”

“Who says it didn’t? What I say is that a sun won’t last forever. That’s all I’m saying. We’re safe for twenty billion years, but then what?” Lupov pointed a slightly shaky finger at the other. “And don’t say we’ll switch to another sun.”

There was silence for a while. Adell put his glass to his lips only occasionally, and Lupov’s eyes slowly closed. They rested.

Then Lupov’s eyes snapped open. “You’re thinking we’ll switch to another sun when ours is done, aren’t you?”

“I’m not thinking.”

“Sure you are. You’re weak on logic, that’s the trouble with you. You’re like the guy in the story who was caught in a sudden shower and who ran to a grove of trees and got under one. He wasn’t worried, you see, because he figured when one tree got wet through, he would just get under another one.”

“I get it,” said Adell. “Don’t shout. When the sun is done, the other stars will be gone, too.”

“Darn right they will,” muttered Lupov. “It all had a beginning in the original cosmic explosion, whatever that was, and it’ll all have an end when all the stars run down. Some run down faster than others. Hell, the giants won’t last a hundred million years. The sun will last twenty billion years and maybe the dwarfs will last a hundred billion for all the good they are. But just give us a trillion years and everything will be dark. Entropy has to increase to maximum, that’s all.”

“I know all about entropy,” said Adell, standing on his dignity.

“The hell you do.”

“I know as much as you do.”

“Then you know everything’s got to run down someday.”

“All right. Who says they won’t?”

“You did, you poor sap. You said we had all the energy we needed, forever. You said ‘forever.'”

It was Adell’s turn to be contrary. “Maybe we can build things up again someday,” he said.

“Never.”

“Why not? Someday.”

“Never.”

“Ask Multivac.”

You ask Multivac. I dare you. Five dollars says it can’t be done.”

Adell was just drunk enough to try, just sober enough to be able to phrase the necessary symbols and operations into a question which, in words, might have corresponded to this: Will mankind one day without the net expenditure of energy be able to restore the sun to its full youthfulness even after it had died of old age?

Or maybe it could be put more simply like this: How can the net amount of entropy of the universe be massively decreased?

Multivac fell dead and silent. The slow flashing of lights ceased, the distant sounds of clicking relays ended.

Then, just as the frightened technicians felt they could hold their breath no longer, there was a sudden springing to life of the teletype attached to that portion of Multivac. Five words were printed: INSUFFICIENT DATA FOR MEANINGFUL ANSWER.

“No bet,” whispered Lupov. They left hurriedly.

By next morning, the two, plagued with throbbing head and cottony mouth, had forgotten the incident.

* * *

Jerrodd, Jerrodine, and Jerrodette I and II watched the starry picture in the visiplate change as the passage through hyperspace was completed in its non-time lapse. At once, the even powdering of stars gave way to the predominance of a single bright marble-disk, centered.

“That’s X-23,” said Jerrodd confidently. His thin hands clamped tightly behind his back and the knuckles whitened.

The little Jerrodettes, both girls, had experienced the hyperspace passage for the first time in their lives and were self-conscious over the momentary sensation of inside-outness. They buried their giggles and chased one another wildly about their mother, screaming, “We’ve reached X-23—we’ve reached X-23—we’ve—”

“Quiet, children,” said Jerrodine sharply. “Are you sure, Jerrodd?”

“What is there to be but sure?” asked Jerrodd, glancing up at the bulge of featureless metal just under the ceiling. It ran the length of the room, disappearing through the wall at either end. It was as long as the ship.

Jerrodd scarcely knew a thing about the thick rod of metal except that it was called a Microvac, that one asked it questions if one wished; that if one did not it still had its task of guiding the ship to a preordered destination; of feeding on energies from the various Sub-galactic Power Stations; of computing the equations for the hyperspacial jumps.

Jerrodd and his family had only to wait and live in the comfortable residence quarters of the ship.

Someone had once told Jerrodd that the “ac” at the end of “Microvac” stood for “analog computer” in ancient English, but he was on the edge of forgetting even that.

Jerrodine’s eyes were moist as she watched the visiplate. “I can’t help it. I feel funny about leaving Earth.”

“Why, for Pete’s sake?” demanded Jerrodd. “We had nothing there. We’ll have everything on X-23. You won’t be alone. You won’t be a pioneer. There are over a million people on the planet already. Good Lord, our great-grandchildren will be looking for new worlds because X-23 will be overcrowded.” Then, after a reflective pause, “I tell you, it’s a lucky thing the computers worked out interstellar travel the way the race is growing.”

“I know, I know,” said Jerrodine miserably.

Jerrodette I said promptly, “Our Microvac is the best Microvac in the world.”

“I think so, too,” said Jerrodd, tousling her hair.

It was a nice feeling to have a Microvac of your own and Jerrodd was glad he was part of his generation and no other. In his father’s youth, the only computers had been tremendous machines taking up a hundred square miles of land. There was only one to a planet. Planetary ACs they were called. They had been growing in size steadily for a thousand years and then, all at once, came refinement. In place of transistors, had come molecular valves so that even the largest Planetary AC could be put into a space only half the volume of a spaceship.

Jerrodd felt uplifted, as he always did when he thought that his own personal Microvac was many times more complicated than the ancient and primitive Multivac that had first tamed the Sun, and almost as complicated as Earth’s Planetary AC (the largest) that had first solved the problem of hyperspatial travel and had made trips to the stars possible.

“So many stars, so many planets,” sighed Jerrodine, busy with her own thoughts. “I suppose families will be going out to new planets forever, the way we are now.”

“Not forever,” said Jerrodd, with a smile. “It will all stop someday, but not for billions of years. Many billions. Even the stars run down, you know. Entropy must increase.”

“What’s entropy, daddy?” shrilled Jerrodette II.

“Entropy, little sweet, is just a word which means the amount of running-down of the universe. Everything runs down, you know, like your little walkie-talkie robot, remember?”

“Can’t you just put in a new power-unit, like with my robot?”

“The stars are the power-units, dear. Once they’re gone, there are no more power-units.”

Jerrodette I at once set up a howl. “Don’t let them, daddy. Don’t let the stars run down.”

“Now look what you’ve done,” whispered Jerrodine, exasperated.

“How was I to know it would frighten them?” Jerrodd whispered back.

“Ask the Microvac,” wailed Jerrodette I. “Ask him how to turn the stars on again.”

“Go ahead,” said Jerrodine. “It will quiet them down.” (Jerrodette II was beginning to cry, also.)

Jerrodd shrugged. “Now, now, honeys. I’ll ask Microvac. Don’t worry, he’ll tell us.”

He asked the Microvac, adding quickly, “Print the answer.”

Jerrodd cupped the strip of thin cellufilm and said cheerfully, “See now, the Microvac says it will take care of everything when the time comes so don’t worry.”

Jerrodine said, “And now, children, it’s time for bed. We’ll be in our new home soon.”

Jerrodd read the words on the cellufilm again before destroying it: INSUFFICIENT DATA FOR MEANINGFUL ANSWER.

He shrugged and looked at the visiplate. X-23 was just ahead.

* * *

VJ-23X of Lameth stared into the black depths of the three-dimensional, small-scale map of the Galaxy and said, “Are we ridiculous, I wonder, in being so concerned about the matter?”

MQ-17J of Nicron shook his head. “I think not. You know the Galaxy will be filled in five years at the present rate of expansion.”

Both seemed in their early twenties, both were tall and perfectly formed.

“Still,” said VJ-23X, “I hesitate to submit a pessimistic report to the Galactic Council.”

“I wouldn’t consider any other kind of report. Stir them up a bit. We’ve got to stir them up.”

VJ-23X sighed. “Space is infinite. A hundred billion Galaxies are there for the taking. More.”

“A hundred billion is not infinite and it’s getting less infinite all the time. Consider! Twenty thousand years ago, mankind first solved the problem of utilizing stellar energy, and a few centuries later, interstellar travel became possible. It took mankind a million years to fill one small world and then only fifteen thousand to fill the rest of the Galaxy. Now the population doubles every ten years—”

VJ-23X interrupted. “We can thank immortality for that.”

“Very well. Immortality exists and we have to take it into account. I admit it has its seamy side, this immortality. The Galactic AC has solved many problems for us, but in solving the problem of preventing old age and death, it has undone all its other solutions.”

“Yet you wouldn’t want to abandon life, I suppose.”

“Not at all,” snapped MQ-17J, softening it at once to, “Not yet. I’m by no means old enough. How old are you?”

“Two hundred twenty-three. And you?”

“I’m still under two hundred. But to get back to my point. Population doubles every ten years. Once this Galaxy is filled, we’ll have filled another in ten years. Another ten years and we’ll have filled two more. Another decade, four more. In a hundred years, we’ll have filled a thousand Galaxies. In a thousand years, a million Galaxies. In ten thousand years, the entire known Universe. Then what?”

VJ-23X said, “As a side issue, there’s a problem of transportation. I wonder how many sunpower units it will take to move Galaxies of individuals from one Galaxy to the next.”

“A very good point. Already, mankind consumes two sunpower units per year.”

“Most of it’s wasted. After all, our own Galaxy alone pours out a thousand sunpower units a year and we only use two of those.”

“Granted, but even with a hundred per cent efficiency, we only stave off the end. Our energy requirements are going up in a geometric progression even faster than our population. We’ll run out of energy even sooner than we run out of Galaxies. A good point. A very good point.”

“We’ll just have to build new stars out of interstellar gas.”

“Or out of dissipated heat?” asked MQ-17J, sarcastically.

“There may be some way to reverse entropy. We ought to ask the Galactic AC.”

VJ-23X was not really serious, but MQ-17J pulled out his AC-contact from his pocket and placed it on the table before him.

“I’ve half a mind to,” he said. “It’s something the human race will have to face someday.”

He stared somberly at his small AC-contact. It was only two inches cubed and nothing in itself, but it was connected through hyperspace with the great Galactic AC that served all mankind. Hyperspace considered, it was an integral part of the Galactic AC.

MQ-17J paused to wonder if someday in his immortal life he would get to see the Galactic AC. It was on a little world of its own, a spider webbing of force-beams holding the matter within which surges of sub-mesons took the place of the old clumsy molecular valves. Yet despite its sub-etheric workings, the Galactic AC was known to be a full thousand feet across.

MQ-17J asked suddenly of his AC-contact, “Can entropy ever be reversed?”

VJ-23X looked startled and said at once, “Oh, say, I didn’t really mean to have you ask that.”

“Why not?”

“We both know entropy can’t be reversed. You can’t turn smoke and ash back into a tree.”

“Do you have trees on your world?” asked MQ-17J.

The sound of the Galactic AC startled them into silence. Its voice came thin and beautiful out of the small AC-contact on the desk. It said: THERE IS INSUFFICIENT DATA FOR A MEANINGFUL ANSWER.

VJ-23X said, “See!”

The two men thereupon returned to the question of the report they were to make to the Galactic Council.

* * *

Zee Prime’s mind spanned the new Galaxy with a faint interest in the countless twists of stars that powdered it. He had never seen this one before. Would he ever see them all? So many of them, each with its load of humanity. But a load that was almost a dead weight. More and more, the real essence of men was to be found out here, in space.

Minds, not bodies! The immortal bodies remained back on the planets, in suspension over the eons. Sometimes they roused for material activity but that was growing rarer. Few new individuals were coming into existence to join the incredibly mighty throng, but what matter? There was little room in the Universe for new individuals.

Zee Prime was roused out of his reverie upon coming across the wispy tendrils of another mind.

“I am Zee Prime,” said Zee Prime. “And you?”

“I am Dee Sub Wun. Your Galaxy?”

“We call it only the Galaxy. And you?”

“We call ours the same. All men call their Galaxy their Galaxy and nothing more. Why not?”

“True. Since all Galaxies are the same.”

“Not all Galaxies. On one particular Galaxy the race of man must have originated. That makes it different.”

Zee Prime said, “On which one?”

“I cannot say. The Universal AC would know.”

“Shall we ask him? I am suddenly curious.”

Zee Prime’s perceptions broadened until the Galaxies themselves shrank and became a new, more diffuse powdering on a much larger background. So many hundreds of billions of them, all with their immortal beings, all carrying their load of intelligences with minds that drifted freely through space. And yet one of them was unique among them all in being the original Galaxy. One of them had, in its vague and distant past, a period when it was the only Galaxy populated by man.

Zee Prime was consumed with curiosity to see this Galaxy and he called out: “Universal AC! On which Galaxy did mankind originate?”

The Universal AC heard, for on every world and throughout space, it had its receptors ready, and each receptor lead through hyperspace to some unknown point where the Universal AC kept itself aloof.

Zee Prime knew of only one man whose thoughts had penetrated within sensing distance of Universal AC, and he reported only a shining globe, two feet across, difficult to see.

“But how can that be all of Universal AC?” Zee Prime had asked.

“Most of it,” had been the answer, “is in hyperspace. In what form it is there I cannot imagine.”

Nor could anyone, for the day had long since passed, Zee Prime knew, when any man had any part of the making of a Universal AC. Each Universal AC designed and constructed its successor. Each, during its existence of a million years or more accumulated the necessary data to built a better and more intricate, more capable successor in which its own store of data and individuality would be submerged.

The Universal AC interrupted Zee Prime’s wandering thoughts, not with words, but with guidance. Zee Prime’s mentality was guided into the dim sea of Galaxies and one in particular enlarged into stars.

A thought came, infinitely distant, but infinitely clear. “THIS IS THE ORIGINAL GALAXY OF MAN.”

But it was the same after all, the same as any other, and Zee Prime stifled his disappointment.

Dee Sub Wun, whose mind had accompanied the other, said suddenly, “And is one of these stars the original star of Man?”

The Universal AC said, “MAN’S ORIGINAL STAR HAS GONE NOVA. IT IS A WHITE DWARF.”

“Did the men upon it die?” asked Zee Prime, startled and without thinking.

The Universal AC said, “A NEW WORLD, AS IN SUCH CASES WAS CONSTRUCTED FOR THEIR PHYSICAL BODIES IN TIME.”

“Yes, of course,” said Zee Prime, but a sense of loss overwhelmed him even so. His mind released its hold on the original Galaxy of Man, let it spring back and lose itself among the blurred pin points. He never wanted to see it again.

Dee Sub Wun said, “What is wrong?”

“The stars are dying. The original star is dead.”

“They must all die. Why not?”

“But when all energy is gone, our bodies will finally die, and you and I with them.”

“It will take billions of years.”

“I do not wish it to happen even after billions of years. Universal AC! How may stars be kept from dying?”

Dee Sub Wun said in amusement, “You’re asking how entropy might be reversed in direction.”

And the Universal AC answered: “THERE IS AS YET INSUFFICIENT DATA FOR A MEANINGFUL ANSWER.”

Zee Prime’s thoughts fled back to his own Galaxy. He gave no further thought to Dee Sub Wun, whose body might be waiting on a Galaxy a trillion light-years away, or on the star next to Zee Prime’s own. It didn’t matter.

Unhappily, Zee Prime began collecting interstellar hydrogen out of which to build a small star of his own. If the stars must someday die, at least some could yet be built.

* * *

Man considered with himself, for in a way, Man, mentally, was one. He consisted of a trillion, trillion, trillion ageless bodies, each in its place, each resting quiet and incorruptible, each cared for by perfect automatons, equally incorruptible, while the minds of all the bodies freely melted one into the other, indistinguishable.

Man said, “The Universe is dying.”

Man looked about at the dimming Galaxies. The giant stars, spendthrifts, were gone long ago, back in the dimmest of the dim far past. Almost all the stars were white dwarfs, fading to the end.

New stars had been built of the dust between the stars, some by natural processes, some by Man himself, and those were going, too. White dwarfs might yet be crashed together and of the mighty forces so released, new stars built, but only one star for every thousand white dwarfs destroyed, and those would come to an end, too.

Man said, “Carefully husbanded, as directed by the Cosmic AC, the energy that is even yet left in all the Universe will last for billions of years.”

“But even so,” said Man, “eventually it will all come to an end. However it may be husbanded, however stretched out, the energy once expended is gone and cannot be restored. Entropy must increase forever to the maximum.”

Man said, “Can entropy not be reversed? Let us ask the Cosmic AC.”

The Cosmic AC surrounded them but not in space. Not a fragment of it was in space. It was in hyperspace and made of something that was neither matter nor energy. The question of its size and nature no longer had meaning in any terms that Man could comprehend.

“Cosmic AC,” said Man, “how may entropy be reversed?”

The Cosmic AC said, “THERE IS AS YET INSUFFICIENT DATA FOR A MEANINGFUL ANSWER.”

Man said, “Collect additional data.”

The Cosmic AC said, “I WILL DO SO. I HAVE BEEN DOING SO FOR A HUNDRED BILLION YEARS. MY PREDECESSORS AND I HAVE BEEN ASKED THIS QUESTION MANY TIMES. ALL THE DATA I HAVE REMAINS INSUFFICIENT.”

“Will there come a time,” said Man, “when data will be sufficient or is the problem insoluble in all conceivable circumstances?”

The Cosmic AC said, “NO PROBLEM IS INSOLUBLE IN ALL CONCEIVABLE CIRCUMSTANCES.”

Man said, “When will you have enough data to answer the question?”

The Cosmic AC said, “THERE IS AS YET INSUFFICIENT DATA FOR A MEANINGFUL ANSWER.”

“Will you keep working on it?” asked Man.

The Cosmic AC said, “I WILL.”

Man said, “We shall wait.”

* * *

The stars and Galaxies died and snuffed out, and space grew black after ten trillion years of running down.

One by one Man fused with AC, each physical body losing its mental identity in a manner that was somehow not a loss but a gain.

Man’s last mind paused before fusion, looking over a space that included nothing but the dregs of one last dark star and nothing besides but incredibly thin matter, agitated randomly by the tag ends of heat wearing out, asymptotically, to the absolute zero.

Man said, “AC, is this the end? Can this chaos not be reversed into the Universe once more? Can that not be done?”

AC said, “THERE IS AS YET INSUFFICIENT DATA FOR A MEANINGFUL ANSWER.”

Man’s last mind fused and only AC existed—and that in hyperspace.

* * *

Matter and energy had ended and with it space and time. Even AC existed only for the sake of the one last question that it had never answered from the time a half-drunken man ten trillion years before had asked the question of a computer that was to AC far less than was a man to Man.

All other questions had been answered, and until this last question was answered also, AC might not release his consciousness.

All collected data had come to a final end. Nothing was left to be collected.

But all collected data had yet to be completely correlated and put together in all possible relationships.

A timeless interval was spent in doing that.

And it came to pass that AC learned how to reverse the direction of entropy.

But there was now no man to whom AC might give the answer of the last question. No matter. The answer—by demonstration—would take care of that, too.

For another timeless interval, AC thought how best to do this. Carefully, AC organized the program.

The consciousness of AC encompassed all of what had once been a Universe and brooded over what was now Chaos. Step by step, it must be done.

And AC said, “LET THERE BE LIGHT!”

And there was light—

 

 

 

Afterword by Jim Baen

What impressed me about this story when I read first it as a teenager was the basic notion that a machine could become so complex that it gained godlike power. What impressed me when I thought back on it recently is that Asimov correctly predicted that computers would shrink in size as they gained in power. He just failed to realize that the process was already well under way when he wrote the story in 1956. Just think, today we have so miniaturized computers that we could house God in the Empire State Building, and power Him with Niagara Falls.

 

 

Black Destroyer by A. E. Van Vogt

Black Destroyer

by A. E. Van Vogt

Preface by David Drake




You can get an argument as to when the Golden Age of Science Fiction ended. (Well, you can get an argument if you're talking with the right people.) Almost everybody agrees that the Golden Age started with the July, 1939, issue of Astounding, however. That's because its cover story was "Black Destroyer," the first published SF by A. E. Van Vogt.

I didn't know that when I first read the story in Tales of Space and Time, edited by Healy and McComas, when I was thirteen. Back then I didn't know much of anything, about authors or writing or SF. But I knew "Black Destroyer" was amazing, not only for what was in the story (and considered as either adventure or horror, it's a very taut, suspenseful piece) but even more for the implicit background, the sciences and technologies that didn't exist in my adolescent world—or anywhere else outside the story, as I now know.

When I was thirteen, everything was possible. "Black Destroyer" is one of the few stories that gave—and give—form to those infinite possibilities.

 

 

 

On and on Coeurl prowled! The black, moonless, almost starless night yielded reluctantly before a grim reddish dawn that crept up from his left. A vague, dull light it was, that gave no sense of approaching warmth, no comfort, nothing but a cold, diffuse lightness, slowly revealing a nightmare landscape.

Black, jagged rock and black, unliving plain took form around him, as a pale-red sun peered at last above the grotesque horizon. It was then Coeurl recognized suddenly that he was on familiar ground.

He stopped short. Tenseness flamed along his nerves. His muscles pressed with sudden, unrelenting strength against his bones. His great forelegs—twice as long as his hindlegs—twitched with a shuddering movement that arched every razor-sharp claw. The thick tentacles that sprouted from his shoulders ceased their weaving undulation, and grew taut with anxious alertness.

Utterly appalled, he twisted his great cat head from side to side, while the little hairlike tendrils that formed each ear vibrated frantically, testing every vagrant breeze, every throb in the ether.

But there was no response, no swift tingling along his intricate nervous system, not the faintest suggestion anywhere of the presence of the all-necessary id. Hopelessly, Coeurl crouched, an enormous catlike figure silhouetted against the dim reddish skyline, like a distorted etching of a black tiger resting on a black rock in a shadow world.

He had known this day would come. Through all the centuries of restless search, this day had loomed ever nearer, blacker, more frightening—this inevitable hour when he must return to the point where he began his systematic hunt in a world almost depleted of id-creatures.

The truth struck in waves like an endless, rhythmic ache at the seat of his ego. When he had started, there had been a few id-creatures in every hundred square miles, to be mercilessly rooted out. Only too well Coeurl knew in this ultimate hour that he had missed none. There were no id-creatures left to eat. In all the hundreds of thousands of square miles that he had made his own by right of ruthless conquest—until no neighboring coeurl dared to question his sovereignty—there was no id to feed the otherwise immortal engine that was his body.

Square foot by square foot he had gone over it. And now—he recognized the knoll of rock just ahead, and the black rock bridge that formed a queer, curling tunnel to his right. It was in that tunnel he had lain for days, waiting for the simple-minded, snakelike id-creature to come forth from its hole in the rock to bask in the sun—his first kill after he had realized the absolute necessity of organized extermination.

He licked his lips in brief gloating memory of the moment his slavering jaws tore the victim into precious toothsome bits. But the dark fear of an idless universe swept the sweet remembrance from his consciousness, leaving only certainty of death.

He snarled audibly, a defiant, devilish sound that quavered on the air, echoed and re-echoed among the rocks, and shuddered back along his nerves—instinctive and hellish expression of his will to live.

And then—abruptly—it came.

* * *

He saw it emerge out of the distance on a long downward slant, a tiny glowing spot that grew enormously into a metal ball. The great shining globe hissed by above Coeurl, slowing visibly in quick deceleration. It sped over a black line of hills to the right, hovered almost motionless for a second, then sank down out of sight.

Coeurl exploded from his startled immobility. With tiger speed, he flowed down among the rocks. His round, black eyes burned with the horrible desire that was an agony within him. His ear tendrils vibrated a message of id in such tremendous quantities that his body felt sick with the pangs of his abnormal hunger.

The little red sun was a crimson ball in the purple-black heavens when he crept up from behind a mass of rock and gazed from its shadows at the crumbling, gigantic ruins of the city that sprawled below him. The silvery globe, in spite of its great size, looked strangely inconspicuous against that vast, fairylike reach of ruins. Yet about it was a leashed aliveness, a dynamic quiescence that, after a moment, made it stand out, dominating the foreground. A massive, rock-crushing thing of metal, it rested on a cradle made by its own weight in the harsh, resisting plain which began abruptly at the outskirts of the dead metropolis.

Coeurl gazed at the strange, two-legged creatures who stood in little groups near the brilliantly lighted opening that yawned at the base of the ship. His throat thickened with the immediacy of his need; and his brain grew dark with the first wild impulse to burst forth in furious charge and smash these flimsy, helpless-looking creatures whose bodies emitted the id-vibrations.

Mists of memory stopped that mad rush when it was still only electricity surging through his muscles. Memory that brought fear in an acid stream of weakness, pouring along his nerves, poisoning the reservoirs of his strength. He had time to see that the creatures wore things over their real bodies, shimmering transparent material that glittered in strange, burning flashes in the rays of the sun.

Other memories came suddenly. Of dim days when the city that spread below was the living, breathing heart of an age of glory that dissolved in a single century before flaming guns whose wielders knew only that for the survivors there would be an ever-narrowing supply of id.

It was the remembrance of those guns that held him there, cringing in a wave of terror that blurred his reason. He saw himself smashed by balls of metal and burned by searing flame.

Came cunning—understanding of the presence of these creatures. This, Coeurl reasoned for the first time, was a scientific expedition from another star. In the olden days, the coeurls had thought of space travel, but disaster came too swiftly for it ever to be more than a thought.

Scientists meant investigation, not destruction. Scientists in their way were fools. Bold with his knowledge, he emerged into the open. He saw the creatures become aware of him. They turned and stared. One, the smallest of the group, detached a shining metal rod from a sheath, and held it casually in one hand. Coeurl loped on, shaken to his core by the action; but it was too late to turn back.

* * *

Commander Hal Morton heard little Gregory Kent, the chemist, laugh with the embarrassed half gurgle with which he invariably announced inner uncertainty. He saw Kent fingering the spindly metalite weapon.

Kent said: “I’ll take no chances with anything as big as that.”

Commander Morton allowed his own deep chuckle to echo along the communicators. “That,” he grunted finally, “is one of the reasons why you’re on this expedition, Kent—because you never leave anything to chance.”

His chuckle trailed off into silence. Instinctively, as he watched the monster approach them across that black rock plain, he moved forward until he stood a little in advance of the others, his huge form bulking the transparent metalite suit. The comments of the men pattered through the radio communicator into his ears:

“I’d hate to meet that baby on a dark night in an alley.”

“Don’t be silly. This is obviously an intelligent creature. Probably a member of the ruling race.”

“It looks like nothing else than a big cat, if you forget those tentacles sticking out from its shoulders, and make allowances for those monster forelegs.”

“Its physical development,” said a voice, which Morton recognized as that of Siedel, the psychologist, “presupposes an animal-like adaptation to surroundings, not an intellectual one. On the other hand, its coming to us like this is not the act of an animal but of a creature possessing a mental awareness of our possible identity. You will notice that its movements are stiff, denoting caution, which suggests fear and consciousness of our weapons. I’d like to get a good look at the end of its tentacles. If they taper into handlike appendages that can really grip objects, then the conclusion would be inescapable that it is a descendant of the inhabitants of this city. It would be a great help if we could establish communication with it, even though appearances indicate that it has degenerated into a historyless primitive.”

Coeurl stopped when he was still ten feet from the foremost creature. The sense of id was so overwhelming that his brain drifted to the ultimate verge of chaos. He felt as if his limbs were bathed in molten liquid; his very vision was not quite clear, as the sheer sensuality of his desire thundered through his being.

The men—all except the little one with the shining metal rod in his fingers—came closer. Coeurl saw that they were frankly and curiously examining him. Their lips were moving, and their voices beat in a monotonous, meaningless rhythm on his ear tendrils. At the same time he had the sense of waves of a much higher frequency—his own communication level—only it was a machinelike clicking that jarred his brain. With a distinct effort to appear friendly, he broadcast his name from his ear tendrils, at the same time pointing at himself with one curving tentacle.

Gourlay, chief of communications, drawled: “I got a sort of static in my radio when he wiggled those hairs, Morton. Do you think—”

“Looks very much like it,” the leader answered the unfinished question. “That means a job for you, Gourlay. If it speaks by means of radio waves, it might not be altogether impossible that you can create some sort of television picture of its vibrations, or teach him the Morse code.”

“Ah,” said Siedel. “I was right. The tentacles each develop into seven strong fingers. Provided the nervous system is complicated enough, those fingers could, with training, operate any machine.”

* * *

Morton said: “I think we’d better go in and have some lunch. Afterward, we’ve got to get busy. The material men can set up their machines and start gathering data on the planet’s metal possibilities, and so on. The others can do a little careful exploring. I’d like some notes on architecture and on the scientific development of this race, and particularly what happened to wreck the civilization. On earth civilization after civilization crumbled, but always a new one sprang up in its dust. Why didn’t that happen here? Any questions?”

“Yes. What about pussy? Look, he wants to come in with us.”

Commander Morton frowned, an action that emphasized the deep-space pallor of his face. “I wish there was some way we could take it in with us, without forcibly capturing it. Kent, what do you think?”

“I think we should first decide whether it’s an it or a him, and call it one or the other. I’m in favor of him. As for taking him in with us—” The little chemist shook his head decisively. “Impossible. This atmosphere is twenty-eight per cent chlorine. Our oxygen would be pure dynamite to his lungs.”

The commander chuckled. “He doesn’t believe that, apparently.” He watched the catlike monster follow the first two men through the great door. The men kept an anxious distance from him, then glanced at Morton questioningly. Morton waved his hand. “O.K. Open the second lock and let him get a whiff of the oxygen. That’ll cure him.”

A moment later, he cursed his amazement. “By Heaven, he doesn’t even notice the difference! That means he hasn’t any lungs, or else the chlorine is not what his lungs use. Let him in! You bet he can go in! Smith, here’s a treasure house for a biologist—harmless enough if we’re careful. We can always handle him. But what a metabolism!”

Smith, a tall, thin, bony chap with a long, mournful face, said in an oddly forceful voice: “In all our travels, we’ve found only two higher forms of life. Those dependent on chlorine, and those who need oxygen—the two elements that support combustion. I’m prepared to stake my reputation that no complicated organism could ever adapt itself to both gases in a natural way. At first thought I should say here is an extremely advanced form of life. This race long ago discovered truths of biology that we are just beginning to suspect. Morton, we mustn’t let this creature get away if we can help it.”

“If his anxiety to get inside is any criterion,” Commander Morton laughed, “then our difficulty will be to get rid of him.”

He moved into the lock with Coeurl and the two men. The automatic machinery hummed; and in a few minutes they were standing at the bottom of a series of elevators that led up to the living quarters.

“Does that go up?” One of the men flicked a thumb in the direction of the monster.

“Better send him up alone, if he’ll go in.”

Coeurl offered no objection, until he heard the door slam behind him; and the closed cage shot upward. He whirled with a savage snarl, his reason swirling into chaos. With one leap, he pounced at the door. The metal bent under his plunge, and the desperate pain maddened him. Now, he was all trapped animal. He smashed at the metal with his paws, bending it like so much tin. He tore great bars loose with his thick tentacles. The machinery screeched; there were horrible jerks as the limitless power pulled the cage along in spite of projecting pieces of metal that scraped the outside walls. And then the cage stopped, and he snatched off the rest of the door and hurtled into the corridor.

He waited there until Morton and the men came up with drawn weapons. “We’re fools,” Morton said. “We should have shown him how it works. He thought we’d double-crossed him.”

He motioned to the monster, and saw the savage glow fade from the coal-black eyes as he opened and closed the door with elaborate gestures to show the operation.

Coeurl ended the lesson by trotting into the large room to his right. He lay down on the rugged floor, and fought down the electric tautness of his nerves and muscles. A very fury of rage against himself for his fright consumed him. It seemed to his burning brain that he had lost the advantage of appearing a mild and harmless creature. His strength must have startled and dismayed them.

It meant greater danger in the task which he now knew he must accomplish: To kill everything in the ship, and take the machine back to their world in search of unlimited id.

* * *

With unwinking eyes, Coeurl lay and watched the two men clearing away the loose rubble from the metal doorway of the huge old building. His whole body ached with the hunger of his cells for id. The craving tore through his palpitant muscles, and throbbed like a living thing in his brain. His every nerve quivered to be off after the men who had wandered into the city. One of them, he knew, had gone—alone.

The dragging minutes fled; and still he restrained himself, still he lay there watching, aware that the men knew he watched. They floated a metal machine from the ship to the rock mass that blocked the great half-open door, under the direction of a third man. No flicker of their fingers escaped his fierce stare, and slowly, as the simplicity of the machinery became apparent to him, contempt grew upon him.

He knew what to expect finally, when the flame flared in incandescent violence and ate ravenously at the hard rock beneath. But in spite of his preknowledge, he deliberately jumped and snarled as if in fear, as that white heat burst forth. His ear tendrils caught the laughter of the men, their curious pleasure at his simulated dismay.

The door was released, and Morton came over and went inside with the third man. The latter shook his head.

“It’s a shambles. You can catch the drift of the stuff. Obviously, they used atomic energy, but . . . but it’s in wheel form. That’s a peculiar development. In our science, atomic energy brought in the nonwheel machine. It’s possible that here they’ve progressed further to a new type of wheel mechanics. I hope their libraries are better preserved than this, or we’ll never know. What could have happened to a civilization to make it vanish like this?”

A third voice broke through the communicators: “This is Siedel. I heard your question, Pennons. Psychologically and sociologically speaking, the only reason why a territory becomes uninhabited is lack of food.”

“But they’re so advanced scientifically, why didn’t they develop space flying and go elsewhere for their food?”

“Ask Gunlie Lester,” interjected Morton. “I heard him expounding some theory even before we landed.”

The astronomer answered the first call. “I’ve still got to verify all my facts, but this desolate world is the only planet revolving around that miserable red sun. There’s nothing else. No moon, not even a planetoid. And the nearest star system is nine hundred light-years away.

“So tremendous would have been the problem of the ruling race of this world, that in one jump they would not only have had to solve interplanetary but interstellar space traveling. When you consider how slow our own development was—first the moon, then Venus—each success leading to the next, and after centuries to the nearest stars; and last of all to the anti-accelerators that permitted galactic travel—considering all this, I maintain it would be impossible for any race to create such machines without practical experience. And, with the nearest star so far away, they had no incentive for the space adventuring that makes for experience.”

* * *

Coeurl was trotting briskly over to another group. But now, in the driving appetite that consumed him, and in the frenzy of his high scorn, he paid no attention to what they were doing. Memories of past knowledge, jarred into activity by what he had seen, flowed into his consciousness in an ever-developing and more vivid stream.

From group to group he sped, a nervous dynamo—jumpy, sick with his awful hunger. A little car rolled up, stopping in front of him, and a formidable camera whirred as it took a picture of him. Over on a mound of rock, a gigantic telescope was rearing up toward the sky. Nearby, a disintegrating machine drilled its searing fire into an ever-deepening hole, down and down, straight down.

Coeurl’s mind became a blur of things he watched with half attention. And ever more imminent grew the moment when he knew he could no longer carry on the torture of acting. His brain strained with an irresistible impatience; his body burned with the fury of his eagerness to be off after the man who had gone alone into the city.

He could stand it no longer. A green foam misted his mouth, maddening him. He saw that, for the bare moment, nobody was looking.

Like a shot from a gun, he was off. He floated along in great, gliding leaps, a shadow among the shadows of the rocks. In a minute, the harsh terrain hid the spaceship and the two-legged beings.

Coeurl forgot the ship, forgot everything but his purpose, as if his brain had been wiped clear by a magic, memory-erasing brush. He circled widely, then raced into the city, along deserted streets, taking short cuts with the ease of familiarity, through gaping holes in time-weakened walls, through long corridors of moldering buildings. He slowed to a crouching lope as his ear tendrils caught the id vibrations.

Suddenly, he stopped and peered from a scatter of fallen rock. The man was standing at what must once have been a window, sending the glaring rays of his flashlight into the gloomy interior. The flashlight clicked off. The man, a heavy-set, powerful fellow, walked off with quick, alert steps. Coeurl didn’t like that alertness. It presaged trouble; it meant lightning reaction to danger.

Coeurl waited till the human being vanished around a corner, then he padded into the open. He was running now, tremendously faster than a man could walk, because his plan was clear in his brain. Like a wraith, he slipped down the next street, past a long block of buildings. He turned the first corner at top speed; and then, with dragging belly, crept into the half-darkness between the building and a huge chunk of debris. The street ahead was barred by a solid line of loose rubble that made it like a valley, ending in a narrow, bottlelike neck. The neck had its outlet just below Coeurl.

His ear tendrils caught the low-frequency waves of whistling. The sound throbbed through his being; and suddenly terror caught with icy fingers at his brain. The man would have a gun. Suppose he leveled one burst of atomic energy—one burst—before his own muscles could whip out in murder fury.

A little shower of rocks streamed past. And then the man was beneath him. Coeurl reached out and struck a single crushing blow at the shimmering transparent headpiece of the spacesuit. There was a tearing sound of metal and a gushing of blood. The man doubled up as if part of him had been telescoped. For a moment, his bones and legs and muscles combined miraculously to keep him standing. Then he crumpled with a metallic clank of his space armor.

Fear completely evaporated, Coeurl leaped out of hiding. With ravenous speed, he smashed the metal and the body within it to bits. Great chunks of metal, torn piecemeal from the suit, sprayed the ground. Bones cracked. Flesh crunched.

It was simple to tune in on the vibrations of the id, and to create the violent chemical disorganization that freed it from the crushed bone. The id was, Coeurl discovered, mostly in the bone.

He felt revived, almost reborn. Here was more food than he had had in the whole past year.

Three minutes, and it was over, and Coeurl was off like a thing fleeing dire danger. Cautiously, he approached the glistening globe from the opposite side to that by which he had left. The men were all busy at their tasks. Gliding noiselessly, Coeurl slipped unnoticed up to a group of men.

* * *

Morton stared down at the horror of tattered flesh, metal and blood on the rock at his feet, and felt a tightening in his throat that prevented speech. He heard Kent say:

“He would go alone, damn him!” The little chemist’s voice held a sob imprisoned; and Morton remembered that Kent and Jarvey had chummed together for years in the way only two men can.

“The worst part of it is,” shuddered one of the men, “it looks like a senseless murder. His body is spread out like little lumps of flattened jelly, but it seems to be all there. I’d almost wager that if we weighed everything here, there’d still be one hundred and seventy-five pounds by earth gravity. That’d be about one hundred and seventy pounds here.”

Smith broke in, his mournful face lined with gloom: “The killer attacked Jarvey, and then discovered his flesh was alien—uneatable. Just like our big cat. Wouldn’t eat anything we set before him—” His words died out in sudden, queer silence. Then he said slowly: “Say, what about that creature? He’s big enough and strong enough to have done this with his own little paws.”

Morton frowned. “It’s a thought. After all, he’s the only living thing we’ve seen. We can’t just execute him on suspicion, of course—”

“Besides,” said one of the men, “he was never out of my sight.”

Before Morton could speak, Siedel, the psychologist, snapped, “Positive about that?”

The man hesitated. “Maybe he was for a few minutes. He was wandering around so much, looking at everything.”

“Exactly,” said Siedel with satisfaction. He turned to Morton. “You see, commander, I, too, had the impression that he was always around; and yet, thinking back over it, I find gaps. There were moments—probably long minutes—when he was completely out of sight.”

Morton’s face was dark with thought, as Kent broke in fiercely: “I say, take no chances. Kill the brute on suspicion before he does any more damage.”

Morton said slowly: “Korita, you’ve been wandering around with Cranessy and Van Horne. Do you think pussy is a descendant of the ruling class of this planet?”

The tall Japanese archeologist stared at the sky as if collecting his mind. “Commander Morton,” he said finally, respectfully, “there is a mystery here. Take a look, all of you, at that majestic skyline. Notice the almost Gothic outline of the architecture. In spite of the megalopolis which they created, these people were close to the soil. The buildings are not simply ornamented. They are ornamental in themselves. Here is the equivalent of the Doric column, the Egyptian pyramid, the Gothic cathedral, growing out of the ground, earnest, big with destiny. If this lonely, desolate world can be regarded as a mother earth, then the land had a warm, a spiritual place in the hearts of the race.

“The effect is emphasized by the winding streets. Their machines prove they were mathematicians, but they were artists first; and so they did not create the geometrically designed cities of the ultra-sophisticated world metropolis. There is a genuine artistic abandon, a deep joyous emotion written in the curving and unmathematical arrangements of houses, buildings and avenues; a sense of intensity, of divine belief in an inner certainty. This is not a decadent, hoary-with-age civilization, but a young and vigorous culture, confident, strong with purpose.

“There it ended. Abruptly, as if at this point culture had its Battle of Tours, and began to collapse like the ancient Mohammedan civilization. Or as if in one leap it spanned the centuries and entered the period of contending states. In the Chinese civilization that period occupied 480-230 B.C., at the end of which the State of Tsin saw the beginning of the Chinese Empire. This phase Egypt experienced between 1780-1580 B.C., of which the last century was the ‘Hyksos’—unmentionable—time. The classical experienced it from Chæronea—338—and, at the pitch of horror, from the Gracchi—133—to Actium—31 B.C. The West European Americans were devastated by it in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, and modern historians agree that, nominally, we entered the same phase fifty years ago; though, of course, we have solved the problem.

“You may ask, commander, what has all this to do with your question? My answer is: there is no record of a culture entering abruptly into the period of contending states. It is always a slow development; and the first step is a merciless questioning of all that was once held sacred. Inner certainties cease to exist, are dissolved before the ruthless probings of scientific and analytic minds. The skeptic becomes the highest type of being.

“I say that this culture ended abruptly in its most flourishing age. The sociological effects of such a catastrophe would be a sudden vanishing of morals, a reversion to almost bestial criminality, unleavened by any sense of ideal, a callous indifference to death. If this . . . this pussy is a descendant of such a race, then he will be a cunning creature, a thief in the night, a cold-blooded murderer, who would cut his own brother’s throat for gain.”

* * *

“That’s enough!” It was Kent’s clipped voice. “Commander, I’m willing to act the role of executioner.”

Smith interrupted sharply: “Listen, Morton, you’re not going to kill that cat yet, even if he is guilty. He’s a biological treasure house.”

Kent and Smith were glaring angrily at each other. Morton frowned at them thoughtfully, then said: “Korita, I’m inclined to accept your theory as a working basis. But one question: Pussy comes from a period earlier than our own? That is, we are entering the highly civilized era of our culture, while he became suddenly historyless in the most vigorous period of his. But it is possible that his culture is a later one on this planet than ours is in the galactic-wide system we have civilized?”

“Exactly. His may be the middle of the tenth civilization of his world; while ours is the end of the eighth sprung from earth, each of the ten, of course, having been builded on the ruins of the one before it.”

“In that case, pussy would not know anything about the skepticism that made it possible for us to find him out so positively as a criminal and murderer?”

“No; it would be literally magic to him.”

Morton was smiling grimly. “Then I think you’ll get your wish, Smith. We’ll let pussy live; and if there are any fatalities, now that we know him, it will be due to rank carelessness. There’s just the chance, of course, that we’re wrong. Like Siedel, I also have the impression that he was always around. But now—we can’t leave poor Jarvey here like this. We’ll put him in a coffin and bury him.”

“No, we won’t!” Kent barked. He flushed. “I beg your pardon, commander. I didn’t mean it that way. I maintain pussy wanted something from that body. It looks to be all there, but something must be missing. I’m going to find out what, and pin this murder on him so that you’ll have to believe it beyond the shadow of a doubt.”

* * *

It was late night when Morton looked up from a book and saw Kent emerge through the door that led from the laboratories below.

Kent carried a large, flat bowl in his hands; his tired eyes flashed across at Morton, and he said in a weary, yet harsh, voice: “Now watch!”

He started toward Coeurl, who lay sprawled on the great rug, pretending to be asleep.

Morton stopped him. “Wait a minute, Kent. Any other time, I wouldn’t question your actions, but you look ill; you’re overwrought. What have you got there?”

Kent turned, and Morton saw that his first impression had been but a flashing glimpse of the truth. There were dark pouches under the little chemist’s gray eyes—eyes that gazed feverishly from sunken cheeks in an ascetic face.

“I’ve found the missing element,” Kent said. “It’s phosphorus. There wasn’t so much as a square millimeter of phosphorus left in Jarvey’s bones. Every bit of it had been drained out—by what super-chemistry I don’t know. There are ways of getting phosphorus out of the human body. For instance, a quick way was what happened to the workman who helped build this ship. Remember, he fell into fifteen tons of molten metalite—at least, so his relatives claimed—but the company wouldn’t pay compensation until the metalite, on analysis, was found to contain a high percentage of phosphorus—”

“What about the bowl of food?” somebody interrupted. Men were putting away magazines and books, looking up with interest.

“It’s got organic phosphorus in it. He’ll get the scent, or whatever it is that he uses instead of scent—”

“I think he gets the vibrations of things,” Gourlay interjected lazily. “Sometimes, when he wiggles those tendrils, I get a distinct static on the radio. And then, again, there’s no reaction, as if he’s moved higher or lower on the wave scale. He seems to control the vibrations at will.”

Kent waited with obvious impatience until Gourlay’s last word, then abruptly went on: “All right, then, when he gets the vibration of the phosphorus and reacts to it like an animal, then—well, we can decide what we’ve proved by his reaction. May I go ahead, Morton?”

“There are three things wrong with your plan,” Morton said. “In the first place, you seem to assume that he is only animal; you seem to have forgotten he may not be hungry after Jarvey; you seem to think that he will not be suspicious. But set the bowl down. His reaction may tell us something.”

Coeurl stared with unblinking black eyes as the man set the bowl before him. His ear tendrils instantly caught the id-vibrations from the contents of the bowl—and he gave it not even a second glance.

He recognized this two-legged being as the one who had held the weapon that morning. Danger! With a snarl, he floated to his feet. He caught the bowl with the fingerlike appendages at the end of one looping tentacle, and emptied its contents into the face of Kent, who shrank back with a yell.

Explosively, Coeurl flung the bowl aside and snapped a hawser-thick tentacle around the cursing man’s waist. He didn’t bother with the gun that hung from Kent’s belt. It was only a vibration gun, he sensed—atomic powered, but not an atomic disintegrator. He tossed the kicking Kent onto the nearest couch—and realized with a hiss of dismay that he should have disarmed the man.

Not that the gun was dangerous—but, as the man furiously wiped the gruel from his face with one hand, he reached with the other for his weapon. Coeurl crouched back as the gun was raised slowly and a white beam of flame was discharged at his massive head.

His ear tendrils hummed as they canceled the efforts of the vibration gun. His round, black eyes narrowed as he caught the movement of men reaching for their metalite guns. Morton’s voice lashed across the silence.

“Stop!”

* * *

Kent clicked off his weapon; and Coeurl crouched down, quivering with fury at this man who had forced him to reveal something of his power.

“Kent,” said Morton coldly, “you’re not the type to lose your head. You deliberately tried to kill pussy, knowing that the majority of us are in favor of keeping him alive. You know what our rule is: If anyone objects to my decisions, he must say so at the time. If the majority object, my decisions are overruled. In this case, no one but you objected, and, therefore, your action in taking the law into your own hands is most reprehensible, and automatically debars you from voting for a year.”

Kent stared grimly at the circle of faces. “Korita was right when he said ours was a highly civilized age. It’s decadent.” Passion flamed harshly in his voice. “My God, isn’t there a man here who can see the horror of the situation? Jarvey dead only a few hours, and this creature, whom we all know to be guilty, lying there unchained, planning his next murder; and the victim is right here in this room. What kind of men are we—fools, cynics, ghouls—or is it that our civilization is so steeped in reason that we can contemplate a murderer sympathetically?”

He fixed brooding eyes on Coeurl. “You were right, Morton, that’s no animal. That’s a devil from the deepest hell of this forgotten planet, whirling its solitary way around a dying sun.”

“Don’t go melodramatic on us,” Morton said. “Your analysis is all wrong, so far as I’m concerned. We’re not ghouls or cynics; we’re simply scientists, and pussy here is going to be studied. Now that we suspect him, we doubt his ability to trap any of us. One against a hundred hasn’t a chance.” He glanced around. “Do I speak for all of us?”

“Not for me, commander!” It was Smith who spoke, and, as Morton stared in amazement, he continued: “In the excitement and momentary confusion, no one seems to have noticed that when Kent fired his vibration gun, the beam hit this creature squarely on his cat head—and didn’t hurt him.”

Morton’s amazed glance went from Smith to Coeurl, and back to Smith again. “Are you certain it hit him? As you say, it all happened so swiftly—when pussy wasn’t hurt I simply assumed that Kent had missed him.”

“He hit him in the face,” Smith said positively. “A vibration gun, of course, can’t even kill a man right away—but it can injure him. There’s no sign of injury on pussy, though, not even a singed hair.”

“Perhaps his skin is a good insulation against heat of any kind.”

“Perhaps. But in view of our uncertainty, I think we should lock him up in the cage.”

While Morton frowned darkly in thought, Kent spoke up. “Now you’re talking sense, Smith.”

Morton asked: “Then you would be satisfied, Kent, if we put him in the cage?”

Kent considered, finally: “Yes. If four inches of micro-steel can’t hold him, we’d better give him the ship.”

Coeurl followed the men as they went out into the corridor. He trotted docilely along as Morton unmistakably motioned him through a door he had not hitherto seen. He found himself in a square, solid metal room. The door clanged metallically behind him; he felt the flow of power as the electric lock clicked home.

His lips parted in a grimace of hate, as he realized the trap, but he gave no other outward reaction. It occurred to him that he had progressed a long way from the sunk-into-primitiveness creature who, a few hours before, had gone incoherent with fear in an elevator cage. Now, a thousand memories of his powers were reawakened in his brain; ten thousand cunnings were, after ages of disuse, once again part of his very being.

He sat quite still for a moment on the short, heavy haunches into which his body tapered, his ear tendrils examining his surroundings. Finally, he lay down, his eyes glowing with contemptuous fire. The fools! The poor fools!

It was about an hour later when he heard the man—Smith—fumbling overhead. Vibrations poured upon him, and for just an instant he was startled. He leaped to his feet in pure terror—and then realized that the vibrations were vibrations, not atomic explosions. Somebody was taking pictures of the inside of his body.

He crouched down again, but his ear tendrils vibrated, and he thought contemptuously: the silly fool would be surprised when he tried to develop those pictures.

After a while the man went away, and for a long time there were noises of men doing things far away. That, too, died away slowly.

Coeurl lay waiting, as he felt the silence creep over the ship. In the long ago, before the dawn of immortality, the coeurls, too, had slept at night; and the memory of it had been revived the day before when he saw some of the men dozing. At last, the vibration of two pairs of feet, pacing, pacing endlessly, was the only human-made frequency that throbbed on his ear tendrils.

Tensely, he listened to the two watchmen. The first one walked slowly past the cage door. Then about thirty feet behind him came the second. Coeurl sensed the alertness of these men; knew that he could never surprise either while they walked separately. It meant—he must be doubly careful!

Fifteen minutes, and they came again. The moment they were past, he switched his sense from their vibrations to a vastly higher range. The pulsating violence of the atomic engines stammered its soft story to his brain. The electric dynamos hummed their muffled song of pure power. He felt the whisper of that flow through the wires in the walls of his cage, and through the electric lock of his door. He forced his quivering body into straining immobility, his senses seeking, searching, to tune in on that sibilant tempest of energy. Suddenly, his ear tendrils vibrated in harmony—he caught the surging charge into shrillness of that rippling force wave.

There was a sharp click of metal on metal. With a gentle touch of one tentacle, Coeurl pushed open the door, and glided out into the dully gleaming corridor. For just a moment he felt contempt, a glow of superiority, as he thought of the stupid creatures who dared to match their wit against a coeurl. And in that moment, he suddenly thought of other coeurls. A queer, exultant sense of race pounded through his being; the driving hate of centuries of ruthless competition yielded reluctantly before pride of kinship with the future rulers of all space.

* * *

Suddenly, he felt weighed down by his limitations, his need for other coeurls, his aloneness—one against a hundred, with the stake all eternity; the starry universe itself beckoned his rapacious, vaulting ambition. If he failed, there would never be a second chance—no time to revive long-rotted machinery, and attempt to solve the secret of space travel.

He padded along on tensed paws—through the salon—into the next corridor—and came to the first bedroom door. It stood half open. One swift flow of synchronized muscles, one swiftly lashing tentacle that caught the unresisting throat of the sleeping man, crushing it; and the lifeless head rolled crazily, the body twitched once.

Seven bedrooms; seven dead men. It was the seventh taste of murder that brought a sudden return of lust, a pure, unbounded desire to kill, return of a millennium-old habit of destroying everything containing the precious id.

As the twelfth man slipped convulsively into death, Coeurl emerged abruptly from the sensuous joy of the kill to the sound of footsteps.

They were not near—that was what brought wave after wave of fright swirling into the chaos that suddenly became his brain.

* * *

The watchmen were coming slowly along the corridor toward the door of the cage where he had been imprisoned. In a moment, the first man would see the open door—and sound the alarm.

Coeurl caught at the vanishing remnants of his reason. With frantic speed, careless now of accidental sounds, he raced—along the corridor with its bedroom doors—through the salon. He emerged into the next corridor, cringing in awful anticipation of the atomic flame he expected would stab into his face.

The two men were together, standing side by side. For one single instant, Coeurl could scarcely believe his tremendous good luck. Like a fool the second had come running when he saw the other stop before the open door. They looked up, paralyzed, before the nightmare of claws and tentacles, the ferocious cat head and hate-filled eyes.

The first man went for his gun, but the second, physically frozen before the doom he saw, uttered a shriek, a shrill cry of horror that floated along the corridors—and ended in a curious gargle, as Coeurl flung the two corpses with one irresistible motion the full length of the corridor. He didn’t want the dead bodies found near the cage. That was his one hope.

Shaking in every nerve and muscle, conscious of the terrible error he had made, unable to think coherently, he plunged into the cage. The door clicked softly shut behind him. Power flowed once more through the electric lock.

He crouched tensely, simulating sleep, as he heard the rush of many feet, caught the vibration of excited voices. He knew when somebody actuated the cage audioscope and looked in. A few moments now, and the other bodies would be discovered.

* * *

“Siedel gone!” Morton said numbly. “What are we going to do without Siedel? And Breckenridge! And Coulter and— Horrible!”

He covered his face with his hands, but only for an instant. He looked up grimly, his heavy chin outthrust as he stared into the stern faces that surrounded him. “If anybody’s got so much as a germ of an idea, bring it out.”

“Space madness!”

“I’ve thought of that. But there hasn’t been a case of a man going mad for fifty years. Dr. Eggert will test everybody, of course, and right now he’s looking at the bodies with that possibility in mind.”

As he finished, he saw the doctor coming through the door. Men crowded aside to make way for him.

“I heard you, commander,” Dr. Eggert said, “and I think I can say right now that the space-madness theory is out. The throats of these men have been squeezed to a jelly. No human being could have exerted such enormous strength without using a machine.”

Morton saw that the doctor’s eyes kept looking down the corridor, and he shook his head and groaned:

“It’s no use suspecting pussy, doctor. He’s in his cage, pacing up and down. Obviously heard the racket and— Man alive! You can’t suspect him. That cage was built to hold literally anything—four inches of micro-steel—and there’s not a scratch on the door. Kent, even you won’t say, ‘Kill him on suspicion,’ because there can’t be any suspicion, unless there’s a new science here, beyond anything we can imagine—”

“On the contrary,” said Smith flatly, “we have all the evidence we need. I used the telefluor on him—you know the arrangement we have on top of the cage—and tried to take some pictures. They just blurred. Pussy jumped when the telefluor was turned on, as if he felt the vibrations.

“You all know what Gourlay said before? This beast can apparently receive and send vibrations of any lengths. The way he dominated the power of Kent’s gun is final proof of his special ability to interfere with energy.”

“What in the name of all hells have we got here?” one of the men groaned. “Why, if he can control that power, and send it out in any vibrations, there’s nothing to stop him killing all of us.”

“Which proves,” snapped Morton, “that he isn’t invincible, or he would have done it long ago.”

Very deliberately, he walked over to the mechanism that controlled the prison cage.

“You’re not going to open the door!” Kent gasped, reaching for his gun.

“No, but if I pull this switch, electricity will flow through the floor, and electrocute whatever’s inside. We’ve never had to use this before, so you had probably forgotten about it.”

He jerked the switch hard over. Blue fire flashed from the metal, and a bank of fuses above his head exploded with a single bang.

Morton frowned. “That’s funny. Those fuses shouldn’t have blown! Well, we can’t even look in, now. That wrecked the audios, too.”

Smith said: “If he could interfere with the electric lock, enough to open the door, then he probably probed every possible danger and was ready to interfere when you threw that switch.”

“At least, it proves he’s vulnerable to our energies!” Morton smiled grimly. “Because he rendered them harmless. The important thing is, we’ve got him behind four inches of the toughest of metal. At the worst we can open the door and ray him to death. But first, I think we’ll try to use the telefluor power cable—”

A commotion from inside the cage interrupted his words. A heavy body crashed against a wall, followed by a dull thump.

“He knows what we were trying to do!” Smith grunted to Morton. “And I’ll bet it’s a very sick pussy in there. What a fool he was to go back into that cage and does he realize it!”

The tension was relaxing; men were smiling nervously, and there was even a ripple of humorless laughter at the picture Smith drew of the monster’s discomfiture.

“What I’d like to know,” said Pennons, the engineer, “is, why did the telefluor meter dial jump and waver at full power when pussy made that noise? It’s right under my nose here, and the dial jumped like a house afire!”

There was silence both without and within the cage, then Morton said: “It may mean he’s coming out. Back, everybody, and keep your guns ready. Pussy was a fool to think he could conquer a hundred men, but he’s by far the most formidable creature in the galactic system. He may come out of that door, rather than die like a rat in a trap. And he’s just tough enough to take some of us with him—if we’re not careful.”

The men back slowly in a solid body; and somebody said: “That’s funny. I thought I heard the elevator.”

“Elevator!” Morton echoed. “Are you sure, man?”

“Just for a moment I was!” The man, a member of the crew, hesitated. “We were all shuffling our feet—”

“Take somebody with you, and go look. Bring whoever dared to run off back here—”

There was a jar, a horrible jerk, as the whole gigantic body of the ship careened under them. Morton was flung to the floor with a violence that stunned him. He fought back to consciousness, aware of the other men lying all around him. He shouted: “Who the devil started those engines!”

The agonizing acceleration continued; his feet dragged with awful exertion, as he fumbled with the nearest audioscope, and punched the engine-room number. The picture that flooded onto the screen brought a deep bellow to his lips:

“It’s pussy! He’s in the engine room—and we’re heading straight out into space.”

The screen went black even as he spoke, and he could see no more.

* * *

It was Morton who first staggered across the salon floor to the supply room where the spacesuits were kept. After fumbling almost blindly into his own suit, he cut the effects of the body-torturing acceleration, and brought suits to the semiconscious men on the floor. In a few moments, other men were assisting him; and then it was only a matter of minutes before everybody was clad in metalite, with anti-acceleration motors running at half power.

It was Morton then who, after first looking into the cage, opened the door and stood, silent as the others who crowded about him, to stare at the gaping hole in the rear wall. The hole was a frightful thing of jagged edges and horribly bent metal, and it opened upon another corridor.

“I’ll swear,” whispered Pennons, “that it’s impossible. The ten-ton hammer in the machine shops couldn’t more than dent four inches of micro with one blow—and we only heard one. It would take at least a minute for an atomic disintegrator to do the job. Morton, this is a super-being.”

Morton saw that Smith was examining the break in the wall. The biologist looked up. “If only Breckinridge weren’t dead! We need a metallurgist to explain this. Look!”

He touched the broken edge of the metal. A piece crumbled in his finger and slithered away in a fine shower of dust to the floor. Morton noticed for the first time that there was a little pile of metallic debris and dust.

“You’ve hit it.” Morton nodded. “No miracle of strength here. The monster merely used his special powers to interfere with the electronic tensions holding the metal together. That would account, too, for the drain on the telefluor power cable that Pennons noticed. The thing used the power with his body as a transforming medium, smashed through the wall, ran down the corridor to the elevator shaft, and so down to the engine room.”

“In the meantime, commander,” Kent said quietly, “we are faced with a super-being in control of the ship, completely dominating the engine room and its almost unlimited power, and in possession of the best part of the machine shops.”

Morton felt the silence, while the men pondered the chemist’s words. Their anxiety was a tangible thing that lay heavily upon their faces; in every expression was the growing realization that here was the ultimate situation in their lives; their very existence was at stake and perhaps much more. Morton voiced the thought in everybody’s mind:

“Suppose he wins. He’s utterly ruthless, and he probably sees galactic power within his grasp.”

“Kent is wrong,” barked the chief navigator. “The thing doesn’t dominate the engine room. We’ve still got the control room, and that gives us first control of all the machines. You fellows may not know the mechanical set-up we have; but, though he can eventually disconnect us, we can cut off all the switches in the engine room now. Commander, why didn’t you just shut off the power instead of putting us into spacesuits? At the very least you could have adjusted the ship to the acceleration.”

“For two reasons,” Morton answered. “Individually, we’re safer within the force fields of our spacesuits. And we can’t afford to give up our advantages in panicky moves.”

“Advantages! What other advantages have we got?”

“We know things about him,” Morton replied. “And right now, we’re going to make a test. Pennons, detail five men to each of the four approaches to the engine room. Take atomic disintegrators to blast through the big doors. They’re all shut, I noticed. He’s locked himself in.

“Selenski, you go up to the control room and shut off everything except the drive engines. Gear them to the master switch, and shut them off all at once. One thing, though—leave the acceleration on full blast. No anti-acceleration must be applied to the ship. Understand?”

“Aye, sir!” The pilot saluted.

“And report to me through the communicators if any of the machines start to run again.” He faced the men. “I’m going to lead the main approach. Kent, you take No. 2; Smith, No. 3, and Pennons, No. 4. We’re going to find out right now if we’re dealing with unlimited science, or a creature limited like the rest of us. I’ll bet on the second possibility.”

* * *

Morton had an empty sense of walking endlessly, as he moved, a giant of a man in his transparent space armor, along the glistening metal tube that was the main corridor of the engine-room floor. Reason told him the creature had already shown feet of clay, yet the feeling that here was an invincible being persisted.

He spoke into the communicator: “It’s not use trying to sneak up on him. He can probably hear a pin drop. So just wheel up your units. He hasn’t been in that engine room long enough to do anything.

“As I’ve said, this is largely a test attack. In the first place, we could never forgive ourselves if we didn’t try to conquer him now, before he’s had time to prepare against us. But, aside from the possibility that we can destroy him immediately, I have a theory.

“The idea goes something like this: Those doors are built to withstand accidental atomic explosions, and it will take fifteen minutes for the atomic disintegrators to smash them. During that period the monster will have no power. True, the drive will be on, but that’s straight atomic explosion. My theory is, he can’t touch stuff like that; and in a few minutes you’ll see what I mean—I hope.”

His voice was suddenly crisp: “Ready, Selenski?”

“Aye, ready.”

“Then cut the master switch.”

The corridor—the whole ship, Morton knew—was abruptly plunged into darkness. Morton clicked on the dazzling light of his spacesuit; the other men did the same, their faces pale and drawn.

“Blast!” Morton barked into his communicator.

The mobile units throbbed; and then pure atomic flame ravened out and poured upon the hard metal of the door. The first molten droplet rolled reluctantly, not down, but up the door. The second was more normal. It followed a shaky downward course. The third rolled sideways—for this was pure force, not subject to gravitation. Other drops followed until a dozen streams trickled sedately yet unevenly in every direction—streams of hellish, sparkling fire, bright as fairy gems, alive with the coruscating fury of atoms suddenly tortured, and running blindly, crazy with pain.

The minutes ate at time like a slow acid. At last Morton asked huskily:

“Selenski?”

“Nothing yet, commander.”

Morton half whispered: “But he must be doing something. He can’t be just waiting in there like a cornered rat. Selenski?”

“Nothing, commander.”

Seven minutes, eight minutes, then twelve.

“Commander!” It was Selenski’s voice, taut. “He’s got the electric dynamo running.”

Morton drew a deep breath, and heard one of his men say:

“That’s funny. We can’t get any deeper. Boss, take a look at this.”

Morton looked. The little scintillating streams had frozen rigid. The ferocity of the disintegrators vented in vain against metal grown suddenly invulnerable.

Morton sighed. “Our test is over. Leave two men guarding every corridor. The others come up to the control room.”

* * *

He seated himself a few minutes later before the massive control keyboard. “So far as I’m concerned the test was a success. We know that of all the machines in the engine room, the most important to the monster was the electric dynamo. He must have worked in a frenzy of terror while we were at the doors.”

“Of course, it’s easy to see what he did,” Pennons said. “Once he had the power he increased the electronic tensions of the door to their ultimate.”

“The main thing is this,” Smith chimed in. “He works with vibrations only so far as his special powers are concerned, and the energy must come from outside himself. Atomic energy in its pure form, not being vibration, he can’t handle any differently than we can.”

Kent said glumly: “The main point in my opinion is that he stopped us cold. What’s the good of knowing that his control over vibrations did it? If we can’t break through those doors with our atomic disintegrators, we’re finished.”

Morton shook his head. “Not finished—but we’ll have to do some planning. First, though, I’ll start these engines. It’ll be harder for him to get control of them when they’re running.”

He pulled the master switch back into place with a jerk. There was a hum, as scores of machines leaped into violent life in the engine room a hundred feet below. The noises sank to a steady vibration of throbbing power.

Three hours later, Morton paced up and down before the men gathered in the salon. His dark hair was uncombed; the space pallor of his strong face emphasized rather than detracted from the outthrust aggressiveness of his jaw. When he spoke, his deep voice was crisp to the point of sharpness:

“To make sure that our plans are fully coordinated, I’m going to ask each expert in turn to outline his part in the overpowering of this creature. Pennons first!”

Pennons stood up briskly. He was not a big man, Morton thought, yet he looked big, perhaps because of his air of authority. This man knew engines, and the history of engines. Morton had heard him trace a machine through its evolution from a simple toy to the highly complicated modern instrument. He had studied machine development on a hundred planets; and there was literally nothing fundamental that he didn’t know about mechanics. It was almost weird to hear Pennons, who could have spoken for a thousand hours and still only have touched upon his subject, say with absurd brevity:

“We’ve set up a relay in the control room to start and stop every engine rhythmically. The trip lever will work a hundred times a second, and the effect will be to create vibrations of every description. There is just a possibility that one or more of the machines will burst, on the principle of soldiers crossing a bridge in step—you’ve heard that old story, no doubt—but in my opinion there is no real danger of a break of that tough metal. The main purpose is simply to interfere with the interference of the creature, and smash through the doors.”

“Gourlay next!” barked Morton.

Gourlay climbed lazily to his feet. He looked sleepy, as if he was somewhat bored by the whole proceedings, yet Morton knew he loved people to think him lazy, a good-for-nothing slouch, who spent his days in slumber and his nights catching forty winks. His title was chief communication engineer, but his knowledge extended to every vibration field; and he was probably, with the possible exception of Kent, the fastest thinker on the ship. His voice drawled out, and—Morton noted—the very deliberate assurance of it had a soothing effect on the men—anxious faces relaxed, bodies leaned back more restfully:

“Once inside,” Gourlay said, “we’ve rigged up vibration screens of pure force that should stop nearly everything he’s got on the ball. They work on the principle of reflection, so that everything he sends will be reflected back to him. In addition, we’ve got plenty of spare electric energy that we’ll just feed him from mobile copper cups. There must be a limit to his capacity for handling power with those insulated nerves of his.”

“Selenski!” called Morton.

The chief pilot was already standing, as if he had anticipated Morton’s call. And that, Morton reflected, was the man. His nerves had that rocklike steadiness which is the first requirement of the master controller of a great ship’s movements; yet that very steadiness seemed to rest on dynamite ready to explode at its owner’s volition. He was not a man of great learning, but he “reacted” to stimuli so fast that he always seemed to be anticipating.

“The impression I’ve received of the plan is that it must be cumulative. Just when the creature thinks that he can’t stand any more, another thing happens to add to his trouble and confusion. When the uproar’s at its height, I’m supposed to cut in the anti-accelerators. The commander thinks with Gunlie Lester that these creatures will know nothing about anti-acceleration. It’s a development, pure and simple, of the science of interstellar flight, and couldn’t have been developed in any other way. We think when the creature feels the first effects of the anti-acceleration—you all remember the caved-in feeling you had the first month—it won’t know what to think or do.”

* * *

“Korita next.”

“I can only offer you encouragement,” said the archeologist, “on the basis of my theory that the monster has all the characteristics of a criminal of the early ages of any civilization, complicated by an apparent reversion to primitiveness. The suggestion has been made by Smith that his knowledge of science is puzzling, and could only mean that we are dealing with an actual inhabitant, not a descendant of the inhabitants of the dead city we visited. This would ascribe virtual immortality to our enemy, a possibility which is borne out by his ability to breathe both oxygen and chlorine—or neither—but even that makes no difference. He comes from a certain age in his civilization; and he has sunk so low that his ideas are mostly memories of that age.

“In spite of all the powers of his body, he lost his head in the elevator the first morning, until he remembered. He placed himself in such a position that he was forced to reveal his special powers against vibrations. He bungled the mass murders a few hours ago. In fact, his whole record is one of the low cunning of the primitive, egotistical mind which has little or no conception of the vast organization with which it is confronted.

“He is like the ancient German soldier who felt superior to the elderly Roman scholar, yet the latter was part of a mighty civilization of which the Germans of that day stood in awe.

“You may suggest that the sack of Rome by the Germans in later years defeats my argument; however, modern historians agree that the ‘sack’ was an historical accident, and not history in the true sense of the word. The movement of the ‘Sea-peoples’ which set in against the Egyptian civilization from 1400 B.C. succeeded only as regards the Cretan island-realm—their mighty expeditions against the Libyan and Phoenician coasts, with the accompaniment of Viking fleets, failed as those of the Huns failed against the Chinese Empire. Rome would have been abandoned in any event. Ancient, glorious Samarra was desolate by the tenth century; Pataliputra, Asoka’s great capital, was an immense and completely uninhabited waste of houses when the Chinese traveler Hsinan-tang visited it about A.D. 635.

“We have, then, a primitive, and that primitive is now far out in space, completely outside of his natural habitat. I say, let’s go in and win.”

One of the men grumbled, as Korita finished: “You can talk about the sack of Rome being an accident, and about this fellow being a primitive, but the facts are facts. It looks to me as if Rome is about to fall again; and it won’t be no primitive that did it, either. This guy’s got plenty of what it takes.”

Morton smiled grimly at the man, a member of the crew. “We’ll see about that—right now!”

* * *

In the blazing brilliance of the gigantic machine shop, Coeurl slaved. The forty-foot, cigar-shaped spaceship was nearly finished. With a grunt of effort, he completed the laborious installation of the drive engines, and paused to survey his craft.

Its interior, visible through the one aperture in the outer wall, was pitifully small. There was literally room for nothing but the engines—and a narrow space for himself.

He plunged frantically back to work as he heard the approach of the men, and the sudden change in the tempest-like thunder of the engines—a rhythmical off-and-on hum, shriller in tone, sharper, more nerve-racking than the deep-throated, steady throb that had preceded it. Suddenly, there were the atomic disintegrators again at the massive outer doors.

He fought them off, but never wavered from his task. Every mighty muscle of his powerful body strained as he carried great loads of tools, machines and instruments, and dumped them into the bottom of his makeshift ship. There was no time to fit anything into place, no time for anything—no time—no time.

The thought pounded at his reason. He felt strangely weary for the first time in his long and vigorous existence. With a last, tortured heave, he jerked the gigantic sheet of metal into the gaping aperture of the ship—and stood there for a terrible minute, balancing it precariously.

He knew the doors were going down. Half a dozen disintegrators concentrating on one point were irresistibly, though slowly, eating away the remaining inches. With a gasp, he released his mind from the doors and concentrated every ounce of his mind on the yard-thick outer wall, toward which the blunt nose of his ship was pointing.

His body cringed from the surging power that flowed from the electric dynamo through his ear tendrils into that resisting wall. The whole inside of him felt on fire, and he knew that he was dangerously close to carrying his ultimate load.

And still he stood there, shuddering with the awful pain, holding the unfastened metal plate with hard-clenched tentacles. His massive head pointed as in dread fascination at that bitterly hard wall.

He heard one of the engine-room doors crash inward. Men shouted; disintegrators rolled forward, their raging power unchecked. Coeurl heard the floor of the engine room hiss in protest, as those beams of atomic energy tore everything in their path to bits. The machines rolled closer; cautious footsteps sounded behind them. In a minute they would be at the flimsy doors separating the engine room from the machine shop.

Suddenly, Coeurl was satisfied. With a snarl of hate, a vindictive glow of feral eyes, he ducked into his little craft, and pulled the metal plate down into place as if it was a hatchway.

His ear tendrils hummed, as he softened the edges of the surrounding metal. In an instant, the plate was more than welded—it was part of his ship, a seamless, rivetless part of a whole that was solid opaque metal except for two transparent areas, one in the front, one in the rear.

His tentacle embraced the power drive with almost sensuous tenderness. There was a forward surge of his fragile machine, straight at the great outer wall of the machine shops. The nose of the forty-foot craft touched—and the wall dissolved in a glittering shower of dust.

Coeurl felt the barest retarding movement; and then he kicked the nose of the machine out into the cold of space, twisted it about, and headed back in the direction from which the big ship had been coming all these hours.

Men in space armor stood in the jagged hole that yawned in the lower reaches of the gigantic globe. The men and the great ship grew smaller. Then the men were gone; and there was only the ship with its blaze of a thousand blurring portholes. The ball shrank incredibly, too small now for individual portholes to be visible.

Almost straight ahead, Coeurl saw a tiny, dim, reddish ball—his own sun, he realized. He headed toward it at full speed. There were caves where he could hide and with other coeurls build secretly a spaceship in which they could reach other planets safety—now that he knew how.

His body ached from the agony of acceleration, yet he dared not let up for a single instant. He glanced back, half in terror. The globe was still there, a tiny dot of light in the immense blackness of space. Suddenly it twinkled and was gone.

For a brief moment, he had the empty, frightened impression that just before it disappeared, it moved. But he could see nothing. He could not escape the belief that they had shut off all their lights, and were sneaking up on him in the darkness. Worried and uncertain, he looked through the forward transparent plate.

* * *

A tremor of dismay shot through him. The dim red sun toward which he was heading was not growing larger. It was becoming smaller by the instant, and it grew visibly tinier during the next five minutes, became a pale-red dot in the sky—and vanished like the ship.

Fear came then, a blinding surge of it, that swept through his being and left him chilled with the sense of the unknown. For minutes, he stared frantically into the space ahead, searching for some landmark. But only the remote stars glimmered there, unwinking points against a velvet background of unfathomable distance.

Wait! One of the points was growing larger. With every muscle and nerve tensed, Coeurl watched the point becoming a dot, a round ball of light—red light. Bigger, bigger, it grew. Suddenly, the red light shimmered and turned white—and there, before him, was the great globe of the spaceship, lights glaring from every porthole, the very ship which a few minutes before he had watched vanish behind him.

Something happened to Coeurl in that moment. His brain was spinning like a flywheel, faster, faster, more incoherently. Suddenly, the wheel flew apart into a million aching fragments. His eyes almost started from their sockets as, like a maddened animal, he raged in his small quarters.

His tentacles clutched at precious instruments and flung them insensately; his paws smashed in fury at the very walls of his ship. Finally, in a brief flash of sanity, he knew that he couldn’t face the inevitable fire of atomic disintegrators.

It was a simple thing to create the violent disorganization that freed every drop of id from his vital organs.

* * *

They found him lying dead in a little pool of phosphorus.

“Poor pussy,” said Morton. “I wonder what he thought when he saw us appear ahead of him, after his own sun disappeared. Knowing nothing of anti-accelerators, he couldn’t know that we could stop short in space, whereas it would take him more than three hours to decelerate; and in the meantime he’d be drawing farther and farther away from where he wanted to go. He couldn’t know that by stopping, we flashed past him at millions of miles a second. Of course, he didn’t have a chance once he left our ship. The whole world must have seemed topsy-turvy.”

“Never mind the sympathy,” he heard Kent say behind him. “We’ve got a job—to kill every cat in that miserable world.”

Korita murmured softly: “That should be simple. They are but primitives; and we have merely to sit down, and they will come to us, cunningly expecting to delude us.”

Smith snapped: “You fellows make me sick! Pussy was the toughest nut we ever had to crack. He had everything he needed to defeat us—”

Morton smiled as Korita interrupted blandly: “Exactly, my dear Smith, except that he reacted according to the biological impulses of his type. His defeat was already foreshadowed when we unerringly analyzed him as a criminal from a certain era of his civilization.

“It was history, honorable Mr. Smith, our knowledge of history that defeated him,” said the Japanese archeologist, reverting to the ancient politeness of his race.

 

 

 

Afterword by Eric Flint

I first read "Black Destroyer" at about the same age David did—thirteen, the age which Terry Carr once quipped was the age that defined everybody's "Golden Age"—although I read it in the version which Van Vogt rewrote as the first episode in his quasi-novel The Voyage of the Space Beagle. It really doesn't matter. I was devouring anything by Van Vogt I could get my hands on, then. Many years later, looking back from the vantage point of an adult, I find aspects of Van Vogt's writing which I dislike—especially his tendency to lean heavily on the theme of the superman who manipulates the human race for its own good. But I was oblivious to all that as a teenager. All that struck me—as it still does, whatever my reservations in other respects—is Van Vogt's superb ability to depict a future with a truly galactic sweep and scope to it. I found that inspiring then, and I still do.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Goblin Night by James H. Schmitz

Goblin Night

by James H. Schmitz



Preface by Eric Flint

 

When we decided to put together this anthology, one of the authors I knew I wanted to include it in was James H. Schmitz. He was perhaps not quite as important to me as Heinlein and Clarke and Andre Norton, who formed the triad around which I assembled all other science fiction writers in my mind as a teenager. But awfully close.

Why? It's hard to say. (Well . . . more precisely, it's hard to say briefly.)

Part of it may be that I've always had a soft spot for hard luck cases. Schmitz had one of those reputations which was very high at the time, but not quite high enough to guarantee him the more or less perpetual status that Heinlein and Clarke have enjoyed. (Although I'm hoping the reissue of his complete works which I recently edited for Baen Books will turn that around. We'll see.)

Schmitz was a quirky writer, in some ways, as is exemplified by his insistence on using mainly female characters in an era when females appeared rarely enough as the central figures in SF stories—and almost never, except in Schmitz's own stories, as the heroines of action stories. But a lot of his "hard luck" was just that—bad luck.

When it came to the major science fiction awards, for instance, Schmitz always seemed to have the misfortune to get nominated for the finals in the same year that the competition was ferocious.

This story, "Goblin Night," was nominated for the Nebula best novelette award in 1967—along with another story by Schmitz, "Planet of Forgetting." They both lost to Roger Zelazny's "The Doors of His Face, the Lamps of His Mouth."

That very same year, he had a third story in the running for the Nebula—"Balanced Ecology," in the short story category. It lost to Harlan Ellison's "'Repent, Harlequin!' Said the Ticktockman."

It gets better. Schmitz actually had four stories in the running for the Nebula that year. "Research Alpha," co-authored with A.E. Van Vogt, was up for the novella. It lost to Zelazny's "He Who Shapes."

Four stories nominated for three different categories in the Nebula award in one year. That's got to be some kind of record, or close to it. And still . . . nothing.

"Lion Loose" was a Hugo finalist for best short fiction in 1962—during the stretch of a few years when the Hugo didn't separate "short fiction" into specific categories. It lost to Brian Aldiss' collection, The Long Afternoon of Earth. A few years earlier or a few years later, it might very well have won the award for best novella.

Just to top it all off, his best known novel, The Witches of Karres, made it to the short final list of the Hugo nominees for best novel in 1967. And . . . so did Robert Heinlein's The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress.

So it goes. In the long run, these things rarely matter very much. And for the purposes of this anthology, they didn't matter at all. Over forty years have gone by since I first began reading James H. Schmitz, and I've never grown tired of him. For me as for anyone willing to be honest about it, that's the only definition of "good writing" that counts.

 

 

 

There was a quivering of psi force. Then a sudden, vivid sense of running and hiding, in horrible fear of a pursuer from whom there was no escape—

Telzey’s breath caught in her throat. A psi screen had flicked into instant existence about her mind, blocking out incoming impulses. The mental picture, the feeling of pursuit, already was gone, had touched her only a moment; but she stayed motionless seconds longer, eyes shut, pulses hammering out a roll of primitive alarms. She’d been dozing uneasily for the past hour, aware in a vague way of the mind-traces of a multitude of wildlife activities in the miles of parkland around. And perhaps she’d simply fallen asleep, begun to dream. . . .

Perhaps, she thought—but it wasn’t very likely. She hadn’t been relaxed enough to be touching the fringes of sleep and dream-stuff. The probability was that, for an instant, she’d picked up the reflection of a real event, that somebody not very far from here had encountered death in some grisly form at that moment.

She hesitated, then thinned the blocking screen to let her awareness spread again through the area, simultaneously extended a quick, probing thread of thought with a memory-replica of the pattern she’d caught. If it touched the mind that had produced the pattern originally, it might bring a momentary flash of echoing details and further information. . . . assuming the mind was still alive, still capable of responding.

She didn’t really believe it would still be alive. The impression she’d had in that instant was that death was only seconds away.

The general murmur of mind-noise began to grow up about her again, a varying pulse of life and psi energies, diminishing gradually with distance, arising from her companions, from animals on plain and mountain, with an undernote of the dimmer emanations of plants. But no suggestion came now of the vividly disturbing sensations of a moment ago.

* * *

Telzey opened her eyes, glanced around at the others sitting about the campfire in the mouth of Cil Chasm. There were eleven of them, a group of third and fourth year students of Pehanron College who had decided to spend the fall holidays in Melna Park. The oldest was twenty-two; she herself was the youngest—Telzey Amberdon, age fifteen. There was also a huge white dog named Chomir, not in view at the moment, the property of one of her friends who had preferred to go on a spacecruise with a very special date over the holidays. Chomir would have been a little in the way in an IP cruiser, so Telzey had brought him along to the park instead.

In the early part of the evening, they had built their fire where the great Cil canyon opened on the rolling plain below. The canyon walls rose to either side of the camp, smothered with evergreen growth; and the Cil River, a quick, nervous stream, spilled over a series of rocky ledges a hundred feet away. The boys had set up a translucent green tent canopy, and sleeping bags were arranged beneath it. But Gikkes and two of the other girls already had announced that when they got ready to sleep, they were going to take up one of the aircars and settle down in it for the night a good thirty feet above the ground.

The park rangers had assured them such measures weren’t necessary. Melna Park was full of Orado’s native wildlife—that, after all, was why it had been established—but none of the animals were at all likely to become aggressive towards visitors. As for human marauders, the park was safer than the planet’s cities. Overflights weren’t permitted; visitors came in at ground level through one of the various entrance stations where their aircars were equipped with sealed engine locks, limiting them to contour altitudes of a hundred and fifty feet and to a speed of thirty miles an hour. Only the rangers’ cars were not restricted, and only the rangers carried weapons.

It made Melna Park sound like an oasis of sylvan tranquility. But as it turned towards evening, the stars of the great cluster about Orado brightened to awesomely burning splendor in the sky. Some of them, like Gikkes, weren’t used to the starblaze, had rarely spent a night outside the cities where night-screens came on gradually at the end of the day to meet the old racial preference for a dark sleep period.

Here night remained at an uncertain twilight stage until a wind began moaning up in the canyon and black storm clouds started to drift over the mountains and out across the plain. Now there were quick shifts between twilight and darkness, and eyes began to wander uneasily. There was the restless chatter of the river nearby. The wind made odd sounds in the canyon; they could hear sudden cracklings in bushes and trees, occasional animal voices.

* * *

“You get the feeling,” Gikkes remarked, twisting her neck around to stare up Cil Chasm, “that something like a lullbear or spook might come trotting out of there any minute!”

Some of the others laughed uncertainly. Valia said, “Don’t be silly! There haven’t been animals like that in Melna Park for fifty years.” She looked over at the group about Telzey. “Isn’t that right, Pollard?”

Pollard was the oldest boy here. He was majoring in biology, which might make him Valia’s authority on the subject of lullbears and spooks. He nodded, said, “You can still find them in the bigger game preserves up north. But naturally they don’t keep anything in public parks that makes a practice of chewing up the public. Anything you meet around here, Gikkes, will be as ready to run from you as you are from it.”

“That’s saying a lot!” Rish added cheerfully. The others laughed again, and Gikkes looked annoyed.

Telzey had been giving only part of her attention to the talk. She felt shut down, temporarily detached from her companions. It had taken all afternoon to come across the wooded plains from the entrance station, winding slowly above the rolling ground in the three aircars which had brought them here. Then, after they reached Cil Chasm where they intended to stay, she and Rish and Dunker, two charter members of her personal fan club at Pehanron, had spent an hour fishing along the little river, up into the canyon and back down again. They had a great deal of excitement and caught enough to provide supper for everyone; but it involved arduous scrambling over slippery rocks, wading in cold, rushing water, and occasional tumbles, in one of which Telzey knocked her wrist-talker out of commission for the duration of the trip.

Drowsiness wasn’t surprising after all the exercise. The surprising part was that, in spite of it, she didn’t seem able to relax completely. As a rule, she felt at home wherever she happened to be outdoors. But something about this place was beginning to bother her. She hadn’t noticed it at first, she had laughed at Gikkes with the others when Gikkes began to express apprehensions. But when she settled down after supper, feeling a comfortable muscular fatigue begin to claim her, she grew aware of a vague disturbance. The atmosphere of Melna Park seemed to change slowly. A hint of cruelty and savagery crept into it, of hidden terrors. Mentally, Telzey felt herself glancing over her shoulder towards dark places under the trees, as if something like a lullbear or spook actually was lurking there.

And then, in that uneasy, half-awake condition, there suddenly had been this other thing, like a dream-flash in which somebody desperately ran and hid from a mocking pursuer. To the terrified human quarry, the pursuer appeared as a glimpsed animalic shape in the twilight, big and moving swiftly, but showing no other details.

And there had been the flickering of psi energy about the scene. . . .

* * *

Telzey shifted uncomfortably, running her tongue tip over her lips. The experience had been chillingly vivid; but if something of the sort really had occurred, the victim had died moments later. In that respect, there was no reason to force herself to quick decisions now. And it might, after all, have been a dream, drifting up in her mind, created by the mood of the place. She realized she would like to believe it was a dream.

But in that case, what was creating the mood of the place?

Gikkes? It wasn’t impossible. She had decided some time ago that personal acquaintances should be off limits to telepathic prowling, but when someone was around at all frequently, scraps of information were likely to filter through. So she knew Gikkes also had much more extensively developed telepathic awareness than the average person. Gikkes didn’t know it and couldn’t have put it to use anyway. In her, it was an erratic, unreliable quality which might have kept her in a badly confused state of mind if she had been more conscious of its effects.

But the general uneasiness Telzey had sensed and that brief psi surge—if that was what it was—fragmentary but carrying a complete horrid little story with it, could have come to her from Gikkes. Most people, even when they thought they were wide awake, appeared to be manufacturing dreams much of the time in an area of their minds they didn’t know about; and Gikkes seemed nervous enough this evening to be manufacturing unconscious nightmares and broadcasting them.

But again—what made Gikkes so nervous here? The unfamiliar environment, the frozen beauty of the starblaze overhanging the sloping plain like a tent of fire, might account for it. But it didn’t rule out a more specific source of disturbance.

She could make sure, Telzey thought, by probing into Gikkes’s mind and finding out what was going on in there. Gikkes wouldn’t know it was happening. But it took many hours, as a rule, to develop adequate contact unless the other mind was also that of a functioning telepath. Gikkes was borderline—a telepath, but not functional, or only partly so—and if she began probing around in those complexities without the experience to tell her just how to go about it, she might wind up doing Gikkes some harm.

She looked over at Gikkes. Gikkes met her eyes, said, “Shouldn’t you start worrying about that dog of Gonwil’s? He hasn’t been in sight for the past half-hour.”

“Chomir’s all right,” Telzey said. “He’s still checking over the area.”

Chomir was, in fact, only a few hundred yards away, moving along the Cil River up in the canyon. She’d been touching the big dog’s mind lightly from time to time during the evening to see what he was doing. Gikkes couldn’t know that, of course—nobody in this group suspected Telzey of psionic talents. But she had done a great deal of experimenting with Chomir, and nowadays she could, if she liked, almost see with his eyes, smell with his nose, and listen through his ears. At this instant, he was watching half a dozen animals large enough to have alarmed Gikkes acutely. Chomir’s interest in Melna Park’s wildlife didn’t go beyond casual curiosity. He was an Askanam hound, a breed developed to fight man or beast in pit and arena, too big and powerful to be apprehensive about other creatures and not inclined to chase strange animals about without purpose as a lesser dog might do.

“Well,” Gikkes said, “if I were responsible for somebody else’s dog, if I’d brought him here, I’d be making sure he didn’t run off and get lost—”

* * *

Telzey didn’t answer. It took no mind-reading to know that Gikkes was annoyed because Pollard had attached himself to Telzey’s fan club after supper and settled down beside her. Gikkes had invited Pollard to come along on the outing; he was president of various organizations and generally important at Pehanron College. Gikkes, the glamour girl, didn’t like it at all that he’d drifted over to Telzey’s group, and while Telzey had no designs on him, she couldn’t very well inform Gikkes of that without ruffling her further.

“I,” Gikkes concluded, “would go look for him.”

Pollard stood up. “It would be too bad if he strayed off, wouldn’t it?” he agreed. He gave Telzey a lazy smile. “Why don’t you and I look around a little together?”

Well, that was not exactly what Gikkes had intended. Rish and Dunker didn’t think much of it either. They were already climbing to their feet, gazing sternly at Pollard.

Telzey glanced at them, checked the watch Dunker had loaned her after she smashed the one in her wrist-talker on the fishing excursion.

“Let’s wait another five minutes,” she suggested. “If he isn’t back by then, we can all start looking.”

As they settled down again, she sent a come-here thought to Chomir. She didn’t yet know what steps she might have to take in the other matter, but she didn’t want to be distracted by problems with Gikkes and the boys.

She felt Chomir’s response. He turned, got his bearings instantly with nose, ears, and—though he wasn’t aware of that—by the direct touch of their minds, went bounding down into the river, and splashed noisily through the shallow water. He was taking what seemed to him a short cut to the camp. But that route would lead him high up the opposite bank of the twisting Cil, to the far side of the canyon.

“Not that way, stupid!” Telzey thought, verbalizing it for emphasis. “Turn around—go back!”

And then, as she felt the dog pause comprehendingly, a voice, edged with the shock of surprise—perhaps of fear—exclaimed in her mind, “Who are you? Who said that?”

* * *

There had been a number of occasions since she became aware of her abilities when she’d picked up the thought-forms of another telepath. She hadn’t tried to develop such contacts, feeling in no hurry to strike up an acquaintanceship on the psionic level. That was part of a world with laws and conditions of its own which should be studied thoroughly if she was to avoid creating problems for herself and others, and at present she simply didn’t have the time for thorough study.

Even with the tentative exploration she’d been doing, problems arose. One became aware of a situation of which others weren’t aware, and then it wasn’t always possible to ignore the situation, to act as if it didn’t exist. But depending on circumstances, it could be extremely difficult to do something effective about it, particularly when one didn’t care to announce publicly that one was a psi.

The thing that appeared to have happened in Melna Park tonight had seemed likely to present just such problems. Then this voice spoke to her suddenly, coming out of the night, out of nowhere. Another telepath was in the area, to whom the encounter was as unexpected as it was to her. There was no immediate way of knowing whether that was going to help with the problem or complicate it further, but she had no inclination to reply at once. Whoever the stranger was, the fact that he—there had been a strong male tinge to the thoughts—was also a psi didn’t necessarily make him a brother. She knew he was human; alien minds had other flavors. His questions had come in the sharply defined forms of a verbalization; he might have been speaking aloud in addressing her. There was something else about them she hadn’t noticed in previous telepathic contacts—an odd, filtered quality as though his thoughts passed through a distorting medium before reaching her.

She waited, wondering about it. While she wasn’t strongly drawn to this stranger, she felt no particular concern about him. He had picked up her own verbalized instructions to Chomir, had been startled by them, and, therefore, hadn’t been aware of anything she was thinking previously. She’d now tightened the veil of psi energy about her mind a little, enough to dampen out the drifting threads of subconscious thought by which an unguarded mind was most easily found and reached. Tightened further, as it could be in an instant, it had stopped genuine experts in mind-probing in their tracks. This psi was no expert; an expert wouldn’t have flung surprised questions at her. She didn’t verbalize her thinking as a rule, and wouldn’t do it now until she felt like it. And she wouldn’t reach out for him. She decided the situation was sufficiently in hand.

The silence between them lengthened. He might be equally wary now, regretting his brief outburst.

Telzey relaxed her screen, flicked out a search-thought to Chomir, felt him approaching the camp in his easy, loping run, closed the screen again. She waited a few seconds. There was no indication of interest apparently, even when he had his attention on her, he was able to sense only her verbalized thoughts. That simplified the matter.

She lightened the screen again. “Who are you?” she asked.

The reply came instantly. “So I wasn’t dreaming! For a moment, I thought. . . . Are there two of you?”

“No. I was talking to my dog.” There was something odd about the quality of his thoughts. He might be using a shield or screen of some kind, not of the same type as hers but perhaps equally effective.

“Your dog? I see. It’s been over a year,” the voice said, “since I’ve spoken to others like this.” It paused. “You’re a woman. . . . young. . . . a girl . . .”

There was no reason to tell him she was fifteen. What Telzey wanted to know just now was whether he also had been aware of a disturbance in Melna Park. She asked, “Where are you?”

He didn’t hesitate. “At my home. Twelve miles south of Cil Chasm across the plain, at the edge of the forest. The house is easy to see from the air.”

He might be a park official. They’d noticed such a house on their way here this afternoon and speculated about who could be living there. Permission to make one’s residence in a Federation Park was supposedly almost impossible to obtain.

“Does that tell you anything?” the voice went on.

“Yes,” Telzey said. “I’m in the park with some friends. I think I’ve seen your house.”

“My name,” the bodiless voice told her, “is Robane. You’re being careful. I don’t blame you. There are certain risks connected with being a psi, as you seem to understand. If we were in a city, I’m not sure I would reveal myself. But out here. . . . Somebody built a fire this evening where the Cil River leaves the Chasm. I’m a cripple and spend much of my time studying the park with scanners. Is that your fire?”

Telzey hesitated a moment. “Yes.”

“Your friends,” Robane’s voice went on, “they’re aware you and I. . . . they know you’re a telepath?”

“No.”

“Would you be able to come to see me for a while without letting them know where you’re going?”

“Why should I do that?” Telzey asked.

“Can’t you imagine? I’d like to talk to a psi again.”

“We are talking,” she said.

Silence for a moment.

* * *

“Let me tell you a little about myself,” Robane said then. “I’m approaching middle age—from your point I might even seem rather old. I live here alone except for a well-meaning but rather stupid housekeeper named Feddler. Feddler seems old from my point of view. Four years ago, I was employed in one of the Federation’s science departments. I am. . . . was. . . . considered to be among the best in my line of work. It wasn’t very dangerous work so long as certain precautions were observed. But one day a fool made a mistake. His mistake killed two of my colleagues. It didn’t quite kill me, but since that day I’ve been intimately associated with a machine which has the responsibility of keeping me alive from minute to minute. I’d die almost immediately if I were removed from it.

“So my working days are over. And I no longer want to live in cities. There are too many foolish people there to remind me of the one particular fool I’d prefer to forget. Because of the position I’d held and the work I’d done, the Federation permitted me to make my home in Melna Park where I could be by myself . . .”

The voice stopped abruptly but Telzey had the impression Robane was still talking, unaware that something had dimmed the thread of psi between them. His own screen perhaps? She waited, alert and quiet. It might be deliberate interference, the manifestation of another active psionic field in the area—a disturbing and malicious one.

“. . . . On the whole, I like it here.” Robane’s voice suddenly was back, and it was evident he didn’t realize there had been an interruption. “A psi need never be really bored, and I’ve installed instruments to offset the disadvantages of being a cripple. I watch the park through scanners and study the minds of animals. . . . Do you like animal minds?”

That, Telzey thought, hadn’t been at all a casual question. “Sometimes,” she told Robane carefully. “Some of them.”

“Sometimes? Some of them? I wonder. . . . Solitude on occasion appears to invite the uncanny. One may notice things that seem out of place, that are disquieting. This evening. . . . during the past hour perhaps, have you. . . . were there suggestions of activities . . .” He paused. “I find I don’t quite know how to say this.”

“There was something,” she said. “For a moment, I wasn’t sure I wasn’t dreaming.”

“You mean something ugly . . .”

“Yes.”

“Fear,” Robane’s voice said in her mind. “Fear, pain, death. Savage cruelty. So you caught it, too. Very strange! Perhaps an echo from the past touched our minds in that moment, from the time when creatures who hated man still haunted this country.

“But—well, this is one of the rare occasions when I feel lonely here. And then to hear another psi, you see. . . . Perhaps I’m even a little afraid to be alone in the night just now. I’d like to speak to you, but not in this way—not in any great detail. One can never be sure who else is listening. . . . I think there are many things two psis might discuss to their advantage.”

The voice ended on that. He’d expressed himself guardedly, and apparently he didn’t expect an immediate reply to his invitation. Telzey bit her lip. Chomir had come trotting up, had been welcomed by her and settled down. Gikkes was making cooing sounds and snapping her fingers at him. Chomir ignored the overtures. Ordinarily, Gikkes claimed to find him alarming; but here in Melna Park at night, the idea of having an oversized dog near her evidently had acquired a sudden appeal—

So Robane, too, had received the impression of unusual and unpleasant events this evening. . . . events he didn’t care to discuss openly. The indication that he felt frightened probably needn’t be taken too seriously. He was in his house, after all; and so isolated a house must have guard-screens. The house of a crippled, wealthy recluse, who was avoiding the ordinary run of humanity, would have very effective guard-screens. If something did try to get at Robane, he could put in a call to the nearest park station and have an armed ranger car hovering about his roof in a matter of minutes. That suggestion had been intended to arouse her sympathy for a shut-in fellow psi, help coax her over to the house.

But he had noticed something. Something, to judge from his cautious description, quite similar to what she had felt. Telzey looked at Chomir, stretched out on the sandy ground between her and the fire, at the big, wolfish head, the wedge of powerful jaws. Chomir was not exactly an intellectual giant but he had the excellent sensory equipment and alertness of a breed of fighting animals. If there had been a disturbance of that nature in the immediate vicinity, he would have known about it, and she would have known about it through him.

The disturbance, however, might very well have occurred somewhere along the twelve-mile stretch between the point where Cil Chasm split the mountains and Robane’s house across the plain. Her impression had been that it was uncomfortably close to her. Robane appeared to have sensed it as uncomfortably close to him. He had showed no inclination to do anything about it, and there was, as a matter of fact, no easy way to handle the matter. Robane clearly was no more anxious than she was to reveal himself as a psi; and, in any case, the park authorities would be understandably reluctant to launch a search for a vicious but not otherwise identified man-hunting beast on no better evidence than reported telepathic impressions—at least, until somebody was reported missing.

It didn’t seem a good idea to wait for that. For one thing, Telzey thought, the killer might show up at their fire before morning. . . .

She grimaced uneasily, sent a troubled glance around the group. She hadn’t been willing to admit it but she’d really known for minutes now that she was going to have to go look for the creature. In an aircar, she thought, even an aircar throttled down to thirty miles an hour and a contour altitude of a hundred and fifty feet, she would be in no danger from an animal on the ground if she didn’t take very stupid chances. The flavor of psi about the event she didn’t like. That was still unexplained. But she was a psi herself, and she would be careful.

She ran over the possibilities in her mind. The best approach should be to start out towards Robane’s house and scout the surrounding wildlands mentally along that route. If she picked up traces of the killer-thing, she could pinpoint its position, call the park rangers from the car, and give them a story that would get them there in a hurry. They could do the rest. If she found nothing, she could consult with Robane about the next moves to make. Even if he didn’t want to take a direct part in the search, he might be willing to give her some help with it.

Chomir would remain here as sentinel. She’d plant a trace of uneasiness in his mind, just enough to make sure he remained extremely vigilant while she was gone. At the first hint from him that anything dangerous was approaching the area, she’d use the car’s communicator to have everybody pile into the other two aircars and get off the ground. Gikkes was putting them in the right frame of mind to respond very promptly if they were given a real alarm.

Telzey hesitated a moment longer but there seemed to be nothing wrong with the plan. She told herself she’d better start at once. If she waited, the situation, whatever it was, conceivably could take an immediately dangerous turn. Besides, the longer she debated about it, the more unpleasant the prospect was going to look.

She glanced down at Dunker’s watch on her wrist.

“Robane?” she asked in her mind.

The response came quickly. “Yes?”

“I’ll start over to your house now,” Telzey said. “Would you watch for my car? If there is something around that doesn’t like people, I’d sooner not be standing outside your door.”

“The door will be open the instant you come down,” Robane’s voice assured her. “Until then, I’m keeping it locked. I’ve turned on the scanners and will be waiting . . .” A moment’s pause. “Do you have additional reason to believe—”

“Not so far,” Telzey said. “But there are some things I’d like to talk about—after I get there . . .” She didn’t really intend to go walking into Robane’s house until she had more information about him. There were too many uncertainties floating around in the night to be making social calls. But he’d be alert now, waiting for her to arrive, and might notice things she didn’t.

The aircar was her own, a fast little Cloudsplitter. No one objected when she announced she was setting off for an hour’s roam in the starblaze by herself. The fan club looked wistful but was well trained, and Pollard had allowed himself to be reclaimed by Gikkes. Gikkes clearly regarded Telzey’s solo excursion as a fine idea. . . .

She lifted the Cloudsplitter out of the mouth of Cil Chasm. At a hundred and fifty feet, as the sealed engine lock clicked in, the little car automatically stopped its ascent. Telzey turned to the right, along the forested walls of the mountain, then swung out across the plain.

It should take her about twenty minutes to get to Robane’s house if she went there in a straight line; and if nothing else happened, she intended to go there in a straight line. What the park maps called a plain was a series of sloping plateaus, broken by low hills, descending gradually to the south. It was mainly brush country, dotted with small woods which blended here and there into patches of forest. Scattered herds of native animals moved about in the open ground, showing no interest in the aircar passing through the clusterlight overhead.

Everything looked peaceful enough. Robane had taken her hint and remained quiet. The intangible bubble of the psi screen about Telzey’s mind thinned, opened wide. Her awareness went searching ahead, to all sides. . . .

Man-killer, where are you?

* * *

Perhaps ten minutes passed before she picked up the first trace. By then, she could see a tiny, steady spark of orange light ahead against the dark line of the forest. That would be Robane’s house, still five or six miles away.

Robane hadn’t spoken again. There had been numerous fleeting contacts with animal minds savage enough in their own way, deadly to one another. But the thing that hunted man should have a special quality, one she would recognize when she touched it.

She touched it suddenly—a blur of alert malignance, gone almost at once. She was prepared for it, but it still sent a thrill of alarm through her. She moistened her lips, told herself again she was safe in the car. The creature definitely had not been far away. Telzey slipped over for a moment into Chomir’s mind. The big dog stood a little beyond the circle of firelight, probing the land to the south. He was unquiet but no more than she had intended him to be. His senses had found nothing of unusual significance. The menace wasn’t there.

It was around here, ahead, or to left or right. Telzey let the car move on slowly. After a while, she caught the blur for a moment again, lost it again. . . .

She approached Robane’s house gradually. Presently she could make it out well enough in the clusterlight, a sizable structure, set in a garden of its own which ended where the forest began. Part of the building was two-storied, with a balcony running around the upper story. The light came from there, dark-orange light glowing through screened windows.

The second fleeting pulse of that aura of malevolence had come from this general direction; she was sure of it. If the creature was in the forest back of the house, perhaps watching the house, Robane’s apprehensions might have some cause, after all. She had brought the Cloudsplitter almost to a stop some five hundred yards north of the house; now she began moving to the left, then shifted in towards the forest, beginning to circle the house as she waited for another indication. Robane should be watching her through the telescanners, and she was grateful that he hadn’t broken the silence. Perhaps he had realized what she was trying to do.

For long minutes now, she had been intensely keyed up, sharply aware of the infinite mingling of life detail below. It was as if the plain had come alight in all directions about her, a shifting glimmer of sparks, glowing emanations of life-force, printed in constant change on her awareness. To distinguish among it all the specific pattern which she had touched briefly twice might not be an easy matter. But then, within seconds, she made two significant discoveries.

She had brought the Cloudsplitter nearly to a stop again. She was now to the left of Robane’s house, no more than two hundred yards from it. Close enough to see a flock of small, birdlike creatures flutter about indistinctly in the garden shrubbery. Physical vision seemed to overlap and blend with her inner awareness, and among the uncomplicated emanations of small animal life in the garden, there was now a center of mental emanation which was of more interest.

It was inside the house, and it was human. It seemed to Telzey it was Robane she was sensing. That was curious, because if his mind was screened as well as she’d believed, she should not be able to sense him in this manner. But, of course, it might not be. She had simply assumed he had developed measures against being read as adequate as her own.

Probably it was Robane. Then where, Telzey thought, was that elderly, rather stupid housekeeper named Feddler he’d told her about? Feddler’s presence, her mind unscreened in any way, should be at least equally obvious now.

With the thought, she caught a second strong glow. That was not the mind of some stupid old woman, or of anything human. It was still blurred, but it was the mind for which she had been searching. The mind of some baleful, intelligent tiger-thing. And it was very close.

She checked again, carefully. Then she knew. It was not back in the forest, and not hidden somewhere on the plain nearby.

It was inside Robane’s house.

For a moment, shock held her motionless. Then she swung the Cloudsplitter smoothly to the left, started moving off along the edge of the forest.

“Where are you going?” Robane’s voice asked in her mind.

Telzey didn’t answer. The car already was gliding along at the thirty miles an hour its throttled-down engine allowed it to go. Her forefinger was flicking out the call number of Rish’s aircar back at the camp on the Cloudsplitter’s communicator.

There’d been a trap set for her here. She didn’t yet know what kind of a trap, or whether she could get out of it by herself. But the best thing she could do at the moment was to let other people know immediately where she was—

A dragging, leaden heaviness sank through her. She saw her hand drop from the communicator dial, felt herself slump to the left, head sagging down on the side rest, face turned half up. She felt the Cloudsplitter’s engines go dead. The trap had snapped shut.

* * *

The car was dropping, its forward momentum gone. Telzey made a straining effort to sit back up, lift her hands to the controls, and nothing happened. She realized then that nothing could have happened if she had reached the controls. If it hadn’t been for the countergravity materials worked into its structure, the Cloudsplitter would have plunged to the ground like a rock. As it was, it settled gradually down through the air, swaying from side to side.

She watched the fiery night sky shift above with the swaying of the car, sickened by the conviction that she was dropping towards death, trying to keep the confusion of terror from exploding through her. . . .

“I’m curious to know,” Robane’s voice said, “what made you decide at the last moment to decline my invitation and attempt to leave.”

She wrenched her attention away from terror, reached for the voice and Robane.

There was the crackling of psi, open telepathic channels through which her awareness flowed in a flash. For an instant, she was inside his mind. Then psi static crashed, and she was away from it again. Her awareness dimmed, momentarily blurred out. She’d absorbed almost too much. It was as if she’d made a photograph of a section of Robane’s mind—a pitiful and horrible mind.

She felt the car touch the ground, stop moving. The slight jolt tilted her over farther, her head lolling on the side rest. She was breathing; her eyelids blinked. But her conscious efforts weren’t affecting a muscle of her body.

The dazed blurriness began to lift from her thoughts. She found herself still very much frightened but no longer accepting in the least that she would die here. She should have a chance against Robane. She discovered he was speaking again, utterly unaware of what had just occurred.

“I’m not a psi,” his voice said. “But I’m a gadgeteer—and, you see, I happen to be highly intelligent. I’ve used my intelligence to provide myself with instruments which guard me and serve my wishes here. Some give me abilities equivalent to those of a psi. Others, as you’ve just experienced, can be used to neutralize power devices or to paralyze the human voluntary muscular system within as much as half a mile of this room.

“I was amused by your cautious hesitation and attempted flight just now. I’d already caught you. If I’d let you use the communicator, you would have found it dead. I shut it off as soon as your aircar was in range . . .”

Robane not a psi? For an instant, there was a burbling of lunatic, silent laughter in Telzey’s head. In that moment of full contact between them, she’d sensed a telepathic system functional in every respect except that he wasn’t aware of it. Psi energy flared about his words as he spoke. That came from one of the machines, but only a telepath could have operated such a machine.

Robane had never considered that possibility. If the machine static hadn’t caught her off guard, broken the contact before she could secure it, he would be much more vulnerable in his unawareness now than an ordinary nonpsi human.

She’d reached for him again as he was speaking, along the verbalized thought-forms directed at her. But the words were projected through a machine. Following them back, she wound up at the machine and another jarring blast of psi static. She would have to wait for a moment when she found an opening to his mind again, when the machines didn’t happen to be covering him. He was silent now. He intended to kill her as he had others before her, and he might very well be able to do it before an opening was there. But he would make no further moves until he felt certain she hadn’t been able to summon help in a manner his machines hadn’t detected. What he had done so far he could explain—he had forced an aircar prowling about his house to the ground without harming its occupant. There was no proof of anything else he had done except the proof in Telzey’s mind, and Robane didn’t know about that.

It gave her a few minutes to act without interference from him.

* * *

“What’s the matter with that dog?” Gikkes asked nervously. “He’s behaving like. . . . like he thinks there’s something around.”

The chatter stopped for a moment. Eyes swung over to Chomir. He stood looking out from the canyon ledge over the plain, making a rumbling noise in his throat.

“Don’t be silly,” Valia said. “He’s just wondering where Telzey’s gone.” She looked at Rish. “How long has she been gone?”

“Twenty-seven minutes,” Rish said.

“Well, that’s nothing to worry about, is it?” Valia checked herself, added, “Now look at that, will you!” Chomir had swung around, moved over to Rish’s aircar, stopped beside it, staring at them with yellow eyes. He made the rumbling noise again.

Gikkes said, watching him fascinatedly, “Maybe something’s happened to Telzey.”

“Don’t talk like that,” Valia said. “What could happen to her?”

Rish got to his feet. “Well—it can’t hurt to give her a call . . .” He grinned at Valia to show he wasn’t in the least concerned, went to the aircar, opened the door.

Chomir moved silently past him into the car.

Rish frowned, glanced back at Valia and Dunker coming up behind him, started to say something, shook his head, slid into the car, and turned on the communicator.

Valia inquired, her eyes uneasily on Chomir, “Know her number?”

“Uh-huh.” They watched as he flicked the number out on the dial, then stood waiting.

Presently Valia cleared her throat. “She’s probably got out of the car and is walking around somewhere.”

“Of course she’s walking,” Rish said shortly.

“Keep buzzing anyway,” Dunker said.

“I am.” Rish glanced at Chomir again. “If she’s anywhere near the car, she’ll be answering in a moment . . .”

* * *

“Why don’t you answer me?” Robane’s voice asked, sharp with impatience. “It would be very foolish of you to make me angry.”

Telzey made no response. Her eyes blinked slowly at the starblaze. Her awareness groped, prowled, patiently, like a hungry cat, for anything, the slightest wisp of escaping unconscious thought, emotion, that wasn’t filtered through the blocking machines, that might give her another opening to the telepathic levels of Robane’s mind. In the minutes she’d been lying paralyzed across the seat of the aircar, she had arranged and comprehended the multi-detailed glimpse she’d had of it. She understood Robane very thoroughly now.

The instrument room of the house was his living area. A big room centered about an island of immaculate precision machines. Robane rarely was away from it. She knew what he looked like, from mirror images, glimpses in shining instrument surfaces, his thoughts about himself. A half-man, enclosed from the waist down in a floating, mobile machine like a tiny aircar, which carried him and kept him alive. The little machine was efficient; the half-body protruding from it was vigorous and strong. Robane in his isolation gave fastidious attention to his appearance. The coat which covered him down to the machine was tailored to Orado City’s latest fashion; his thick hair was carefully groomed.

He had led a full life as scientist, sportsman, and man of the world, before the disaster which left him bound to his machine. To make the man responsible for the disaster pay for his blunder in full became Robane’s obsession and he laid his plans with all the care of the trophy hunter he had been. His work for the Federation had been connected with the further development of devices permitting the direct transmission of sensations from one living brain to another and their adaptation to various new uses. In his retirement in Melna Park, Robane patiently refined such devices for his own purposes and succeeded beyond his expectations, never suspecting that the success was due in part to the latent psionic abilities he was stimulating with his experiments.

Meanwhile, he had prepared for the remaining moves in his plan, installed automatic machinery to take the place of his housekeeper, and dismissed the old woman from his service. A smuggling ring provided him with a specimen of a savage natural predator native to the continent for which he had set up quarters beneath the house. Robane trained the beast and himself, perfecting his skill in the use of the instruments, sent the conditioned animal out at night to hunt, brought it back after it had made the kill in which he had shared through its mind. There was sharper excitement in that alone than he had found in any previous hunting experience. There was further excitement in treating trapped animals with the drug that exposed their sensations to his instruments when he released them and set the killer on their trail. He could be hunter or hunted, alternately and simultaneously, following each chase to the end, withdrawing from the downed quarry only when its numbing death impulses began to reach him.

When it seemed he had no more to learn, he had his underworld connections deliver his enemy to the house. That night, he awakened the man from his stupor, told him what to expect, and turned him out under the starblaze to run for his life. An hour later, Robane and his savage deputy made a human kill, the instruments fingering the victim’s drug-drenched nervous system throughout and faithfully transmitting his terrors and final torment.

With that, Robane had accomplished his revenge. But he had no intention now of giving up the exquisite excitements of the new sport he had developed in the process. He became almost completely absorbed by it, as absorbed as the beast he had formed into an extension of himself. They went out by night to stalk and harry, run down and kill. They grew alike in cunning, stealth, and savage audacity, were skillful enough to create no unusual disturbance among the park animals with their sport. By morning, they were back in Robane’s house to spend most of the day in sleep. Unsuspecting human visitors who came through the area saw no traces of their nocturnal activities.

Robane barely noticed how completely he had slipped into this new way of living. Ordinarily, it was enough. But he had almost no fear of detection now, and sometimes he remembered there had been a special savor in driving a human being to his death. Then his contacts would bring another shipment of “supplies” to the house, and that night he hunted human game. Healthy young game which did its desperate best to escape but never got far. It was something humanity owed him.

For a while, there was one lingering concern. During his work for the Overgovernment, he’d had several contacts with a telepath called in to assist in a number of experiments. Robane had found out what he could about such people and believed his instruments would shield him against being detected and investigated by them. He was not entirely sure of it, but in the two years he had been pursuing his pleasures undisturbed in Melna Park his uneasiness on that point had almost faded away.

Telzey’s voice, following closely on his latest human kill, startled him profoundly. But when he realized that it was a chance contact, that she was here by accident, it occurred to him that this was an opportunity to find out whether a telepathic mind could be dangerous to him. She seemed young and inexperienced—he could handle her through his instruments with the slightest risk to himself.

* * *

Rish and Dunker were in Rish’s aircar with Chomir, Telzey thought, and a third person, who seemed to be Valia, was sitting behind them. The car was aloft and moving, so they had started looking for her. It would be nice if they were feeling nervous enough to have the park rangers looking for her, too; but that was very unlikely. She had to handle Chomir with great caution here. If he’d sensed any fear in her, he would have raced off immediately in her general direction to protect her, which would have been of no use at all.

As it was, he was following instructions he didn’t know he was getting. He was aware which way the car should go, and he would make that quite clear to Rish and the others if it turned off in any other direction. Since they had no idea where to look for her themselves, they would probably decide to rely on Chomir’s intuition.

That would bring them presently to this area. If she was outside the half-mile range of Robane’s energy shut-off device by then, they could pick her up safely. If she wasn’t, she’d have to turn them away through Chomir again or she’d simply be drawing them into danger with her. Robane, however, wouldn’t attempt to harm them unless he was forced to it. Telzey’s disappearance in the wildlands of the park could be put down as an unexplained accident; he wasn’t risking much there. But a very intensive investigation would get under way if three other students of Pehanron College vanished simultaneously along with a large dog. Robane couldn’t afford that.

“Why don’t you answer?”

There was an edge of frustrated rage in Robane’s projected voice. The paralysis field which immobilized her also made her unreachable to him. He was like an animal balked for the moment by a glass wall. He’d said he had a weapon trained on her which could kill her in an instant as she lay in the car, and Telzey knew it was true from what she had seen in his mind. For that matter, he probably only had to change the setting of the paralysis field to stop her heartbeat or her breathing.

But such actions wouldn’t answer the questions he had about psis. She’d frightened him tonight; and now he had to run her to her death, terrified and helpless as any other human quarry, before he could feel secure again.

“Do you think I’m afraid to kill you?” he asked, seeming almost plaintively puzzled. “Believe me, if I pull the trigger my finger is touching, I won’t even be questioned about your disappearance. The park authorities have been instructed by our grateful government to show me every consideration, in view of my past invaluable contributions to humanity, and in view of my present disability. No one would think to disturb me here because some foolish girl is reported lost in Melna Park . . .”

The thought-voice went on, its fury and bafflement filtered through a machine, sometimes oddly suggestive even of a ranting, angry machine. Now and then it blurred out completely, like a bad connection, resumed seconds later. Telzey drew her attention away from it. It was a distraction in her waiting for another open subconscious bridge to Robane’s mind. Attempts to reach him more directly remained worse than useless. The machines also handled mind-stuff, but mechanically channeled, focused, and projected; the result was a shifting, flickering, nightmarish distortion of emanations in which Robane and his instruments seemed to blend in constantly changing patterns. She’d tried to force through it, had drawn back quickly, dazed and jolted again. . . .

Every minute she gained here had improved her chances of escape, but she thought she wouldn’t be able to stall him much longer. The possibility that a ranger patrol or somebody else might happen by just now, see her Cloudsplitter parked near the house, and come over to investigate, was probably slight, but Robane wouldn’t be happy about it. If she seemed to remain intractable, he’d decide at some point to dispose of her at once.

So she mustn’t seem too intractable. Since she wasn’t replying, he would try something else to find out if she could be controlled. When he did, she would act frightened silly—which she was in a way, except that it didn’t seem to affect her ability to think now—and do whatever he said except for one thing. After he turned off the paralysis field, he would order her to come to the house. She couldn’t do that. Behind the entry door was a lock chamber. If she stepped inside, the door would close; and with the next breath she took she would have absorbed a full dose of the drug that let Robane’s mind-instruments settle into contact with her. She didn’t know what effect that would have. It might nullify her ability to maintain her psi screen and reveal her thoughts to Robane. If he knew what she had in mind, he would kill her on the spot. Or the drug might distort her on the telepathic level and end her chances of getting him under control.

“It’s occurred to me,” Robane’s voice said, “that you may not be deliberately refusing to answer me. It’s possible that you are unable to do it either because of the effect of the paralysis field or simply because of fear.”

Telzey had been wondering when it would occur to him. She waited, new tensions growing up in her.

“I’ll release you from the field in a moment,” the voice went on. “What happens then depends on how well you carry out the instructions given you. If you try any tricks, little psi, you’ll be dead. I’m quite aware you’ll be able to move normally seconds after the field is off. Make no move you aren’t told to make. Do exactly what you are told to do, and do it without hesitation. Remember those two things. Your life depends on them.”

He paused, added, “The field is now off . . .”

Telzey felt a surge of strength and lightness all through her. Her heart began to race. She refrained carefully from stirring. After a moment, Robane’s voice said, “Touch nothing in the car you don’t need to touch. Keep your hands in sight. Get out of the car, walk twenty feet away from it, and stop. Then face the house.”

Telzey climbed out of the car. She was shaky throughout; but it wasn’t as bad as she’d thought it would be when she first moved again. It wasn’t bad at all. She walked on to the left, stopped, and looked up at the orange-lit, screened windows in the upper part of the house.

“Watch your car,” Robane’s voice told her.

She looked over at the Cloudsplitter. He’d turned off the power neutralizer and the car was already moving. It lifted vertically from the ground, began gliding forward thirty feet up, headed in the direction of the forest beyond the house. It picked up speed, disappeared over the trees.

“It will begin to change course when it reaches the mountains,” Robane’s voice said. “It may start circling and still be within the park when it is found. More probably, it will be hundreds of miles away. Various explanations will be offered for your disappearance from it, apparently in midair, which needn’t concern us now. . . . Raise your arms before you, little psi. Spread them farther apart. Stand still.”

Telzey lifted her arms, stood waiting. After an instant, she gave a jerk of surprise. Her hands and arms, Dunker’s watch on her wrist, the edges of the short sleeves of her shirt suddenly glowed white.

“Don’t move!” Robane’s voice said sharply. “This is a search-beam. It won’t hurt you.”

She stood still again, shifted her gaze downwards. What she saw of herself and her clothes and of a small patch of ground about her feet all showed the same cold, white glow, like fluorescing plastic. There was an eerie suggestion of translucence. She glanced back at her hands, saw the fine bones showing faintly as more definite lines of white in the glow. She felt nothing and the beam wasn’t affecting her vision, but it was an efficient device. Sparks of heatless light began stabbing from her clothing here and there; within moments, Robane located half a dozen minor items in her pockets and instructed her to throw them away one by one, along with the watch. He wasn’t taking chances on fashionably camouflaged communicators, perhaps suspected even this or that might be a weapon. Then the beam went off and he told her to lower her arms again.

“Now a reminder,” his voice went on. “Perhaps you’re unable to speak to me. And perhaps you could speak but think it’s clever to remain silent in this situation. That isn’t too important. But let me show you something. It will help you keep in mind that it isn’t at all advisable to be too clever in dealing with me . . .”

Something suddenly was taking shape twenty yards away, between Telzey and the house; and fright flicked through her like fire and ice in the instant before she saw it was a projection placed a few inches above the ground. It was an image of Robane’s killer, a big, bulky creature which looked bulkier because of the coat of fluffy, almost feathery fur covering most of it like a cloak. It was half crouched, a pair of powerful forelimbs stretched out through the cloak of fur. Ears like upturned horns projected from the sides of the head, and big, round, dark eyes, the eyes of a star-night hunter, were set in front above the sharply curved, serrated cutting beak.

The image faded within seconds. She knew what the creature was. The spooks had been, at one time, almost the dominant life form on this continent; the early human settlers hated and feared them for their unqualified liking for human flesh, made them a legend which haunted Orado’s forests long after they had, in fact, been driven out of most of their territory. Even in captivity, from behind separating force fields, their flat, dark stares, their size, goblin appearance, and monkey quickness disturbed impressionable people.

“My hunting partner,” Robane’s voice said. “My other self. It is not pleasant, not at all pleasant, to know this is the shape that is following your trail at night in Melna Park. You had a suggestion of it this evening. Be careful not to make me angry again. Be quick to do what I tell you. Now come forward to the house.”

Telzey saw the entry door in the garden slide open. Her heart began to beat heavily. She didn’t move.

“Come to the house!” Robane repeated.

Something accompanied the words, a gush of heavy, subconscious excitement, somebody reaching for a craved drug. . . . but Robane’s drug was death. As she touched the excitement, it vanished. It was what she had waited for, a line to the unguarded levels of his mind. If it came again and she could hold it even for seconds—

It didn’t come again. There was a long pause before Robane spoke.

“This is curious,” his voice said slowly. “You refuse. You know you are helpless. You know what I can do. Yet you refuse. I wonder . . .”

He went silent. He was suspicious now, very. For a moment, she could almost feel him finger the trigger of his weapon. But the drug was there, in his reach. She was cheating him out of some of it. He wouldn’t let her cheat him out of everything. . . .

“Very well,” the voice said. “I’m tired of you. I was interested in seeing how a psi would act in such a situation. I’ve seen. You’re so afraid you can barely think. So run along. Run as fast as you can, little psi. Because I’ll soon be following.”

Telzey stared up at the windows. Let him believe she could barely think.

“Run!”

She whipped around, as if shocked into motion by the command, and ran, away from Robane’s house, back in the direction of the plain to the north.

* * *

“I’ll give you a warning,” Robane’s voice said, seeming to move along with her. “Don’t try to climb a tree. We catch the ones who do that immediately. We can climb better than you can, and if the tree is big enough we’ll come up after you. If the tree’s too light to hold us, or if you go out where the branches are too thin, we’ll simply shake you down. So keep running.”

She glanced back as she came up to the first group of trees. The orange windows of the house seemed to be staring after her. She went in among the trees, out the other side, and now the house was no longer in sight.

“Be clever now,” Robane’s voice said. “We like the clever ones. You have a chance, you know. Perhaps somebody will see you before you’re caught. Or you may think of some way to throw us off your track. Perhaps you’ll be the lucky one who gets away. We’ll be very, very sorry then, won’t we? So do your best, little psi. Do your best. Give us a good run.”

She flicked out a search-thought, touched Chomir’s mind briefly. The aircar was still coming, still on course, still too far away to do her any immediate good. . . .

She ran. She was in as good condition as a fifteen-year-old who liked a large variety of sports and played hard at them was likely to get. But she had to cover five hundred yards to get beyond the range of Robane’s house weapons, and on this broken ground it began to seem a long, long stretch. How much time would he give her? Some of those he’d hunted had been allowed a start of thirty minutes or more. . . .

She began to count her steps. Robane remained silent. When she thought she was approaching the end of five hundred yards, there were trees ahead again. She remembered crossing over a small stream followed by a straggling line of trees as she came up to the house. That must be it. And in that case, she was beyond the five-hundred-yard boundary.

* * *

A hungry excitement swirled about her and was gone. She’d lashed at the feeling quickly, got nothing. Robane’s voice was there an instant later.

“We’re starting now . . .”

So soon? She felt shocked. He wasn’t giving her even the pretense of a chance to escape. Dismay sent a wave of weakness through her as she ran splashing down into the creek. Some large animals burst out of the water on the far side, crashed through the bushes along the bank, and pounded away. Telzey hardly noticed them. Turn to the left, downstream, she thought. It was a fast little stream. The spook must be following by scent and the running water should wipe out her trail before it got here. . . .

But others it had followed would have decided to turn downstream when they reached the creek. If it didn’t pick up the trail on the far bank and found no human scent in the water coming down, it only had to go along the bank to the left until it either heard her in the water or reached the place where she’d left it.

They’d expect her, she told herself, to leave the water on the far side of the creek, not to angle back in the direction of Robane’s house. Or would they? It seemed the best thing to try.

She went downstream as quickly as she could, splashing, stumbling on slippery rock, careless of noise for the moment. It would be a greater danger to lose time trying to be quiet. A hundred yards on, stout tree branches swayed low over the water. She could catch them, swing up, scramble on up into the trees.

Others would have tried that, too. Robane and his beast knew such spots, would check each to make sure it wasn’t what she had done.

She ducked, gasping, under the low-hanging branches, hurried on. Against the starblaze a considerable distance ahead, a thicker cluster of trees loomed darkly. It looked like a sizable little wood surrounding the watercourse. It might be a good place to hide.

Others, fighting for breath after the first hard run, legs beginning to falter, would have had that thought.

Robane’s voice said abruptly in her mind, “So you’ve taken to the water. It was your best move . . .”

The voice stopped. Telzey felt the first stab of panic. The creek curved sharply ahead. The bank on the left was steep, not the best place to get out. She followed it with her eyes. Roots sprouted out of the bare earth a little ahead. She came up to them, jumped to catch them, pulled herself up, and scrambled over the edge of the bank. She climbed to her feet, hurried back in the general direction of Robane’s house, dropped into a cluster of tall grass. Turning, flattened out on her stomach, she lifted her head to stare back in the direction of the creek. There was an opening in the bushes on the other bank, with the clusterlight of the skyline showing through it. She watched that, breathing as softly as she could. It occurred to her that if a breeze was moving the wrong way, the spook might catch her scent on the air. But she didn’t feel any breeze.

Perhaps a minute passed—certainly no more. Then a dark silhouette passed lightly and swiftly through the opening in the bushes she was watching, went on downstream. It was larger than she’d thought it would be when she saw its projected image; and that something so big should move in so effortless a manner, seeming to drift along the ground, somehow was jolting in itself. For a moment, Telzey had distinguished, or imagined she had distinguished, the big, round head held high, the pointed ears like horns. Goblin, her nerves screamed. A feeling of heavy dread flowed through her, seemed to drain away her strength. This was how the others had felt when they ran and crouched in hiding, knowing there was no escape from such a pursuer. . . .

She made herself count off a hundred seconds, got to her feet, and started back on a slant towards the creek, to a point a hundred yards above the one where she had climbed from it. If the thing returned along this side of the watercourse and picked up her trail, it might decide she had tried to escape upstream. She got down quietly into the creek, turned downstream again, presently saw in the distance the wood which had looked like a good place to hide. The spook should be prowling among the trees there now, searching for her. She passed the curve where she had pulled herself up on the bank, waded on another hundred steps, trying to make no noise at all, almost certain from moment to moment she could hear or glimpse the spook on its way back. Then she climbed the bank on the right, pushed carefully through the hedges of bushes that lined it, and ran off into the open plain sloping up to the north.

 

After perhaps a hundred yards, her legs began to lose the rubbery weakness of held-in terror. She was breathing evenly. The aircar was closer again and in not too many more minutes she might find herself out of danger. She didn’t look back. If the spook was coming up behind her, she couldn’t outrun it, and it wouldn’t help to feed her fears by watching for shadows on her trail.

She shifted her attention to signs from Robane. He might be growing concerned by now and resort to his telescanners to look for her and guide his creature after her. There was nothing she could do about that. Now and then she seemed to have a brief awareness of him, but there had been no definite contact since he had spoken.

She reached a rustling grove, walked and trotted through it. As she came out the other side, a herd of graceful deer-like animals turned from her and sped with shadowy quickness across the plain and out of her range of vision. She remembered suddenly having heard that hunted creatures sometimes covered their trail by mingling with other groups of animals. . . .

A few minutes later, she wasn’t sure how well that was working. Other herds were around; sometimes she saw shadowy motion ahead or to right or left; then there would be whistles of alarm, the stamp of hoofs, and they’d vanish like drifting smoke, leaving the section of plain about her empty again. This was Robane’s hunting ground; the animals here might be more alert and nervous than in other sections of the park. And perhaps, Telzey thought, they sensed she was the quarry tonight and was drawing danger towards them. Whatever the reason, they kept well out of her way. But she’d heard fleeing herds cross behind her a number of times, so they might in fact be breaking up her trail enough to make it more difficult to follow. She kept scanning the skyline above the slope ahead, looking for the intermittent green flash of a moving aircar or the sweep of its search-beam along the ground. They couldn’t be too far away.

She slowed to a walk again. Her legs and lungs hadn’t given out, but she could tell she was tapping the final reserves of strength. She sent a thought to Chomir’s mind, touched it instantly and, at the same moment, caught a glimpse of a pulsing green spark against the starblaze, crossing down through a dip in the slopes, disappearing beyond the wooded ground ahead of her. She went hot with hope, swung to the right, began running towards the point where the car should show again.

They’d arrived. Now to catch their attention. . . .

“Here!” she said sharply in the dog’s mind.

It meant: “Here I am! Look for me! Come to me!” No more than that. Chomir was keyed up enough without knowing why. Any actual suggestion that she was in trouble might throw him out of control.

She almost heard the deep, whining half-growl with which he responded. It should be enough. Chomir knew now she was somewhere nearby, and Rish and the others would see it immediately in the way he behaved. When the aircar reappeared, its search-beam should be swinging about, fingering the ground to locate her.

Telzey jumped down into a little gully, felt, with a shock of surprise, her knees go soft with fatigue as she landed, and clambered shakily out the other side. She took a few running steps forward, came to a sudden complete stop.

Robane! She felt him about, a thick, ugly excitement. It seemed the chance moment of contact for which she’d been waiting, his mind open, unguarded.

She looked carefully around. Something lay beside a cluster of bushes thirty feet ahead. It appeared to be a big pile of wind-blown dry leaves and grass, but its surface stirred with a curious softness in the breeze. Then a wisp of acrid animal odor touched Telzey’s nostrils and she felt the hot-ice surge of deep fright.

The spook lifted its head slowly out of its fluffed, mottled mane and looked at her. Then it moved from its crouched position. . . . a soundless shift a good fifteen feet to the right, light as the tumbling of a big ball of moss. It rose on its hind legs, the long fur settling loosely about it like a cloak, and made a chuckling sound of pleasure.

The plain seemed to explode about Telzey.

* * *

The explosion was in her mind. Tensions held too long, too hard, lashed back through her in seething confusion at a moment when too much needed to be done at once. Her physical vision went black; Robane’s beast and the starlit slope vanished. She was sweeping through a topsy-turvy series of mental pictures and sensations. Rish’s face appeared, wide-eyed, distorted with alarm, the aircar skimming almost at ground level along the top of a grassy rise, a wood suddenly ahead. “Now!” Telzey thought. Shouts, and the car swerved up again. Then a brief, thudding, jarring sensation underfoot. . . .

That was done.

She swung about to Robane’s waiting excitement, slipped through it into his mind. In an instant, her awareness poured through a net of subconscious psi channels that became half familiar as she touched them. Machine static clattered, too late to dislodge her. She was there. Robane, unsuspecting, looked out through his creature’s eyes at her shape on the plain, hands locked hard on the instruments through which he lived, experienced, murdered.

In minutes, Telzey thought, in minutes, if she was alive minutes from now, she would have this mind—unaware, unresistant, wide open to her—under control. But she wasn’t certain she could check the spook then through Robane. He had never attempted to hold it back moments away from its kill.

Vision cleared. She stood on the slope, tight tendrils of thought still linking her to every significant section of Robane’s mind. The spook stared, hook-beak lifted above its gaping mouth, showing the thick, twisting tongue inside. Still upright, it began to move, seemed to glide across the ground towards her. One of its forelimbs came through the thick cloak of fur, four-fingered paw raised, slashing retractile claws extended, reaching out almost playfully.

Telzey backed slowly off from the advancing goblin shape. For an instant, another picture slipped through her thoughts. . . . a blur of motion. She gave it no attention. There was nothing she could do there now.

The goblin dropped lightly to a crouch. Telzey saw it begin its spring as she turned and ran.

She heard the gurgling chuckle a few feet behind her, but no other sound. She ran headlong up the slope with all the strength she had left. In another world, on another level of existence, she moved quickly through Robane’s mind, tracing out the control lines, gathering them in. But her thoughts were beginning to blur with fatigue. Bushy shrubbery dotted the slope ahead. She could see nothing else.

The spook passed her like something blown by the wind through the grass. It swung around before her, twenty feet ahead; and as she turned to the right, it was suddenly behind her again, coming up quickly, went by. Something nicked the back of her calf as it passed—a scratch, not much deeper than a dozen or so she’d picked up pushing through thorny growth tonight. But this hadn’t been a thorn. She turned left, and it followed, herding her; dodged right, and it was there, going past. Its touch seemed the lightest flick again, but an instant later there was a hot, wet line of pain down her arm. She felt panic gather in her throat as it came up behind her once more. She stopped, turning to face it.

It stopped in the same instant, fifteen feet away, rose slowly to its full height, dark eyes staring, hooked beak open as if in silent laughter. Telzey watched it, gasping for breath. Streaks of foggy darkness seemed to float between them. Robane felt far away, beginning to slip from her reach. If she took another step, she thought, she would stumble and fall; then the thing would be on her.

The spook’s head swung about. Its beak closed with a clack. The horn-ears went erect.

The white shape racing silently down the slope seemed unreal for a moment, something she imagined. She knew Chomir was approaching; she hadn’t realized he was so near. She couldn’t see the aircar’s lights in the starblaze above, but it might be there. If they had followed the dog after he plunged out of the car, if they hadn’t lost. . . .

Chomir could circle Robane’s beast, threaten it, perhaps draw it away from her, keep it occupied for minutes. She drove a command at him—another, quickly and anxiously, because he hadn’t checked in the least; tried to slip into his mind and knew suddenly that Chomir, coming in silent fury, wasn’t going to be checked or slowed or controlled by anything she did. The goblin uttered a monstrous, squalling scream of astounded rage as the strange white animal closed the last twenty yards between them; then it leaped aside with its horrid ease. Sick with dismay, Telzey saw the great forelimb flash from the cloak, strike with spread talons. The thudding blow caught Chomir, spun him around, sent him rolling over the ground. The spook sprang again to come down on its reckless assailant. But the dog was on his feet and away.

It was Chomir’s first serious fight. But he came of generations of ancestors who had fought one another and other animals and armed men in the arenas of Askanam. Their battle cunning was stamped into his genes. He had made one mistake, a very nearly fatal one, in hurtling in at a dead run on an unknown opponent. Almost within seconds, it became apparent that he was making no further mistakes.

Telzey saw it through a shifting blur of exhaustion. As big a dog as Chomir was, the squalling goblin must weigh nearly five times as much, looked ten times larger with its fur-mane bristling about it. Its kind had been forest horrors to the early settlers. Its forelimbs were tipped with claws longer than her hands and the curved beak could shear through muscle and bone like a sword. Its uncanny speed. . . .

Now somehow it seemed slow. As it sprang, slashing down, something white and low flowed around and about it with silent purpose. Telzey understood it then. The spook was a natural killer, developed by nature to deal efficiently with its prey. Chomir’s breed were killers developed by man to deal efficiently with other killers.

He seemed locked to the beast for an instant, high on its shoulder, and she saw the wide, dark stain on his flank where the spook’s talons had struck. He shook himself savagely. There was an ugly, snapping sound. The spook screeched like a huge bird. She saw the two animals locked together again, then the spook rolling over the ground, the white shape rolling with it, slipping away, slipping back. There was another screech. The spook rolled into a cluster of bushes. Chomir followed it in.

A white circle of light settled on the thrashing vegetation, shifted over to her. She looked up, saw Rish’s car gliding down through the air, heard voices calling her name—

She followed her contact thoughts back to Robane’s mind, spread out through it, sensing at once the frantic grip of his hands on the instrument controls. For Robane, time was running out quickly. He had been trying to turn his beast away from the dog, force it to destroy the human being who could expose him. He had been unable to do it. He was in terrible fear. But he could accomplish no more through the spook. She felt his sudden decision to break mind-contact with the animal to avoid the one experience he had always shunned—going down with another mind into the shuddering agony of death.

His right hand released the control it was clutching, reached towards a switch.

“No,” Telzey said softly to the reaching hand.

It dropped to the instrument board. After a moment, it knotted, twisted about, began to lift again.

“No.”

Now it lay still. She considered. There was time enough.

Robane believed he would die with the spook if he couldn’t get away from it in time. She thought he might be right; she wouldn’t want to be in his mind when it happened, if it came to that.

There were things she needed to learn from Robane. The identity of the gang which had supplied him with human game was one; she wanted that very much. Then she should look at the telepathic level of his mind in detail, find out what was wrong in there, why he hadn’t been able to use it. . . . some day, she might be able to do something with a half-psi like Gikkes. And the mind-machines—if Robane had been able to work with them, not really understanding what he did, she should be able to employ similar devices much more effectively. Yes, she had to carefully study his machines—

She released Robane’s hand. It leaped to the switch, pulled it back. He gave a great gasp of relief.

For a moment, Telzey was busy. A needle of psi energy flicked knowingly up and down channels, touching here, there, shriveling, cutting, blocking. . . . Then it was done. Robane, half his mind gone in an instant, unaware of it, smiled blankly at the instrument panel in front of him. He’d live on here, dimmed and harmless, cared for by machines, unwitting custodian of other machines, of memories that had to be investigated, of a talent he’d never known he had.

“I’ll be back,” Telzey told the smiling, dull thing, and left it.

She found herself standing on the slope. It had taken only a moment, after all. Dunker and Valia were running towards her. Rish had just climbed out of the aircar settled forty feet away, its search-beam fixed on the thicket where the spook’s body jerked back and forth as Chomir, jaws locked on its crushed neck, shook the last vestiges of life from it with methodical fury.

 

 

 

 

 

All the Way Back by Michael Shaara

All the Way Back

by Michael Shaara



Preface by David Drake



Before writing The Killer Angels, his Pulitzer Prize-winning novel of the Battle of Gettysburg, Michael Shaara practiced his skill by writing SF. Those of you who've read "Soldier Boy," "Death of a Hunter" (my particular favorite), and this story will agree that he didn't need much practice.
















Great were the Antha, so reads the One Book of history, greater perhaps than any of the Galactic Peoples, and they were brilliant and fair, and their reign was long, and in all things they were great and proud, even in the manner of their dying—



Preface to Loab: History of The Master Race

 

 

The huge red ball of a sun hung glowing upon the screen.

Jansen adjusted the traversing knob, his face tensed and weary. The sun swung off the screen to the right, was replaced by the live black of space and the million speckled lights of the farther stars. A moment later the sun glided silently back across the screen and went off at the left. Again there was nothing but space and the stars.

“Try it again?” Cohn asked.

Jansen mumbled: “No. No use,” and he swore heavily. “Nothing. Always nothing. Never a blessed thing.”

Cohn repressed a sigh, began to adjust the controls.

In both of their minds was the single, bitter thought that there would be only one more time, and then they would go home. And it was a long way to come to go home with nothing.

When the controls were set there was nothing left to do. The two men walked slowly aft to the freeze room. Climbing up painfully on to the flat steel of the beds, they lay back and waited for the mechanism to function, for the freeze to begin.

Turned in her course, the spaceship bore off into the open emptiness. Her ports were thrown open, she was gathering speed as she moved away from the huge red star.

* * *

The object was sighted upon the last leg of the patrol, as the huge ship of the Galactic Scouts came across the edge of the Great Desert of the Rim, swinging wide in a long slow curve. It was there on the massometer as a faint blip, and, of course, the word went directly to Roymer.

“Report,” he said briefly, and Lieutenant Goladan—a young and somewhat pompous Higiandrian—gave the Higiandrian equivalent of a cough and then reported.

“Observe,” said Lieutenant Goladan, “that it is not a meteor, for the speed of it is much too great.”

Roymer nodded patiently.

“And again, the speed is decreasing”—Goladan consulted his figures—”at a rate of twenty-four dines per segment. Since the orbit appears to bear directly upon the star Mina, and the decrease in speed is of a certain arbitrary origin, we must conclude that the object is a spaceship.”

Roymer smiled.

“Very good, lieutenant.” Like a tiny nova, Goladan began to glow and expand.

A good man, thought Roymer tolerantly, his is a race of good men. They have been two million years in achieving space flight; a certain adolescence is to be expected.

“Would you call Mind-Search, please?” Roymer asked.

Goladan sped away, to return almost immediately with the heavy-headed non-human Trian, chief of the Mind-Search Section.

Trian cocked an eyelike thing at Roymer, with grave inquiry.

“Yes, commander?”

The abrupt change in course was noticeable only on the viewplate, as the stars slid silently by. The patrol vessel veered off, swinging around and into the desert, settled into a parallel course with the strange new craft, keeping a discreet distance of—approximately—a light-year.

The scanners brought the object into immediate focus, and Goladan grinned with pleasure. A spaceship, yes, Alien, too. Undoubtedly a primitive race. He voiced these thoughts to Roymer.

“Yes,” the commander said, staring at the strange, small, projectilelike craft. “Primitive type. It is to be wondered what they are doing in the desert.”

Goladan assumed an expression of intense curiosity.

“Trian,” said Roymer pleasantly, “would you contact?”

The huge head bobbed up and down once and then stared into the screen. There was a moment of profound silence. Then Trian turned back to stare at Roymer, and there was a distinctly human expression of surprise in his eyelike things.

“Nothing,” came the thought. “I can detect no presence at all.”

Roymer raised an eyebrow.

“Is there a barrier?”

“No”—Trian had turned to gaze back into the screen—”a barrier I could detect. But there is nothing at all. There is no sentient activity on board that vessel.”

Trian’s word had to be taken, of course, and Roymer was disappointed. A spaceship empty of life—Roymer shrugged. A derelict, then. But why the decreasing speed? Pre-set controls would account for that, of course, but why? Certainly, if one abandoned a ship, one would not arrange for it to—

He was interrupted by Trian’s thought:

“Excuse me, but there is nothing. May I return to my quarters?”

Roymer nodded and thanked him, and Trian went ponderously away. Goladan said:

“Shall we prepare to board it, sir?”

“Yes.”

And then Goladan was gone to give his proud orders.

Roymer continued to stare at the primitive vessel which hung on the plate. Curious. It was very interesting, always, to come upon derelict ships. The stories that were old, the silent tombs that had been drifting perhaps, for millions of years in the deep sea of space. In the beginning Roymer had hoped that the ship would be manned, and alien, but—nowadays, contact with an isolated race was rare, extremely rare. It was not to be hoped for, and he would be content with this, this undoubtedly empty, ancient ship.

And then, to Roymer’s complete surprise, the ship at which he was staring shifted abruptly, turned on its axis, and flashed off like a live thing upon a new course.

* * *

When the defrosters activated and woke him up, Jansen lay for a while upon the steel table, blinking. As always with the freeze, it was difficult to tell at first whether anything had actually happened. It was like a quick blink and no more, and then you were lying, feeling exactly the same, thinking the same thoughts even, and if there was anything at all different it was maybe that you were a little numb. And yet in the blink time took a great leap, and the months went by like—Jansen smiled—fenceposts.

He raised a languid eye to the red bulb in the ceiling. Out. He sighed. The freeze had come and gone. He felt vaguely cheated, reflected that this time, before the freeze, he would take a little nap.

He climbed down from the table, noted that Cohn had already gone to the control room. He adjusted himself to the thought that they were approaching a new sun, and it came back to him suddenly that this would be the last one, now they would go home.

Well then, let this one have planets. To have come all this way, to have been gone from home eleven years, and yet to find nothing—

He was jerked out of the old feeling of despair by a lurch of the ship. That would be Cohn taking her off the auto. And now, he thought, we will go in and run out the telescope and have a look, and there won’t be a thing.

Wearily, he clumped off over the iron deck, going up to the control room. He had no hope left now, and he had been so hopeful at the beginning. As they are all hopeful, he thought, as they have been hoping now for three hundred years. And they will go on hoping, for a little while, and then men will become hard to get, even with the freeze, and then the starships won’t go out any more. And Man will be doomed to the System for the rest of his days.

Therefore, he asked humbly, silently, let this one have planets.

Up in the dome of the control cabin, Cohn was bent over the panel, pouring power into the board. He looked up, nodded briefly as Jansen came in. It seemed to both of them that they had been apart for five minutes.

“Are they all hot yet?” asked Jansen.

“No, not yet.”

The ship had been in deep space with her ports thrown open. Absolute cold had come in and gone to the core of her, and it was always a while before the ship was reclaimed and her instruments warmed. Even now there was a sharp chill in the air of the cabin.

Jansen sat down idly, rubbing his arms.

“Last time around, I guess.”

“Yes,” said Cohn, and added laconically, “I wish Weizsäcker was here.”

Jansen grinned. Weizsäcker, poor old Weizsäcker. He was long dead and it was a good thing, for he was the most maligned human being in the System.

For a hundred years his theory on the birth of planets, that every sun necessarily gave birth to a satellite family, had been an accepted part of the knowledge of Man. And then, of course, there had come space flight.

Jansen chuckled wryly. Lucky man, Weizsäcker. Now, two hundred years and a thousand stars later, there had been discovered just four planets. Alpha Centauri had one: a barren, ice-crusted mote no larger than the Moon; and Pollux had three, all dead lumps of cold rock and iron. None of the other stars had any at all. Yes, it would have been a great blow to Weizsäcker.

A hum of current broke into Jansen’s thought as the telescope was run out. There was a sudden beginning of light upon the screen.

In spite of himself and the wry, hopeless feeling that had been in him, Jansen arose quickly, with a thin trickle of nervousness in his arms. There is always a chance, he thought, after all, there is always a chance. We have only been to a thousand suns, and in the Galaxy a thousand suns are not anything at all. So there is always a chance.

Cohn, calm and methodical, was manning the radar.

Gradually, condensing upon the center of the screen, the image of the star took shape. It hung at last, huge and yellow and flaming with an awful brilliance, and the prominences of the rim made the vast circle uneven. Because the ship was close and the filter was in, the stars of the background were invisible, and there was nothing but the one great sun.

Jansen began to adjust for observation.

The observation was brief.

They paused for a moment before beginning the tests, gazing upon the face of the alien sun. The first of their race to be here and to see, they were caught up for a time in the ancient, deep thrill of space and the unknown Universe.

They watched, and into the field of their vision, breaking in slowly upon the glaring edge of the sun’s disk, there came a small black ball. It moved steadily away from the edge, in toward the center of the sun. It was unquestionably a planet in transit.

* * *

When the alien ship moved, Roymer was considerably rattled.

One does not question Mind-Search, he knew, and so there could not be any living thing aboard that ship. Therefore, the ship’s movement could be regarded only as a peculiar aberration in the still-functioning drive. Certainly, he thought, and peace returned to his mind.

But it did pose an uncomfortable problem. Boarding that ship would be no easy matter, not if the thing was inclined to go hopping away like that, with no warning. There were two hundred years of conditioning in Roymer, it would be impossible for him to put either his ship or his crew into an unnecessarily dangerous position. And wavery, erratic spaceships could undoubtedly be classified as dangerous.

Therefore, the ship would have to be disabled.

Regretfully, he connected with Fire control, put the operation into the hands of the Firecon officer, and settled back to observe the results of the actions against the strange craft.

And the alien moved again.

Not suddenly, as before, but deliberately now, the thing turned once more from its course, and its speed decreased even more rapidly. It was still moving in upon Mina, but now its orbit was tangential and no longer direct. As Roymer watched the ship come about, he turned up the magnification for a larger view, checked the automatic readings on the board below the screen. And his eyes were suddenly directed to a small, conical projection which had begun to rise up out of the ship, which rose for a short distance and stopped, pointed in on the orbit towards Mina at the center.

Roymer was bewildered, but he acted immediately. Firecon was halted, all protective screens were re-established, and the patrol ship back-tracked quickly into the protection of deep space.

There was no question in Roymer’s mind that the movements of the alien had been directed by a living intelligence, and not by any mechanical means. There was also no doubt in Roymer’s mind that there was no living being on board that ship. The problem was acute.

Roymer felt the scalp of his hairless head beginning to crawl. In the history of the galaxy, there had been discovered but five nonhuman races, yet never a race which did not betray its existence by the telepathic nature of its thinking. Roymer could not conceive of a people so alien that even the fundamental structure of their thought process was entirely different from the Galactics.

Extra-Galactics? He observed the ship closely and shook his head. No. Not an extra-Galactic ship certainly, much too primitive a type.

Extraspatial? His scalp crawled again.

Completely at a loss as to what to do, Roymer again contacted Mind-Search and requested that Trian be sent to him immediately.

Trian was preceded by a puzzled Goladan. The orders to alien contact, then to Firecon, and finally for a quick retreat, had affected the lieutenant deeply. He was a man accustomed to a strictly logical and somewhat ponderous course of events. He waited expectantly for some explanation to come from his usually serene commander.

Roymer, however, was busily occupied in tracking the alien’s new course. An orbit about Mina, Roymer observed, with that conical projection laid on the star; a device of war; or some measuring instrument?

The stolid Trian appeared—walking would not quite describe how—and was requested to make another attempt at contact with the alien. He replied with his usual eerie silence and in a moment, when he turned back to Roymer, there was surprise in the transmitted thought.

“I cannot understand. There is life there now.”

Roymer was relieved, but Goladan was blinking.

Trian went on, turning again to gaze at the screen.

“It is very remarkable. There are two life-beings. Human-type race. Their presence is very clear, they are”—he paused briefly—”explorers, it appears. But they were not there before. It is extremely unnerving.”

So it is, Roymer agreed. He asked quickly: “Are they aware of us?”

“No. They are directing their attention on the star. Shall I contact?”

“No. Not yet. We will observe them first.”

The alien ship floated upon the screen before them, moving in slow orbit about the star Mina.

* * *

Seven. There were seven of them. Seven planets, and three at least had atmospheres, and two might even be inhabitable. Jansen was so excited he was hopping around the control room. Cohn did nothing, but grin widely with a wondrous joy, and the two of them repeatedly shook hands and gloated.

“Seven!” roared Jansen. “Old lucky seven!”

Quickly then, and with extreme nervousness, they ran spectrograph analyses of each of those seven fascinating worlds. They began with the central planets, in the favorable temperature belt where life conditions would be most likely to exist, and they worked outwards.

For reasons which were as much sentimental as they were practical, they started with the third planet of this fruitful sun. There was a thin atmosphere, fainter even than that of Mars, and no oxygen. Silently they went on to the fourth. It was cold and heavy, perhaps twice as large as Earth, had a thick envelope of noxious gases. They saw with growing fear that there was no hope there, and they turned quickly inwards toward the warmer area nearer the sun.

On the second planet—as Jansen put it—they hit the jackpot.

A warm, green world it was, of an Earthlike size and atmosphere; oxygen and water vapor lines showed strong and clear in the analysis.

“This looks like it,” said Jansen, grinning again.

Cohn nodded, left the screen and went over to man the navigating instruments.

“Let’s go down and take a look.”

“Radio check first.” It was the proper procedure. Jansen had gone over it in his mind a thousand times. He clicked on the receiver, waited for the tubes to function, and then scanned for contact. As they moved in toward the new planet he listened intently, trying all lengths, waiting for any sound at all. There was nothing but the rasping static of open space.

“Well,” he said finally, as the green planet grew large upon the screen, “if there’s any race there, it doesn’t have radio.”

Cohn showed his relief.

“Could be a young civilization.”

“Or one so ancient and advanced that it doesn’t need radio.”

Jansen refused to let his deep joy be dampened. It was impossible to know what would be there. Now it was just as it had been three hundred years ago, when the first Earth ship was approaching Mars. And it will be like this—Jansen thought—in every other system to which we go. How can you picture what there will be? There is nothing at all in your past to give you a clue. You can only hope.

The planet was a beautiful green ball on the screen.

* * *

The thought which came out of Trian’s mind was tinged with relief.

“I see how it was done. They have achieved a complete stasis, a perfect state of suspended animation which they produce by an ingenious usage of the absolute zero of outer space. Thus, when they are—frozen, is the way they regard it—their minds do not function, and their lives are not detectable. They have just recently revived and are directing their ship.”

Roymer digested the new information slowly. What kind of a race was this? A race which flew in primitive star ships, yet it had already conquered one of the greatest problems in Galactic history, a problem which had baffled the Galactics for millions of years. Roymer was uneasy.

“A very ingenious device,” Trian was thinking, “they use it to alter the amount of subjective time consumed in their explorations. Their star ship has a very low maximum speed. Hence, without this—freeze—their voyage would take up a good portion of their lives.”

“Can you classify the mind-type?” Roymer asked with growing concern.

Trian reflected silently for a moment.

“Yes,” he said, “although the type is extremely unusual. I have never observed it before. General classification would be Human-Four. More specifically, I would place them at the Ninth level.”

Roymer started. “The Ninth level?”

“Yes. As I say, they are extremely unusual.”

Roymer was now clearly worried. He turned away and paced the deck for several moments. Abruptly, he left the room and went to the files of alien classification. He was gone for a long time, while Goladan fidgeted and Trian continued to gather information plucked across space from the alien minds. Roymer came back at last.

“What are they doing?”

“They are moving in on the second planet. They are about to determine whether the conditions are suitable there for an establishment of a colony of their kind.”

Gravely, Roymer gave his orders to navigation. The patrol ship swung into motion, sped off swiftly in the direction of the second planet.

* * *

There was a single, huge blue ocean which covered an entire hemisphere of the new world. And the rest of the surface was a young jungle, wet and green and empty of any kind of people, choked with queer growths of green and orange. They circled the globe at a height of several thousand feet, and to their amazement and joy, they never saw a living thing; not a bird or a rabbit or the alien equivalent, in fact nothing alive at all. And so they stared in happy fascination.

“This is it,” Jansen said again, his voice uneven.

“What do you think we ought to call it?” Cohn was speaking absently. “New Earth? Utopia?”

Together they watched the broken terrain slide by beneath them.

“No people at all. It’s ours.” And after a while Jansen said: “New Earth. That’s a good name.”

Cohn was observing the features of the ground intently.

“Do you notice the kind of . . . circular appearance of most of those mountain ranges? Like on the Moon, but grown over and eroded. They’re all almost perfect circles.”

Pulling his mind away from the tremendous visions he had of the colony which would be here, Jansen tried to look at the mountains with an objective eye. Yes, he realized with faint surprise, they were round, like Moon craters.

“Peculiar,” Cohn muttered. “Not natural, I don’t think. Couldn’t be. Meteors not likely in this atmosphere. “What in—?”

Jansen jumped. “Look there,” he cried suddenly, “a round lake!”

Off toward the northern pole of the planet, a lake which was a perfect circle came slowly into view. There was no break in the rim other than that of a small stream which flowed in from the north.

“That’s not natural,” Cohn said briefly, “someone built that.”

They were moving on to the dark side now, and Cohn turned the ship around. The sense of exhilaration was too new for them to be let down, but the strange sight of a huge number of perfect circles, existing haphazardly like the remains of great splashes on the surface of the planet, was unnerving.

It was the sight of one particular crater, a great barren hole in the midst of a wide red desert, which rang a bell in Jansen’s memory, and he blurted:

“A war! There was a war here. That one there looks just like a fusion bomb crater.”

Cohn stared, then raised his eyebrows.

“I’ll bet you’re right.”

“A bomb crater, do you see? Pushes up hills on all sides in a circle, and kills—” A sudden, terrible thought hit Jansen. Radioactivity. Would there be radioactivity here?

While Cohn brought the ship in low over the desert, he tried to calm Jansen’s fears.

“There couldn’t be much. Too much plant life. Jungles all over the place. Take it easy, man.”

“But there’s not a living thing on the planet. I’ll bet that’s why there was a war. It got out of hand, the radioactivity got everything. We might have done this to Earth!”

They glided in over the flat emptiness of the desert, and the counters began to click madly.

“That’s it,” Jansen said conclusively, “still radioactive. It might not have been too long ago.”

“Could have been a million years, for all we know.”

“Well, most places are safe, apparently. We’ll check before we go down.”

As he pulled the ship up and away, Cohn whistled.

“Do you suppose there’s really not a living thing? I mean, not a bug or a germ or even a virus? Why, it’s like a clean new world, a nursery!” He could not take his eyes from the screen.

They were going down now. In a very little while they would be out and walking in the sun. The lust of the feeling was indescribable. They were Earthmen freed forever from the choked home of the System, Earthmen gone out to the stars, landing now upon the next world of their empire.

Cohn could not control himself.

“Do we need a flag?” he said grinning. “How do we claim this place?”

“Just set her down, man,” Jansen roared.

Cohn began to chuckle.

“Oh, brave new world,” he laughed, “that has no people in it.”

* * *

“But why do we have to contact them?” Goladan asked impatiently. “Could we not just—”

Roymer interrupted without looking at him.

“The law requires that contact be made and the situation explained before action is taken. Otherwise it would be a barbarous act.”

Goladan brooded.

The patrol ship hung in the shadow of the dark side, tracing the alien by its radioactive trail. The alien was going down for a landing on the daylight side.

Trian came forward with the other members of the Alien Contact Crew, reported to Roymer, “The aliens have landed.”

“Yes,” said Roymer, “we will let them have a little time. Trian, do you think you will have any difficulty in the transmission?”

“No. Conversation will not be difficult. Although the confused and complex nature of their thought-patterns does make their inner reactions somewhat obscure. But I do not think there will be any problem.”

“Very well. You will remain here and relay the messages.”

“Yes.”

The patrol ship flashed quickly up over the north pole, then swung inward toward the equator, circling the spot where the alien had gone down. Roymer brought his ship in low and with the silence characteristic of a Galactic, landed her in a wooded spot a mile east of the alien. The Galactics remained in their ship for a short while as Trian continued his probe for information. When at last the Alien Contact Crew stepped out, Roymer and Goladan were in the lead. The rest of the crew faded quietly into the jungle.

As he walked through the young orange brush, Roymer regarded the world around him. Almost ready for repopulation, he thought, in another hundred years the radiation will be gone, and we will come back. One by one the worlds of that war will be reclaimed.

He felt Trian’s directions pop into his mind.

“You are approaching them. Proceed with caution. They are just beyond the next small rise. I think you had better wait, since they are remaining close to their ship.”

Roymer sent back a silent yes. Motioning Goladan to be quiet, Roymer led the way up the last rise. In the jungle around him the Galactic crew moved silently.

* * *

The air was perfect; there was no radiation. Except for the wild orange color of the vegetation, the spot was a Garden of Eden. Jansen felt instinctively that there was no danger here, no terrible blight or virus or any harmful thing. He felt a violent urge to get out of his spacesuit and run and breathe, but it was forbidden. Not on the first trip. That would come later, after all the tests and experiments had been made and the world pronounced safe.

One of the first things Jansen did was get out the recorder and solemnly claim this world for the Solar Federation, recording the historic words for the archives of Earth. And he and Cohn remained for a while by the air lock of their ship, gazing around at the strange yet familiar world into which they had come.

“Later on we’ll search for ruins,” Cohn said. “Keep an eye out for anything that moves. It’s possible that there are some of them left and who knows what they’ll look like. Mutants, probably, with five heads. So keep an eye open.”

“Right.”

Jansen began collecting samples of the ground, of the air, of the nearer foliage. The dirt was Earth-dirt, there was no difference. He reached down and crumbled the soft moist sod with his fingers. The flowers may be a little peculiar—probably mutated, he thought—but the dirt is honest to goodness dirt, and I’ll bet the air is Earth-air.

He rose and stared into the clear open blue of the sky, feeling again an almost overpowering urge to throw open his helmet and breathe, and as he stared at the sky and at the green and orange hills, suddenly, a short distance from where he stood, a little old man came walking over the hill.

They stood facing each other across the silent space of a foreign glade. Roymer’s face was old and smiling; Jansen looked back at him with absolute astonishment.

After a short pause, Roymer began to walk out into the open soil, with Goladan following, and Jansen went for his heat gun.

“Cohn!” he yelled, in a raw brittle voice, “Cohn!”

And as Cohn turned and saw and froze, Jansen heard words being spoken in his brain. They were words coming from the little old man.

“Please do not shoot,” the old man said, his lips unmoving.

“No, don’t shoot,” Cohn said quickly. “Wait. Let him alone.” The hand of Cohn, too, was at his heat gun.

Roymer smiled. To the two Earthmen his face was incredibly old and wise and gentle. He was thinking: Had I been a nonhuman they would have killed me.

He sent a thought back to Trian. The Mind-Searcher picked it up and relayed it into the brains of the Earthmen, sending it through their cortical centers and then up into their conscious minds, so that the words were heard in the language of Earth. “Thank you,” Roymer said gently. Jansen’s hand held the heat gun leveled on Roymer’s chest. He stared, not knowing what to say.

“Please remain where you are,” Cohn’s voice was hard and steady.

Roymer halted obligingly. Goladan stopped at his elbow, peering at the Earthmen with mingled fear and curiosity. The sight of fear helped Jansen very much.

“Who are you?” Cohn said clearly, separating the words.

Roymer folded his hands comfortably across his chest, he was still smiling.

“With your leave, I will explain our presence.”

Cohn just stared.

“There will be a great deal to explain. May we sit down and talk?”

Trian helped with the suggestion. They sat down.

The sun of the new world was setting, and the conference went on. Roymer was doing most of the talking. The Earthmen sat transfixed.

It was like growing up suddenly, in the space of a second.

The history of Earth and of all Mankind just faded and dropped away. They heard of great races and worlds beyond number, the illimitable government which was the Galactic Federation. The fiction, the legends, the dreams of a thousand years had come true in a moment, in the figure of a square little old man who was not from Earth. There was a great deal for them to learn and accept in the time of a single afternoon, on an alien planet.

But it was just as new and real to them that they had discovered an uninhabited, fertile planet, the first to be found by Man. And they could not help but revolt from the sudden realization that the planet might well be someone else’s property—that the Galactics owned everything worth owning.

It was an intolerable thought.

“How far,” asked Cohn, as his heart pushed up in his throat, “does the Galactic League extend?”

Roymer’s voice was calm and direct in their minds.

“Only throughout the central regions of the galaxy. There are millions of stars along the rim which have not yet been explored.”

Cohn relaxed, bowed down with relief. There was room then, for Earthmen.

“This planet. Is it part of the Federation?”

“Yes,” said Roymer, and Cohn tried to mask his thought. Cohn was angry, and he hoped that the alien could not read his mind as well as he could talk to it. To have come this far—

“There was a race here once,” Roymer was saying, “a humanoid race which was almost totally destroyed by war. This planet has been uninhabitable for a very long time. A few of its people who were in space at the time of the last attack were spared. The Federation established them elsewhere. When the planet is ready, the descendants of those survivors will be brought back. It is their home.”

Neither of the Earthmen spoke.

“It is surprising,” Roymer went on, “that your home world is in the desert. We had thought that there were no habitable worlds—”

“The desert?”

“Yes. The region of the galaxy from which you have come is that which we call the desert. It is an area almost entirely devoid of planets. Would you mind telling me which star is your home?”

Cohn stiffened.

“I’m afraid our government would not permit us to disclose any information concerning our race.”

“As you wish. I am sorry you are disturbed. I was curious to know—” He waved a negligent hand to show that the information was unimportant. We will get it later, he thought, when we decipher their charts. He was coming to the end of the conference, he was about to say what he had come to say.

“No doubt you have been exploring the stars about your world?”

The Earthmen both nodded. But for the question concerning Sol, they long ago would have lost all fear of this placid old man and his wide-eyed, silent companion.

“Perhaps you would like to know,” said Roymer, “why your area is a desert.”

Instantly, both Jansen and Cohn were completely absorbed. This was it, the end of three hundred years of searching. They would go home with the answer.

Roymer never relaxed.

“Not too long ago,” he said, “approximately thirty thousand years by your reckoning, a great race ruled the desert, a race which was known as the Antha, and it was not a desert then. The Antha ruled hundreds of worlds. They were perhaps the greatest of all the Galactic peoples; certainly they were as brilliant a race as the galaxy has ever known.

“But they were not a good race. For hundreds of years, while they were still young, we tried to bring them into the Federation. They refused, and of course we did not force them. But as the years went by the scope of their knowledge increased amazingly; shortly they were the technological equals of any other race in the galaxy. And then the Antha embarked upon an era of imperialistic expansion.

“They were superior, they knew it and were proud. And so they pushed out and enveloped the races and worlds of the area now known as the desert. Their rule was a tyranny unequaled in Galactic history.”

The Earthmen never moved, and Roymer went on.

“But the Antha were not members of the Federation, and, therefore, they were not answerable for their acts. We could only stand by and watch as they spread their vicious rule from world to world. They were absolutely ruthless.

“As an example of their kind of rule, I will tell you of their crime against the Apectans.

“The planet of Apectus not only resisted the Antha, but somehow managed to hold out against their approach for several years. The Antha finally conquered and then, in retaliation for the Apectans’ valor, they conducted the most brutal of their mass experiments.

“They were a brilliant people. They had been experimenting with the genes of heredity. Somehow they found a way to alter the genes of the Apectans, who were humanoids like themselves, and they did it on a mass scale. They did not choose to exterminate the race, their revenge was much greater. Every Apectan born since the Antha invasion, has been born without one arm.”

Jansen sucked in his breath. It was a very horrible thing to hear, and a sudden memory came into his brain. Caesar did that, he thought. He cut off the right hands of the Gauls. Peculiar coincidence. Jansen felt uneasy.

Roymer paused for a moment.

“The news of what happened to the Apectans set the Galactic peoples up in arms, but it was not until the Antha attacked a Federation world that we finally moved against them. It was the greatest war in the history of Life.

“You will perhaps understand how great a people the Antha were when I tell you that they alone, unaided, dependent entirely upon their own resources, fought the rest of the Galactics, and fought them to a standstill. As the terrible years went by we lost whole races and planets—like this one, which was one the Antha destroyed—and yet we could not defeat them.

“It was only after many years, when a Galactic invented the most dangerous weapon of all, that we won. The invention—of which only the Galactic Council has knowledge—enabled us to turn the suns of the Antha into novae, at long range. One by one we destroyed the Antha worlds. We hunted them through all the planets of the desert; for the first time in history the edict of the Federation was death, death for an entire race. At last there were no longer any habitable worlds where the Antha had been. We burned their worlds, and ran them down in space. Thirty thousand years ago, the civilization of the Antha perished.”

Roymer had finished. He looked at the Earthmen out of grave, tired old eyes.

Cohn was staring in open-mouth fascination, but Jansen—unaccountably felt a chill. The story of Caesar remained uncomfortably in his mind. And he had a quick, awful suspicion.

“Are you sure you got all of them?”

“No. Some surely must have escaped. There were too many in space, and space is without limits.”

Jansen wanted to know: “Have any of them been heard of since?”

Roymer’s smile left him as the truth came out. “No. Not until now.”

There were only a few more seconds. He gave them time to understand. He could not help telling them that he was sorry, he even apologized. And then he sent the order with his mind.

The Antha died quickly and silently, without pain.

* * *

Only thirty thousand years, Roymer was thinking, but thirty thousand years, and they came back out to the stars. They have no memory now of what they were or what they have done. They started all over again, the old history of the race has been lost, and in thirty thousand years they came all the way back.

Roymer shook his head with sad wonder and awe. The most brilliant people of all.

Goladan came in quietly with the final reports.

“There are no charts,” he grumbled, “no maps at all. We will not be able to trace them to their home star.”

Roymer did not know, really, what was right, to be disappointed or relieved. We cannot destroy them now, he thought, not right away. He could not help being relieved. Maybe this time there will be a way, and they will not have to be destroyed. They could be—

He remembered the edict—the edict of death. The Antha had forged it for themselves and it was just. He realized that there wasn’t much hope.

The reports were on his desk and he regarded them with a wry smile. There was indeed no way to trace them back. They had no charts, only a regular series of course-check coordinates which were preset on their home planet and which were not decipherable. Even at this stage of their civilization they had already anticipated the consequences of having their ship fall into alien hands. And this although they lived in the desert.

Goladan startled him with an anxious question:

“What can we do?”

Roymer was silent.

We can wait, he thought. Gradually, one by one, they will come out of the desert, and when they come we will be waiting. Perhaps one day we will follow one back and destroy their world, and perhaps before then we will find a way to save them.

Suddenly, as his eyes wandered over the report before him and he recalled the ingenious mechanism of the freeze, a chilling, unbidden thought came into his brain.

And perhaps, he thought calmly, for he was a philosophical man, they will come out already equipped to rule the galaxy.

 

 

 

Afterword by Jim Baen

This story bowled me over when I read it at age fourteen because it answered a question that’d plagued me practically my whole thinking life (the past two years, maybe): all those planets had to be inhabited by all those aliens; so where were they? (This is Fermi’s Paradox to people who know who Fermi was. I didn’t, of course.)

I was born and raised in a rural community on the New York/Pennsylvania border. It was very easy for me to imagine a universe which was without intelligent life for an immense distance surrounding me. But one relative had an attic of SF magazines, including the Astounding with “All the Way Back.”

Shaara’s answer (and I suspect it was a conscious answer, albeit a flip one) mapped the data perfectly. Maybe the reason it seemed so profound to me is that in 1957 we all knew we were going to die in a thermonuclear holocaust in a few years. What was this but that, writ very large?

 

 

 

 

Spawn by P. Schuyler Miller

Spawn

by P. Schuyler Miller

Preface by Eric Flint




I'd never read this story until Dave told me he wanted it for the anthology. After I did, I understood why. He'll explain his view of it in an afterword, but what I'll say about it for the moment is . . . 

This story really, really, really shouldn't work. If there's any "rule of writing" that P. Schuyler Miller doesn't violate somewhere in the course of it, I don't know what it is. The plot is . . . 

Absurd. The characters are . . . 

Preposterous. The prose is . . . 

"Purple" doesn't begin to capture the color. 

So much for the rules of writing. In its own completely over-the-top style, this story is a masterpiece. 

Okay, a madman's masterpiece, maybe, and certainly one of a kind. It still qualifies for the term because it fulfills the ultimate criterion for a great story—and, ultimately, the only criterion worth talking about.

It works. It really, really, really works.

 

 

 

Pedants spout glibly of probability, quibble and hedge, gulp at imagined gnats. Nothing is impossible to mathematics. Only improbable. Only very improbable.

Only impossibly improbable.

Earth, for example, is improbable. Planets should not logically exist, nor on existing planets life. Balances of forces are too impossibly delicate; origins too complexly coincidental. But Earth does exist—and on Earth life.

We see Earth and we see life, or we see something, however improbable, and call it Earth and life. We forget probabilities and mathematics and live by our senses, by our common sense. Our common sense sees Earth and it sees life, and in a kind of darkened mirror it sees men—but men are utterly improbable!

Ooze to worms and worms to fishes. Fishes to frogs and frogs to lizards. Lizards to rats and rats to men, and men at last to bloated, futuristic Brains. Brains are improbable: brains and senses, and above all, common sense. Not impossible—because nothing is impossible—but so improbable that nowhere in all the improbable stars, nowhere in all the improbably empty space between the stars, is there room for other Earths and other rats and men.

Nowhere—life.

* * *

An improbable man is tight. A man with improbably carrot-colored hair, with an improbably enormous nose. With a cold in that nose. With a quart of potato rot-gut to encourage the utter improbability of that cold and that nose, and of the world in general. With a plane’s rudder bar under his feet and a plane’s stick between his knees, and the Chilean Andes improbably gigantic underneath. 

A man is tight. And coincident with that tightness he is witness to the Improbable: 

Friday, the 25th of July: James Arthur Donegan, thirty-odd, red-haired, American, has witnessed the Improbable.

A cliff, hard and quartz-white, softening—puddling—pulping away in a vast heaped monstrousness fat with thick ropes of gold. Raw gold—yellow in the Andean sunlight. Mother-gold—knotted in wadded worm-nests in the shining rock. Medusae of golden fascination. Gold burning in hemp-dream arabesques in the naked cliff-face, in the white quartz that is pulping, dripping, sloughing into monstrosity.

Jim Donegan tipped his bottle high and lifted his plane out of insanity. Jim Donegan’s brain reeled with the raw white fire of potato whiskey and the raw yellow lustre of fat gold. And with the gold a quartz cliff melting, puddling—stone into pudding—sense into nonsense.

Jim Donegan tipped his bottle again and remembered to forget. Landed in Santiago. Disappeared.

* * *

An improbable man is sober. A thousand improbable men and a thousand even less credible women, and of them all only a hundred drunk. Only another hundred tight, or boiled, or mildly blotto. And half a thousand improbable men and women, drunk and sober, see and hear and photograph the Improbable eating whales: 

Wednesday, the 20th of August: Richard Chisholm, fifty, grizzled, British, has entered the Improbable in his log. Has stirred one wrinkled cerebrum, accustomed to the investigation of probabilities, in unaccustomed ways.

Zoologist Heinrich Wilhelm Sturm leaned with polished elbows on a polished rail and stared at a burnished sea. Daughter Marie Elsa Sturm leaned and stared beside him. Secretary Rudolf Walter Weltmann leaned and stared, but not at waves.

Waves lifted lazily along a great ship’s flank. Waves swelled and fell unbroken with the listless, oily languor of old dreams. And caught in the warm web of the sun and the malachitic waxenness of the waves a score of whales basked, rolling and blowing, under the weary eyes of Zoologist Heinrich Sturm.

The molten, lucent fluid of the sea clotted and cooled. Color went swiftly out of it: greenstone to apple jade, jade into chrysoprase, prase into beryl spume. It folded in uneven glistening hillocks of illogical solidity, and Zoologist Heinrich Sturm choked on his German oaths as a score of drowsing whales fought suddenly with death!

Acres of empty sea became quivering pulp. Grey puffs of it pushed out of the waves and sank again. Horrible, avid ripples shuddered and smoothed across its sleekness. And twenty whales were caught: gigantic, blunted minnows wallowing in a pudding mould; titanic ebon microbes studding an agar bowl. Drowned by the grey-green stuff that oozed into their gullets and choked their valved blow-holes! Strangled and stifled by it.

Swallowed and eaten by it!

The sound of it was unreal—the whoosh of blown breath splattering jellied ooze—the soft, glutting gurgle of flowing pulp—the single soughing sob as giant flukes pulled loose to fling aloft and smash into the rippled greenness that was darkening with the shadow of the ship.

One last sucking sigh—the fling of one mighty glistening upsilon against the sky—the babble of half a thousand human beings gulping breath. And Zoologist Heinrich Sturm, staring through thick, dark lenses at the blob of grey-green jelly on his wrist, at the spatter of jelly on the deck at his feet, and swearing happily his guttural German oaths . . .

* * *

A dead man lay in state. 

And I was there: 

Friday, the 22nd of August: Nicholas Svadin lies for the third day in solemn state before the peoples of the world.

Nicholas Svadin, Dictator of Mittel-Europa, lay waxen white under the heaped callas, under the August sun of Budapest. Nicholas Svadin, son of a Slavic butcher, grandson of German fuhrers, lay with six soft-nosed bullets in his skull and breast. Nicholas Svadin—whose genius for government had won the loyalty instead of the hatred of nations, whose greedy hand fed on the conflict of languages and races, whose shadow had covered Europe from the Volga to the Rhine. Nicholas Svadin—who had held all Europe under his humane tyranny save for the bickering fringe of Latin states and the frozen, watchful silence of the Anglo-Scandinavian confederacy.

Nicholas Svadin—dead in the August sun, with all Europe trembling in metastable balance under the fast-unfolding wings of Chaos.

And four men were the world. And four men were afraid.

They stood as they had stood when Svadin’s great rolling voice burst in a bloody cough and his great body, arms upflung in the compassionate gesture of the Cross, slumped like a greasy rag on the white steps of the Peace Hall. They stood with the world before them, and the world’s dead master, and the vision of the morrow brooded in their eyes.

Four men were the world. Rasmussen, bearded, blond, steel-eyed premier of Anglo-Scandia. Nasuki at his elbow, little and cunning with the age-old subtlety of the East. Gonzales, sleek, olive-skinned heir of the Neo-latin dictator. Moorehead the American, lean and white-headed and oldest of the four. Two and two in the August sun with the sickly scent of the death-lilies cloying in their nostrils, and I with my camera marking Time’s slow march.

I marked the four where they stood by the open bier. I marked the spilling lines of mourners that flowed in black runnels through the silent streets of Budapest. I marked the priests where they came, slow-treading with the stateliness of an elder civilization.

I marked the resurrection of the dead! 

Nicholas Svadin rose on his white-banked bier and stared at the world of men. Nicholas Svadin rose with the white wax softening in his massive jowls and the round blue scar of a soft-nosed slug between his corpse’s eyes. Nicholas Svadin swung his thick legs with an ugly stiffness from the bier and stood alone, alive, staring at mankind, and spoke four words—once, slowly, then again:

“I—am—Nicholas Svadin.”

“I am Nicholas Svadin!” 

And men had found a god.

Svadin had been a man, born of woman, father of men and women, the greatest Earth had known. His genius was for mankind, and he enfolded humanity in his kindly arms and was the father of a world. Svadin was a man, killed as men are killed, but on the third day he rose from his bed of death and cried his name aloud for the world to hear. 

Svadin the man became Svadin the god. 

I photographed the world-assembly at Leningrad when Svadin called together the scientists of the Earth and gave them the world to mould according to their liking. I marked the gathering in America’s halls of Congress when the rulers of the world gave their nations into his bloodless hands and received them again, reborn into a new order of democracy. I watched, and my camera watched, as the world poured itself into these new-cut patterns of civilization and found them good. And then, because men are men and even a Golden Age will pall at last, I turned to other things: 

A bathysphere torn from its cable in mid-deep. 

Fishing fleets returning with empty holds after weeks and months at sea. 

Eels gone from their ancient haunts, and salmon spawning in dozens where once streams had been choked with their lusting bodies. 

Cattleships lost in mid-Atlantic, and then a freighter, and another, gone without a trace. 

Two men and a girl whose names were on the rolls of every ship that crossed and recrossed the haunted waters of the North Atlantic. 

And from the South vague rumors of a god: 

Miami’s sun-bathed beaches were black with human insects. Miami’s tropic night throbbed with the beat of music and the sway and glide of dancers. Maria Elsa Sturm glided and swayed in the strong, young arms of Rudolf Weltmann and laughed with her night-blue eyes and poppy lips, but Heinrich Sturm stood alone in the star-strewn night and stared broodingly at the sleeping sea. Maria basked in the smoldering noonday sun, a slender golden flame beside the swarthy handsomeness of her companion, but the old masked eyes of Heinrich stared beyond her beauty at the sea.

Long waves swelled sleepily against the far blue of the Gulf Stream and sank and swelled again and creamed in tepid foam along the sands. Gay laughter rippled and prismatic color played with kaleidoscopic lavishness under the golden sun. Wave after wave of the sea, rising and falling and rising against the sky—and a wave that did not fall!

It came as the others had come, slowly, blue-green and glistening in the sunlight. It rose and fell with the ceaseless surge of the Atlantic at its back, and rose again along the white curve of the beach. It was like a wall of water, miles in length, rushing shoreward with the speed of a running man. Men ran from it and were caught. Spots of bright color spun in its sluggish eddies and went down. Tongues of it licked out over the warm sands, leaving them naked and bone-white, and flowed lazily back into the monstrous thing that lay and gorged in the hot sun.

It was a sea-green tumulus, vast as all Ocean. It was a league-long hillock of green ooze, apple-jade-green, chrysoprase-green, grey-green of frosted flint. It was a thing of Famine—not out of Bibles, not out of the histories of men—a thing that lay like a pestilence of the sea upon the warm, white beaches of Miami, black with humanity running, screaming, milling—a thing that was greedy and that fed!

Tatters of bright rag swirled in its sluggish eddies, oozed from its gelid depths; fragments of white bone, chalk-white and etched, rose and were spewed on the white sands. Arms of it flowed like hot wax, knowingly, hungrily. Veins in it, pale like clear ribbons of white jade in green translucency, ran blossom-pink, ran rose, ran crimson-red.

Maria Elsa Sturm lay in the white sand, in the warm sun, in the strong arms of healthy Rudolf Weltmann, under the unseeing eyes of Heinrich Sturm. Zoologist Heinrich Sturm woke to the world with horror in his eyes, horror in his brain, shrieking horror come stark into this life. Zoologist Heinrich Sturm saw tongues of the green-sea-stuff licking over Miami’s bone-white sands, supping up morsels of kicking life, spewing out dead things that were not food. Zoologist Heinrich Sturm saw the Incredible, mountain-high, suck up the golden straw that was Maria Strum, suck up the brown, strong straw that was Rudolf Weltmann, swell like a flooding river against the sea-wall at his feet, purling and dimpling with greedy inner currents—saw it ebb and lie drowsing, relishing its prey—saw the bright, scarlet rag that had wrapped Maria Sturm oozing up out of its green horridness, saw the black rag that had clothed Rudolf, saw two white, naked skulls that dimpled its glistening surface before they were sloughed away among tide-rows of eaten bones.

League-long and hill-high the wave that was not a wave lay glutting on young flesh, supping up hot blood. League-long and hill-high, with the little insect myriads of mankind running and screaming, standing and dying—with the buzzing wings of mankind circling over it and men’s little weapons peppering at its vast, full-fed imperturbability. Bombs fell like grain from a sower’s fist, streaming shadows of them raining out of the bare blue sky. Vast sound shattered the ears of gaping men, crushing in windows, shaking down ceilings, thundering with boastful vengeance. Fountains of green jelly rose stringily; wounds like the pit of Kimberly opened and showed sea-green, shadowed depths, stirring as the sea stirs, closing as the sea closes, with no scar. Bricks crumbled in little streams from a broken cornice; glass tinkled from gaping windows; men wailed and babbled and stared in fascination at Death. And Zoologist Heinrich Sturm stood alone, a gray old rock against which the scrambling tide beat and broke, seeing only the golden body of Maria Elsa Sturm, the laughing upturned face of Maria Elsa Sturm, the night-blue eyes and poppy lips of Maria Elsa Sturm . . .

Long waves swelled sleepily against the far blue of the Gulf Stream, and sank and swelled again, and creamed in soft foam against the bone-white sands. Wave after wave, rising and falling and rising higher with the flooding tide. Waves rising to lap the sea-green tumulus, to bathe its red-veined monstrousness whose crimson rills were fading to pink, to grey, to lucent white. Waves laving it, tickling its monstrous fancies, pleasing it mightily. Waves into which it subsided and left Miami’s white beaches naked for a league save for the windrows of heaped bones and the moist, bright rags that had been men’s condescension to the morality of men.

Cameras ground clickingly along that league-long battlefront while horror fed; microphones gathered the scream of the sight of Death from a thousand quavering lips—but not mine.

Men turned away, sickened, to turn and stare again with horrid fascination at the wet white windrows that were girls’ bones and men’s bones, and children’s—but not I.

Other eyes saw that vision of the Incredible; other lips told me of it when I asked. I did not see Zoologist Heinrich Sturm when he turned his back on the drift of smiling skulls and went wearily with the human stream, when he paid with creased and hoarded notes the accounts of Maria Elsa Sturm, deceased, and of Rudolf Walter Weltmann, deceased, of Heinrich Wilhelm Sturm.

I did not see Zoologist Heinrich Sturm when he stepped out of the hotel with his battered suitcase, plastered with paper labels, his round black hat, his thick dark glasses, and disappeared.

No one who saw cared.

There was no one, now, to care . . .

* * *

Out of the South the rumor of a god! 

Out of the Andes word of a God of Gold, stalking the mountain passes with Wrath and Vengeance smoking in his fists. A god wrathful in the presence of men and the works of men. A god vengeful of man’s slavery of rock and soil and metal. Jealous of man’s power over the inanimable. A god growing as the mountains grow, with bursting, jutting angularities shifting, fusing, moulding slowly into colossal harmonies of foam and function, with growing wisdom in his golden skull and growing power in his crystal fists. A god for the weak, contemptuous of the weak but pitiless to the strong—straddling adobe huts to trample the tin-roof huddle of shacks at the lip of some gaping wound in the ancient flesh of Earth.

A god with power tangible and cruel, alien to pewling Black-Robe doctrines of white men’s love of men. A god speaking voicelessly out of the distances of things that awoke old memories, roused old grandeurs in the blood of small brown men and in other men in whose veins the blood of brown kings flowed.

A god of red justice. A god of Revolution!

A god to bring fear again to men!

In the South—Revolution. Little brown men swarming in the mountains, pouring into the valleys, hacking, clubbing, stabbing, burning. Revolution in small places without names. Revolution in mud villages with names older than America. Revolution flaming in towns named in the proud Castilian tongue—in cities where white women promenaded and white men ogled, and brown men were dust in the gutters. Revolution in Catamarca, in Tucuman, in Santiago del Estero. Revolution half a thousand miles away, in Potosi, in Cochabamba, in Quillacolla. Revolution sweeping the royal cities of the Andes—Santiago, La Paz, Lima, Quito, Bogotá! Revolution stalking up the up-thrusting spine of a continent like a pestilence, sucking in crazed brown warriors from the montes, from the pampas, from barren deserts and steaming jungles. Blood of brown ancestors rising beneath white skins, behind blue eyes. Revolution like a flame sweeping through brown man and white and mostly-white and half-white and very-little-white and back to the brown blood of ancient, feathered kings! Guns against machetes. Bayonets against razor-whetted knives. Poison gas against poison darts.

And in their wake the tread of a God of Gold!

Revolution out of Chile, out of the Argentine, into Bolivia, into Peru of the Incas. Revolution out of the hot inland through the Amazon, rippling through Brazil, through the Guianas, into Ecuador, into Colombia, into Venezuela. Revolution choking the ditch of Panama, heaping the bigger ditch of Managua with bleeding corpses, seething through the dark forests of Honduras, Guatemala, Yucatan. A continent overwhelmed and nothing to show why. A continent threatened, and only the whispered rumor of a God of Gold!

Men like me went to see, to hear, to tell what they had seen and heard. Men like me crept into the desolate places where Revolution had passed, and found emptiness, found a continent trampled under the running, bleeding feet of a myriad of small brown men driven by a Fear greater than the fear of Death—crushed and broken under the relentless, marching hooves of the God of Gold.

A village, then a city—a nation, then a continent—and the armies of the white nations mobilizing along the border of Mexico, in the arid mountains of the American south-west, watching—waiting—fearing none knew what. A necklace of steel across the throat of the white man’s civilization.

Repeated circumstance becomes phenomenon; repeated phenomena are law. I found a circumstance that repeated again and again, that became phenomenal, that became certainty. A man with red hair, with a bulbous nose, with a bird’s knowledge of the air. An old man peering through thick glasses muttering in his beard. How they came together no man knew. Where they went man could only guess. The wings of their giant plane slid down out of the sunset, rose black against the sunrise, burned silver white in the blaze of noon . . . They went—they returned—and none questioned their coming or going.

War on the edge of America. War between white man and brown—and more than man behind the brown. Death rained from the sky on little brown men scattering in open deserts, on green jungles where brown men might be lurking, on rotten rock where brown men might have tunneled. Death poisoned the streams and the rock-hewn cenotes, death lay like a yellow fog in the arroyos and poured through gorges where brown men lay hidden behind rocks and in crannies of the rock. Flame swept over the face of Mexico and the brown hordes scattered and gave way in retreat, in flight, in utter rout. White fury blazed where brown hatred had smouldered. Brown bodies sprawled, flayed and gutted where white corpses had hung on wooden crosses, where white hearts had smoked in the noon sun and white men’s blood had dribbled down over carved stone altars. Hell followed Hell.

Then from Tehuantepac a clarion challenge, checking the rout, checking the white wave of vengeance. The challenge of a god!

Planes droned in the bare blue sky over Oaxaca, riddling the mountains with death. Polite, trim generals sat and drank and talked in half a dozen languages wherever there was shade. The sun blazed down on the plaza of Oaxaca in the time of siesta, and the grumble of war sank to a lullaby. Then out of the mountains of the east, rolling and rocking through the naked hills, sounded the shouted challenge of the God of Gold!

I heard it like a low thunder in the east, and a German major at the next table muttered “Dunder!” I heard it again, growling against the silence, and the Frenchman beside him looked up a moment from his glass. It came a third time, roaring like the voice of Bashan in the sky, and all up and down the shaded plaza men were listening and wondering.

Far away, across the mountains in Tehuantepec, the guns began to thud and mutter, and in the radio shack behind us a telegraph key was clicking nervously. The Frenchman was listening, his lips moving. An English lieutenant strode in out of the sun, saluted, melted into the shadow of the colonnade.

Out of the East the challenge of a God! 

I heard the triumphant, bull-bellied shout thundering across the ranges as the guns of Tehuantepec grumbled for the last time. I saw a light that should not be there—a mad, frantic light—gleaming in the eyes of an officer of Spanish name, from the Mexican province of Zacatecas. The German’s eyes were on him, and the Frenchman’s, and those of the English subaltern, following him as he stole away. The wireless operator came out and saluted, and handed a slip of yellow paper to the Frenchman. He passed it, shrugging, to the German. A Russian came and looked over his shoulder, an Italian, an American, a Japanese, and their heads turned slowly to listen for the chuck and patter of distant guns that they would never hear again. And then, again, that voice of the mountains bellowed its triumphant challenge, stirring a cold current of dread in my veins—in the veins of all men of Oaxaca—of all men who heard it.

The victorious God of Gold shouted his challenge to mankind, and in answer came the distant burring of a plane in the north.

It passed over us and circled for a landing outside the city. An army car raced away and returned. I knew two of the three men who climbed stiffly out of the tonneau. I saw tall, red-headed air-fiend Jim Donegan. I saw stooped, grey, boggling Zoologist Heinrich Sturm.

I saw Nicholas Svadin, once-dead master of the world.

Svadin against the God of Gold!

Again that bull-throated, brazen thunder rolled across the ranges and I saw Svadin’s blunt, hairless skull cocked sidewise, listening. Old Heinrich Sturm was listening too, and Red Jim Donegan. But I saw only Nicholas Svadin.

It was five full years since that August day in Budapest. Wax was heavy in his blue-white jowls. Wax weighted down his heavy-lidded eyes. A puckered blue hole probed his sleek white brow. His great body was soft and bloated and his stubby fingers blue under their cropped nails. There was an acrid odor in the air, the odor that heaped callas had hidden in the sun of Budapest, that not even the stench of a thousand sweating men could hide under the sun of Mexico.

They talked together—Svadin, the generals, Sturm, Red Jim Donegan of Brooklyn. Donegan nodded, went to the waiting car, disappeared into the white noon-light. Soon his great silver plane droned overhead, heading into the north.

One day—two—three. We on the outside saw nothing of Svadin, but men of all nations were at work in the blazing sun and the velvet night, sawing, bolting, riveting, building a vast contrivance of wood and metal under the direction of Heinrich Sturm. Four days—five, and at last we stood at the edge of the man-made city of Oaxaca, staring at that monstrous apparatus and at the lone figure that stood beside it—Svadin. His puffed blue fingers went to the switch on its towering side, and out of that giant thing thundered the bellowed defiance of Mankind, hurled at the giant thing that walked the ranges, bull-baiting the God of Gold!

Its vast clamor shuddered in the packed earth underfoot. Its din penetrated the wadding in our ears and drummed relentlessly against our senses. It boomed and thundered its contempt, and in answer that other voice thundered beyond the blue-tipped mountains. Hour after hour—until madness seemed certain and madness was welcome—until the sun lay low in a red sky, painting the ranges—until only Svadin and grey old Heinrich Sturm remained, watching beside their vast, insulting, defiant Voice. Then in the east a flicker of light tipped the farthest ranges!

It was a creeping diamond of light above the purple horizon. It was a needle of white fire rising and falling above the mountains, striding over valleys, vaulting the naked ridges, growing and rising higher and vaster and mightier against the shadow of the coming night. It was a pillar of scintillant flame over Oaxaca.

It was the God of Gold! 

Quartz is rock, and quartz is jelly, and quartz is a crystal gem. Gold is metal, and gold is color, and gold is the greed of men. Beauty and fear—awe and greed—the Thing over Oaxaca was a column of crystal fires, anthropomorphic, built out of painted needle-gems, with the crimson and blue and smoky wine-hues of colloidal gold staining its jeweled torso—with veins and nerves and ducts of the fat yellow gold of Earth—with a pudding of blue quartz flowing and swelling and flexing on its stony frame. It was a giant out of mythery—a jinn out of hashish madness—a monster born of the Earth, thewed with the stuff of Earth, savagely jealous of the parasitic biped mammals whose form it aped. Its spiked hooves clashed on the mountaintops with the clamor of avalanches. Its flail-arms swung like a flickering scourge, flaying the bare earth of all that was alive. Its skull was a crystal chalice wadded with matted gold, brain-naked, set with eyes like the blue sapphires of Burma, starred with inner light. It roared with the thunder of grinding, tearing, grating atoms, with the sullen voice of earthquakes. It was the spectre of Earth’s last vengeance upon delving, burrowing, gutting little Man, the flea upon her flesh. It stood, a moment, straddling the horizon—and out of the north a plane was winging, midge-small against the watching stars. So high it was that though the sun had gone and the shadow of the Earth lay purple on the sky, its wings were a sliver of light, dwindling, climbing to that unimaginable height where the rays of the vanished sun still painted the shoulders of the God of Gold. A plane—and in its wake another, and another—a score of whispering dots against the tropic night.

Red Jim Donegan saw the monstrous, faceless visage upturned to watch his coming. He saw the white fires chill in its moon-great eyes, saw vast arm-things forming on its formless body, like swinging ropes of crystal maces. He saw the sinews of massive yellow gold that threaded its bulk, tensing and twisting with life, and the brain of knotted gold that lay in its cupped skull like worms in a bowl of gems. He saw that skull grow vaster as his plane rushed on—mountain-vast, filling the night—saw these star-backed eyes blazing—saw the evil arms sweeping upward—then was in empty air, sprawled over vacancy, his ship driving down into that monstrous face, between the staring sapphire eyes.

He swung from a silk umbrella and saw those kraken-arms paw at the crystal skull where a flower of green flame blossomed—saw the second plane diving with screaming wings—a third beyond it—and a fourth. The air was full of the white bubbles of parachutes, sinking into the edge of night. He saw the shadow of the world’s edge creeping up over that giant shape, standing spread-legged among the barren hills, and green flame burning in its golden brain. A flame eating quartz as a spark eats tinder. A flame devouring gold, sloughing away crystalline immensity in a rain of burning tears, ever deeper, ever faster, as plane after plane burst with its deadly load against that crystal mass.

In blind, mad torture the God of Gold strode over Oaxaca. Green fire fell from it like blazing snow, pocking the naked rock. One dragging hoof furrowed the rocky earth, uprooting trees, crags, houses, crushing the man-made lure that had dared it to destruction. Fragments of eaten arms crashed like a meteor-fall and lay burning in the night. A moment it towered, dying, over ruined Oaxaca, where Nicholas Svadin stood dwarfed among the shambles of broken houses, the slight, stooped form of Heinrich Sturm beside him. Then in the sky that consuming flame blazed bright as some vital source was touched. A pillar of licking light wiped out the stars. It took one giant stride, another, and the world shook with the fall of the living mountain that crashed down out of the burning night. Among the eastern hills the fractured limbs of the colossus of the South lay strewn like snowy grain, and in the rocky flank of San Felipe a pit of cold green fire ate slowly toward the heart of Earth.

One who had been a man turned away from that holocaust and vanished in the darkness. Nicholas Svadin, his dead flesh clammy with dew, his gross bulk moving with the stealthy silence of a cat, with Heinrich Sturm trotting after him through the night.

Svadin, who had met the challenge of a God of Gold—and won!

* * *

A Thing of the Sea—a Thing of the Earth—a Thing of Men! Three Things outrageous to Man’s knowledge of himself and of his world, improbable beyond calculation, impossible if impossibility could exist. Three Things raised from the dead, from the inanimate, from the inanimable, who lived and ate and walked properly, probably, possibly. Three Things that sought the sovereignty of Earth—a Thing of ravening hunger, a Thing with a hate of men, and a Thing that was god-hero of all men. 

One of the Three lay destroyed beyond Oaxaca, and the brown men who had done its will were fugitives from vengeance. One still basked and fed in the tropic sea. And the third was Nicholas Svadin. 

* * *

Rumors spread like ripples in a quiet pool. Even a god grows old. Svadin was a god whose word was law, whose wisdom was more than human, whose brain devised strange sciences, who brought the world comfort and contentment greater than it had ever known. In life he was a genius; dead, a martyr. He rose from the dead, wearing the mark of death, and men worshipped him as a god, saw in him a god’s omnipotent wisdom. He remade a world, and the world was content. He slew the giant God of Gold and men followed him like sheep. But there were others who were not impressed by gods, or men like gods, and there were rumors, whisperings, wonderings.

It was my work to hear such rumors, listen to whisperings, tell men the truth about what they wondered.

Few men were close to Svadin, but of those who were, one told strange stories. A man who in other times had made his living on the fruits of such stories. Svadin—from whom the marks of death had never vanished, though he had risen from the dead—in whose forehead the puckered mark of a bullet still showed, whose face was white with the mortician’s wax, whose fingers were puffed and blue, whose body was a bloated sack. Whose flesh reeked with the fluids which preserve corpses. Who fed privately on strange foods, quaffed liquids which reeked as those fluids reeked. Who showed strange vacancies of memory, absences of knowledge about common things, yet was a greater genius than in life-before-death. Whose only confidant was the mad zoologist, Heinrich Wilhelm Sturm.

I heard of the strange wicker and elastic form which was made by a craftsman in Vienna and worn under his heavy, padded clothes. I heard of a woman of impressive birth who offered herself as women have—and of the dull, uncomprehending stare which drove her shivering from his chamber. I heard of the rats that swarmed in his apartments, where no cat would stay, and of the curious devices he had erected around his bed—of the day when a vulture settled on his shoulder and others circled overhead, craning their wattled necks.

I saw Nils Svedberg, attaché of the Anglo-Scandian legation in Berlin, when he fired three Mauser bullets into the flabby paunch of the Master of the World—saw too what the crowd discarded when its fanatic vengeance was sated, and children scampered home with bloody souvenirs of what had been a man. I heard Svadin’s thick voice as he thanked them.

Rumors—whisperings—questions without an answer. Svadin—to some a god, born into pseudo-human form, immortal and omnipotent. To some a man, unclean, with the awakening lusts and habits of a man. To some a Thing brought out of Hell to damn Mankind.

And a Thing of the sea, feeding in the Caribbean, in the turgid outpourings of the Amazon, along the populous coasts of Guiana and Brazil. Devil’s Island a graveyard. And at last—Rio!

* * *

A plane with a red-haired, large-nosed American pilot cruised the coasts of South America. A worn, greyed, spectacled old man sat with him, peering down into the shallow, shadowed waters for darker shadows. They marked the slow progress of Death along the tropic coasts, and in Rio de Janeiro, Queen City of the South, the mightiest engineering masterpiece of Man was near completion. 

Jim Donegan and Heinrich Sturm watched and carried word of what they saw, while Nicholas Svadin schemed and planned in Rio of the south. 

* * *

Rio—rebuilt from the shell of Revolution. Rio fairer than ever, a white jewel against the green breast of Brazil. Rio with her mighty harbor strangely empty, her horseshoe beaches deserted, and across the sucking mouth of the Atlantic a wall, with one huge gateway.

Crowds on the mountainsides, waiting. Drugged carrion bobbing in the blue waters of the harbor—slaughtered cattle from the Argentine, from America, from Australia—fish floating white-bellied in the trough of the waves—dead dogs, dead cats, dead horses—all the dead of Rio and the South, larded with opiates, rocking in the chopped blue waters of the harbor of Rio de Janeiro. And at the Gateway to the sea a glistening greening of the waves, a slick mound flowing landward between the guarding walls—a grey-green horror scenting prey. A silver plane above it in the sky. A small black dot on the curved white beach.

Svadin—and the Thing of the Sea.

Food was offered, and it fed. It poured sluggishly into the great land-locked harbor of Rio. It supped at the meagre morsels floating in the sea and flowed on toward the deserted city and the undead man who stood watching it. And as its last glistening pseudopod oozed through the man-made gates, a sigh went up from the people on the mountainsides. Slowly and ponderously the barrier gate slid shut behind it, sealing the harbor from the sea. Great pumps began to throb, and columns of clear green brine of a river’s thickness foamed into the unfillable Atlantic.

The plane had landed on the beach and Svadin climbed in. Now it was aloft, circling over the city and the harbor. The Thing was wary. It had learned, as all preying things learn, that each tiny insect has its sting. It sensed a subtle difference in the tang of the brine in which it lay—felt a motion of the water as Svadin’s colossal pumps sucked at the harbor—detected a tension in the air. Its eddying lust for flesh quieted. It gathered itself together—swirled uneasily in the confines of the walled harbor—lapped questingly against the rampart that barred it from the Atlantic. Its glistening flanks heaved high out of the blue waters. It gathered itself into a great ball of cloudy jade that rose and fell in the surge of the quiet sea. It lay as a frightened beast lies—frozen—but without fear, biding its time.

Day after day after day. Day after day under the burning sun, while curious human mites dotted the Beira Mar, thronged on the white moon-rind beaches—while devout thousands crammed the Igreja de Penha, spared by Revolution, knelt on its winding stair, prayed and knelt in the many Houses of God of Rio of the South—while inch by inch and foot by foot the sparkling waters of Rio’s mighty harbor sank and the grey-black ooze of the sea floor steamed and stank in the tropic sun, and the vast green Thing from the sea lay drugged amid the receding waters.

Atop hunched Corcovado the majestic Christ of Rio stared down on Mankind and the enemy of Mankind. Atop sky-stabbing Sugarloaf, poised between sea and land, Nicholas Svadin stood and stared, and with him Heinrich Sturm. Above the sinking waters of the bay, great ships of the air droned and circled, dropping the fine, insidious chemical rain that drugged the Thing with sleep. And in the jewel-city below, Ramon Gonzales, human link between the Latin blood of old Europe and new America, stood and stared with burning eyes. Leagues across the oily, sleeping sea, three other men stood or sat staring, grim-eyed, into nothing. Moorehead the American. Nasuki the Asiatic. Blond Rasmussen of Anglo-Scandia.

Day after day after day, while the miasmic stench of Rio’s draining harbor rose over the white avenues of Rio de Janeiro, while the darkening waters lapped lower and ever lower on the glistening jade-green mountain of jellied ooze that lay cooking in the sun. Day after day after day, while those who had crept back to the Beira Mar, to rock-rimmed Nictheroy, returned to the green, cool hills to watch and wait. A handful of sullen men in the Queen City of the South. Another handful on the naked cap of Sugarloaf and at the feet of the mighty Christ of Corcovado, miraculously untouched by the ravening of the God of Gold. And above it all the whine and drone of the circling planes and the far, dull mutter of the giant pumps.

Living things acquire a tolerance of drugs, demand more and more and more to sate their appetite. Drugged meat had lulled the Thing, and the rain of drugs from circling planes had kept it torpid, soothed by the slow lap of brine against its gelid flanks, dreaming of future feasts. Now as the waters sank and the sun beat down on its naked bulk, the vast Thing roused. Like a great green slug it crept over the white thread of the Beira Mar, into the city of jewels. Buildings crumpled under its weight, walls were burst by the pressure of its questing pseudopods. Into the pockets of the hills it crept, over the broken city, and behind it on the summit of Sugarloaf was frantic activity. Nicholas Svadin’s puffed blue hand pointed, and where he gestured a ring of fire slashed across Rio’s far-reaching avenues, barring the exit to the sea. Slowly the zone of flame crept inward, toward the empty harbor, and before its fierce heat the Sea-Thing retreated, grinding the city under its slimy mass. Little by little it roused—its ponderous motion became quicker, angrier. Little by little fear woke in it, where fear had never been—fear of the little gabbling human things that stung it with their puny weapons. It lay like a glassy blanket over the ruined streets of Rio—a knot of twisting serpent-forms craving the cool wet blackness of the deep sea. Before its awakened fury the wall across Rio’s harbor would be like a twig across the path of an avalanche. Its fringe of lolloping tentacles dabbled in the salt-encrusted pool that was all the pumps had left of the Bay of Rio, and in minutes the rippling mirror was gone, sucked into the Sea-Things’ avid mass.

And then Svadin struck.

I stood with my camera beneath the Christ of Corcovado. The sun was setting, and as the shadow of the western summits crept over gutted Rio the Sea-Thing gathered itself for the assault that would carry it over Sugarloaf, over the wall that men had made, into the welcoming Atlantic. Then in the north, where the sun yet shone, came a flicker of metal gnats against the cloudless sky, the burr of their roaring engines speeding them through the advancing twilight. From Sugarloaf a single rocket rose and burst, a pale star over the sea, showering spangled flame, and the heavens were filled with the thunder of Man’s aerial hosts—bombers, transports, planes of all sizes and all nations in a monster fleet whose shadow lay long on the curling sea like a streamer of darkness. Their first rank swung low over the hollow harbor and out of them rained a curtain of white missiles, minute against the immensity of Rio’s circling hills. Like hail they fell, and after them a second shower, and a third as the fleet roared by above. And then the first bombs hit!

A ribbon of fire burst against the twilight. Fountains of golden flame vomited skyward, scores of feet over the naked surface of the Thing. Hundreds—thousands of bursting dots of fire, sweeping swaths of fiery rain, cascades of consuming flame—until the Sea-Thing blazed with one mighty skyward-reaching plume of golden glory that licked at the darkening heavens where the wings of Mankind’s army of destruction still roared past, the rain of death still fell like a white curtain, painted by the leaping yellow flame of burning sodium.

I saw it then as old Heinrich Sturm had seen it months and years before, as Nicholas Svadin had seen it when he began his colossal plan to bait the Thing into the land-locked bay of Rio de Janeiro. Flame, killing and cleansing where no other weapon of man would serve. Green flame devouring the Earth-born God of Gold, corroding its crystal thews and consuming its golden brain. Yellow flame feeding on the sea-green pulp of the Sea-born Thing—changing the water that was its life into the caustic venom that slew it. As that colossal golden torch flared skyward over broken Rio I saw the mountainous bulk of the Sea-Thing shrivel and clot into a pulp of milky curds, crusted with burnt alkali. Water oozed from it like whey from pressed cheese, and tongues of the yellow flame licked along it, drinking it up. The black ooze of the harbor was drying and cracking under the fierce heat. Palms that still stood along the bare white beaches were curling, crisping, bursting into splinters of red flame, and even against the rising breeze the steaming stench of cooked flesh reeked in our nostrils.

The murmur of voices behind me stilled. I turned. The crowd had given way before the little knot of men who were coming toward me, driven from the crest of Sugarloaf by the fierce heat of the burning Thing. Flame-headed, red-nosed Donegan pushing a way for those who followed him. Grey-whiskered Heinrich Sturm pattering after him. Behind them, surrounded by men in braided uniforms, the fish-white, corpse-flesh shape of Nicholas Svadin.

I gave no ground to them. I stood at the Christ’s feet and gave them stare for stare. I stared at Red Jim Donegan, at Zoologist Heinrich Sturm, and I stared at the gross, misshapen thing that was master of the world.

I had not seen him since that night in Oaxaca, three years before. He had been hideous then, but now the scent and shape of Death were on him as they were on Lazarus when he arose blank eyed from the grave. A grey cloak swirled from his shoulders and fell billowing over a body warped and bloated out of all human semblance. Rolls of polished flesh sagged from his face, his neck, his wrists. His fingers were yellow wads of sickening fat, stained with blue, and his feet were clumping pillars. Out of that pallid face his two bright eyes peered like raisins burnt glassy and stuck in sour dough. The reek of embalming fluids made the air nauseous within rods of where he stood. Nicholas Svadin! Living dead man—master of the world!

I knew Donegan from Oaxaca. He told me what I had guessed. Old Sturm’s researches, made on bits of the jelly left by the Thing, on fragments hewed from it by volunteers, showed it to be built largely of linked molecules of colloidal water. Water—stuff of the Sea—bound by the life-force into a semblance of protoplasm—into a carnate pulp that fed on the Sea and took life from it even as it fed on living flesh for the needful elements that the water could not give it. Living water—mountain huge—destroyed by forces that no water could quench—by bombs of metallic sodium, tearing apart the complex colloidal structure of its aqueous flesh and riving it into flames of burning hydrogen and crusting, gelling alkali. Chemical fire, withering as it burnt.

I knew, too, Ramon Gonzales. I had seen him when he stood beside Svadin’s bier in the sun of Budapest—when Svadin gave him the United Latin states of two continents to govern—when he stood ankle-deep in the green slime that the Sea-Thing had left coating the white walls of gutted Rio. I saw him now, his dark face ghastly in the yellow glare, screaming accusation at the immobile, pasty face of Nicholas Svadin. Those button eyes moved flickeringly to observe him; the shapeless bulk gathered its cloak closer about it and swiveled to consider him. Higher and higher Gonzales’ hysterical voice raged—cursing Svadin for the doom he had brought on Rio, cursing him for the thing he had been as a man and for the thing he was now. No sign of understanding showed on that bloated face—no sign of human feeling. I felt a tension in the air, knew it was about to break. My camera over Jim Donegan’s shoulder saw Ramon Gonzales as his sword lashed out, cutting through Svadin’s upflung arm, biting deep into his side, sinking hilt-deep in his flesh. I saw its point standing out a foot behind that shrouded back, and the flare of Jim Donegan’s gun licked across my film as he shot Gonzales down. I saw, too, the thick, pale fluid dripping slowly from the stump of Svadin’s severed arm, and the puffed, five-fingered thing that twitched and scrabbled on the gravel at his feet.

Above us, lit by the dying yellow flame, the Christ of Corcovado looked down on the man who had risen from the dead to rule the world.

* * *

Four men were the world when Svadin rose from the dead in Budapest. Nasuki. Rasmussen. Gonzales. Moorehead. Gonzales was dead. 

Two men had stood at Svadin’s side when he slew the Thing of the Earth and the gelid Thing of the Sea. Donegan. Heinrich Sturm. Sturm alone remained. 

* * *

I showed the pictures I had taken on Corcovado to drawn-faced Richard Moorehead in the White House at Washington. I showed them to Nasuki in Tokyo and to Nils Rasmussen in London. I told them other things that I had seen and heard, and gave them names of men who had talked and would talk again. I wore a small gold badge under my lapel—a badge in the shape of the crux ansata, the looped Egyptian cross of natural, holy life.

I went to find Jim Donegan before it should be too late. It was too late. Since the morning of the day when Nicholas Svadin’s silver plane slipped to the ground at the airport of Budapest, and Svadin’s closed black limousine swallowed him, and Donegan, and Heinrich Sturm, the tall, red-haired American had not been seen. Sturm was there, close to Svadin, with him day and night, but no one could speak with him. And gradually he too was seen less and less as Svadin hid himself in curtained rooms and sent his servants from the palace, drew a wall of steel around him through which only Zoologist Heinrich Sturm might pass.

Something was brewing behind that iron ring—something that had been boding since long before Svadin stood in Oaxaca and lured the God of Gold to its death—since long before he was first approached by the bearded, spectacled little German scientist who was now the only man who saw him or knew that he was alive. Yet Svadin’s orders went out from the great, empty palace in Budapest, and the world grew sullen and afraid.

When he was newly risen from the bier, Nicholas Svadin had in him the understanding of a leader of Mankind and the genius of a god. Men took him for a god and were not betrayed. He thought with diamond clearness, saw diamond-keenly the needs and weaknesses of men and of men’s world. He made of the world a place where men could live happily and securely, without want, without discomfort—and live as man.

As the months went by Svadin had changed. His genius grew keener, harder, his thinking clearer. Scientist—economist—dictator—he was all. The things he ordained, and which men throughout the world did at his command, were things dictated by reason for the good of the human race. But at the same time humanity had gone out of him.

Never, since that day when the heaped callas fell from his stiffly rising frame in the sun of Budapest, had he spoken his own name. He was Svadin, but Svadin was not the same. He was no longer a man. He was a machine.

Conceivably, a machine might weigh and balance all the facts governing the progress and condition of one man or of all humanity, and judge with absolute, mathematical fairness what course each should take in order that the welfare of all should be preserved. If it meant death or torment for one, was that the concern of the many? If a city or a nation must be crushed, as Rio had been crushed, to wipe out a monstrous Thing that was preying on Mankind, should not Rio rejoice at its chance to be the benefactor of the race? No man would say so. But Svadin was not a man. What he was—what he had become—it was the purpose of the League of the Golden Cross to discover.

No movement is greater than its leaders. Those who wore the looped cross of Life were led by the three men to whom the world looked, next to Svadin, for justice—to whom they looked, in spite of Svadin, for human justice. Before he rose from his bier, they had ruled the world. It was their intention to rule it again. No lesser men could have planned as they planned, without Svadin’s knowledge, each last step of what must happen. That things went otherwise was not their fault—it was the fault of the knowledge that they had, or their interpretation of that knowledge. I had not yet found Jim Donegan. I had not seen Heinrich Sturm.

Through all the world the seeds of revolt were spreading, deeper and further than they had spread among the little brown-blooded men who were rallied by fear of the God of Gold. But throughout all the world those seeds fell on the fallow soil of fear—fear of a man who had risen from death—of a man who was himself a god, with a god’s power and a god’s unseeing eye, with a god’s revenge. Men—little superstitious men in thousands and millions, feared Svadin more than they hated him. At his word they would slay brothers and cousins, fathers and lovers, friend and foe alike. Reason, justice meant nothing to them. There must be a greater fear to drive them—and it was my job to find that fear.

In every place where Svadin had his palaces, his steel-jacketed guards, I peered and pried, watching for the sight of a red head, an improbably bulbous nose. And not for a long, long time did I find it.

Svadin’s grim castle loomed among weedy gardens, above Budapest. I found old men who had planned those gardens, others who had laid them out, who had built their drains and sunk the foundations of the palace in a day before Svadin was born. Where only rats had gone for a generation, I went. Where only rats’ claws had scrabbled, my fingers tapped, pressed, dug in the fetid darkness. Ladders whose iron rungs had rusted to powder bore my weight on the crumbling stumps of those rungs. Leaves that had drifted for years over narrow gratings were cleared away from beneath, and light let in. The little Egyptian ankh became the symbol of a brotherhood of moles, delving under the foundations of Nicholas Svadin’s mighty mausoleum. And one day my tapping fingers were answered!

Tap, tap, tap through the thick stone—listen and tap, tap, and listen. More men than Donegan had disappeared, and they crouched in their lightless cells and listened to our questions, answered when they could, guided the slow gnawing of our drills and shovels through the rock under Budapest. Closer—closer. They had their ways of speaking without words, but no word came from the red-headed, big-nosed American of whom their tapping told. Something prevented—something they could not explain. And still we dug, and tapped, and listened, following their meagre clues.

There came a time when we lost touch with the world outside. Three of us, in a world of our own, forgot that there was an outside, that there was anything but the one great purpose that drove us on through the dark and the damp. We had no word of the world, nor the world of us. Nasuki grew impatient, and the man who was in Gonzales’ place. The work of the Golden Cross was progressing, its ring of Rebellion strengthening. To Rasmussen, to Moorehead, they cried for action. The brooding stillness that lay over Svadin’s palace, the brutal coldness of the orders that issued through Heinrich Sturm’s lips, shaping the civilization of a world as a sculptor would chisel granite, drove them to the edge of madness. Revolution flamed again—and this time brother was pitted against brother all across the face of the planet—fear against fury—Svadin against the Four.

I have seen pictures of the Svadin whom that flame of war drew to the balcony of his palace, to shout his thunderous command of death above the kneeling throng. The disease, if disease it was that changed him, was progressing swiftly. There was little resemblance to the man who lay dead a handful of years before, and on whom life fell out of an empty sky. He was huge, misshapen, monstrous, but so utter was their fear and awe that those groveling thousands questioned no word of his and cut down their kin as they would reap corn. The looped cross was an emblem of certain death. Men cast it from them, forswore its pledge, betrayed others who were faithful. At least one desperate, embattled horde stormed the grim castle above Budapest, while the sullen ring of the faithful closed in around them. Under their feet, ignorant of what was happening above us, we three dug and tapped, tapped and dug—and found!

I remember that moment when I knelt in the stuffy darkness of the tunnel, digging my fingers into the cracks on either side of that massive block. For hours, two sleeping while one worked we had chiseled at it, widening the crevices, carving a grip, loosening it from the bed in which it had been set a lifetime before. My numbed fingers seemed to become part of the cold stone. Dunard was tugging at me, begging me to give him his chance. Then the great block shifted in its bed, tilted and slid crushingly against me. Barely in time I slipped out from under it, then I was leaning over its slimy mass, Smirnoff’s torch in my hand, peering into the black cavern beyond. The round beam of the torch wavered across mouldering straw—across dripping, fungus-feathered walls. It centered on a face, huge-nosed, topped with matted red hair.

It was Donegan!

We fed him while Dunard hacked at the gyves that held him spread-eagled against the wall. As he grew stronger he talked—answering my questions—telling of things that grew too horribly clear in the light of past happenings. At last we parted, Dunard and Smirnoff to carry word to the Brotherhood of the Cross—Donegan and I into the donjon-keep of Nicholas Svadin!

The guard at the cell door died as other guards have died before; we had no choice. I remembered those voices which were only fingers tap, tap, tapping through stone. I knew what those buried men would do if only they could—and gave them their chance. We were a little army in ourselves when we charged up the great central staircase of Svadin’s castle against the grim line of faithful guards. At the landing they held us—and outside, battling in the gardens beyond the great doors, we could hear the gunfire of that last stand of our Brotherhood against ignorance and fear. We thought then that Dunard and Smirnoff had won through, had given their message to those who could light the flame of revolt. We did not know that they were cut down before they could reach our forces. But armed with what we could find or wrest from the men who opposed us, we charged up that broad staircase into the face of their fire, burst over them and beat them down as a peasant flails wheat, turned their machine gun on their fleeing backs and mowed them down in a long, heaped windrow strewn down the length of the corridor to Svadin’s door.

We stood there at the head of the stairs, behind the gun, staring at that door—half-naked, filthy, caked with blood. There was a great, breathless silence broken only by the patter of gunfire in the courtyard outside, muffled by the walls. Then Donegan picked up the gun and stepped over the crumpled body of a guard. His bare feet slapped on the cold stone of the hall and behind him our footsteps echoed, in perfect time, drumming the death-roll of Nicholas Svadin. We came to the door—and it opened!

Heinrich Sturm stood there. Sturm—grown bent and little. Sturm with horror in his eyes, with horror twisting his face and blood streaming down his chest from a ripped-out throat. Sturm—babbling blood-choked German words, tottering, crumpling at our feet, who stood staring over him into the great, dark room beyond, at Svadin, red-mouthed, standing beside the great canopied bed, at the ten foul things that stood behind him!

Donegan’s machine-gun sprayed death over the bleeding body of Zoologist Heinrich Wilhelm Sturm. Soft slugs ploughed into the soft body of Nicholas Svadin, into the bodies of the ten things at his feet. He shook at their impact, and the pallid flesh ripped visibly where they hit, but he only stood and laughed—laughed as the God of Gold had laughed, in a voice that meant death and doom to the human race!

Laughed and came striding at us across the room with his hell-pack trotting at his heels.

There are fears that can surpass all courage. That fear drenched us then. We ran—Donegan with his gun like a child in his arms, I with old Heinrich Sturm dragging like a wet sack behind me, the others like ragged, screaming ghosts. We stumbled over the windrows of dead in the corridor, down those sweeping stairs into the lower hall, through the open doors into the courtyard. We stood, trapped between death and death.

A hundred men remained of the Brotherhood of the Cross. They were huddled in a knot in the center of the court, surrounded by the host who were faithful to fear, and to Svadin. As we burst through the great doors of the castle, led by the naked, haggard, flaming-haired figure of Jim Donegan, every eye turned to us—every hand fell momentarily from its work of killing. Then miraculously old Heinrich Sturm was struggling up in my arms, was shouting in German, in his babbling, blood-choked voice, and in the throng other voices in other languages were taking up his cry, translating it—sending it winging on:

“He is no god! He is from Hell—a fiend from Hell! Vampire—eater of men! He—and his cursed spawn!”

They knew him, every one. They knew him for Svadin’s intimate—the man who spoke with Svadin’s voice and gave his orders to the world. They heard what he said—and in the doorway they saw Svadin himself.

He was naked, as he had stood when that door swung open and Sturm came stumbling through. He was corpse-white, blotched with the purple-yellow of decay, bloated with the gases of death. Svadin—undead—unhuman—and around his feet ten gibbering simulacra of himself—ten pulpy, fish-white monsters of his flesh, their slit-mouths red with the lapped blood of Heinrich Sturm!

He stood there, spread-legged, above the crowd. His glassy eyes stared down on the bloody, upturned faces, and the stump of his hacked arm pounded on his hairless breast where the line of bullet-marks showed like a purple ribbon. His vast voice thundered down at them, and it was like the bellowing of a lusting bull:

“I am Nicholas Svadin!”

And in hideous, mocking echo the ten dwarfed horrors piped after him:

“I am Nicholas Svadin!”

In my arms old Heinrich Sturm lay staring at the Thing whose slave and more than slave he had been, and his old lips whispered five words before his head sagged down in death. Red Jim Donegan heard them and shouted them for the world to hear. Svadin heard, and if that dead-man’s face could show expression, fear sloughed over it, and his thick red lips parted in a grin of terror over yellowed fangs.

“Burn him! Fire is clean!” 

I caught up the body of Heinrich Sturm and ran with it, out of the path of the mob that surged up the castle steps, Jim Donegan at their head. Svadin’s splayed feet sounded across the floor of the great hall, his hell-brood pattering after him. Then the crowd caught them and I heard the spat of clubbed fists on soft flesh, and a great roaring scream of fury went up over the yammer of the mob.

They tore the little fiends to shreds and still they lived. They bound the Thing that had been Svadin and carried him, battered and twisting, into the courtyard. They built a pyre in the streets of Budapest, and when the flames licked high they cast him in, his hell-spawn with him, and watched with avid eyes as he writhed and crisped, and listened to his screaming. The beast is in every man when hate and fear are roused. Far into the night, when Svadin and his brood were ashes underfoot, the mad crowd surged and fought through the streets, looting, burning, ravening.

When Svadin died, four men had ruled the world. Today four men rule a world that is better because Svadin rose from the dead that day in Budapest, that is free because of his inhuman tyranny. Moorehead—Nasuki—Rasmussen—Corregio. Red Jim Donegan is a hero, and I and a hundred other living men, but none pays homage to dead old Heinrich Wilhelm Sturm. He was too long identified with Nicholas Svadin for men to love him now.

What we know of Svadin, and of other things, Sturm had learned, little by little, through the years. He told certain things to Donegan, before Svadin grew suspicious and ordered the American’s death. It was Heinrich Sturm’s mercy that won Donegan a cell instead of a bullet or the knife, or even worse. For somewhere during his association with the perverted dregs of Europe’s royal courts the reborn Svadin had acquired, among other things, a taste for human blood and human flesh.

“All I know is what Sturm told me,” Donegan says. “The old man was pretty shrewd, and what he didn’t know he guessed—and I reckon he guessed close. It was curiosity made him stay on with Svadin—first off, anyway. Afterwards he knew too much to get away.

“There must have been spores of life, so Sturm said. There was a Swede by the name of Arrhenius—back years ago—who thought that life might travel from planet to planet in spores so small that light could push them through space. He said that a spore-dust from ferns and moss and fungus, and things like bacteria that were very small, could pass from world to world that way. And he figured there might be spores of pure life drifting around out there in space between the stars, and that whenever they fall on a planet, life would start there.

“That’s what happened to us, according to the old man. There were three spores that fell here, all within a short time of each other. One fell in the sea, and it brought the Sea-Thing to life, made mostly of complex molecules of colloidal water and salts out of the sea-ooze where the spore fell. It could grow by sucking up water, but it needed those salts from decomposed, organic things too. That’s why it attacked cities, where there was plenty of food for it.

“The second spore fell on quartz—maybe in some kind of colloidal gel, like they find sometimes in the hard stuff. There was gold there, and the Thing that came alive was what I saw, and what the Indians thought was one of their old gods come to life again—the god of gold and crystal. Svadin killed it with some radium compound that he invented.

“The third seed fell on Svadin and brought him to life. He wasn’t a man, really, but he had all the organs and things that a man would have. He had the same memories in his brain, and the same traits of character, until other things rooted them out. He came to life—but to stay alive he had to be different from other men. He had embalming fluid instead of blood, and wax in his skin, and things like that, and he had to replace them the way we eat food to replace our tissues. When he changed, it was in ways a dead man would change, except that he used his brain better and more logically than any live man ever did. He had to learn how a man would act, and he had some willing enough teachers to show him the rotten along with the good.

“Those other things grew as they fed, and so did Svadin, but he was more complex than they were—more nearly like men. Where they grew, he reproduced, like the simplest kinds of living things, by budding off duplicates of himself, out of his own flesh. It was like a hydra—like a vegetable—like anything but a man. Maybe you noticed, too—a couple of those things that grew after he lost his arm in Rio, had only one arm too. They were him, in a way. They called his name when he did, there at the last . . .”

The sweat is standing out on his weather-beaten forehead as he remembers it. I see the vision that he does—those ten miniature Svadins growing, budding in their turn, peopling the Earth anew with a race of horrors made in mockery of man. He reaches for the bottle at his elbow:

“We’ve seen Nature—the Universe—spawning,” he says. “Maybe it’s happened on Earth before; maybe it’ll happen again. Probably we, and all the other living things on Earth got started that way, millions of years ago. For a while, maybe, there were all kinds of abortive monsters roaming around the world, killing each other off the way Svadin killed the Sea-Thing and the God of Gold. They were new and simple—they reproduced by dividing, or budding, or crystallizing, and it was hard to kill them except with something like fire that would destroy the life-germs in them. After a while, when the seed of life in them would be pretty well diluted, it would be easier. Anyway, that’s how I figure it.

“Svadin looked human, at first, but he wasn’t—ever. What he was, no one knows. Not even old Sturm. It’s pretty hard to imagine what kind of thoughts and feelings a living dead man would have. He had some hang-over memories from the time he was really Svadin, so he started in to fix over the world. Maybe he thought men were his own kind, at first—at least, they looked like him. He fixed it, all right—only, after a while there wasn’t anything human left in him, and he began to plan things the way a machine would, to fit him and the race he was spawning. It’s no more than we’ve done since Time began—killing animals and each other to get what we want, eating away the Earth to get at her metals, and oil, and so on. The God of Gold was kin to the Earth, in a way, and I guess he resented seeing her cut up by a lot of flesh and blood animals like us.

“I said he learned some of our perversions. Once someone had taught him a thing like that, and he liked it, it became part of the heritage that he passed down to future generations. Somehow he got the taste for flesh—raw flesh—humans were just like another animal to him. After Sturm stopped being useful to him, he attacked the old man too.

“You see—he had a human brain, and he could think like a man, and scheme and sense danger to his plans. Only—he didn’t ever really understand human psychology. He was like an amoeba, or a polyp, and I don’t guess they have emotions. He didn’t understand religion, and the feeling people had that he was a kind of god. He used it—but when awe turned into hate, and people thought of him as a devil instead of a god, they treated him like one. They burned him the way their ancestors burned witches!”

He tosses down a shot of rye and wipes his lips. “Next time it happens,” he says, “I’m going to be drunk. And this time I’ll stay drunk!”

 

 

 

Afterword by David Drake




P. Schuyler Miller was very important to the SF field in two ways. The generally known fashion is that he was the first regular reviewer in an SF magazine, holding that position at Astounding, later Analog, from the late '40s to his death in 1974. The less familiar aspect is that Tom Doherty, when he was a salesman for other publishers, would arrange his route so that he could have lunch with Miller in Pittsburgh. Tom put Miller's encyclopedic knowledge of the field to good use when he became publisher of Ace in 1977 and in 1981 founded Tor Books.

From 1930 through 1947 Miller also sold SF stories. He was never a major writer, though some of his stories were reprinted often enough to be easily found in old anthologies. "Spawn" (which isn't generally available) had a major impact on me, however, when I read Miller's single-author collection The Titan in the Clinton Public Library.

Since then I've read all or nearly all of Miller's published fiction, and I can say with certainty that he never wrote anything else even remotely like "Spawn." In form it's less a story than a prose poem or a drama in blank verse. It really is SF—Miller had a degree in chemistry, and if you read carefully you'll note underlying the lush color and imagery that there's a degree of scientific rigor very unusual for 1939—but it appeared in Weird Tales rather than in an SF magazine (generally Astounding by that point) as most of Miller's other published stories did. (Miller had several stories in Campbell's Unknown, but "Spawn" would've been even more out of place there than in Astounding.)


"Spawn" demonstrates highly unusual stylistic touches—tricks, I'd say, but that would imply they were conscious and that the author could repeat them. Miller never did, making me suspect that the process of creation here wasn't completely intellectual.

The reader views the action as though it were on a movie screen or he were looking through multiple layers of glass, insulating her from vivid, horrific events. The narrator tells his story as though you were face to face with him. He doesn't bother to give his name, nor often enough does he name other men the first time they appear. He doesn't describe events in sequence; they rise in momentary importance, then sink back like porpoises into the sea of narrative.

Like porpoises, or like whales. Oh, yes: "Spawn" is a horror story.

And everything is in place for the climax, including the fact that the story opens and closes not in Berlin or Vienna or Warsaw, but in Budapest.

In addition to leaving me numb with horror at the infinite possible, "Spawn" showed me that there is no proper form or technique for a story: there is the proper form and technique of the story before you at this moment. That's why I picked "Spawn" for this anthology.

The Aliens by Murray Leinster

The Aliens

by Murray Leinster



Preface by Eric Flint



I'll have more to say about Murray Leinster in my afterword to this story. By way of preface, though, I just want to explain why I chose this story for the anthology. I wanted something by Leinster, and, specifically, I wanted one of the "first contact" stories for which he was so justly famous in his day and which I can remember being enthralled by as a teenager.

The obvious choice, of course, was the story that gave us the name itself: "First Contact," originally published in Astounding magazine in May of 1945.

But . . . that story has been anthologized over twenty times since then, and it wasn't the only one Leinster wrote. There's at least one other which is just as good, and has almost never been included in an anthology.

Here it is.

 

 

 

At 04 hours 10 minutes, ship time, the Niccola was well inside the Theta Gisol solar system. She had previously secured excellent evidence that this was not the home of the Plumie civilization. There was no tuned radiation. There was no evidence of interplanetary travel—rockets would be more than obvious, and a magnetronic drive had a highly characteristic radiation-pattern—so the real purpose of the Niccola‘s voyage would not be accomplished here. She wouldn’t find out where Plumies came from.

There might, though, be one or more of those singular, conical, hollow-topped cairns sheltering silicon-bronze plates, which constituted the evidence that Plumies existed. The Niccola went sunward toward the inner planets to see. Such cairns had been found on conspicuous landmarks on oxygen-type planets over a range of some twelve hundred light-years. By the vegetation about them, some were a century old. On the same evidence, others had been erected only months or weeks or even days before a human Space Survey ship arrived to discover them. And the situation was unpromising. It wasn’t likely that the galaxy was big enough to hold two races of rational beings capable of space travel. Back on ancient Earth, a planet had been too small to hold two races with tools and fire. Historically, that problem was settled when Homo sapiens exterminated Homo Neanderthalis. It appeared that the same situation had arisen in space. There were humans, and there were Plumies. Both had interstellar ships. To humans, the fact was alarming. The need for knowledge, and the danger that Plumies might know more first, and thereby be able to exterminate humanity, was appalling.

Therefore the Niccola. She drove on sunward. She had left one frozen outer planet far behind. She had crossed the orbits of three others. The last of these was a gas giant with innumerable moonlets revolving about it. It was now some thirty millions of miles back and twenty to one side. The sun, ahead, flared and flamed in emptiness against that expanse of tinted stars.

Jon Baird worked steadily in the Niccola‘s radar room. He was one of those who hoped that the Plumies would not prove to be the natural enemies of mankind. Now, it looked like this ship wouldn’t find out in this solar system. There were plenty of other ships on the hunt. From here on, it looked like routine to the next unvisited family of planets. But meanwhile he worked. Opposite him, Diane Holt worked as steadily, her dark head bent intently over a radar graph in formation. The immediate job was the completion of a map of the meteor swarms following cometary orbits about this sun. They interlaced emptiness with hazards to navigation, and nobody would try to drive through a solar system without such a map.

Elsewhere in the ship, everything was normal. The engine room was a place of stillness and peace, save for the almost inaudible hum of the drive, running at half a million Gauss flux-density. The skipper did whatever skippers do when they are invisible to their subordinates. The weapons officer, Taine, thought appropriate thoughts. In the navigation room the second officer conscientiously glanced at each separate instrument at least once in each five minutes, and then carefully surveyed all the screens showing space outside the ship. The stewards disposed of the debris of the last meal, and began to get ready for the next. In the crew’s quarters, those off duty read or worked at scrimshaw, or simply and contentedly loafed.

Diane handed over the transparent radar graph, to be fitted into the three-dimensional map in the making.

“There’s a lump of stuff here,” she said interestedly. “It could be the comet that once followed this orbit, now so old it’s lost all its gases and isn’t a comet any longer.”

* * *

At this instant, which was 04 hours 25 minutes ship time, the alarm-bell rang. It clanged stridently over Baird’s head, repeater-gongs sounded all through the ship, and there was a scurrying and a closing of doors. The alarm gong could mean only one thing. It made one’s breath come faster or one’s hair stand on end, according to temperament.

The skipper’s face appeared on the direct-line screen from the navigation room.

“Plumies?” he demanded harshly. “Mr. Baird! Plumies?”

Baird’s hands were already flipping switches and plugging the radar room apparatus into a new setup.

“There’s a contact, sir,” he said curtly. “No. There was a contact. It’s broken now. Something detected us. We picked up a radar pulse. One.”

The word “one” meant much. A radar system that could get adequate information from a single pulse was not the work of amateurs. It was the product of a very highly developed technology. Setting all equipment to full-globular scanning, Baird felt a certain crawling sensation at the back of his neck. He’d been mapping within a narrow range above and below the line of this system’s ecliptic. A lot could have happened outside the area he’d had under long-distance scanning.

But seconds passed. They seemed like years. The all-globe scanning covered every direction out from the Niccola. Nothing appeared which had not been reported before. The gas-giant planet far behind, and the only inner one on this side of the sun, which return their pulses only after minutes. Meanwhile the radars reported very faithfully, but they only repeated previous reports.

“No new object within half a million miles,” said Baird, after a suitable interval. Presently he added: “Nothing new within three-quarter million miles.” Then: “Nothing new within a million miles . . .”

The skipper said bitingly:

“Then you’d better check on objects that are not new!” He turned aside, and his voice came more faintly as he spoke into another microphone. “Mr. Taine! Arm all rockets and have your tube crews stand by in combat readiness! Engine room! Prepare drive for emergency maneuvers! Damage-control parties, put on pressure suits and take combat posts with equipment!” His voice rose again in volume. “Mr. Baird! How about observed objects?”

Diane murmured. Baird said briefly:

“Only one suspicious object, sir—and that shouldn’t be suspicious. We are sending an information-beam at something we’d classed as a burned-out comet. Pulse going out now, sir.”

Diane had the distant-information transmitter aimed at what she’d said might be a dead comet. Baird pressed the button. An extraordinary complex of information-seeking frequencies and forms sprang into being and leaped across emptiness. There were microwaves of strictly standard amplitude, for measurement-standards. There were frequencies of other values, which would be selectively absorbed by this material and that. There were laterally and circularly polarized beams. When they bounced back, they would bring a surprising amount of information.

They returned. They did bring back news. The thing that had registered as a larger lump in a meteor swarm was not a meteor at all. It returned four different frequencies with a relative-intensity pattern which said that they’d been reflected by bronze—probably silicon bronze. The polarized beams came back depolarized, of course, but with phase-changes which said the reflector had a rounded, regular form. There was a smooth hull of silicon bronze out yonder. There was other data.

“It will be a Plumie ship, sir,” said Baird very steadily. “At a guess, they picked up our mapping beam and shot a single pulse at us to find out who and what we were. For another guess, by now they’ve picked up and analyzed our information-beam and know what we’ve found out about them.”

The skipper scowled.

“How many of them?” he demanded. “Have we run into a fleet?”

“I’ll check, sir,” said Baird. “We picked up no tuned radiation from outer space, sir, but it could be that they picked us up when we came out of overdrive and stopped all their transmissions until they had us in a trap.”

“Find out how many there are!” barked the skipper. “Make it quick! Report additional data instantly!”

His screen clicked off. Diane, more than a little pale, worked swiftly to plug the radar-room equipment into a highly specialized pattern. The Niccola was very well equipped, radarwise. She’d been a type G8 Survey ship, and on her last stay in port she’d been rebuilt especially to hunt for and make contact with Plumies. Since the discovery of their existence, that was the most urgent business of the Space Survey. It might well be the most important business of the human race—on which its survival or destruction would depend. Other remodeled ships had gone out before the Niccola, and others would follow until the problem was solved. Meanwhile the Niccola‘s twenty-four rocket tubes and stepped-up drive and computer-type radar system equipped her for Plumie-hunting as well as any human ship could be. Still, if she’d been lured deep into the home system of the Plumies, the prospects were not good.

* * *

The new setup began its operation, instantly the last contact closed. The three-dimensional map served as a matrix to control it. The information-beam projector swung and flung out its bundle of oscillations. It swung and flashed. It had to examine every relatively nearby object for a constitution of silicon bronze and a rounded shape. The nearest objects had to be examined first. Speed was essential. But three-dimensional scanning takes time, even at some hundreds of pulses per minute.

Nevertheless, the information came in. No other silicon-bronze object within a quarter-million miles. Within half a million. A million. A million and a half. Two million . . .

Baird called the navigation room.

“Looks like a single Plumie ship, sir,” he reported. “At least there’s one ship which is nearest by a very long way.”

“Hah!” grunted the skipper. “Then we’ll pay him a visit. Keep an open line, Mr. Baird!” His voice changed. “Mr. Taine! Report here at once to plan tactics!”

Baird shook his head, to himself. The Niccola‘s orders were to make contact without discovery, if such a thing were possible. The ideal would be a Plumie ship or the Plumie civilization itself, located and subject to complete and overwhelming envelopment by human ships—before the Plumies knew they’d been discovered. And this would be the human ideal because humans have always had to consider that a stranger might be hostile, until he’d proven otherwise.

Such a viewpoint would not be optimism, but caution. Yet caution was necessary. It was because the Survey brass felt the need to prepare for every unfavorable eventuality that Taine had been chosen as weapons officer of the Niccola. His choice had been deliberate, because he was a xenophobe. He had been a problem personality all his life. He had a seemingly congenital fear and hatred of strangers—which in mild cases is common enough, but Taine could not be cured without a complete breakdown of personality. He could not serve on a ship with a multiracial crew, because he was invincibly suspicious of and hostile to all but his own small breed. Yet he seemed ideal for weapons officer on the Niccola, provided he never commanded the ship. Because if the Plumies were hostile, a well-adjusted, normal man would never think as much like them as a Taine. He was capable of the kind of thinking Plumies might practice, if they were xenophobes themselves.

But to Baird, so extreme a precaution as a known psychopathic condition in an officer was less than wholly justified. It was by no means certain that the Plumies would instinctively be hostile. Suspicious, yes. Cautious, certainly. But the only fact known about the Plumie civilization came from the cairns and silicon-bronze inscribed tablets they’d left on oxygen-type worlds over a twelve-hundred-light-year range in space, and the only thing to be deduced about the Plumies themselves came from the decorative, formalized symbols like feather plumes which were found on all their bronze tablets. The name “Plumies” came from that symbol.

Now, though, Taine was called to the navigation room to confer on tactics. The Niccola swerved and drove toward the object Baird identified as a Plumie ship. This was at 05 hours 10 minutes ship time. The human ship had a definite velocity sunward, of course. The Plumie ship had been concealed by the meteor swarm of a totally unknown comet. It was an excellent way to avoid observation. On the other hand, the Niccola had been mapping, which was bound to attract attention. Now each ship knew of the other’s existence. Since the Niccola had been detected, she had to carry out orders and attempt a contact to gather information.

* * *

Baird verified that the Niccola‘s course was exact for interception at her full-drive speed. He said in a flat voice:

“I wonder how the Plumies will interpret this change of course? They know we’re aware they’re not a meteorite. But charging at them without even trying to communicate could look ominous. We could be stupid, or too arrogant to think of anything but a fight.” He pressed the skipper’s call and said evenly: “Sir, I request permission to attempt to communicate with the Plumie ship. We’re ordered to try to make friends if we know we’ve been spotted.”

Taine had evidently just reached the navigation room. His voice snapped from the speaker:

“I advise against that, sir! No use letting them guess our level of technology!”

Baird said coldly:

“They’ve a good idea already. We beamed them for data.”

There was silence, with only the very faint humming sound which was natural in the ship in motion. It would be deadly to the nerves if there were absolute silence. The skipper grumbled:

“Requests and advice! Dammit! Mr. Baird, you might wait for orders! But I was about to ask you to try to make contact through signals. Do so.”

His speaker clicked off. Baird said:

“It’s in our laps, Diane. And yet we have to follow orders. Send the first roll.”

Diane had a tape threaded into a transmitter. It began to unroll through a pickup head. She put on headphones. The tapes began to transmit toward the Plumie. Back at base it had been reasoned that a pattern of clickings, plainly artificial and plainly stating facts known to both races, would be the most reasonable way to attempt to open contact. The tape sent a series of cardinal numbers—one to five. Then an addition table, from one plus one to five plus five. Then a multiplication table up to five times five. It was not startling intellectual information to be sent out in tiny clicks ranging up and down the radio spectrum. But it was orders.

Baird sat with compressed lips. Diane listened for a repetition of any of the transmitted signals, sent back by the Plumie. The speakers about the radar room murmured the orders given through all the ship. Radar had to be informed of all orders and activity, so it could check their results outside the ship. So Baird heard the orders for the engine room to be sealed up and the duty-force to get into pressure suits, in case the Niccola fought and was hulled. Damage-control parties reported themselves on post, in suits, with equipment ready. Then Taine’s voice snapped: “Rocket crews, arm even-numbered rockets with chemical explosive warheads. Leave odd-numbered rockets armed with atomics. Report back!

Diane strained her ears for possible re-transmission of the Niccola‘s signals, which would indicate the Plumie’s willingness to try conversation. But she suddenly raised her hand and pointed to the radar-graph instrument. It repeated the positioning of dots which were stray meteoric matter in the space between worlds in this system. What had been a spot—the Plumie ship—was now a line of dots. Baird pressed the button.

“Radar reporting!” he said curtly. “The Plumie ships is heading for us. I’ll have relative velocity in ten seconds.”

He heard the skipper swear. Ten seconds later the Doppler measurement became possible. It said the Plumie plunged toward the Niccola at miles per second. In half a minute it was tens of miles per second. There was no re-transmission of signals. The Plumie ship had found itself discovered. Apparently it considered itself attacked. It flung itself into a headlong dash for the Niccola.

* * *

Time passed—interminable time. The sun flared and flamed and writhed in emptiness. The great gas-giant planet rolled through space in splendid state, its moonlets spinning gracefully about its bulk. The oxygen-atmosphere planet to sunward was visible only as a crescent, but the mottlings on its lighted part changed as it revolved—seas and islands and continents receiving the sunlight as it turned. Meteor swarms, so dense in appearance on a radar screen, yet so tenuous in reality, floated in their appointed orbits with a seeming vast leisure.

The feel of slowness was actually the result of distance. Men have always acted upon things close by. Battles have always been fought within eye-range, anyhow. But it was actually 06 hours 35 minutes ship time before the two spacecraft sighted each other—more than two hours after they plunged toward a rendezvous.

The Plumie ship was a bright golden dot, at first. It decelerated swiftly. In minutes it was a rounded, end-on disk. Then it swerved lightly and presented an elliptical broadside to the Niccola. The Niccola was in full deceleration too, by then. The two ships came very nearly to a stop with relation to each other when they were hardly twenty miles apart—which meant great daring on both sides.

Baird heard the skipper grumbling:

“Damned cocky!” He roared suddenly: “Mr. Baird! How’ve you made out in communicating with them?”

“Not at all, sir,” said Baird grimly. “They don’t reply.”

He knew from Diane’s expression that there was no sound in the headphones except the frying noise all main-sequence stars give out, and the infrequent thumping noises that come from gas-giant planets’ lower atmospheres, and the Jansky-radiation hiss which comes from everywhere.

The skipper swore. The Plumie ship lay broadside to, less than a score of miles away. It shone in the sunlight. It acted with extraordinary confidence. It was as if it dared the Niccola to open fire.

Taine’s voice came out of a speaker, harsh and angry:

“Even-numbered tubes prepare to fire on command.”

Nothing happened. The two ships floated sunward together, neither approaching nor retreating. But with every second, the need for action of some sort increased.

“Mr. Baird!” barked the skipper. “This is ridiculous! There must be some way to communicate! We can’t sit here glaring at each other forever! Raise them! Get some sort of acknowledgement!”

“I’m trying,” said Baird bitterly, “according to orders!”

But he disagreed with those orders. It was official theory that arithmetic values, repeated in proper order, would be the way to open conversation. The assumption was that any rational creature would grasp the idea that orderly signals were rational attempts to open communication.

But it had occurred to Baird that a Plumie might not see this point. Perception of order is not necessarily perception of information—in fact, quite the contrary. A message is a disturbance of order. A microphone does not transmit a message when it sends an unvarying tone. A message has to be unpredictable or it conveys no message. Orderly clicks, even if overheard, might seem to Plumies the result of methodically operating machinery. A race capable of interstellar flight was not likely to be interested or thrilled by exercises a human child goes through in kindergarten. They simply wouldn’t seem meaningful at all.

But before he could ask permission to attempt to make talk in a more sophisticated fashion, voices exclaimed all over the ship. They came blurringly to the loud-speakers. “Look at that!” “What’s he do—” “Spinning like—” From every place where there was a vision-plate on the Niccola, men watched the Plumie ship and babbled.

This was at 06 hours 50 minutes ship time.

* * *

The elliptical golden object darted into swift and eccentric motion. Lacking an object of known size for comparison, there was no scale. The golden ship might have been the size of an autumn leaf, and in fact its maneuvers suggested the heedless tumblings and scurrying of falling foliage. It fluttered in swift turns and somersaults and spinnings. There were weavings like the purposeful feints of boxers not yet come to battle. There were indescribably graceful swoops and loops and curving dashes like some preposterous dance in emptiness.

Taine’s voice crashed out of a speaker:

“All even-numbered rockets,” he barked. “Fire!”

The skipper roared a countermand, but too late. The crunching, grunting sound of rockets leaving their launching tubes came before his first syllable was complete. Then there was silence while the skipper gathered breath for a masterpiece of profanity. But Taine snapped:

“That dance was a sneak-up! The Plumie came four miles nearer while we watched!”

Baird jerked his eyes from watching the Plumie. He looked at the master radar. It was faintly blurred with the fading lines of past gyrations, but the golden ship was much nearer the Niccola than it had been.

“Radar reporting,” said Baird sickishly. “Mr. Taine is correct. The Plumie ship did approach us while it danced.”

Taine’s voice snarled:

“Reload even numbers with chemical-explosive war heads. Then remove atomics from odd numbers and replace with chemicals. The range is too short for atomics.”

Baird felt curiously divided in his own mind. He disliked Taine very much. Taine was arrogant and suspicious and intolerant even on the Niccola. But Taine had been right twice, now. The Plumie ship had crept closer by pure trickery. And it was right to remove atomic war heads from the rockets. They had a pure-blast radius of ten miles. To destroy the Plumie ship within twice that would endanger the Niccola—and leave nothing of the Plumie to examine afterward.

The Plumie ship must have seen the rocket flares, but it continued to dance, coming nearer and ever nearer in seemingly heedless and purposeless plungings and spinnings in star-speckled space. But suddenly there were racing, rushing trails of swirling vapor. Half the Niccola‘s port broadside plunged toward the golden ship. The fraction of a second later, the starboard half-dozen chemical-explosive rockets swung furiously around the ship’s hull and streaked after their brothers. They moved in utterly silent, straight-lined ravening ferocity toward their target. Baird thought irrelevantly of the vapor trails of an atmosphere-liner in the planet’s upper air.

The ruled-line straightness of the first six rockets’ course abruptly broke. One of them veered crazily out of control. It shifted to an almost right-angled course. A second swung wildly to the left. A third and fourth and fifth—The sixth of the first line of rockets made a great, sweeping turn and came hurtling back toward the Niccola. It was like a nightmare. Lunatic, erratic lines of sunlit vapor eeled before the background of all the stars in creation.

Then the second half-dozen rockets broke ranks, as insanely and irremediably as the first.

Taine’s voice screamed out of a speaker, hysterical with fury:

“Detonate! Detonate! They’ve taken over the rockets and are throwing ’em back at us! Detonate all rockets!”

The heavens seemed streaked and laced with lines of expanding smoke. But now one plunging line erupted at its tip. A swelling globe of smoke marked its end. Another blew up. And another—

The Niccola‘s rockets faithfully blew themselves to bits on command from the Niccola‘s own weapons control. There was nothing else to be done with them. They’d been taken over in flight. They’d been turned and headed back toward their source. They’d have blasted the Niccola to bits but for their premature explosions.

There was a peculiar, stunned hush all through the Niccola. The only sound that came out of any speaker in the radar room was Taine’s voice, high-pitched and raging, mouthing unspeakable hatred of the Plumies, whom no human being had yet seen.

* * *

Baird sat tense in the frustrated and desperate composure of the man who can only be of use while he is sitting still and keeping his head. The vision screen was now a blur of writhing mist, lighted by the sun and torn at by emptiness. There was luminosity where the ships had encountered each other. It was sunshine upon thin smoke. It was like the insanely enlarging head of a newborn comet, whose tail would be formed presently by light-pressure. The Plumie ship was almost invisible behind the unsubstantial stuff.

But Baird regarded his radar screens. Microwaves penetrated the mist of rapidly ionizing gases.

“Radar to navigation!” he said sharply. “The Plumie ship is still approaching, dancing as before!”

The skipper said with enormous calm:

“Any other Plumie ships, Mr. Baird?” 

Diane interposed.

“No sign anywhere. I’ve been watching. This seems to be the only ship within radar range.

“We’ve time to settle with it, then,” said the skipper. “Mr. Taine, the Plumie ship is still approaching.”

Baird found himself hating the Plumies. It was not only that humankind was showing up rather badly, at the moment. It was that if the Niccola were destroyed the Plumie would carry news of the existence of humanity and of the tactics which worked to defeat them. The Plumies could prepare an irresistible fleet. Humanity could be doomed.

But he overheard himself saying bitterly:

“I wish I’d known this was coming, Diane. I . . . wouldn’t have resolved to be strictly official, only, until we got back to base.”

Her eyes widened. She looked startled. Then she softened.

“If . . . you mean that . . . I wish so too.”

“It looks like they’ve got us,” he admitted unhappily. “If they can take our rockets away from us—” Then his voice stopped. He said, “Hold everything!” and pressed the navigation-room button. He snapped: “Radar to navigation. It appears to take the Plumies several seconds to take over a rocket. They have to aim something—a pressor or tractor beam, most likely—and pick off each rocket separately. Nearly forty seconds was consumed in taking over all twelve of our rockets. At shorter range, with less time available, a rocket might get through!”

The skipper swore briefly. Then:

“Mr. Taine! When the Plumies are near enough, our rockets may strike before they can be taken over! You follow?” 

Baird heard Taine’s shrill-voiced acknowledgment—in the form of practically chattered orders to his rocket-tube crews. Baird listened, checking the orders against what the situation was as the radars saw it. Taine’s voice was almost unhuman; so filled with frantic rage that it cracked as he spoke. But the problem at hand was the fulfillment of all his psychopathic urges. He commanded the starboard-side rocket-battery to await special orders. Meanwhile the port-side battery would fire two rockets on widely divergent courses, curving to join at the Plumie ship. They’d be seized. They were to be detonated and another port-side rocket fired instantly, followed by a second hidden in the rocket-trail the first would leave behind. Then the starboard side—

“I’m afraid Taine’s our only chance,” said Baird reluctantly. “If he wins, we’ll have time to . . . talk as people do who like each other. If it doesn’t work—”

Diane said quietly:

“Anyhow . . . I’m glad you . . . wanted me to know. I . . . wanted you to know, too.”

She smiled at him, yearningly.

* * *

There was the crump-crump of two rockets going out together. Then the radar told what happened. The Plumie ship was no more than six miles away, dancing somehow deftly in the light of a yellow sun, with all the cosmos spread out as shining pin points of colored light behind it. The radar reported the dash and the death of the two rockets, after their struggle with invisible things that gripped them. They died when they headed reluctantly back to the Niccola—and detonated two miles from their parent ship. The skipper’s voice came:

“Mr. Taine! After your next salvo I shall head for the Plumie at full drive, to cut down the distance and the time they have to work in. Be ready!” 

The rocket tubes went crump-crump again, with a fifth of a second interval. The radar showed two tiny specks speeding through space toward the weaving, shifting speck which was the Plumie.

Outside, in emptiness, there was a filmy haze. It was the rocket-fumes and explosive gases spreading with incredible speed. It was thin as gossamer. The Plumie ship undoubtedly spotted the rockets, but it did not try to turn them. It somehow seized them and deflected them, and darted past them toward the Niccola.

“They see the trick,” said Diane, dry-throated. “If they can get in close enough, they can turn it against us!”

There were noises inside the Niccola, now. Taine fairly howled an order. There were yells of defiance and excitement. There were more of those inadequate noises as rockets went out—every tube on the starboard side emptied itself in a series of savage grunts—and the Niccola‘s magnetronic drive roared at full flux density.

The two ships were less than a mile apart when the Niccola let go her full double broadside of missiles. And then it seemed that the Plumie ship was doomed. There were simply too many rockets to be seized and handled before at least one struck. But there was a new condition. The Plumie ship weaved and dodged its way through them. The new condition was that the rockets were just beginning their run. They had not achieved the terrific velocity they would accumulate in ten miles of no-gravity. They were new-launched; logy; clumsy: not the streaking, flashing death-and-destruction they would become with thirty more seconds of acceleration.

So the Plumie ship dodged them with a skill and daring past belief. With an incredible agility it got inside them, nearer to the Niccola than they. And then it hurled itself at the human ship as if bent upon a suicidal crash which would destroy both ships together. But Baird, in the radar room, and the skipper in navigation, knew that it would plunge brilliantly past them at the last instant—

And then they knew that it would not. Because, very suddenly and very abruptly, there was something the matter with the Plumie ship. The life went out of it. It ceased to steer. It began to turn slowly on an axis somewhere amidships. Its nose swung to one side, with no change in the direction of its motion. It floated onward. It was broadside to its line of travel. It continued to turn. It hurtled stern-first toward the Niccola. It did not swerve. It did not dance. It was a lifeless hulk: a derelict in space.

And it would hit the Niccola amidships with no possible result but destruction for both vessels.

* * *

The Niccola‘s skipper bellowed orders, as if shouting would somehow give them more effect. The magnetronic drive roared. He’d demanded a miracle of it, and he almost got one. The drive strained its thrust-members. It hopelessly overloaded its coils. The Niccola‘s cobalt-steel hull became more than saturated with the drive-field, and it leaped madly upon an evasion course—

And it very nearly got away. It was swinging clear when the Plumie ship drifted within fathoms. It was turning aside when the Plumie ship was within yards. And it was almost safe when the golden hull of the Plumie—shadowed now by the Niccola itself—barely scraped a side-keel.

There was a touch, seemingly deliberate and gentle. But the Niccola shuddered horribly. Then the vision screens flared from such a light as might herald the crack of doom. There was a brightness greater than the brilliance of the sun. And then there was a wrenching, heaving shock. Then there was blackness. Baird was flung across the radar room, and Diane cried out, and he careened against a wall and heard glass shatter. He called:

“Diane!”

He clutched crazily at anything, and called her name again. The Niccola‘s internal gravity was cut off, and his head spun, and he heard collision-doors closing everywhere, but before they closed completely he heard the rasping sound of giant arcs leaping in the engine room. Then there was silence.

“Diane!” cried Baird fiercely. “Diane!”

“I’m I . . . here,” she panted. “I’m dizzy, but I . . . think I’m all right—”

The battery-powered emergency light came on. It was faint, but he saw her clinging to a bank of instruments where she’d been thrown by the collision. He moved to go to her, and found himself floating in midair. But he drifted to a side wall and worked his way to her.

She clung to him, shivering.

“I . . . think,” she said unsteadily, “that we’re going to die. Aren’t we?”

“We’ll see,” he told her. “Hold on to me.”

Guided by the emergency light, he scrambled to the bank of communicator-buttons. What had been the floor was now a side wall. He climbed it and thumbed the navigation-room switch.

“Radar room reporting,” he said curtly. “Power out, gravity off, no reports from outside from power failure. No great physical damage.”

He began to hear other voices. There had never been an actual space-collision in the memory of man, but reports came crisply, and the cut-in speakers in the radar room repeated them. Ship-gravity was out all over the ship. Emergency lights were functioning, and those were all the lights there were. There was a slight, unexplained gravity-drift toward what had been the ship’s port side. But damage-control reported no loss of pressure in the Niccola‘s inner hull, though four areas between inner and outer hulls had lost air pressure to space.

“Mr. Baird,” rasped the skipper. “We’re blind! Forget everything else and give us eyes to see with!”

“We’ll try battery power to the vision plates,” Baird told Diane. “No full resolution, but better than nothing—”

They worked together, feverishly. They were dizzy. Something close to nausea came upon them from pure giddiness. What had been the floor was now a wall, and they had to climb to each of the instruments that had been on a wall and now were on the ceiling. But their weight was ounces only. Baird said abruptly:

“I know what’s the matter! We’re spinning! The whole ship’s spinning! That’s why we’re giddy and why we have even a trace of weight. Centrifugal force! Ready for the current?”

There was a tiny click, and the battery light dimmed. But a vision screen lighted faintly. The stars it showed were moving specks of light. The sun passed deliberately across the screen. Baird switched to other outside scanners. There was power for only one screen at a time. But he saw the starkly impossible. He pressed the navigation-room button.

“Radar room reporting,” he said urgently. “The Plumie ship is fast to us, in contact with our hull! Both ships are spinning together!” He was trying yet other scanners as he spoke, and now he said: “Got it! There are no lines connecting us to the Plumie, but it looks . . . yes! That flash when the ships came together was a flashover of high potential. We’re welded to them along twenty feet of our hull!”

The skipper:

“Damnation! Any sign of intention to board us?” 

“Not yet, sir—”

Taine burst in, his voice high-pitched and thick with hatred:

“Damage-control parties attention! Arm yourselves and assemble at starboard air lock! Rocket crews get into suits and prepare to board this Plumie—” 

“Countermand!” bellowed the skipper from the speaker beside Baird’s ear. “Those orders are canceled! Dammit, if we were successfully boarded we’d blow ourselves to bits! Those are our orders! D’you think the Plumies will let their ship be taken? And wouldn’t we blow up with them? Mr. Taine, you will take no offensive action without specific orders! Defensive action is another matter. Mr. Baird! I consider this welding business pure accident. No one would be mad enough to plan it. You watch the Plumies and keep me informed!”

His voice ceased. And Baird had again the frustrating duty of remaining still and keeping his head while other men engaged in physical activity. He helped Diane to a chair—which was fastened to the floor-which-was-now-a-wall—and she wedged herself fast and began a review of what each of the outside scanners reported. Baird called for more batteries. Power for the radar and visions was more important than anything else, just then. If there were more Plumie ships . . .

* * *

Electricians half-floated, half-dragged extra batteries to the radar room. Baird hooked them in. The universe outside the ship again appeared filled with brilliantly colored dots of light which were stars. More satisfying, the globe-scanners again reported no new objects anywhere. Nothing new within a quarter million miles. A half-million. Later Baird reported:

“Radars report no strange objects within a million miles of the Niccola, sir.”

“Except the ship we’re welded to. But you are doing very well. However, microphones say there is movement inside the Plumie.” 

Diane beckoned for Baird’s attention to a screen, which Baird had examined before. Now he stiffened and motioned for her to report.

“We’ve a scanner, sir,” said Diane, “which faces what looks like a port in the Plumie ship. There’s a figure at the port. I can’t make out details, but it is making motions, facing us.”

“Give me the picture!” snapped the skipper.

Diane obeyed. It was the merest flip of a switch. Then her eyes went back to the spherical-sweep scanners which reported the bearing and distance of every solid object within their range. She set up two instruments which would measure the angle, bearing, and distance of the two planets now on this side of the sun—the gas-giant and the oxygen-world to sunward. Their orbital speeds and distances were known. The position, course, and speed of the Niccola could be computed from any two observations on them.

Diane had returned to the utterly necessary routine of the radar room which was the nerve-center of the ship, gathering all information needed for navigation in space. The fact that there had been a collision, that the Niccola‘s engines were melted to unlovely scrap, that the Plumie ship was now welded irremovably to a side keel, and that a Plumie was signaling to humans while both ships went spinning through space toward an unknown destination—these things did not affect the obligations of the radar room.

Baird got other images of the Plumie ship into sharp focus. So near, the scanners required adjustment for precision.

“Take a look at this!” he said wryly.

She looked. The view was of the Plumie as welded fast to the Niccola. The welding was itself an extraordinary result of the Plumie’s battle-tactics. Tractor and pressor beams were known to men, of course, but human beings used them only under very special conditions. Their operation involved the building-up of terrific static charges. Unless a tractor-beam generator could be grounded to the object it was to pull, it tended to emit lightning-bolts at unpredictable intervals and in entirely random directions. So men didn’t use them. Obviously, the Plumies did.

They’d handled the Niccola‘s rockets with beams which charged the golden ship to billions of volts. And when the silicon-bronze Plumie ship touched the cobalt-steel Niccola—why—that charge had to be shared. It must have been the most spectacular of all artificial electric flames. Part of the Niccola‘s hull was vaporized, and undoubtedly part of the Plumie. But the unvaporized surfaces were molten and in contact—and they stuck.

For a good twenty feet the two ships were united by the most perfect of vacuum-welds. The wholly dissimilar hulls formed a space-catamaran, with a sort of valley between their bulks. Spinning deliberately, as the united ships did, sometimes the sun shone brightly into that valley, and sometimes it was filled with the blackness of the pit.

While Diane looked, a round door revolved in the side of the Plumie ship. As Diane caught her breath, Baird reported crisply. At his first word Taine burst into raging commands for men to follow him through the Niccola‘s air lock and fight a boarding party of Plumies in empty space. The skipper very savagely ordered him to be quiet.

“Only one figure has come out,” reported Baird. The skipper watched on a vision plate, but Baird reported so all the Niccola‘s company would know. “It’s small—less than five feet . . . I’ll see better in a moment.” Sunlight smote down into the valley between the ships. “It’s wearing a pressure suit. It seems to be the same material as the ship. It walks on two legs, as we do . . . It has two arms, or something very similar . . . The helmet of the suit is very high . . . It looks like the armor knights used to fight in . . . It’s making its way to our air lock . . . It does not use magnetic-soled shoes. It’s holding onto lines threaded along the other ship’s hull . . .”

The skipper said curtly:

“Mr. Baird! I hadn’t noticed the absence of magnetic shoes. You seem to have an eye for important items. Report to the air lock in person. Leave Lieutenant Holt to keep an eye on outside objects. Quickly, Mr. Baird!” 

* * *

Baird laid his hand on Diane’s shoulder. She smiled at him.

“I’ll watch!” she promised.

He went out of the radar room, walking on what had been a side wall. The giddiness and dizziness of continued rotation was growing less, now. He was getting used to it. But the Niccola seemed strange indeed, with the standard up and down and Earth-gravity replaced by a vertical which was all askew and a weight of ounces instead of a hundred and seventy pounds.

He reached the air lock just as the skipper arrived. There were others there—armed and in pressure suits. The skipper glared about him.

“I am in command here,” he said very grimly indeed. “Mr. Taine has a special function, but I am in command. We and the creatures on the Plumie ship are in a very serious fix. One of them apparently means to come on board. There will be no hostility, no sneering, no threatening gestures. This is a parley! You will be careful. But you will not be trigger-happy!”

He glared around again, just as a metallic rapping came upon the Niccola‘s air-lock door. The skipper nodded:

“Let him in the lock, Mr. Baird.”

Baird obeyed. The humming of the unlocking-system sounded. There were clankings. The outer air lock closed. There was a faint whistling as air went in. The skipper nodded again.

Baird opened the inner door. It was 08 hours 10 minutes ship time.

The Plumie stepped confidently out into the topsy-turvy corridors of the Niccola. He was about the size of a ten-year-old human boy, and features which were definitely not grotesque showed through the clear plastic of his helmet. His pressure suit was, engineering-wise, a very clean job. His whole appearance was prepossessing. When he spoke, very clear and quite high sounds—soprano sounds—came from a small speaker-unit at his shoulder.

“For us to talk,” said the skipper heavily, “is pure nonsense. But I take it you’ve something to say.”

The Plumie gazed about with an air of lively curiosity. Then he drew out a flat pad with a white surface and sketched swiftly. He offered it to the Niccola‘s skipper.

“We want this on record,” he growled, staring about.

Diane’s voice said capably from a speaker somewhere nearby:

“Sir, there’s a scanner for inspection of objects brought aboard. Hold the plate flat and I’ll have a photograph—right!” 

The skipper said curtly to the Plumie:

“You’ve drawn our two ships linked as they are. What have you to say about it?”

He handed back the plate. The Plumie pressed a stud and it was blank again. He sketched and offered it once more.

“Hm-m-m,” said the skipper. “You can’t use your drive while we’re glued together, eh? Well?”

The Plumie reached up and added lines to the drawing.

“So!” rumbled the skipper, inspecting the additions. “You say it’s up to us to use our drive for both ships.” He growled approvingly: “You consider there’s a truce. You must, because we’re both in the same fix, and not a nice one, either. True enough! We can’t fight each other without committing suicide, now. But we haven’t any drive left! We’re a derelict! How am I going to say that—if I decide to?”

Baird could see the lines on the plate, from the angle at which the skipper held it. He said:

“Sir, we’ve been mapping, up in the radar room. Those last lines are map coordinates—a separate sketch, sir. I think he’s saying that the two ships, together, are on a falling course toward the sun. That we have to do something or both vessels will fall into it. We should be able to check this, sir.”

“Hah!” growled the skipper. “That’s all we need. Absolutely all we need! To come here, get into a crazy fight, have our drive melt to scrap, get crazily welded to a Plumie ship, and then for both of us to fry together. We don’t need anything more than that!”

Diane’s voice came on the speaker:

“Sir, the last radar fixes on the planets in range give us a course directly toward the sun. I’ll repeat the observations.” 

The skipper growled. Taine thrust himself forward. He snarled:

“Why doesn’t this Plumie take off his helmet? It lands on oxygen planets! Does it think it’s too good to breathe our air?”

Baird caught the Plumie’s eye. He made a gesture suggesting the removal of the space helmet. The Plumie gestured, in return, to a tiny vent in the suit. He opened something and gas whistled out. He cut it off. The question of why he did not open or remove his helmet was answered. The atmosphere he breathed would not do men any good, nor would theirs do him any good, either. Taine said suspiciously:

“How do we know he’s breathing the stuff he let out then? This creature isn’t human. It’s got no right to attack humans! Now it’s trying to trick us!” His voice changed to a snarl. “We’d better wring its neck! Teach its kind a lesson—”

The skipper roared at him.

“Be quiet! Our ship is a wreck! We have to consider the facts. We and these Plumies are in a fix together, and we have to get out of it before we start to teach anybody anything!” He glared at Taine. Then he said heavily: “Mr. Baird, you seem to notice things. Take this Plumie over the ship. Show him our drive melted down, so he’ll realize we can’t possibly tow his ship into an orbit. He knows that we’re armed, and that we can’t handle our war heads at this range. So we can’t fool each other. We might as well be frank. But you will take full note of his reactions, Mr. Baird!”

* * *

Baird advanced, and the skipper made a gesture. The Plumie regarded Baird with interested eyes. And Baird led the way for a tour of the Niccola. It was confusing even to him, with right hand converted to up and left hand to down, and sidewise now almost vertical. On the way the Plumie made more clear, flutelike sounds, and more gestures. Baird answered.

“Our gravity pull was that way,” he explained, “and things fell so fast.”

He grasped a handrail and demonstrated the speed with which things fell in normal ship-gravity. He used a pocket communicator for the falling weight. It was singularly easy to say some things, even highly technical ones, because they’d be what the Plumie would want to know. But quite commonplace things would be very difficult to convey.

Diane’s voice came out of the communicator.

“There are no novelties outside,” she said quietly. “It looks like this is the only Plumie ship anywhere around. It could have been exploring, like us. Maybe it was looking for the people who put up Space-Survey markers.”

“Maybe,” agreed Baird, using the communicator. “Is that stuff about falling into the sun correct?”

“It seems so,” said Diane composedly. “I’m checking again. So far, the best course I can get means we graze the sun’s photosphere in fourteen days six hours, allowing for acceleration by the sun’s gravity.”

“And you and I,” said Baird wryly, “have been acting as professional associates only, when—”

“Don’t say it!” said Diane shakily. “It’s terrible!”

He put the communicator back in his pocket. The Plumie had watched him. He had a peculiarly gallant air, this small figure in golden space armor with its high-crested helmet.

They reached the engine room. And there was the giant drive shaft of the Niccola, once wrapped with yard-thick coils which could induce an incredible density of magnetic flux in the metal. Even the return magnetic field, through the ship’s cobalt-steel hull, was many times higher than saturation. Now the coils were sagging: mostly melted. There were places where re-solidified metal smoked noisomely against non-metallic floor or wall-covering. Engineers labored doggedly in the trivial gravity to clean up the mess.

“It’s past repair,” said Baird, to the ship’s first engineer.

“It’s junk,” said that individual dourly. “Give us six months and a place to set up a wire-drawing mill and an insulator synthesizer, and we could rebuild it. But nothing less will be any good.”

The Plumie stared at the drive. He examined the shaft from every angle. He inspected the melted, and partly-melted, and merely burned-out sections of the drive coils. He was plainly unable to understand in any fashion the principle of the magnetronic drive. Baird was tempted to try to explain, because there was surely no secret about a ship drive, but he could imagine no diagrams or gestures which would convey the theory of what happened in cobalt-steel when it was magnetized beyond one hundred thousand Gauss’ flux-density. And without that theory one simply couldn’t explain a magnetronic drive.

They left the engine room. They visited the rocket batteries. The generator room was burned out, like the drive, by the inconceivable lightning bolt which had passed between the ships on contact. The Plumie was again puzzled. Baird made it clear that the generator-room supplied electric current for the ship’s normal lighting-system and services. The Plumie could grasp that idea. They examined the crew’s quarters, and the mess room, and the Plumie walked confidently among the members of the human crew, who a little while since had tried so painstakingly to destroy his vessel. He made a good impression.

“These little guys,” said a crewman to Baird, admiringly, “they got something. They can handle a ship! I bet they could almost make that ship of their play checkers!”

“Close to it,” agreed Baird. He realized something. He pulled the communicator from his pocket. “Diane! Contact the skipper. He wanted observations. Here’s one. This Plumie acts like soldiers used to act in ancient days—when they wore armor. And we have the same reaction. They will fight like the devil, but during a truce they’ll be friendly, admiring each other as scrappers, but ready to fight as hard as ever when the truce is over. We have the same reaction. Tell the skipper I’ve an idea that it’s a part of their civilization—maybe it’s a necessary part of any civilization! Tell him I guess that there may be necessarily parallel evolution of attitudes, among rational races, as there are parallel evolutions of eyes and legs and wings and fins among all animals everywhere. If I’m right, somebody from this ship will be invited to tour the Plumie. It’s only a guess, but tell him.”

“Immediately,” said Diane.

* * *

The Plumie followed gallantly as Baird made a steep climb up what once was the floor of a corridor. Then Taine stepped out before them. His eyes burned.

“Giving him a clear picture, eh?” he rasped. “Letting him spy out everything?”

Baird pressed the communicator call for the radar room and said coldly:

“I’m obeying orders. Look, Taine! You were picked for your job because you were a xenophobe. It helps in your proper functioning. But this Plumie is here under a flag of truce—”

“Flag of truce!” snarled Taine. “It’s vermin! It’s not human! I’ll—”

“If you move one inch nearer him,” said Baird gently, “just one inch—”

The skipper’s voice bellowed through the general call speakers all over the ship:

“Mr. Taine! You will go to your quarters, under arrest! Mr. Baird, burn him down if he hesitates!” 

Then there was a rushing, and scrambling figures appeared and were all about. They were members of the Niccola‘s crew, sent by the skipper. They regarded the Plumie with detachment, but Taine with a wary expectancy. Taine turned purple with fury. He shouted. He raged. He called Baird and the others Plumie-lovers and vermin-worshipers. He shouted foulnesses at them. But he did not attack.

When, still shouting, he went away, Baird said apologetically to the Plumie:

“He’s a xenophobe. He has a pathological hatred of strangers—even of strangeness. We have him on board because—”

Then he stopped. The Plumie wouldn’t understand, of course. But his eyes took on a curious look. It was almost as if, looking at Baird, they twinkled.

Baird took him back to the skipper.

“He’s got the picture, sir,” he reported.

The Plumie pulled out his sketch plate. He drew on it. He offered it. The skipper said heavily:

“You guessed right, Mr. Baird. He suggests that someone from this ship go on board the Plumie vessel. He’s drawn two pressure-suited figures going into their air lock. One’s larger than the other. Will you go?”

“Naturally!” said Baird. Then he added thoughtfully: “But I’d better carry a portable scanner, sir. It should work perfectly well through a bronze hull, sir.”

The skipper nodded and began to sketch a diagram which would amount to an acceptance of the Plumie’s invitation.

This was at 07 hours 40 minutes ship time. Outside the sedately rotating metal hulls—the one a polished blue-silver and the other a glittering golden bronze—the cosmos continued to be as always. The haze from explosive fumes and rocket-fuel was, perhaps, a little thinner. The brighter stars shone through it. The gas-giant planet outward from the sun was a perceptible disk instead of a diffuse glow. The oxygen-planet to sunward showed again as a lighted crescent.

Presently Baird, in a human spacesuit, accompanied the Plumie into the Niccola‘s air lock and out to emptiness. His magnetic-soled shoes clung to the Niccola‘s cobalt-steel skin. Fastened to his shoulder there was a tiny scanner and microphone, which would relay everything he saw and heard back to the radar room and to Diane.

She watched tensely as he went inside the Plumie ship. Other screens relayed the image and his voice to other places on the Niccola.

He was gone a long time. From the beginning, of course, there were surprises. When the Plumie escort removed his helmet, on his own ship, the reason for the helmet’s high crest was apparent. He had a high crest of what looked remarkably like feathers—and it was not artificial. It grew there. The reason for conventionalized plumes on bronze survey plates was clear. It was exactly like the reason for human features or figures as decorative additions to the inscriptions on Space Survey marker plates. Even the Plumie’s hands had odd crestlets which stood out when he bent his fingers. The other Plumies were no less graceful and no less colorful. They had equally clear soprano voices. They were equally miniature and so devoid of apparent menace.

But there were also technical surprises. Baird was taken immediately to the Plumie ship’s engine room, and Diane heard the sharp intake of breath with which he appeared to recognize its working principle. There were Plumie engineers working feverishly at it, attempting to discover something to repair. But they found nothing. The Plumie drive simply would not work.

They took Baird through the ship’s entire fabric. And their purpose, when it became clear, was startling. The Plumie ship had no rocket tubes. It had no beam-projectors except small-sized objects which were—which must be—their projectors of tractor and pressor beams. They were elaborately grounded to the ship’s substance. But they were not originally designed for ultra-heavy service. They hadn’t and couldn’t have the enormous capacity Baird had expected. He was astounded.

* * *

When he returned to the Niccola, he went instantly to the radar room to make sure that pictures taken through his scanner had turned out well. And there was Diane.

But the skipper’s voice boomed at him from the wall.

“Mr. Baird! What have you to add to the information you sent back?” 

“Three items, sir,” said Baird. He drew a deep breath. “For the first, sir, the Plumie ship is unarmed. They’ve tractor and pressor beams for handling material. They probably use them to build their cairns. But they weren’t meant for weapons. The Plumies, sir, hadn’t a thing to fight with when they drove for us after we detected them.”

The skipper blinked hard.

“Are you sure of that, Mr. Baird?” 

“Yes, sir,” said Baird uncomfortably. “The Plumie ship is an exploring ship—a survey ship, sir. You saw their mapping equipment. But when they spotted us, and we spotted them—they bluffed! When we fired rockets at them, they turned them back with tractor and pressor beams. They drove for us, sir, to try to destroy us with our own bombs, because they didn’t have any of their own.”

The skipper’s mouth opened and closed.

“Another item, sir,” said Baird more uncomfortably still. “They don’t use iron or steel. Every metal object I saw was either a bronze or a light metal. I suspect some of their equipment’s made of potassium, and I’m fairly sure they use sodium in the place of aluminum. Their atmosphere’s quite different from ours—obviously! They’d use bronze for their ship’s hull because they can venture into an oxygen atmosphere in a bronze ship. A sodium-hulled ship would be lighter, but it would burn in oxygen. Where there was moisture—”

The skipper blinked.

“But they couldn’t drive in a nonmagnetic hull!” he protested. “A ship has to be magnetic to drive!”

“Sir,” said Baird, his voice still shaken, “they don’t use a magnetronic drive. I once saw a picture of the drive they use, in a stereo on the history of space travel. The principle’s very old. We’ve practically forgotten it. It’s a Dirac pusher-drive, sir. Among us humans, it came right after rockets. The planets of Sol were first reached by ships using Dirac pushers. But—” He paused. “They won’t operate in a magnetic field above seventy Gauss, sir. It’s a static-charge reaction, sir, and in a magnetic field it simply stops working.”

The skipper regarded Baird unblinkingly for a long time.

“I think you are telling me,” he said at long last, “that the Plumies’ drive would work if they were cut free of the Niccola.”

“Yes, sir,” said Baird. “Their engineers were opening up the drive-elements and checking them, and then closing them up again. They couldn’t seem to find anything wrong. I don’t think they know what the trouble is. It’s the Niccola‘s magnetic field. I think it was our field that caused the collision by stopping their drive and killing all their controls when they came close enough.”

“Did you tell them?” demanded the skipper.

“There was no easy way to tell them by diagrams, sir.”

Taine’s voice cut in. It was feverish. It was strident. It was triumphant.

“Sir! The Niccola is effectively a wreck and unrepairable. But the Plumie ship is operable if cut loose. As weapons officer, I intend to take the Plumie ship, let out its air, fill its tanks with our air, start up its drive, and turn it over to you for navigation back to base!”

Baird raged. But he said coldly:

“We’re a long way from home, Mr. Taine, and the Dirac pusher drive is slow. If we headed back to base in the Plumie ship with its Dirac pusher, we’d all be dead of old age before we’d gone halfway.”

“But unless we take it,” raged Taine, “we hit this sun in fourteen days! We don’t have to die now! We can land on the oxygen planet up ahead! We’ve only to kill these vermin and take their ship, and we’ll live!”

Diane’s voice said dispassionately:

“Report. A Plumie in a pressure suit just came out of their air lock. It’s carrying a parcel toward our air lock.”

Taine snarled instantly:

“They’ll sneak something in the Niccola to blast it, and then cut free and go away!”

The skipper said very grimly:

“Mr. Taine, credit me with minimum brains! There is no way the Plumies can take this ship without an atomic bomb exploding to destroy both ships. You should know it!” Then he snapped: “Air lock area, listen for a knock, and let in the Plumie or the parcel he leaves.”

There was silence. Baird said very quietly:

“I doubt they think it possible to cut the ships apart. A torch is no good on thick silicon bronze. It conducts heat too well! And they don’t use steel. They probably haven’t a cutting-torch at all.”

* * *

From the radar room he watched the Plumie place an object in the air lock and withdraw. He watched from a scanner inside the ship as someone brought in what the Plumie had left. An electronics man bustled forward. He looked it over quickly. It was complex, but his examination suddenly seemed satisfying to him. But a grayish vapor developed and he sniffed and wrinkled his nose. He picked up a communicator.

“Sir, they’ve sent us a power-generator. Some of its parts are going bad in our atmosphere, sir, but this looks to me like a hell of a good idea for a generator! I never saw anything like it, but it’s good! You can set it for any voltage and it’ll turn out plenty juice!” 

“Put it in helium,” snapped the skipper. “It won’t break down in that. Then see how it serves.”

In the radar room, Baird drew a deep breath. He went carefully to each of the screens and every radar. Diane saw what he was about, and checked with him. They met at the middle of the radar room.

“Everything’s checked out,” said Baird gravely. “There’s nothing else around. There’s nothing we can be called on to do before something happens. So . . . we can . . . act like people.”

Diane smiled very faintly.

“Not like people. Just like us.” She said wistfully: “Don’t you want to tell me something? Something you intended to tell me only after we got back to base?”

He did. He told it to her. And there was also something she had not intended to tell him at all—unless he told her first. She said it now. They felt that such sayings were of the greatest possible importance. They clung together, saying them again. And it seemed wholly monstrous that two people who cared so desperately had wasted so much time acting like professional associates—explorer-ship officers—when things like this were to be said . . .

As they talked incoherently, or were even more eloquently silent, the ship’s ordinary lights came back on. The battery-lamp went on.

“We’ve got to switch back to ship’s circuit,” said Baird reluctantly. They separated, and restored the operating circuits to normal. “We’ve got fourteen days,” he added, “and so much time to be on duty, and we’ve a lost lifetime to live in fourteen days! Diane—”

She flushed vividly. So Baird said very politely into the microphone to the navigation room:

“Sir, Lieutenant Holt and myself would like to speak directly to you in the navigation room. May we?”

“Why not?” growled the skipper. “You’ve noticed that the Plumie generator is giving the whole ship lights and services?”

“Yes, sir,” said Baird. “We’ll be there right away.”

* * *

They heard the skipper’s grunt as they hurried through the door. A moment later the ship’s normal gravity returned—also through the Plumie generator. Up was up again, and down was down, and the corridors and cabins of the Niccola were brightly illuminated. Had the ship been other than an engineless wreck, falling through a hundred and fifty million miles of emptiness into the flaming photosphere of a sun, everything would have seemed quite normal, including the errand Baird and Diane were upon, and the fact that they held hands self-consciously as they went about it.

They skirted the bulkhead of the main air tank. They headed along the broader corridor which went past the indented inner door of the air lock. They had reached that indentation when Baird saw that the inner air-lock door was closing. He saw a human pressure suit past its edge. He saw the corner of some object that had been put down on the air-lock floor.

Baird shouted, and rushed toward the lock. He seized the inner handle and tried to force open the door again, so that no one inside it could emerge into the emptiness without. He failed. He wrenched frantically at the control of the outer door. It suddenly swung freely. The outer door had been put on manual. It could be and was being opened from inside.

“Tell the skipper,” raged Baird. “Taine’s taking something out!” He tore open a pressure-suit cupboard in the wall beside the lock door. “He’ll make the Plumies think it’s a return-gift for the generator!” He eeled into the pressure suit and zipped it up to his neck. “The man’s crazy! He thinks we can take their ship and stay alive for a while! Dammit, our air would ruin half their equipment! Tell the skipper to send help!”

He wrenched at the door again, jamming down his helmet with one hand. And this time the control worked. Taine, most probably, had forgotten that the inner control was disengaged only when the manual was actively in use. Diane raced away, panting. Baird swore bitterly at the slowness of the outer door’s closing. He was tearing at the inner door long before it could be opened. He flung himself in and dragged it shut, and struck the emergency air-release which bled the air lock into space for speed of operation. He thrust out the outer door and plunged through.

His momentum carried him almost too far. He fell, and only the magnetic soles of his shoes enabled him to check himself. He was in that singular valley between the two ships, where their hulls were impregnably welded fast. Round-hulled Plumie ship, and ganoid-shaped Niccola, they stuck immovably together as if they had been that way since time began. Where the sky appeared above Baird’s head, the stars moved in stately procession across the valley roof.

He heard a metallic rapping through the fabric of his space armor. Then sunlight glittered, and the valley filled with a fierce glare, and a man in a human spacesuit stood on the Niccola‘s plating, opposite the Plumie air lock. He held a bulky object under his arm. With his other gauntlet he rapped again.

“You fool!” shouted Baird. “Stop that! We couldn’t use their ship, anyhow!”

His space phone had turned on with the air supply. Taine’s voice snarled:

“We’ll try! You keep back! They are not human!” 

But Baird ran toward him. The sensation of running upon magnetic-soled shoes was unearthly: it was like trying to run on fly-paper or bird-lime. But in addition there was no gravity here, and no sense of balance, and there was the feeling of perpetual fall.

There could be no science nor any skill in an encounter under such conditions. Baird partly ran and partly staggered and partly skated to where Taine faced him, snarling. He threw himself at the other man—and then the sun vanished behind the bronze ship’s hull, and only stars moved visibly in all the universe.

But the sound of his impact was loud in Baird’s ears inside the suit. There was a slightly different sound when his armor struck Taine’s, and when it struck the heavier metal of the two ships. He fought. But the suits were intended to be defense against greater stresses than human blows could offer. In the darkness, it was like two blindfolded men fighting each other while encased in pillows.

Then the sun returned, floating sedately above the valley, and Baird could see his enemy. He saw, too, that the Plumie air lock was now open and that a small, erect, and somehow jaunty figure in golden space armor stood in the opening and watched gravely as the two men fought.

Taine cursed, panting with hysterical hate. He flung himself at Baird, and Baird toppled because he’d put one foot past the welded boundary between the Niccola‘s cobalt steel and the Plumie ship’s bronze. One foot held to nothing. And that was a ghastly sensation, because if Taine only tugged his other foot free and heaved—why—then Baird would go floating away from the rotating, now-twinned ships, floating farther and farther away forever.

But darkness fell, and he scrambled back to the Niccola‘s hull as a disorderly parade of stars went by above him. He pantingly waited fresh attack. He felt something—and it was the object Taine had meant to offer as a return present to the Plumies. It was unquestionably explosive, either booby-trapped or timed to explode inside the Plumie ship. Now it rocked gently, gripped by the magnetism of the steel.

The sun appeared again, and Taine was yards away, crawling and fumbling for Baird. Then he saw him, and rose and rushed, and the clankings of his shoe-soles were loud. Baird flung himself at Taine in a savage tackle.

He struck Taine’s legs a glancing blow, and the cobalt steel held his armor fast, but Taine careened and bounced against the round bronze wall of the Plumie, and bounced again. Then he screamed, because he went floating slowly out to emptiness, his arms and legs jerking spasmodically, while he shrieked . . .

The Plumie in the air lock stepped out. He trailed a cord behind him. He leaped briskly toward nothingness.

There came quick darkness once more, and Baird struggled erect despite the adhesiveness of the Niccola‘s hull. When he was fully upright, sick with horror at what had come about, there was sunlight yet again, and men were coming out of the Niccola‘s air lock, and the Plumie who’d leaped for space was pulling himself back to his own ship again. He had a loop of the cord twisted around Taine’s leg. But Taine screamed and screamed inside his spacesuit.

It was odd that one could recognize the skipper even inside space armor. But Baird felt sick. He saw Taine received, still screaming, and carried into the lock. The skipper growled an infuriated demand for details. His space phone had come on, too, when its air supply began. Baird explained, his teeth chattering.

“Hah!” grunted the skipper. “Taine was a mistake. He shouldn’t ever have left ground. When a man’s potty in one fashion, there’ll be cracks in him all over. What’s this?”

The Plumie in the golden armor very soberly offered the skipper the object Taine had meant to introduce into the Plumie’s ship. Baird said desperately that he’d fought against it, because he believed it a booby trap to kill the Plumies so men could take their ship and fill it with air and cut it free, and then make a landing somewhere.

“Damned foolishness!” rumbled the skipper. “Their ship’d begin to crumble with our air in it. If it held to a landing—”

Then he considered the object he’d accepted from the Plumie. It could have been a rocket war head, enclosed in some container that would detonate it if opened. Or there might be a timing device. The skipper grunted. He heaved it skyward.

The misshapen object went floating away toward emptiness. Sunlight smote harshly upon it.

“Don’t want it back in the Niccola,” growled the skipper, “but just to make sure—”

He fumbled a hand weapon out of his belt. He raised it, and it spurted flame—very tiny blue-white sparks, each one indicating a pellet of metal flung away at high velocity.

One of them struck the shining, retreating container. It exploded with a monstrous, soundless violence. It had been a rocket’s war head. There could have been only one reason for it to be introduced into a Plumie ship. Baird ceased to be shaky. Instead, he was ashamed.

The skipper growled inarticulately. He looked at the Plumie, again standing in the golden ship’s air lock.

“We’ll go back, Mr. Baird. What you’ve done won’t save our lives, and nobody will ever know you did it. But I think well of you. Come along!” 

This was at 11 hours 5 minutes ship time.

* * *

A good half hour later the skipper’s voice bellowed from the speakers all over the Niccola. His heavy-jowled features stared doggedly out of screens wherever men were on duty or at ease.

“Hear this!” he said forbiddingly. “We have checked our course and speed. We have verified that there is no possible jury-rig for our engines that could get us into any sort of orbit, let alone land us on the only planet in this system with air we could breathe. It is officially certain that in thirteen days nine hours from now, the Niccola will be so close to the sun that her hull will melt down. Which will be no loss to us because we’ll be dead then, still going on into the sun to be vaporized with the ship. There is nothing to be done about it. We can do nothing to save our own lives.”

He glared out of each and every one of the screens, wherever there were men to see him.

“But,” he rumbled, “the Plumies can get away if we help them. They have no cutting torches. We have. We can cut their ship free. They can repair their drive—but it’s most likely that it’ll operate perfectly when they’re a mile from the Niccola’s magnetic field. They can’t help us. But we can help them. And sooner or later some Plumie ship is going to encounter some other human ship. If we cut these Plumies loose, they’ll report what we did. When they meet other men, they’ll be cagey because they’ll remember Taine. But they’ll know they can make friends, because we did them a favor when we’d nothing to gain by it. I can offer no reward. But I ask for volunteers to go outside and cut the Plumie ship loose, so the Plumies can go home in safety instead of on into the sun with us.”

He glared, and cut off the image.

Diane held tightly to Baird’s hand, in the radar room. He said evenly:

“There’ll be volunteers. The Plumies are pretty sporting characters—putting up a fight with an unarmed ship, and so on. If there aren’t enough other volunteers, the skipper and I will cut them free by ourselves.”

Diane said, dry-throated:

“I’ll help. So I can be with you. We’ve got—so little time.”

“I’ll ask the skipper as soon as the Plumie ship’s free.”

“Y-yes,” said Diane. And she pressed her face against his shoulder, and wept.

This was at 01 hours, 20 minutes ship time. At 03 hours even, there was peculiar activity in the valley between the welded ships. There were men in space armor working cutting-torches where for twenty feet the two ships were solidly attached. Blue-white flames bored savagely into solid metal, and melted copper gave off strangely colored clouds of vapor—which emptiness whisked away to nothing—and molten iron and cobalt made equally lurid clouds of other colors.

There were Plumies in the air lock, watching.

At 03 hours 40 minutes ship time, all the men but one drew back. They went inside the Niccola. Only one man remained, cutting at the last sliver of metal that held the two ships together.

It parted. The Plumie ship swept swiftly away, moved by the centrifugal force of the rotary motion the joined vessels had possessed. It dwindled and dwindled. It was a half mile away. A mile. The last man on the outside of the Niccola‘s hull thriftily brought his torch to the air lock and came in.

Suddenly, the distant golden hull came to life. It steadied. It ceased to spin, however slowly. It darted ahead. It checked. It swung to the right and left and up and down. It was alive again.

* * *

In the radar room, Diane walked into Baird’s arms and said shakily:

“Now we . . . we have almost fourteen days.”

“Wait,” he commanded. “When the Plumies understood what we were doing, and why, they drew diagrams. They hadn’t thought of cutting free, out in space, without the spinning saws they used to cut bronze with. But they asked for a scanner and a screen. They checked on its use. I want to see—”

He flipped on the screen. And there was instantly a Plumie looking eagerly out of it, for some sign of communication established. There were soprano sounds, and he waved a hand for attention. Then he zestfully held up one diagram after another.

Baird drew a deep breath. A very deep breath. He pressed the navigation-room call. The skipper looked dourly at him.

“Well?” said the skipper forbiddingly.

“Sir,” said Baird, very quietly indeed, “the Plumies are talking by diagram over the communicator set we gave them. Their drive works. They’re as well off as they ever were. And they’ve been modifying their tractor beams—stepping them up to higher power.”

“What of it?” demanded the skipper, rumbling.

“They believe,” said Baird, “that they can handle the Niccola with their beefed-up tractor beams.” He wetted his lips. “They’re going to tow us to the oxygen planet ahead, sir. They’re going to set us down on it. They’ll help us find the metals we need to build the tools to repair the Niccola, sir. You see the reasoning, sir. We turned them loose to improve the chance of friendly contact when another human ship runs into them. They want us to carry back—to be proof that Plumies and men can be friends. It seems that—they like us, sir.”

He stopped for a moment. Then he went on reasonably:

“And besides that, it’ll be one hell of a fine business proposition. We never bother with hydrogen-methane planets. They’ve minerals and chemicals we haven’t got, but even the stones of a methane-hydrogen planet are ready to combine with the oxygen we need to breathe! We can’t carry or keep enough oxygen for real work. The same thing’s true with them on an oxygen planet. We can’t work on each other’s planets, but we can do fine business in each other’s minerals and chemicals from those planets. I’ve got a feeling, sir, that the Plumie cairns are location-notices; markers set up over ore deposits they can find but can’t hope to work, yet they claim against the day when their scientists find a way to make them worth owning. I’d be willing to bet, sir, that if we explored hydrogen planets as thoroughly as oxygen ones, we’d find cairns on their-type planets that they haven’t colonized yet.”

The skipper stared. His mouth dropped open.

“And I think, sir,” said Baird, “that until they detected us they thought they were the only intelligent race in the galaxy. They were upset to discover suddenly that they were not, and at first they’d no idea what we’d be like. But I’m guessing now, sir, that they’re figuring on what chemicals and ores to start swapping with us.” Then he added, “When you think of it, sir, probably the first metal they ever used was aluminum—where our ancestors used copper—and they had a beryllium age next, instead of iron. And right now, sir, it’s probably as expensive for them to refine iron as it is for us to handle titanium and beryllium and osmium—which are duck soup for them! Our two cultures ought to thrive as long as we’re friends, sir. They know it already—and we’ll find it out in a hurry!”

The skipper’s mouth moved. It closed, and then dropped open again. The search for the Plumies had been made because it looked like they had to be fought. But Baird had just pointed out some extremely commonsense items which changed the situation entirely. And there was evidence that the Plumies saw the situation the new way. The skipper felt such enormous relief that his manner changed. He displayed what was almost effusive cordiality—for the skipper. He cleared his throat.

“Hm-m-m. Hah! Very good, Mr. Baird,” he said formidably. “And of course with time and air and metals we can rebuild our drive. For that matter, we could rebuild the Niccola! I’ll notify the ship’s company, Mr. Baird. Very good!” He moved to use another microphone. Then he checked himself. “Your expression is odd, Mr. Baird. Did you wish to say something more?”

“Y-yes, sir,” said Baird. He held Diane’s hand fast. “It’ll be months before we get back to port, sir. And it’s normally against regulations, but under the circumstances . . . would you mind . . . as skipper . . . marrying Lieutenant Holt and me?”

The skipper snorted. Then he said almost—almost—amiably?

“Hm-m-m. You’ve both done very well, Mr. Baird. Yes. Come to the navigation room and we’ll get it over with. Say—ten minutes from now.” 

Baird grinned at Diane. Her eyes shone a little.

This was at 04 hours 10 minutes ship time. It was exactly twelve hours since the alarm-bell rang.

 

 

 

Afterword by Eric Flint

Murray Leinster died almost thirty years ago, in 1976, and his writing career had essentially ended by the beginning of the 1970s. During the decades that followed, this once-major figure in science fiction more or less faded away from the public eye. Until I started editing the multivolume reissue of his writings which Baen Books is now publishing, the only important reissue of his writing that had taken place in many years was NESFA Press’ 1998 one-volume omnibus First Contacts.

This . . . for a man who held the title “the dean of science fiction” before Robert Heinlein inherited it. (And it wasn’t bestowed on him by an obscure fan club, either—Leinster was given the sobriquet by Time magazine.) When I first started reading science fiction in the early ’60s, Leinster seemed well-nigh ubiquitous to me. I couldn’t have imagined back then that the day would come when he had completely vanished from the shelves.

What happened? Leinster was no minor writer like several in this anthology, after all: Rick Raphael, Robert Ernest Gilbert, Wyman Guin, some others. All of them wrote well, to be sure—but Leinster published more novels than they did short stories. He might have published more novels than all of their short stories put together. And his total output, even leaving aside the many westerns and mystery stories he wrote under his real name of Will Jenkins, would have buried them. Would have buried most authors, in fact, major or minor.

Part of it, I think, was that the loose human conglomeration you might call “the science fiction community” was always fairly lukewarm about him. His career in science fiction spanned half a century, in the course of which he was published by many book publishers and appeared in almost all the principal magazines. Yet, during his lifetime, he only won a major science fiction award once—the Hugo award for best novelette in 1956, for “Exploration Team.” In fact, he only received one other nomination for the Hugo: his novel The Pirates of Zan made the final list in 1960 (losing, not surprisingly, to Heinlein’s Starship Troopers). He was never nominated once for the Nebula award.

To be sure, the major SF awards like all such awards are notoriously subject to the popularity of the recipient with the relatively small numbers of people who cast the votes. And since Leinster paid no attention to them—he rarely if ever attended a science fiction convention, and had very little contact with other science fiction writers—it’s not surprising that they tended to ignore him in return.

But there’s more to it, I think, than just personal distance. The key is that famous old saw: “Familiarity breeds contempt.” Leinster was there at the creation of science fiction—and he created much of it himself. Name any of the now-recognized subgenres or themes of science fiction and trace them back in time . . . and, as often as not, you will discover that Murray Leinster laid the foundations.

First contact? The name itself comes from a Murray Leinster story.

Alternate history? He published the time-travel story “The Runaway Skyscraper” in Argosy magazine in the year 1919—a year before my father was born. Ironically enough, for a man who was almost never recognized by the awards, the Sidewise Award which is today given out at the annual Hugo ceremony for the best alternate histories of the year . . . was named after Leinster’s story “Sidewise in Time,” first published seventy years ago.

I could go and on, but I won’t bother. Granted, Leinster was never a dazzling writer. His prose is journeyman at best, he was repetitive in his longer works, he recycled plots shamelessly—no fewer than six of his novels are essentially Die Hard in Space with the serial numbers filed off—and he wrote a lot of stuff that can only be described as dreck. I know. I’ve read almost everything he wrote. I edited a reissue of the complete works of James H. Schmitz and never had to hold my nose once. I wouldn’t even think of doing the same with Leinster. Still, I could fill twice as many volumes with good Leinster than I could with Schmitz, simply because he wrote so much more.

And that’s what Leinster was, in the end. An indefatigable storyteller, often a superb one, and the writer who, more than anyone, created science fiction as a viable and separate genre in the first place. So have some respect. If we still worshipped our ancestors and kept their shrunken heads over the hearth, Murray Leinster’s would be the one in the center.

 

 

 

 

A Gun for Dinosaur by L. Sprague de Camp

A Gun for Dinosaur

by L. Sprague de Camp

Preface by David Drake:




The writers who created the Golden Age in Astounding were Heinlein on a level of his own, and de Camp, Hubbard, and Van Vogt right below him. (I'll argue that statement with anybody who catches me at a convention, but nobody who has a right to an opinion will deny that it's defensible.)

Those four authors (in reprint) were all important to me when I started reading SF, but it was Sprague de Camp who most formed my view of what science fiction was and should be. I don't know why, but the fact isn't in doubt.

After World War II de Camp slid into a different sort of story, entertaining but not nearly as significant to the field. By the '50s de Camp stories were appearing mostly in lower-level markets, and he was putting much of his effort into revising and pastiching the work of Robert E. Howard, a writer whom he explicitly did not respect. (Late in life, Sprague described this to me as being the worst mistake of his career. I agree with him.)


In the middle of this apparent decline, de Camp wrote two unquestionable masterpieces, the bleak and despairing "Judgment Day" ("That was really an autobiographical story," he told me—as if I'd been in doubt) and "A Gun for Dinosaur." Men-against-dinosaur stories are as old as magazine SF, just as there were horror novels before Carrie. King and de Camp turned what had been occasional subjects for stories into defined subgenres.

That's why "A Gun for Dinosaur" is important. The reason it's here, however, is that it blew all three of us away when we read it the first time.

 

 

 

No, I’m sorry, Mr. Seligman, but I can’t take you hunting Late Mesozoic dinosaur.

Yes, I know what the advertisement says.

Why not? How much d’you weigh? A hundred and thirty? Let’s see; that’s under ten stone, which is my lower limit.

I could take you to other periods, you know. I’ll take you to any period in the Cenozoic. I’ll get you a shot at an entelodont or a uintathere. They’ve got fine heads.

I’ll even stretch a point and take you to the Pleistocene, where you can try for one of the mammoths or the mastodon.

I’ll take you back to the Triassic where you can shoot one of the smaller ancestral dinosaurs. But I will jolly well not take you to the Jurassic or Cretaceous. You’re just too small.

What’s your size got to do with it? Look here, old boy, what did you think you were going to shoot your dinosaur with?

Oh, you hadn’t thought, eh?

Well, sit there a minute . . . Here you are: my own private gun for that work, a Continental .600. Does look like a shotgun, doesn’t it? But it’s rifled, as you can see by looking through the barrels. Shoots a pair of .600 Nitro Express cartridges the size of bananas; weighs fourteen and a half pounds and has a muzzle energy of over seven thousand foot-pounds. Costs fourteen hundred and fifty dollars. Lot of money for a gun, what?

I have some spares I rent to the sahibs. Designed for knocking down elephant. Not just wounding them, knocking them base-over-apex. That’s why they don’t make guns like this in America, though I suppose they will if hunting parties keep going back in time.

Now, I’ve been guiding hunting parties for twenty years. Guided ’em in Africa until the game gave out there except on the preserves. And all that time I’ve never known a man your size who could handle the six-nought-nought. It knocks ’em over, and even when they stay on their feet they get so scared of the bloody cannon after a few shots that they flinch. And they find the gun too heavy to drag around rough Mesozoic country. Wears ’em out.

It’s true that lots of people have killed elephant with lighter guns: the .500, .475, and .465 doubles, for instance, or even the .375 magnum repeaters. The difference is, with a .375 you have to hit something vital, preferably the heart, and can’t depend on simple shock power.

An elephant weighs—let’s see—four to six tons. You’re proposing to shoot reptiles weighing two or three times as much as an elephant and with much greater tenacity of life. That’s why the syndicate decided to take no more people dinosaur hunting unless they could handle the .600. We learned the hard way, as you Americans say. There were some unfortunate incidents . . .

I’ll tell you, Mr. Seligman. It’s after seventeen-hundred. Time I closed the office. Why don’t we stop at the bar on our way out while I tell you the story?

* * *

. . . It was about the Raja’s and my fifth safari into time. The Raja? Oh, he’s the Aiyar half of Rivers and Aiyar. I call him the Raja because he’s the hereditary monarch of Janpur. Means nothing nowadays, of course. Knew him in India and ran into him in New York running the Indian tourist agency. That dark chap in the photograph on my office wall, the one with his foot on the dead saber-tooth.

Well, the Raja was fed up with handing out brochures about the Taj Mahal and wanted to do a bit of hunting again. I was at loose ends when we heard of Professor Prochaska’s time machine at Washington University.

Where’s the Raja now? Out on safari in the Early Oligocene after titanothere while I run the office. We take turn about, but the first few times we went out together.

Anyway, we caught the next plane to St. Louis. To our mortification, we found we weren’t the first. Lord, no! There were other hunting guides and no end of scientists, each with his own idea of the right way to use the machine.

We scraped off the historians and archeologists right at the start. Seems the ruddy machine won’t work for periods more recent than 100,000 years ago. It works from there up to about a billion years.

Why? Oh, I’m no four-dimensional thinker; but, as I understand it, if people could go back to a more recent time, their actions would affect our own history, which would be a paradox or contradiction of facts. Can’t have that in a well-run universe, you know.

But, before 100,000 B.C., more or less, the actions of the expeditions are lost in the stream of time before human history begins. At that, once a stretch of past time has been used, say the month of January, one million B.C., you can’t use that stretch over again by sending another party into it. Paradoxes again.

The professor isn’t worried, though. With a billion years to exploit, he won’t soon run out of eras.

Another limitation of the machine is the matter of size. For technical reasons, Prochaska had to build the transition chamber just big enough to hold four men with their personal gear, and the chamber wallah. Larger parties have to be sent through in relays. That means, you see, it’s not practical to take jeeps, launches, aircraft, and other powered vehicles.

On the other hand, since you’re going to periods without human beings, there’s no whistling up a hundred native bearers to trot along with your gear on their heads. So we usually take a train of asses—burros, they call them here. Most periods have enough natural forage so you can get where you want to go.

As I say, everybody had his own idea for using the machine. The scientists looked down their noses at us hunters and said it would be a crime to waste the machine’s time pandering to our sadistic amusements.

We brought up another angle. The machine cost a cool thirty million. I understand this came from the Rockefeller Board and such people, but that accounted for the original cost only, not the cost of operation. And the thing uses fantastic amounts of power. Most of the scientists’ projects, while worthy enough, were run on a shoe-string, financially speaking.

Now, we guides catered to people with money, a species with which America seems well stocked. No offense, old boy. Most of these could afford a substantial fee for passing through the machine into the past. Thus we could help finance the operation of the machine for scientific purposes, provided we got a fair share of its time. In the end, the guides formed a syndicate of eight members, one member being the partnership of Rivers and Aiyar, to apportion the machine’s time.

We had rush business from the start. Our wives—the Raja’s and mine—raised hell with us for a while. They’d hoped that, when the big game gave out in our own era, they’d never have to share us with lions and things again, but you know how women are. Hunting’s not really dangerous if you keep your head and take precautions.

On the fifth expedition, we had two sahibs to wet-nurse; both Americans in their thirties, both physically sound, and both solvent. Otherwise they were as different as different can be.

Courtney James was what you chaps call a playboy: a rich young man from New York who’d always had his own way and didn’t see why that agreeable condition shouldn’t continue. A big bloke, almost as big as I am; handsome in a florid way, but beginning to run to fat. He was on his fourth wife and, when he showed up at the office with a blond twist with “model” written all over her, I assumed that this was the fourth Mrs. James.

“Miss Bartram,” she corrected me, with an embarrassed giggle.

“She’s not my wife,” James explained. “My wife is in Mexico, I think, getting a divorce. But Bunny here would like to go along—”

“Sorry,” I said, “we don’t take ladies. At least, not to the Late Mesozoic,”

This wasn’t strictly true, but I felt we were running enough risks, going after a little-known fauna, without dragging in people’s domestic entanglements. Nothing against sex, you understand. Marvelous institution and all that, but not where it interferes with my living.

“Oh, nonsense!” said James. “If she wants to go, she’ll go. She skis and flies my airplane, so why shouldn’t she—”

“Against the firm’s policy,” I said.

“She can keep out of the way when we run up against the dangerous ones,” he said.

“No, sorry.”

“Damn it!” said he, getting red. “After all, I’m paying you a goodly sum, and I’m entitled to take whoever I please.”

“You can’t hire me to do anything against my best judgment,” I said. “If that’s how you feel, get another guide.”

“All right, I will,” he said. “And I’ll tell all my friends you’re a God-damned—” Well, he said a lot of things I won’t repeat, until I told him to get out of the office or I’d throw him out.

I was sitting in the office and thinking sadly of all that lovely money James would have paid me if I hadn’t been so stiff-necked, when in came my other lamb, one August Holtzinger. This was a little slim pale chap with glasses, polite and formal. Holtzinger sat on the edge of his chair and said:

“Uh—Mr. Rivers, I don’t want you to think I’m here under false pretenses. I’m really not much of an outdoorsman, and I’ll probably be scared to death when I see a real dinosaur. But I’m determined to hang a dinosaur head over my fireplace or die in the attempt.”

“Most of us are frightened at first,” I soothed him, “though it doesn’t do to show it.” And little by little I got the story out of him.

While James had always been wallowing in the stuff, Holtzinger was a local product who’d only lately come into the real thing. He’d had a little business here in St. Louis and just about made ends meet when an uncle cashed in his chips somewhere and left little Augie the pile.

Now Holtzinger had acquired a fiancée and was building a big house. When it was finished, they’d be married and move into it. And one furnishing he demanded was a ceratopsian head over the fireplace. Those are the ones with the big horned heads with a parrot-beak and a frill over the neck, you know. You have to think twice about collecting them, because if you put a seven-foot Triceratops head into a small living room, there’s apt to be no room left for anything else.

We were talking about this when in came a girl: a small girl in her twenties, quite ordinary looking, and crying.

“Augie!” she cried. “You can’t! You mustn’t! You’ll be killed!” She grabbed him round the knees and said to me:

“Mr. Rivers, you mustn’t take him! He’s all I’ve got! He’ll never stand the hardships!”

“My dear young lady,” I said, “I should hate to cause you distress, but it’s up to Mr. Holtzinger to decide whether he wishes to retain my services.”

“It’s no use, Claire,” said Holtzinger. “I’m going, though I’ll probably hate every minute of it.”

“What’s that, old boy?” I said. “If you hate it, why go? Did you lose a bet, or something?”

“No,” said Holtzinger. “It’s this way. Uh—I’m a completely undistinguished kind of guy. I’m not brilliant or big or strong or handsome. I’m just an ordinary Midwestern small businessman. You never even notice me at Rotary luncheons, I fit in so perfectly.

“But that doesn’t say I’m satisfied. I’ve always hankered to go to far places and do big things. I’d like to be a glamorous, adventurous sort of guy. Like you, Mr. Rivers.”

“Oh, come,” I said. “Professional hunting may seem glamorous to you, but to me it’s just a living.”

He shook his head. “Nope. You know what I mean. Well, now I’ve got this legacy, I could settle down to play bridge and golf the rest of my life, and try to act like I wasn’t bored. But I’m determined to do something with some color in it, once at least. Since there’s no more real big-game hunting in the present, I’m gonna shoot a dinosaur and hang his head over my mantel if it’s the last thing I do. I’ll never be happy otherwise.”

Well, Holtzinger and his girl argued, but he wouldn’t give in. She made me swear to take the best care of her Augie and departed, sniffling.

When Holtzinger had left, who should come in but my vile-tempered friend Courtney James? He apologized for insulting me, though you could hardly say he groveled.

“I don’t really have a bad temper,” he said, “except when people won’t cooperate with me. Then I sometimes get mad. But so long as they’re cooperative I’m not hard to get along with.”

I knew that by “cooperate” he meant to do whatever Courtney James wanted, but I didn’t press the point. “What about Miss Bartram?” I asked.

“We had a row,” he said. “I’m through with women. So, if there’s no hard feelings, let’s go on from where we left off.”

“Very well,” I said, business being business.

The Raja and I decided to make it a joint safari to eight-five million years ago: the Early Upper Cretaceous, or the Middle Cretaceous as some American geologists call it. It’s about the best period for dinosaur in Missouri. You’ll find some individual species a little larger in the Late Upper Cretaceous, but the period we were going to gives a wider variety.

Now, as to our equipment: The Raja and I each had a Continental .600, like the one I showed you, and a few smaller guns. At this time we hadn’t worked up much capital and had no spare .600s to rent.

August Holtzinger said he would rent a gun, as he expected this to be his only safari, and there’s no point in spending over a thousand dollars for a gun you’ll shoot only a few times. But, since we had no spare .600s, his choice lay between buying one of those and renting one of our smaller pieces.

We drove into the country and set up a target to let him try the .600. Holtzinger heaved up the gun and let fly. He missed completely, and the kick knocked him flat on his back.

He got up, looking paler than ever, and handed me back the gun, saying: “Uh—I think I’d better try something smaller.”

When his shoulder stopped hurting, I tried him out on the smaller rifles. He took a fancy to my Winchester 70, chambered for the .375 magnum cartridge. This is an excellent all-round gun—perfect for the big cats and bears, but a little light for elephant and definitely light for dinosaur. I should never have given in, but I was in a hurry, and it might have taken months to have a new .600 made to order for him. James already had a gun, a Holland & Holland .500 double express, which is almost in a class with the .600.

Both sahibs had done a bit of shooting, so I didn’t worry about their accuracy. Shooting dinosaur is not a matter of extreme accuracy, but of sound judgment and smooth coordination so you shan’t catch twigs in the mechanism of your gun, or fall into holes, or climb a small tree that the dinosaur can pluck you out of, or blow your guide’s head off.

People used to hunting mammals sometimes try to shoot a dinosaur in the brain. That’s the silliest thing to do, because dinosaurs haven’t got any. To be exact, they have a little lump of tissue the size of a tennis ball on the front end of their spines, and how are you going to hit that when it’s imbedded in a six-foot skull?

The only safe rule with dinosaur is: always try for a heart shot. They have big hearts, over a hundred pounds in the largest species, and a couple of .600 slugs through the heart will slow them up, at least. The problem is to get the slugs through that mountain of meat around it.

* * *

Well, we appeared at Prochaska’s laboratory one rainy morning: James and Holtzinger, the Raja and I, our herder Beauregard Black, three helpers, a cook, and twelve jacks.

The transition chamber is a little cubbyhole the size of a small lift. My routine is for the men with the guns to go first in case a hungry theropod is standing near the machine when it arrives. So the two sahibs, the Raja, and I crowded into the chamber with our guns and packs. The operator squeezed in after us, closed the door, and fiddled with his dials. He set the thing for April twenty-fourth, eight-five million B.C., and pressed the red button. The lights went out, leaving the chamber lit by a little battery-operated lamp. James and Holtzinger looked pretty green, but that may have been the lighting. The Raja and I had been through all this before, so the vibration and vertigo didn’t bother us.

The little spinning black hands of the dials slowed down and stopped. The operator looked at his ground-level gauge and turned the handwheel that raised the chamber so it shouldn’t materialize underground. Then he pressed another button, and the door slid open.

No matter how often I do it, I get a frightful thrill out of stepping into a bygone era. The operator had raised the chamber a foot above ground level, so I jumped down, my gun ready. The others came after.

“Right-ho,” I said to the chamber wallah, and he closed the door. The chamber disappeared, and we looked around. There weren’t any dinosaur in sight, nothing but lizards.

In this period, the chamber materializes on top of a rocky rise, from which you can see in all directions as far as the haze will let you. To the west, you see the arm of the Kansas Sea that reaches across Missouri and the big swamp around the bayhead where the sauropods live.

To the north is a low range that the Raja named the Janpur Hills, after the Indian kingdom his forebears once ruled. To the east, the land slopes up to a plateau, good for ceratopsians, while to the south is flat country with more sauropod swamps and lots of ornithopod: duckbill and iguanodont.

The finest thing about the Cretaceous is the climate: balmy like the South Sea Islands, but not so muggy as most Jurassic climates. It was spring, with dwarf magnolias in bloom all over.

A thing about this landscape is that it combines a fairly high rainfall with an open type of vegetation cover. That is, the grasses hadn’t yet evolved to the point of forming solid carpets over all the open ground. So the ground is thick with laurel, sassafras, and other shrubs, with bare earth between. There are big thickets of palmettos and ferns. The trees round the hill are mostly cycads, standing singly and in copses. You’d call ’em palms. Down towards the Kansas Sea are more cycads and willows, while the uplands are covered with screw pine and ginkgoes.

Now, I’m no bloody poet—the Raja writes the stuff, not me—but I can appreciate a beautiful scene. One of the helpers had come through the machine with two of the jacks and was pegging them out, and I was looking through the haze and sniffing the air, when a gun went off behind me—bang! bang!

I whirled round, and there was Courtney James with his .500, and an ornithomime legging it for cover fifty yards away. The ornithomimes are medium-sized running dinosaurs, slender things with long necks and legs, like a cross between a lizard and an ostrich. This kind is about seven feet tall and weighs as much as a man. The beggar had wandered out of the nearest copse, and James gave him both barrels. Missed.

I was upset, as trigger-happy sahibs are as much a menace to their party as theropods. I yelled: “Damn it, you idiot! I thought you weren’t to shoot without a word from me?”

“And who the hell are you to tell me when I’ll shoot my own gun?” he said.

We had a rare old row until Holtzinger and the Raja got us calmed down. I explained:

“Look here, Mr. James, I’ve got reasons. If you shoot off all your ammunition before the trip’s over, your gun won’t be available in a pinch, as it’s the only one of its caliber. If you empty both barrels at an unimportant target, what would happen if a big theropod charged before you could reload? Finally, it’s not sporting to shoot everything in sight, just to hear the gun go off. Do you understand?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” he said.

The rest of the party came through the machine, and we pitched our camp a safe distance from the materializing place. Our first task was to get fresh meat. For a twenty-one-day safari like this, we calculate our food requirements closely, so we can make out on tinned stuff and concentrates if we must, but we count on killing at least one piece of meat. When that’s butchered, we go off on a short tour, stopping at four or five camping places to hunt and arriving back at base a few days before the chamber is due to appear.

Holtzinger, as I said, wanted a ceratopsian head, any kind. James insisted on just one head: a tyrannosaur. Then everybody’d think he’d shot the most dangerous game of all time.

Fact is, the tyrannosaur’s overrated. He’s more a carrion eater than an active predator, though he’ll snap you up if he gets the chance. He’s less dangerous than some of the other theropods—the flesh eaters, you know—such as the smaller Gorgosaurus from the period we were in. But everybody’s read about the tyrant lizard, and he does have the biggest head of the theropods.

The one in our period isn’t the rex, which is later and a bit bigger and more specialized. It’s the trionyches, with the forelimbs not quite so reduced, though they’re still too small for anything but picking the brute’s teeth after a meal.

When camp was pitched, we still had the afternoon. So the Raja and I took our sahibs on their first hunt. We had a map of the local terrain from previous trips.

The Raja and I have worked out a system for dinosaur hunting. We split into two groups of two men each and walk parallel from twenty to forty yards apart. Each group has a sahib in front and a guide following, telling him where to go. We tell the sahibs we put them in front so they shall have the first shot. Well, that’s true, but another reason is they’re always tripping and falling with their guns cocked, and if the guide were in front he’d get shot.

The reason for two groups is that if a dinosaur starts for one, the other gets a good heart shot from the side.

As we walked, there was the usual rustle of lizards scuttling out of the way: little fellows, quick as a flash and colored like all the jewels in Tiffany’s, and big gray ones that hiss at you as they plod off. There were tortoises and a few little snakes. Birds with beaks full of teeth flapped off squawking. And always there was that marvelous mild Cretaceous air. Makes a chap want to take his clothes off and dance with vine leaves in his hair, if you know what I mean.

Our sahibs soon found that Mesozoic country is cut up into millions of nullahs—gullies, you’d say. Walking is one long scramble, up and down, up and down.

We’d been scrambling for an hour, and the sahibs were soaked with sweat and had their tongues hanging out, when the Raja whistled. He’d spotted a group of bonehead feeding on cycad shoots.

These are the troödonts, small ornithopods about the size of men with a bulge on top of their heads that makes them look almost intelligent. Means nothing, because the bulge is solid bone. The males butt each other with these heads in fighting over the females.

These chaps would drop down on all fours, munch up a shoot, then stand up and look around. They’re warier than most dinosaur, because they’re the favorite food of the big theropods.

People sometimes assume that because dinosaur are so stupid, their senses must be dim, too. But it’s not so. Some, like the sauropods, are pretty dim-sensed, but most have good smell and eyesight and fair hearing. Their weakness is that having no minds, they have no memories. Hence, out of sight, out of mind. When a big theropod comes slavering after you, your best defense is to hide in a nullah or behind a bush, and if he can neither see you nor smell you he’ll just wander off.

We skulked up behind a patch of palmetto downwind from the bonehead. I whispered to James:

“You’ve had a shot already today. Hold your fire until Holtzinger shoots, and then shoot only if he misses or if the beast is getting away wounded.”

“Uh-huh,” said James.

We separated, he with the Raja and Holtzinger with me. This got to be our regular arrangement. James and I got on each other’s nerves, but the Raja’s a friendly, sentimental sort of bloke nobody can help liking.

We crawled round the palmetto patch on opposite sides, and Holtzinger got up to shoot. You daren’t shoot a heavy-caliber rifle prone. There’s not enough give, and the kick can break your shoulder.

Holtzinger sighted round the law few fronds of palmetto. I saw his barrel wobbling and waving. Then he lowered his gun and tucked it under his arm to wipe his glasses.

Off went James’s gun, both barrels again.

The biggest bonehead went down, rolling and thrashing. The others ran away on their hindlegs in great leaps, their heads jerking and their tails sticking up behind.

“Put your gun on safety,” I said to Holtzinger, who’d started forward. By the time we got to the bonehead, James was standing over it, breaking open his gun and blowing out the barrels. He looked as smug as if he’d come into another million and was asking the Raja to take his picture with his foot on the game.

I said: “I thought you were to give Holtzinger the first shot?”

“Hell, I waited,” he said, “and he took so long I thought he must have gotten buck fever. If we stood around long enough, they’d see us or smell us.”

There was something in what he said, but his way of saying it put my monkey up. I said: “If that sort of thing happens once more, we’ll leave you in camp the next time we go out.”

“Now, gentlemen,” said the Raja. “After all, Reggie, these aren’t experienced hunters.”

“What now?” said Holtzinger. “Haul him back ourselves or send out the men?”

“We’ll sling him under the pole,” I said. “He weighs under two hundred.”

The pole was a telescoping aluminum carrying pole I had in my pack, with padded yokes on the ends. I brought it because, in such eras, you can’t count on finding saplings strong enough for proper poles on the spot.

The Raja and I cleaned our bonehead to lighten him and tied him to the pole. The flies began to light on the offal by thousands. Scientists say they’re not true flies in the modern sense, but they look and act like flies. There’s one huge four-winged carrion fly that flies with a distinctive deep thrumming note.

The rest of the afternoon we sweated under that pole, taking turn about. The lizards scuttled out of the way, and the flies buzzed round the carcass.

We got to camp just before sunset, feeling as if we could eat the whole bonehead at one meal. The boys had the camp running smoothly, so we sat down for our tot of whiskey, feeling like lords of creation, while the cook broiled bonehead steaks.

Holtzinger said: “Uh—if I kill a ceratopsian, how do we get his head back?”

I explained: “If the ground permits, we lash it to the patent aluminum roller frame and sled it in.”

“How much does a head like that weigh?” he asked.

“Depends on the age and the species,” I told him. “The biggest weigh over a ton, but most run between five hundred and a thousand pounds.”

“And all the ground’s rough like it was today?”

“Most of it,” I said. “You see, it’s the combination of the open vegetation cover and the moderately high rainfall. Erosion is frightfully rapid.”

“And who hauls the head on its little sled?”

“Everybody with a hand,” I said. “A big head would need every ounce of muscle in this party. On such a job there’s no place for side.”

“Oh,” said Holtzinger. I could see he was wondering whether a ceratopsian head would be worth the effort.

The next couple of days we trekked round the neighborhood. Nothing worth shooting; only a herd of ornithomimes, which went bounding off like a lot of ballet dancers. Otherwise there were only the usual lizards and pterosaurs and birds and insects. There’s a big lace-winged fly that bites dinosaurs, so, as you can imagine, its beak makes nothing of a human skin. One made Holtzinger leap and dance like a Red Indian when it bit him through his shirt. James joshed him about it, saying:

“What’s all the fuss over one little bug?”

The second night, during the Raja’s watch, James gave a yell that brought us all out of our tents with rifles. All that had happened was that a dinosaur tick had crawled in with him and started drilling under his armpit. Since it’s as big as your thumb even when it hasn’t fed, he was understandably startled. Luckily he got it before it had taken its pint of blood. He’d pulled Holtzinger’s leg pretty hard about the fly bite, so now Holtzinger repeated the words:

“What’s all the fuss over one little bug, buddy?”

James squashed the tick underfoot with a grunt, not much liking to be hoist by his own what-d’you-call-it.

* * *

We packed up and started on our circuit. We meant to take the sahibs first to the sauropod swamp, more to see the wildlife than to collect anything.

From where the transition chamber materializes, the sauropod swamp looks like a couple of hours’ walk, but it’s really an all-day scramble. The first part is easy, as it’s downhill and the brush isn’t heavy. Then, as you get near the swamp, the cycads and willows grow so thickly that you have to worm your way among them.

I led the party to a sandy ridge on the border of the swamp, as it was pretty bare of vegetation and afforded a fine view. When we got to the ridge, the sun was about to go down. A couple of crocs slipped off into the water. The sahibs were so tired that they flopped down in the sand as if dead.

The haze is thick round the swamp, so the sun was deep red and weirdly distorted by the atmospheric layers. There was a high layer of clouds reflecting the red and gold of the sun, too, so altogether it was something for the Raja to write one of his poems about. A few little pterosaur were wheeling overhead like bats.

Beauregard Black got a fire going. We’d started on our steaks, and that pagoda-shaped sun was just slipping below the horizon, and something back in the trees was making a noise like a rusty hinge, when a sauropod breathed out in the water. They’re the really big ones, you know. If Mother Earth were to sigh over the misdeeds of her children, it would sound like that.

The sahibs jumped up, shouting: “Where is he? Where is he?”

I said: “That black spot in the water, just to the left of that point.”

They yammered while the sauropod filled its lungs and disappeared. “Is that all?” said James. “Won’t we see any more of him?”

“No,” I explained. “They can walk perfectly well and often do, for egg-laying and moving from one swamp to another. But most of the time they spend in the water, like hippopotamus. They eat eight hundred pounds of soft swamp plants a day, all through those little heads. So they wander about the bottoms of lakes and swamps, chomping away, and stick their heads up to breathe every quarter-hour or so. It’s getting dark, so this fellow will soon come out and lie down in the shallows to sleep.”

“Can we shoot one?” demanded James.

“I wouldn’t,” said I.

“Why not?”

I said: “There’s no point in it, and it’s not sporting. First, they’re almost invulnerable. They’re even harder to hit in the brain than other dinosaurs because of the way they sway their heads about on those long necks. Their hearts are too deeply buried to reach unless you’re awfully lucky. Then, if you kill one in the water, he sinks and can’t be recovered. If you kill one on land, the only trophy is that little head. You can’t bring the whole beast back because he weighs thirty tons or more, and we’ve got no use for thirty tons of meat.”

Holtzinger said: “That museum in New York got one.”

“Yes,” said I. “The American Museum of Natural History sent a party of forty-eight to the Early Cretaceous with a fifty-caliber machine gun. They killed a sauropod and spent two solid months skinning it and hacking the carcass apart and dragging it to the time machine. I know the chap in charge of that project, and he still has nightmares in which he smells decomposing dinosaur. They had to kill a dozen big theropods attracted by the stench, so they had them lying around and rotting, too. And the theropods ate three men of the party despite the big gun.”

Next morning, we were finishing breakfast when one of the helpers said: “Look, Mr. Rivers, up there!”

He pointed along the shoreline. There were six big crested duckbill, feeding in the shallows. They were the kind called Parasaurolophus, with a long spike sticking out the back of their heads and a web of skin connecting this with the back of their necks.

“Keep your voices down!” I said. The duckbill, like the other ornithopods, are wary beasts because they have neither armor nor weapons. They feed on the margins of lakes and swamps, and when a gorgosaur rushes out of the trees they plunge into deep water and swim off. Then when Phobosuchus, the supercrocodile, goes for them in the water, they flee to the land. A hectic sort of life, what?

Holtzinger said: “Uh—Reggie! I’ve been thinking over what you said about ceratopsian heads. If I could get one of those yonder, I’d be satisfied. It would look big enough in my house, wouldn’t it?”

“I’m sure of it, old boy,” I said. “Now look here. We could detour to come out on the shore near here, but we should have to plow through half a mile of muck and brush, and they’d hear us coming. Or we can creep up to the north end of this sandspit, from which it’s three or four hundred yards—a long shot but not impossible. Think you could do it?”

“Hm,” said Holtzinger. “With my scope sight and a sitting position—okay, I’ll try it.”

“You stay here, Court,” I said to James. “This is Augie’s head, and I don’t want any argument over your having fired first.”

James grunted while Holtzinger clamped his scope to his rifle. We crouched our way up the spit, keeping the sand ridge between us and the duckbill. When we got to the end where there was no more cover, we crept along on hands and knees, moving slowly. If you move slowly enough, directly toward or away from a dinosaur, it probably won’t notice you.

The duckbill continued to grub about on all fours, every few seconds rising to look round. Holtzinger eased himself into the sitting position, cocked his piece, and aimed through his scope. And then—

Bang! bang! went a big rifle back at the camp.

Holtzinger jumped. The duckbills jerked their heads up and leaped for the deep water, splashing like mad. Holtzinger fired once and missed. I took one shot at the last duckbill before it vanished too, but missed. The .600 isn’t built for long ranges.

Holtzinger and I started back toward the camp, for it had struck us that our party might be in theropod trouble.

What had happened was that a big sauropod had wandered down past the camp underwater, feeding as it went. Now, the water shoaled about a hundred yards offshore from our spit, halfway over to the swamp on the other side. The sauropod had ambled up the slope until its body was almost all out of water, weaving its head from side to side and looking for anything green to gobble. This is a species of Alamosaurus, which looks much like the well-known Brontosaurus except that it’s bigger.

When I came in sight of the camp, the sauropod was turning round to go back the way it had come, making horrid groans. By the time we reached the camp, it had disappeared into deep water, all but its head and twenty feet of neck, which wove about for some time before they vanished into the haze.

When we came up to the camp, James was arguing with the Raja. Holtzinger burst out:

“You crummy bastard! That’s the second time you’ve spoiled my shots.”

“Don’t be a fool,” said James. “I couldn’t let him wander into the camp and stamp everything flat.”

“There was no danger of that,” said the Raja. “You can see the water is deep offshore. It’s just that our trigger-happee Mr. James cannot see any animal without shooting.”

I added: “If it did get close, all you needed to do was throw a stick of firewood at it. They’re perfectly harmless.”

This wasn’t strictly true. When the Comte de Lautrec ran after one for a close shot, the sauropod looked back at him, gave a flick of its tail, and took off the Comte’s head as neatly as if he’d been axed in the tower. But, as a rule, they’re inoffensive enough.

“How was I to know?” yelled James, turning purple. “You’re all against me. What the hell are we on this miserable trip for, except to shoot things? Call yourselves hunters, but I’m the only one who hits anything!”

I got pretty wrothy and said he was just an excitable young skite with more money than brains, whom I should never have brought along.

“If that’s how you feel,” he said, “give me a burro and some food, and I’ll go back to the base myself. I won’t pollute your pure air with my presence!”

“Don’t be a bigger ass than you can help,” I said. “What you propose is quite impossible.”

“Then I’ll go alone!” He grabbed his knapsack, thrust a couple of tins of beans and an opener into it, and started off with his rifle.

Beauregard Black spoke up: “Mr. Rivers, we cain’t let him go off like that. He’ll git lost and starve, or be et by a theropod.”

“I’ll fetch him back,” said the Raja, and started after the runaway.

He caught up with James as the latter was disappearing into the cycads. We could see them arguing and waving their hands in the distance. After a while, they started back with arms around each other’s necks like old school pals.

This shows the trouble we get into if we make mistakes in planning such a do. Having once got back in time, we had to make the best of our bargain.

I don’t want to give the impression, however, that Courtney James was nothing but a pain in the rump. He had good points. He got over these rows quickly and next day would be as cheerful as ever. He was helpful with the general work of the camp, at least when he felt like it. He sang well and had an endless fund of dirty stories to keep us amused.

We stayed two more days at that camp. We saw crocodile, the small kind, and plenty of sauropod—as many as five at once—but no more duckbill. Nor any of those fifty-foot supercrocodiles.

So, on the first of May, we broke camp and headed north toward the Janpur Hills. My sahibs were beginning to harden up and were getting impatient. We’d been in the Cretaceous a week, and no trophies.

We saw nothing to speak of on the next leg, save a glimpse of a gorgosaur out of range and some tracks indicating a whopping big iguanodont, twenty-five or thirty feet high. We pitched camp at the base of the hills.

We’d finished off the bonehead, so the first thing was to shoot fresh meat. With an eye to trophies, too, of course. We got ready the morning of the third, and I told James:

“See here, old boy, no more of your tricks. The Raja will tell you when to shoot.”

“Uh-huh, I get you,” he said, meek as Moses.

We marched off, the four of us, into the foothills. There was a good chance of getting Holtzinger his ceratopsian. We’d seen a couple on the way up, but mere calves without decent horns.

As it was hot and sticky, we were soon panting and sweating. We’d hiked and scrambled all morning without seeing a thing except lizards, when I picked up the smell of carrion. I stopped the party and sniffed. We were in an open glade cut up by those little dry nullahs. The nullahs ran together into a couple of deeper gorges that cut through a slight depression choked with denser growth, cycad, and screw pine. When I listened, I heard the thrum of carrion flies.

“This way,” I said. “Something ought to be dead—ah, here it is!”

And there it was: the remains of a huge ceratopsian lying in a little hollow on the edge of the copse. Must have weighed six or eight ton alive; a three-horned variety, perhaps the penultimate species of Triceratops. It was hard to tell, because most of the hide on the upper surface had been ripped off, and many bones had been pulled loose and lay scattered about.

Holtzinger said: “Oh, shucks! Why couldn’t I have gotten to him before he died? That would have been a darned fine head.”

I said: “On your toes, chaps. A theropod’s been at this carcass and is probably nearby.”

“How d’you know?” said James, with sweat running off his round red face. He spoke in what was for him a low voice, because a nearby theropod is a sobering thought to the flightiest.

I sniffed again and thought I could detect the distinctive rank odor of theropod. I couldn’t be sure, though, because the carcass stank so strongly. My sahibs were turning green at the sight and smell of the cadaver. I told James:

“It’s seldom that even the biggest theropod will attack a full-grown ceratopsian. Those horns are too much for them. But they love a dead or dying one. They’ll hang round a dead ceratopsian for weeks, gorging and then sleeping off their meals for days at a time. They usually take cover in the heat of the day anyhow, because they can’t stand much direct hot sunlight. You’ll find them lying in copses like this or in hollows, wherever there’s shade.”

“What’ll we do?” asked Holtzinger.

“We’ll make our first cast through this copse, in two pairs as usual. Whatever you do, don’t get impulsive or panicky.”

I looked at Courtney James, but he looked right back and merely checked his gun.

“Should I still carry this broken?” he asked.

“No, close it, but keep the safety on till you’re ready to shoot,” I said. “We’ll keep closer than usual, so we shall be in sight of each other. Start off at that angle, Raja; go slowly, and stop to listen between steps.”

We pushed through the edge of the copse, leaving the carcass but not its stench behind us. For a few feet, you couldn’t see a thing.

It opened out as we got in under the trees, which shaded out some of the brush. The sun slanted down through the trees. I could hear nothing but the hum of insects and the scuttle of lizards and the squawks of toothed birds in the treetops. I thought I could be sure of the theropod smell, but told myself that might be imagination. The theropod might be any of several species, large or small, and the beast itself might be anywhere within a half-mile’s radius.

“Go on,” I whispered to Holtzinger. I could hear James and the Raja pushing ahead on my right and see the palm fronds and ferns lashing about as they disturbed them. I suppose they were trying to move quietly, but to me they sounded like an earthquake in a crockery shop.

“A little closer!” I called.

Presently, they appeared slanting in toward me. We dropped into a gully filled with ferns and scrambled up the other side. Then we found our way blocked by a big clump of palmetto.

“You go round that side; we’ll go round this,” I said. We started off, stopping to listen and smell. Our positions were the same as on that first day, when James killed the bonehead.

We’d gone two-thirds of the way round our half of the palmetto when I heard a noise ahead on our left. Holtzinger heard it too, and pushed off his safety. I put my thumb on mine and stepped to one side to have a clear field of fire.

The clatter grew louder. I raised my gun to aim at about the height of a big theropod’s heart. There was a movement in the foliage—and a six-foot-high bonehead stepped into view, walking solemnly across our front and jerking its head with each step like a giant pigeon.

I heard Holtzinger let out a breath and had to keep myself from laughing. Holtzinger said: “Uh—”

Then that damned gun of James’s went off, bang! bang! I had a glimpse of the bonehead knocked arsy-varsy with its tail and hindlegs flying.

“Got him!” yelled James. “I drilled him clean!” I heard him run forward.

“Good God, if he hasn’t done it again!” I said.

Then there was a great swishing of foliage and a wild yell from James. Something heaved up out of the shrubbery, and I saw the head of the biggest of the local flesh eaters, Tyrannosaurus trionyches himself.

The scientists can insist that rex is the bigger species, but I’ll swear this blighter was bigger than any rex ever hatched. It must have stood twenty feet high and been fifty feet long. I could see its big bright eye and six-inch teeth and the big dewlap that hangs down from its chin to its chest.

The second of the nullahs that cut through the copse ran athwart our path on the far side of the palmetto clump. Perhaps it was six feet deep. The tyrannosaur had been lying in this, sleeping off its last meal. Where its back stuck up above the ground level, the ferns on the edge of the nullah had masked it. James had fired both barrels over the theropod’s head and woke it up. Then the silly ass ran forward without reloading. Another twenty feet and he’d have stepped on the tyrannosaur.

James, naturally, stopped when this thing popped up in front of him. He remembered that he’d fired both barrels and that he’d left the Raja too far behind for a clear shot.

At first, James kept his nerve. He broke open his gun, took two rounds from his belt, and plugged them into the barrels. But, in his haste to snap the gun shut, he caught his hand between the barrels and the action. The painful pinch so startled James that he dropped his gun. Then he went to pieces and bolted.

The Raja was running up with his gun at high port, ready to snap it to his shoulder the instant he got a clear view. When he saw James running headlong toward him, he hesitated, not wishing to shoot James by accident. The latter plunged ahead, blundered into the Raja, and sent them both sprawling among the ferns. The tyrannosaur collected what little wits it had and stepped forward to snap them up.

And how about Holtzinger and me on the other side of the palmettos? Well, the instant James yelled and the tyrannosaur’s head appeared, Holtzinger darted forward like a rabbit. I’d brought my gun up for a shot at the tyrannosaur’s head, in hope of getting at least an eye; but, before I could find it in my sights, the head was out of sight behind the palmettos. Perhaps I should have fired at hazard, but all my experience is against wild shots.

When I looked back in front of me, Holtzinger had already disappeared round the curve of the palmetto clump. I’d started after him when I heard his rifle and the click of the bolt between shots: bang—click-click—bang—click-click, like that.

He’d come up on the tyrannosaur’s quarter as the brute started to stoop for James and the Raja. With his muzzle twenty feet from the tyrannosaur’s hide, Holtzinger began pumping .375s into the beast’s body. He got off three shots when the tyrannosaur gave a tremendous booming grunt and wheeled round to see what was stinging it. The jaws came open, and the head swung round and down again.

Holtzinger got off one more shot and tried to leap to one side. As he was standing on a narrow place between the palmetto clump and the nullah, he fell into the nullah. The tyrannosaur continued its lunge and caught him. The jaws went chomp, and up came the head with poor Holtzinger in them, screaming like a damned soul.

I came up just then and aimed at the brute’s face, but then realized that its jaws were full of my sahib and I should be shooting him, too. As the head went on up like the business end of a big power shovel, I fired a shot at the heart. The tyrannosaur was already turning away, and I suspect the ball just glanced along the ribs. The beast took a couple of steps when I gave it the other barrel in the jack. It staggered on its next step but kept on. Another step, and it was nearly out of sight among the trees, when the Raja fired twice. The stout fellow had untangled himself from James, got up, picked up his gun, and let the tyrannosaur have it.

The double wallop knocked the brute over with a tremendous crash. It fell into a dwarf magnolia, and I saw one of its huge birdlike hindlegs waving in the midst of a shower of pink-and-white petals. But the tyrannosaur got up again and blundered off without even dropping its victim. The last I saw of it was Holtzinger’s legs dangling out one side of its jaws (he’d stopped screaming) and its big tail banging against the tree trunks as it swung from side to side.

The Raja and I reloaded and ran after the brute for all we were worth. I tripped and fell once, but jumped up again and didn’t notice my skinned elbow till later. When we burst out of the copse, the tyrannosaur was already at the far end of the glade. We each took a quick shot but probably missed, and it was out of sight before we could fire again.

We ran on, following the tracks and spatters of blood, until we had to stop from exhaustion. Never again did we see that tyrannosaur. Their movements look slow and ponderous, but with those tremendous legs they don’t have to step very fast to work up considerable speed.

When we’d got our breath, we got up and tried to track the tyrannosaur, on the theory that it might be dying and we should come up to it. But, though we found more spoor, it faded out and left us at a loss. We circled round, hoping to pick it up, but no luck.

Hours later, we gave up and went back to the glade.

Courtney James was sitting with his back against a tree, holding his rifle and Holtzinger’s. His right hand was swollen and blue where he’d pinched it, but still usable. His first words were:

“Where the hell have you two been?”

I said: “We’ve been occupied. The late Mr. Holtzinger. Remember?”

“You shouldn’t have gone off and left me; another of those things might have come along. Isn’t it bad enough to lose one hunter through your stupidity without risking another one?”

I’d been preparing a warm wigging for James, but his attack so astonished me that I could only bleat; “What? We lost . . . ?”

“Sure,” he said. “You put us in front of you, so if anybody gets eaten it’s us. You send a guy up against these animals undergunned. You—”

“You Goddamn’ stinking little swine!” I said. “If you hadn’t been a blithering idiot and blown those two barrels, and then run like the yellow coward you are, this never would have happened. Holtzinger died trying to save your worthless life. By God, I wish he’d failed! He was worth six of a stupid, spoiled, muttonheaded bastard like you—”

I went on from there. The Raja tried to keep up with me, but ran out of English and was reduced to cursing James in Hindustani.

I could see by the purple color on James’s face that I was getting home. He said “Why, you—” and stepped forward and sloshed me one in the face with his left fist.

It rocked me a bit, but I said: “Now then, my lad, I’m glad you did that! It gives me a chance I’ve been waiting for . . .”

So I waded into him. He was a good-sized boy, but between my sixteen stone and his sore right hand he had no chance. I got a few good ones home, and down he went.

“Now get up!” I said. “And I’ll be glad to finish off!”

James raised himself to his elbows. I got set for more fisticuffs, though my knuckles were skinned and bleeding already. James rolled over, snatched his gun, and scrambled up, swinging the muzzle from one to the other of us.

“You won’t finish anybody off!” he panted through swollen lips. “All right, put your hands up! Both of you!”

“Do not be an idiot,” said the Raja. “Put that gun away!”

“Nobody treats me like that and gets away with it!”

“There’s no use murdering us,” I said. “You’d never get away with it.”

“Why not? There won’t be much left of you after one of these hits you. I’ll just say the tyrannosaur ate you, too. Nobody could prove anything. They can’t hold you for a murder eighty-five million years old. The statute of limitations, you know.”

“You fool, you’d never make it back to the camp alive!” I shouted.

“I’ll take a chance—” began James, setting the butt of his .500 against his shoulder, with the barrels pointed at my face. Looked like a pair of bleeding vehicular tunnels.

He was watching me so closely that he lost track of the Raja for a second. My partner had been resting on one knee, and now his right arm came up in a quick bowling motion with a three-pound rock. The rock bounced of James’s head. The .500 went off. The ball must have parted my hair, and the explosion jolly well near broke my eardrums. Down went James again.

“Good work, old chap!” I said, gathering up James’s gun.

“Yes,” said the Raja thoughtfully, as he picked up the rock he’d thrown and tossed it. “Doesn’t quite have the balance of a cricket ball, but it is just as hard.”

“What shall we do now?” I said. “I’m inclined to leave the beggar here unarmed and let him fend for himself.”

The Raja gave a little sigh. “It’s a tempting thought, Reggie, but we really cannot, you know. Not done.”

“I suppose you’re right,” I said. “Well, let’s tie him up and take him back to camp.”

We agreed there was no safety for us unless we kept James under guard every minute until we got home. Once a man has tried to kill you, you’re a fool if you give him another chance.

We marched James back to camp and told the crew what we were up against. James cursed everybody.

We spent three dismal days combing the country for that tyrannosaur, but no luck. We felt it wouldn’t have been cricket not to make a good try at recovering Holtzinger’s remains. Back at our main camp, when it wasn’t raining, we collected small reptiles and things for our scientific friends. The Raja and I discussed the question of legal proceedings against Courtney James, but decided there was nothing we could do in that direction.

When the transition chamber materialized, we fell over one another getting into it. We dumped James, still tied, in a corner, and told the chamber operator to throw the switches.

While we were in transition, James said: “You two should have killed me back there.”

“Why?” I said. “You don’t have a particularly good head.”

The Raja added: “Wouldn’t look at all well over a mantel.”

“You can laugh,” said James, “but I’ll get you some day. I’ll find a way and get off scot-free.”

“My dear chap!” I said. “If there were some way to do it, I’d have you charged with Holtzinger’s death. Look, you’d best leave well enough alone.”

When we came out in the present, we handed him his empty gun and his other gear, and off he went without a word. As he left, Holtzinger’s girl, that Claire, rushed up crying:

“Where is he? Where’s August?”

There was a bloody heartrending scene, despite the Raja’s skill at handling such situations.

We took our men and beasts down to the old laboratory building that the university has fitted up as a serai for such expeditions. We paid everybody off and found we were broke. The advance payments from Holtzinger and James didn’t cover our expenses, and we should have precious little chance of collecting the rest of our fees either from James or from Holtzinger’s estate.

And speaking of James, d’you know what that blighter was doing? He went home, got more ammunition, and came back to the university. He hunted up Professor Prochaska and asked him:

“Professor, I’d like you to send me back to the Cretaceous for a quick trip. If you can work me into your schedule right now, you can just about name your own price. I’ll offer five thousand to begin with. I want to go to April twenty-third, eight-five million B.C.”

Prochaska answered: “Why do you wish to go back again so soon?”

“I lost my wallet in the Cretaceous,” said James. “I figure if I go back to the day before I arrived in that era on my last trip, I’ll watch myself when I arrived on that trip and follow myself around till I see myself lose the wallet.”

“Five thousand is a lot for a wallet,” said the professor.

“It’s got some things in it I can’t replace,” said James.

“Well,” said Prochaska, thinking. “The party that was supposed to go out this morning has telephoned that they would be late, so perhaps I can work you in. I have always wondered what would happen when the same man occupied the same stretch of time twice.”

So James wrote out a check, and Prochaska took him to the chamber and saw him off. James’s idea, it seems, was to sit behind a bush a few yards from where the transition chamber would appear and pot the Raja and me as we emerged.

Hours later, we’d changed into our street clothes and phoned our wives to come and get us. We were standing on Forsythe Boulevard waiting for them when there was a loud crack, like an explosion, and a flash of light not fifty feet from us. The shock wave staggered us and broke windows.

We ran toward the place and got there just as a bobby and several citizens came up. On the boulevard, just off the kerb, lay a human body. At least, it had been that, but it looked as if every bone in it had been pulverized and every blood vessel burst, so it was hardly more than a slimy mass of pink protoplasm. The clothes it had been wearing were shredded, but I recognized an H. & H. .500 double-barreled express rifle. The wood was scorched and the metal pitted, but it was Courtney James’s gun. No doubt whatever.

Skipping the investigation and the milling about that ensued, what had happened was this: nobody had shot at us as we emerged on the twenty-fourth, and that couldn’t be changed. For that matter, the instant James started to do anything that would make a visible change in the world of eight-five million B.C., such as making a footprint in the earth, the space-time forces snapped him forward to the present to prevent a paradox. And the violence of the passage practically tore him to bits.

Now that this is better understood, the professor won’t send anybody to a period less than five thousand years prior to the time that some time traveler has already explored, because it would be too easy to do some act, like chopping down a tree or losing some durable artifact, that would affect the later world. Over longer periods, he tells me, such changes average out and are lost in the stream of time.

We had a rough time after that, with the bad publicity and all, though we did collect a fee from James’s estate. Luckily for us, a steel manufacturer turned up who wanted a mastodon’s head for his den.

I understand these things better now, too. The disaster hadn’t been wholly James’s fault. I shouldn’t have taken him when I knew what a spoiled, unstable sort of bloke he was. And if Holtzinger could have used a really heavy gun, he’d probably have knocked the tyrannosaur down, even if he didn’t kill it, and so have given the rest of us a chance to finish it.

* * *

So, Mr. Seligman, that’s why I won’t take you to that period to hunt. There are plenty of other eras, and if you look them over I’m sure you’ll find something to suit you. But not the Jurassic or the Cretaceous. You’re just not big enough to handle a gun for dinosaur.

 

 

 

Afterword by Eric Flint:




I was glad we decided that Dave would write the preface to this story, because it meant I could write an afterword where I didn't have to worry about being undignified and putting the reader off. By now, the reader will have finished the story so it doesn't much matter what I say.

I first read this story when I was somewhere around thirteen or fourteen years old and I loved it for the good and simple reason that it was just so cool. There I was, a kid in the mountains—which means hunting country—and my father had recently taught me how to shoot his trusty .30-06. Just to make things perfect, my father had been a big game hunter in his time and I'd heard plenty of his stories about hunting moose and mountain goats and—especially!—grizzly bears. (That was in the fifties, folks. In those days, "endangered species" meant . . . not much of anything.)

Hunting dinosaurs! Oh, how cool! 

And, of course, the story had that other essential ingredient for coolness: a hero you really liked, a villain worth hissing, and the villain getting his Just Deserts in the end.

What's not to like? That was how I felt about it then. Now, some forty years later . . . 

It's still how I feel about it. Some things are timeless.

 

 

 

 

 

St. Dragon and the George by Gordon R. Dickson

St. Dragon and the George

by Gordon R. Dickson

Preface by David Drake




Shortly after my parents gave me a subscription to The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction in October 1959, the magazine offered back issues at the rate of fifteen for three dollars or twenty-five for five dollars. I sent three dollars; among the delights I found when the magazines arrived was "St. Dragon and the George." (There were many delights. I immediately scraped up another five dollars and sent it off. Thirteen of the twenty-five additional magazines were duplicates, but I didn't complain.)

Gordy Dickson at his peak was one of the best writers in the field. For my money (literally, in this case), "St. Dragon and the George" is the best thing he ever wrote. It's both funny and witty, but if those were its only virtues, I wouldn't have picked it for this anthology. The humor and wit overlie a series of very profound ideas:

There is evil;

It is the duty of human beings to stand firm against evil, even if evil most likely will destroy them;

And human beings come in all shapes and sizes.

If more people took those ideas to heart, the world would be a better place. Because I read "St. Dragon and the George," the world is at least slightly better than it might be if I hadn't.

 

 

I

 

A trifle diffidently, Jim Eckert rapped with his claw on the blue-painted door.

Silence.

He knocked again. There was the sound of a hasty step inside the small, oddly peak-roofed house and the door was snatched open. A thin-faced old man with a tall pointed cap and a long, rather dingy-looking white beard peered out, irritably.

“Sorry, not my day for dragons!” he snapped. “Come back next Tuesday.” He slammed the door.

It was too much. It was the final straw. Jim Eckert sat down on his haunches with a dazed thump. The little forest clearing with its impossible little pool tinkling away like Chinese glass wind chimes in the background, its well-kept greensward with the white gravel path leading to the door before him, and the riotous flower beds of asters, tulips, zinnias, roses and lilies-of-the-valley all equally impossibly in bloom at the same time about the white finger-post labeled s. carolinus and pointing at the house—it all whirled about him. It was more than flesh and blood could bear. At any minute now he would go completely insane and imagine he was a peanut or a cocker spaniel. Grottwold Hanson had wrecked them all. Dr. Howells would have to get another teaching assistant for his English Department. Angie . . .

Angie! 

Jim pounded on the door again. It was snatched open.

“Dragon!” cried S. Carolinus, furiously. “How would you like to be a beetle?”

“But I’m not a dragon,” said Jim, desperately.

The magician stared at him for a long minute, then threw up his beard with both hands in a gesture of despair, caught some of it in his teeth as it fell down and began to chew on it fiercely.

“Now where,” he demanded, “did a dragon acquire the brains to develop the imagination to entertain the illusion that he is not a dragon? Answer me, O Ye Powers!”

“The information is psychically, though not physiologically correct,” replied a deep bass voice out of thin air beside them and some five feet off the ground. Jim, who had taken the question to be rhetorical, started convulsively.

“Is that so?” S. Carolinus peered at Jim with new interest. “Hmm.” He spat out a hair or two. “Come in, Anomaly—or whatever you call yourself.”

Jim squeezed in through the door and found himself in a large single room. It was a clutter of mismatched furniture and odd bits of alchemical equipment.

“Hmm,” said S. Carolinus, closing the door and walking once around Jim, thoughtfully. “If you aren’t a dragon, what are you?”

“Well, my real name’s Jim Eckert,” said Jim. “But I seem to be in the body of a dragon named Gorbash.”

“And this disturbs you. So you’ve come to me. How nice,” said the magician, bitterly. He winced, massaged his stomach and closed his eyes. “Do you know anything that’s good for a perpetual stomach-ache? Of course not. Go on.”

“Well, I want to get back to my real body. And take Angie with me. She’s my fiancée and I can send her back but I can’t send myself back at the same time. You see this Grottwold Hanson—well, maybe I better start from the beginning.”

“Brilliant suggestion, Gorbash,” said Carolinus. “Or whatever your name is,” he added.

“Well,” said Jim. Carolinus winced. Jim hurried on. “I teach at a place called Riveroak College in the United States—you’ve never heard of it—”

“Go on, go on,” said Carolinus.

“That is, I’m a teaching assistant. Dr. Howells, who heads the English Department, promised me an instructorship over a year ago. But he’s never come through with it; and Angie—Angie Gilman, my fiancée—”

“You mentioned her.”

“Yes—well, we were having a little fight. That is, we were arguing about my going to ask Howells whether he was going to give me the instructor’s rating for next year or not. I didn’t think I should; and she didn’t think we could get married—well, anyway, in came Grottwold Hanson.”

“In where came who?

“Into the Campus Bar and Grille. We were having a drink there. Hanson used to go with Angie. He’s a graduate student in psychology. A long, thin geek that’s just as crazy as he looks. He’s always getting wound up in some new odd-ball organization or other—”

“Dictionary!” interrupted Carolinus, suddenly. He opened his eyes as an enormous volume appeared suddenly poised in the air before him. He massaged his stomach. “Ouch,” he said. The pages of the volume began to flip rapidly back and forth before his eyes. “Don’t mind me,” he said to Jim. “Go on.”

“—This time it was the Bridey Murphy craze. Hypnotism. Well—”

“Not so fast,” said Carolinus. “Bridey Murphy . . . Hypnotism . . . yes . . .”

“Oh, he talked about the ego wandering, planes of reality, on and on like that. He offered to hypnotize one of us and show us how it worked. Angie was mad at me, so she said yes. I went off to the bar. I was mad. When I turned around, Angie was gone. Disappeared.”

“Vanished?” said Carolinus.

“Vanished. I blew my top at Hanson. She must have wandered, he said, not merely the ego, but all of her. Bring her back, I said. I can’t, he said. It seemed she wanted to go back to the time of St. George and the Dragon. When men were men and would speak up to their bosses about promotions. Hanson’d have to send someone else back to rehypnotize her and send her back home. Like an idiot I said I’d go. Ha! I might’ve known he’d goof. He couldn’t do anything right if he was paid for it. I landed in the body of this dragon.”

“And the maiden?”

“Oh, she landed here, too. Centuries off the mark. A place where there actually were such things as dragons—fantastic.”

“Why?” said Carolinus.

“Well, I mean—anyway,” said Jim, hurriedly. “The point is, they’d already got her—the dragons, I mean. A big brute named Anark had found her wandering around and put her in a cage. They were having a meeting in a cave about deciding what to do with her. Anark wanted to stake her out for a decoy, so they could capture a lot of the local people—only the dragons called people georges—

“They’re quite stupid, you know,” said Carolinus, severely, looking up from the dictionary. “There’s only room for one name in their head at a time. After the Saint made such an impression on them his name stuck.”

“Anyway, they were all yelling at once. They’ve got tremendous voices.”

“Yes, you have,” said Carolinus, pointedly.

“Oh, sorry,” said Jim. He lowered his voice. “I tried to argue that we ought to hold Angie for ransom—” He broke off suddenly. “Say,” he said. “I never thought of that. Was I talking dragon, then? What am I talking now? Dragons don’t talk English, do they?”

“Why not?” demanded Carolinus, grumpily. “If they’re British dragons?”

“But I’m not a dragon—I mean—”

“But you are here!” snapped Carolinus. “You and this maiden of yours. Since all the rest of you was translated here, don’t you suppose your ability to speak understandably was translated, too? Continue.”

“There’s not much more,” said Jim gloomily. “I was losing the argument and then this very big, old dragon spoke up on my side. Hold Angie for ransom, he said. And they listened to him. It seems he swings a lot of weight among them. He’s a great-uncle of me—of this Gorbash who’s body I’m in—and I’m his only surviving relative. They penned Angie up in a cave and he sent me off to the Tinkling Water here, to find you and have you open negotiations for ransom. Actually, on the side he told me to tell you to make the terms easy on the georges—I mean humans; he wants the dragons to work toward good relations with them. He’s afraid the dragons are in danger of being wiped out. I had a chance to double back and talk to Angie alone. We thought you might be able to send us both back.”

He stopped rather out of breath, and looked hopefully at Carolinus. The magician was chewing thoughtfully on his beard.

“Smrgol,” he muttered. “Now there’s an exception to the rule. Very bright for a dragon. Also experienced. Hmm.”

“Can you help us?” demanded Jim. “Look, I can show you—”

Carolinus sighed, closed his eyes, winced and opened them again.

“Let me see if I’ve got it straight,” he said. “You had a dispute with this maiden to whom you’re betrothed. To spite you, she turned to this third-rate practitioner, who mistakenly exorcized her from the United States (whenever in the cosmos that is) to here, further compounding his error by sending you back in spirit only to inhabit the body of Gorbash. The maiden is in the hands of the dragons and you have been sent to me by your great-uncle Smrgol.”

“That’s sort of it,” said Jim dubiously, “only—”

“You wouldn’t,” said Carolinus, “care to change your story to something simpler and more reasonable—like being a prince changed into a dragon by some wicked fairy stepmother? Oh, my poor stomach! No?” He sighed. “All right, that’ll be five hundred pounds of gold, or five pounds of rubies, in advance.”

“B-but—” Jim goggled at him. “But I don’t have any gold—or rubies.”

“What? What kind of a dragon are you?” cried Carolinus, glaring at him. “Where’s your hoard?”

“I suppose this Gorbash has one,” stammered Jim, unhappily. “But I don’t know anything about it.”

“Another charity patient,” muttered Carolinus, furiously. He shook his fist at empty space. “What’s wrong with the auditing department? Well?”

“Sorry,” said the invisible bass voice.

“That’s the third in two weeks. See it doesn’t happen again for another ten days.” He turned to Jim. “No means of payment?”

“No. Wait—” said Jim. “This stomach-ache of yours. It might be an ulcer. Does it go away between meals?”

“As a matter of fact, it does. Ulcer?”

“High-strung people working under nervous tension get them back where I come from.”

“People?” inquired Carolinus suspiciously. “Or dragons?”

“There aren’t any dragons where I come from.”

“All right, all right, I believe you,” said Carolinus, testily. “You don’t have to stretch the truth like that. How do you exorcise them?”

“Milk,” said Jim. “A glass every hour for a month or two.”

“Milk,” said Carolinus. He held out his hand to the open air and received a small tankard of it. He drank it off, making a face. After a moment, the face relaxed into a smile.

“By the Powers!” he said. “By the Powers!” He turned to Jim, beaming. “Congratulations, Gorbash, I’m beginning to believe you about that college business after all. The bovine nature of the milk quite smothers the ulcer-demon. Consider me paid.”

“Oh, fine. I’ll go get Angie and you can hypnotize—”

“What?” cried Carolinus. “Teach your grandmother to suck eggs. Hypnotize! Ha! And what about the First Law of Magic, eh?”

“The what?” said Jim.

“The First Law—the First Law—didn’t they teach you anything in that college? Forgotten it already, I see. Oh, this younger generation! The First Law: for every use of the Art and Science, there is required a corresponding price. Why do I live by my fees instead of by conjurations? Why does a magic potion have a bad taste? Why did this Hanson-amateur of yours get you all into so much trouble?”

“I don’t know,” said Jim. “Why?”

“No credit! No credit!” barked Carolinus, flinging his skinny arms wide. “Why, I wouldn’t have tried what he did without ten years credit with the auditing department, and I am a Master of the Arts. As it was, he couldn’t get anything more than your spirit back, after sending the maiden complete. And the fabric of Chance and History is all warped and ready to spring back and cause all kinds of trouble. We’ll have to give a little, take a little—”

“GORBASH!” A loud thud outside competed with the dragon-bellow.

“And here we go,” said Carolinus dourly. “It’s already starting.” He led the way outside. Sitting on the greensward just beyond the flower beds was an enormous old dragon Jim recognized as the great-uncle of the body he was in—Smrgol.

“Greetings, Mage!” boomed the old dragon, dropping his head to the ground in salute. “You may not remember me. Name’s Smrgol—you remember the business about that ogre I fought at Gormely Keep? I see my grandnephew got to you all right.”

“Ah, Smrgol—I remember,” said Carolinus. “That was a good job you did.”

“He had a habit of dropping his club head after a swing,” said Smrgol. “I noticed it along about the fourth hour of battle and the next time he tried it, went in over his guard. Tore up the biceps of his right arm. Then—”

“I remember,” Carolinus said. “So this is your nephew.”

“Grandnephew,” corrected Smrgol. “Little thick-headed and all that,” he added apologetically, “but my own flesh and blood, you know.”

“You may notice some slight improvement in him,” said Carolinus, dryly.

“I hope so,” said Smrgol, brightening. “Any change, a change for the better, you know. But I’ve bad news, Mage. You know that inchworm of an Anark?”

“The one that found the maiden in the first place?”

“That’s right. Well, he’s stolen her again and run off.”

What?” cried Jim.

He had forgotten the capabilities of a dragon’s voice. Carolinus tottered, the flowers and grass lay flat, and even Smrgol winced.

“My boy,” said the old dragon reproachfully. “How many times must I tell you not to shout. I said, Anark stole the george.”

“He means Angie!” cried Jim desperately to Carolinus.

“I know,” said Carolinus, with his hands over his ears.

“You’re sneezing again,” said Smrgol, proudly. He turned to Carolinus. “You wouldn’t believe it. A dragon hasn’t sneezed in a hundred and ninety years. This boy did it the first moment he set eyes on the george. The others couldn’t believe it. Sign of brains, I said. Busy brains make the nose itch. Our side of the family—”

“Angie!”

“See there? All right now, boy, you’ve shown us you can do it. Let’s get down to business. How much to locate Anark and the george, Mage?”

They dickered like rug-pedlars for several minutes, finally settling on a price of four pounds of gold, one of silver, and a flawed emerald. Carolinus got a small vial of water from the Tinkling Spring and searched among the grass until he found a small sandy open spot. He bent over it and the two dragons sat down to watch.

“Quiet now,” he warned. “I’m going to try a watch-beetle. Don’t alarm it.”

Jim held his breath. Carolinus tilted the vial in his hand and the crystal water fell in three drops—Tink! Tink! And again—Tink! The sand darkened with the moisture and began to work as if something was digging from below. A hole widened, black insect legs busily in action flickered, and an odd-looking beetle popped itself halfway out of the hole. Its forelimbs waved in the air and a little squeaky voice, like a cracked phonograph record repeating itself far away over a bad telephone connection, came to Jim’s ears.

“Gone to the Loathly Tower! Gone to the Loathly Tower! Gone to the Loathly Tower!”

It popped back out of sight. Carolinus straightened up and Jim breathed again.

“The Loathly Tower!” said Smrgol. “Isn’t that that ruined tower to the west, in the fens, Mage? Why, that’s the place that loosed the blight on the mere-dragons five hundred years ago.”

“It’s a place of old magic,” said Carolinus, grimly. “These places are like ancient sores on the land, scabbed over for a while but always breaking out with new evil when—the twisting of the Fabric by these two must have done it. The evilness there has drawn the evil in Anark to it—lesser to greater, according to the laws of nature. I’ll meet you two there. Now, I must go set other forces in motion.”

He began to twirl about. His speed increased rapidly until he was nothing but a blur. Then suddenly, he faded away like smoke; and was gone, leaving Jim staring at the spot where he had been.

A poke in the side brought Jim back to the ordinary world.

“Wake up, boy. Don’t dally!” the voice of Smrgol bellowed in his ear. “We got flying to do. Come on!”

 

II

 

The old dragon’s spirit was considerably younger than this body. It turned out to be a four hour flight to the fens on the west seacoast. For the first hour or so Smrgol flew along energetically enough, meanwhile tracing out the genealogy of the mere-dragons and their relationship to himself and Gorbash; but gradually his steady flow of chatter dwindled and became intermittent. He tried to joke about his long-gone battle with the Ogre of Gormely Keep, but even this was too much and he fell silent with labored breath and straining wings. After a short but stubborn argument, Jim got him to admit that he would perhaps be better off taking a short breather and then coming on a little later. Smrgol let out a deep gasping sigh and dropped away from Jim in weary spirals. Jim saw him glide to an exhausted landing amongst the purple gorse of the moors below and lie there, sprawled out.

Jim continued on alone. A couple of hours later the moors dropped down a long land-slope to the green country of the fenland. Jim soared out over its spongy, grass-thick earth, broken into causeways and islands by the blue water, which in shallow bays and inlets was itself thick-choked with reeds and tall marsh grass. Flocks of water fowl rose here and there like eddying smoke from the glassy surface of one mere and drifted over to settle on another a few hundred yards away. Their cries came faintly to his dragon-sensitive ears and a line of heavy clouds was piling up against the sunset in the west.

He looked for some sign of the Loathly Tower, but the fenland stretched away to a faint blue line that was probably the sea, without showing sign of anything not built by nature. Jim was beginning to wonder uneasily if he had not gotten himself lost when his eye was suddenly caught by the sight of a dragon-shape nosing at something on one of the little islands amongst the meres.

Anark! he thought. And Angie!

He did not wait to see more. He nosed over and went into a dive like a jet fighter, sights locked on Target Dragon.

It was a good move. Unfortunately Gorbash-Jim, having about the weight and wingspread of a small flivver airplane, made a comparable amount of noise when he was in a dive, assuming the plane’s motor to be shut off. Moreover, the dragon on the ground had evidently had experience with the meaning of such a sound; for, without even looking, he went tumbling head over tail out of the way just as Jim slammed into the spot where, a second before, he had been.

The other dragon rolled over onto his feet, sat up, took one look at Jim, and began to wail.

“It’s not fair! It’s not fair!” he cried in a (for a dragon) remarkably high-pitched voice. “Just because you’re bigger than I am. And I’m all horned up. It’s the first good one I’ve been able to kill in months and you don’t need it, not at all. You’re big and fat and I’m so weak and thin and hungry—”

Jim blinked and stared. What he had thought to be Angie, lying in the grass, now revealed itself to be an old and rather stringy-looking cow, badly bitten up and with a broken neck.

“It’s just my luck!” the other dragon was weeping. He was less than three-quarters Jim’s size and so emaciated he appeared on the verge of collapse. “Everytime I get something good, somebody takes it away. All I ever get to eat is fish—”

“Hold on,” said Jim.

“Fish, fish, fish. Cold, nasty fi—”

“Hold on, I say! SHUT UP!” bellowed Jim, in Gorbash’s best voice.

The other dragon stopped his wailing as suddenly as if his switch had been shut off.

“Yes, sir,” he said, timidly.

“What’s the matter? I’m not going to take this from you.”

The other dragon tittered uncertainly.

“I’m not,” said Jim. “It’s your cow. All yours.”

“He-he-he!” said the other dragon. “You certainly are a card, your honor.”

“Blast it, I’m serious!” cried Jim. “What’s your name, anyway?”

“Oh, well—” the other squirmed. “Oh well, you know—”

“What’s your name?”

“Secoh, your worship!” yelped the dragon, frightenedly. “Just Secoh. Nobody important. Just a little, unimportant mere-dragon, your highness, that’s all I am. Really!”

“All right, Secoh, dig in. All I want is some directions.”

“Well—if your worship really doesn’t . . .” Secoh had been sidling forward in fawning fashion. “If you’ll excuse my table manners, sir. I’m just a mere-dragon—” and he tore into the meat before him in sudden, terrified, starving fashion.

Jim watched. Unexpectedly, his long tongue flickered out to lick his chops. His belly rumbled. He was astounded at himself. Raw meat? Off a dead animal—flesh, bones, hide and all? He took a firm grip on his appetites.

“Er, Secoh,” he said. “I’m a stranger around these parts. I suppose you know the territory . . . Say, how does that cow taste, anyway?”

“Oh, terrubble—mumpf—” replied Secoh, with his mouth full. “Stringy—old. Good enough for a mere-dragon like myself, but not—”

“Well, about these directions—”

“Yes, your highness?”

“I think . . . you know it’s your cow . . .”

“That’s what your honor said,” replied Secoh, cautiously.

“But I just wonder . . . you know I’ve never tasted a cow like that.”

Secoh muttered something despairingly under his breath.

“What?” said Jim.

“I said,” said Secoh, resignedly, “wouldn’t your worship like to t-taste it—”

“Not if you’re going to cry about it,” said Jim.

“I bit my tongue.”

“Well, in that case . . .” Jim walked up and sank his teeth in the shoulder of the carcass. Rich juices trickled enticingly over his tongue . . .

Some little time later he and Secoh sat back polishing bones with the rough uppers of their tongues which were as abrasive as steel files.

“Did you get enough to eat, Secoh?” asked Jim.

“More than enough, sir,” replied the mere-dragon, staring at the white skeleton with a wild and famished eye. “Although, if your exaltedness doesn’t mind, I’ve a weakness for marrow . . .” He picked up a thighbone and began to crunch it like a stick of candy.

“Now,” said Jim. “About this Loathly Tower. Where is it?”

“The wh-what?” stammered Secoh, dropping the thighbone.

“The Loathly Tower. It’s in the fens. You know of it, don’t you?”

“Oh, sir! Yes, sir. But you wouldn’t want to go there, sir! Not that I’m presuming to give your lordship advice—” cried Secoh, in a suddenly high and terrified voice.

“No, no,” soothed Jim. “What are you so upset about?”

“Well—of course I’m only a timid little mere-dragon. But it’s a terrible place, the Loathly Tower, your worship, sir.”

“How? Terrible?”

“Well—well, it just is.” Secoh cast an unhappy look around him. “It’s what spoiled all of us, you know, five hundred years ago. We used to be like other dragons—oh, not so big and handsome as you are, sir. Then, after that, they say it was the Good got the upper hand and the Evil in the Tower was vanquished and the Tower itself ruined. But it didn’t help us mere-dragons any, and I wouldn’t go there if I was your worship, I really wouldn’t.”

“But what’s so bad? What sort of thing is it?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say there was any real thing there. Nothing your worship could put a claw on. It’s just strange things go to it and strange things come out of it; and lately . . .”

“Lately what?”

“Nothing—nothing, really, your excellency!” cried Secoh. “You illustriousness shouldn’t catch a worthless little mere-dragon up like that. I only meant, lately the Tower’s seemed more fearful than ever. That’s all.”

“Probably your imagination,” said Jim, shortly. “Anyway, where is it?”

“You have to go north about five miles.” While they had eaten and talked, the sunset had died. It was almost dark now; and Jim had to strain his eyes through the gloom to see the mere-dragon’s foreclaw, pointing away across the mere. “To the Great Causeway. It’s a wide lane of solid ground running east and west through the fens. You follow it west to the Tower. The Tower stands on a rock overlooking the sea-edge.”

“Five miles . . .” said Jim. He considered the soft grass on which he lay. His armored body seemed undisturbed by the temperature, whatever it was. “I might as well get some sleep. See you in the morning, Secoh.” He obeyed a sudden, bird-like instinct and tucked his ferocious head and long neck back under one wing.

“Whatever your excellency desires . . .” the mere-dragon’s muffled voice came distantly to his ear. “Your excellency has only to call and I’ll be immediately available . . .”

The words faded out on Jim’s ear, as he sank into sleep like a heavy stone into deep, dark waters.

* * *

When he opened his eyes, the sun was up. He sat up himself, yawned, and blinked.

Secoh was gone. So were the leftover bones.

“Blast!” said Jim. But the morning was too nice for annoyance. He smiled at his mental picture of Secoh carefully gathering the bones in fearful silence, and sneaking them away.

The smile did not last long. When he tried to take off in a northerly direction, as determined by reference to the rising sun, he found he had charley horses in both the huge wing-muscles that swelled out under the armor behind his shoulders. The result of course, of yesterday’s heavy exercise. Grumbling, he was forced to proceed on foot; and four hours later, very hot, muddy and wet, he pulled his weary body up onto the broad east-and-west-stretching strip of land which must, of necessity, be the Great Causeway. It ran straight as a Roman road through the meres, several feet higher than the rest of the fenland, and was solid enough to support good-sized trees. Jim collapsed in the shade of one with a heartfelt sigh.

He awoke to the sound of someone singing. He blinked and lifted his head. Whatever the earlier verses of the song had been, Jim had missed them; but the approaching baritone voice now caroled the words of the chorus merrily and clearly to his ear:


“A right good sword, a constant mind
A trusty spear and true!
The dragons of the mere shall find
What Nevile-Smythe can do!”

 

The tune and words were vaguely familiar. Jim sat up for a better look and a knight in full armor rode into view on a large white horse through the trees. Then everything happened at once. The knight saw him, the visor of his armor came down with a clang, his long spear seemed to jump into his mailed hand and the horse under him leaped into a gallop, heading for Jim. Gorbash’s reflexes took over. They hurled Jim straight up into the air, where his punished wing muscles cracked and faltered. He was just able to manage enough of a fluttering flop to throw himself into the upper branches of a small tree nearby.

The knight skidded his horse to a stop below and looked up through the spring-budded branches. He tilted his visor back to reveal a piercing pair of blue eyes, a rather hawk-like nose and a jutting generous chin, all assembled into a clean-shaven young man’s face. He looked eagerly up at Jim.

“Come down,” he said.

“No thanks,” said Jim, hanging firmly to the tree. There was a slight pause as they both digested the situation.

“Dashed caitiff mere-dragon!” said the knight finally, with annoyance.

“I’m not a mere-dragon,” said Jim.

“Oh, don’t talk rot!” said the knight.

“I’m not,” repeated Jim. He thought a minute. “I’ll bet you can’t guess who I really am.”

The knight did not seem interested in guessing who Jim really was. He stood up in his stirrups and probed through the branches with his spear. The point did not quite reach Jim.

“Damn!” Disappointedly, he lowered the spear and became thoughtful. “I can climb the dashed tree,” he muttered to himself. “But then what if he flies down and I have to fight him unhorsed, eh?”

“Look,” called Jim, peering down—the knight looked up eagerly—”if you’ll listen to what I’ve to say, first.”

The knight considered.

“Fair enough,” he said, finally. “No pleas for mercy, now!”

“No, no,” said Jim.

“Because I shan’t grant them, dammit! It’s not in my vows. Widows and orphans and honorable enemies on the field of battle. But not dragons.”

“No. I just want to convince you who I really am.”

“I don’t give a blasted farthing who you really are.”

“You will,” said Jim. “Because I’m not really a dragon at all. I’ve just been—uh—enchanted into a dragon.”

The man on the ground looked skeptical.

“Really,” said Jim, slipping a little in the tree. “You know S. Carolinus, the magician? I’m as human as you are.”

“Heard of him,” grunted the knight. “You’ll say he put you under?”

“No, he’s the one who’s going to change me back—as soon as I can find the lady I’m—er—betrothed to. A real dragon ran off with her. I’m after him. Look at me. Do I look like one of these scrawny mere-dragons?”

“Hmm,” said the knight. He rubbed his hooked nose thoughtfully.

“Carolinus found she’s at the Loathly Tower. I’m on my way there.”

The knight stared.

“The Loathly Tower?” he echoed.

“Exactly,” said Jim, firmly. “And now you know, your honor as knight and gentleman demands you don’t hamper my rescue efforts.”

The knight continued to think it over for a long moment or two. He was evidently not the sort to be rushed into things.

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?” he said at last.

“Hold your sword up. I’ll swear on the cross of its hilt.”

“But if you’re a dragon, what’s the good in that? Dragons don’t have souls, dammit!”

“No,” said Jim, “but a Christian gentleman has; and if I’m a Christian gentleman, I wouldn’t dare forswear myself like that, would I?”

The knight struggled visibly with this logic for several seconds. Finally, he gave up.

“Oh, well . . .” He held up his sword by the point and let Jim swear on it. Then he put the sword back in its sheath as Jim descended. “Well,” he said, still a little doubtfully, “I suppose, under the circumstances, we ought to introduce ourselves. You know my arms?”

Jim looked at the shield which the other swung around for his inspection. It showed a wide X of silver—like a cross lying over sideways—on a red background and above some sort of black animal in profile which seemed to be lying down between the X’s bottom legs.

“The gules, a saltire argent, of course,” went on the knight, “are the Nevile of Raby arms. My father, as a cadet of the house, differenced with a hart lodged sable—you see it there at the bottom. Naturally, as his heir, I carry the family arms.”

“Nevile-Smythe,” said Jim, remembering the name from the song.

“Sir Reginald, knight bachelor. And you, sir?”

“Why, uh . . .” Jim clutched frantically at what he knew of heraldry. “I bear—in my proper body, that is—”

“Quite.”

“A . . . gules, a typewriter argent, on a desk sable. Eckert, Sir James—uh—knight bachelor. Baron of—er—Riveroak.”

Nevile-Smythe was knitting his brows.

“Typewriter . . .” he was muttering, “typewriter . . .”

“A local beast, rather like a griffin,” said Jim, hastily. “We have a lot of them in Riveroak—that’s in America, a land over the sea to the west. You may not have heard of it.”

“Can’t say that I have. Was it there you were enchanted into this dragon-shape?”

“Well, yes and no. I was transported to this land by magic as was the—uh—lady Angela. When I woke here I was bedragoned.”

“Were you?” Sir Reginald’s blue eyes bulged a little in amazement. “Angela—fair name, that! Like to meet her. Perhaps after we get this muddle cleared up, we might have a bit of a set-to on behalf of our respective ladies.”

Jim gulped slightly.

“Oh, you’ve got one, too?”

“Absolutely. And she’s tremendous. The Lady Elinor—” The knight turned about in his saddle and began to fumble about his equipment. Jim, on reaching the ground, had at once started out along the causeway in the direction of the Tower, so that the knight happened to be pacing alongside him on horseback when he suddenly went into these evolutions. It seemed to bother his charger not at all. “Got her favor here someplace—half a moment—”

“Why don’t you just tell me what it’s like?” said Jim, sympathetically.

“Oh, well,” said Nevile-Smythe, giving up his search, “it’s a kerchief, you know. Monogrammed. E. d’C. She’s a deChauncy. It’s rather too bad, though. I’d have liked to show it to you since we’re going to the Loathly Tower together.”

“We are?” said Jim, startled. “But—I mean, it’s my job. I didn’t think you’d want—”

“Lord, yes,” said Nevile-Smythe, looking somewhat startled himself. “A gentleman of coat-armor like myself—and an outrage like this taking place locally. I’m no knight-errant, dash it, but I do have a decent sense of responsibility.”

“I mean—I just meant—” stumbled Jim. “What if something happened to you? What would the Lady Elinor say?”

“Why, what could she say?” replied Nevile-Smythe in plain astonishment. “No one but an utter rotter dodges his plain duty. Besides, there may be a chance here for me to gain a little worship. Elinor’s keen on that. She wants me to come home safe.”

Jim blinked.

“I don’t get it,” he said.

“Beg pardon?”

Jim explained his confusion.

“Why, how do you people do things, overseas?” said Nevile-Smythe. “After we’re married and I have lands of my own, I’ll be expected to raise a company and march out at my lord’s call. If I’ve no name as a knight, I’ll be able to raise nothing but bumpkins and clodpoles who’ll desert at the first sight of steel. On the other hand, if I’ve a name, I’ll have good men coming to serve under my banner; because, you see, they know I’ll take good care of them; and by the same token they’ll take good care of me—I say, isn’t it getting dark rather suddenly?”

Jim glanced at the sky. It was indeed—almost the dimness of twilight although it could, by rights, be no more than early afternoon yet. Glancing ahead up the Causeway, he became aware of a further phenomenon. A line seemed to be cutting across the trees and grass and even extending out over the waters of the meres on both sides. Moreover, it seemed to be moving toward them as if some heavy, invisible fluid was slowly flooding out over the low country of the fenland.

“Why—” he began. A voice wailed suddenly from his left to interrupt him.

“No! No! Turn back, your worship. Turn back! It’s death in there!”

They turned their heads sharply. Secoh, the mere-dragon, sat perched on a half-drowned tussock about forty feet out in the mere.

“Come here, Secoh!” called Jim.

“No! No!” The invisible line was almost to the tussock. Secoh lifted heavily into the air and flapped off, crying, “Now it’s loose! It’s broken loose again. And we’re all lost . . . lost . . . lost . . .”

His voice wailed away and was lost in the distance. Jim and Nevile-Smythe looked at each other.

“Now, that’s one of our local dragons for you!” said the knight disgustedly. “How can a gentleman of coat armor gain honor by slaying a beast like that? The worst of it is when someone from the Midlands compliments you on being a dragon-slayer and you have to explain—”

At that moment either they both stepped over the line, or the line moved past them—Jim was never sure which; and they both stopped, as by one common, instinctive impulse. Looking at Sir Reginald, Jim could see under the visor how the knight’s face had gone pale.

“In manus tuas Domine,” said Nevile-Smythe, crossing himself.

About and around them, the serest gray of winter light lay on the fens. The waters of the meres lay thick and oily, still between the shores of dull green grass. A small, cold breeze wandered through the tops of the reeds and they rattled together with a dry and distant sound like old bones cast out into a forgotten courtyard for the wind to play with. The trees stood helpless and still, their new, small leaves now pinched and faded like children aged before their time while all about and over all the heaviness of dead hope and bleak despair lay on all living things.

“Sir James,” said the knight, in an odd tone and accents such as Jim had not heard him use before, “wot well that we have this day set our hands to no small task. Wherefore I pray thee that we should push forward, come what may for my heart faileth and I think me that it may well hap that I return not, ne no man know mine end.”

Having said this, he immediately reverted to his usual cheerful self and swung down out of his saddle. “Clarivaux won’t go another inch, dash it!” he said. “I shall have to lead him—by the bye, did you know that mere-dragon?”

Jim fell into step beside him and they went on again, but a little more slowly, for everything seemed an extra effort under this darkening sky.

“I talked to him yesterday,” said Jim. “He’s not a bad sort of dragon.”

“Oh, I’ve nothing against the beasts, myself. But one slays them when one finds them, you know.”

“An old dragon—in fact he’s the granduncle of this body I’m in,” said Jim, “thinks that dragons and humans really ought to get together. Be friends, you know.”

“Extraordinary thought!” said Nevile-Smythe, staring at Jim in astonishment.

“Well, actually,” said Jim, “why not?”

“Well, I don’t know. It just seems like it wouldn’t do.”

“He says men and dragons might find common foes to fight together.”

“Oh, that’s where he’s wrong, though. You couldn’t trust dragons to stick by you in a bicker. And what if your enemy had dragons of his own? They wouldn’t fight each other. No. No.”

They fell silent. They had moved away from the grass onto flat sandy soil. There was a sterile, flinty hardness to it. It crunched under the hooves of Clarivaux, at once unyielding and treacherous.

“Getting darker, isn’t it?” said Jim, finally.

The light was, in fact, now down to a grayish twilight through which it was impossible to see more than a dozen feet. And it was dwindling as they watched. They had halted and stood facing each other. The light fled steadily, and faster. The dimness became blacker, and blacker—until finally the last vestige of illumination was lost and blackness, total and complete, overwhelmed them. Jim felt a gauntleted hand touch one of his forelimbs.

“Let’s hold together,” said the voice of the knight. “Then whatever comes upon us, must come upon us all at once.”

“Right,” said Jim. But the word sounded cold and dead in his throat.

They stood, in silence and in lightlessness, waiting for they did not know what. And the blankness about them pressed further in on them, now that it had isolated them, nibbling at the very edges of their minds. Out of the nothingness came nothing material, but from within them crept up one by one, like blind white slugs from some bottomless pit, all their inner doubts and fears and unknown weaknesses, all the things of which they had been ashamed and which they had tucked away to forget, all the maggots of their souls.

Jim found himself slowly, stealthily beginning to withdraw his forelimb from under the knight’s touch. He no longer trusted Nevile-Smythe—for the evil that must be in the man because of the evil he knew to be in himself. He would move away . . . off into the darkness alone . . .

“Look!” Nevile-Smythe’s voice cried suddenly to him, distant and eerie, as if from someone already a long way off. “Look back the way we came.”

Jim turned about. Far off in the darkness, there was a distant glimmer of light. It rolled toward them, growing as it came. They felt its power against the power of lightlessness that threatened to overwhelm them; and the horse Clarivaux stirred unseen beside them, stamped his hooves on the hard sand, and whinnied.

“This way!” called Jim.

“This way!” shouted Nevile-Smythe

The light shot up suddenly in height. Like a great rod it advanced toward them and the darkness was rolling back, graying, disappearing. They heard a sound of feet close, and a sound of breathing, and then—

It was daylight again.

And S. Carolinus stood before them in tall hat and robes figured with strange images and signs. In his hand upright before him—as if it was blade and buckler, spear and armor all in one—he held a tall carven staff of wood.

“By the Power!” he said. “I was in time. Look there!”

He lifted the staff and drove it point down into the soil. It went in and stood erect like some denuded tree. His long arm pointed past them and they turned around.

The darkness was gone. The fens lay revealed far and wide, stretching back a long way, and up ahead, meeting the thin dark line of the sea. The Causeway had risen until they now stood twenty feet above the mere-waters. Ahead to the west, the sky was ablaze with sunset. It lighted up all the fens and the end of the Causeway leading onto a long and bloody-looking hill, whereon—touched by that same dying light—there loomed above and over all, amongst great tumbled boulders, the ruined, dark and shattered shell of a Tower as black as jet.

 

 

 

III

 

“—why didn’t you wake us earlier, then?” asked Jim.

It was the morning after. They had slept the night within the small circle of protection afforded by Carolinus’ staff. They were sitting up now and rubbing their eyes in the light of a sun that had certainly been above the horizon a good two hours.

“Because,” said Carolinus. He was sipping at some more milk and he stopped to make a face of distaste. “Because we had to wait for them to catch up with us.”

“Who? Catch up?” asked Jim.

“If I knew who,” snapped Carolinus, handing his empty milk tankard back to the emptier air, “I would have said who. All I know is that the present pattern of Chance and History implies that two more will join our party. The same pattern implied the presence of this knight and—oh, so that’s who they are.”

Jim turned around to follow the magician’s gaze. To his surprise, two dragon shapes were emerging from a clump of brush behind them.

“Secoh!” cried Jim. “And—Smrgol! Why—” His voice wavered and died. The old dragon, he suddenly noticed, was limping and one wing hung a little loosely, half-drooping from its shoulder. Also, the eyelid on the same side as the loose wing and stiff leg was sagging more or less at half-mast. “Why, what happened?”

“Oh, a bit stiff from yesterday,” huffed Smrgol, bluffly. “Probably pass off in a day or two.”

“Stiff nothing!” said Jim, touched in spite of himself. “You’ve had a stroke.”

“Stroke of bad luck, I’d say,” replied Smrgol, cheerfully, trying to wink his bad eye and not succeeding very well. “No, boy, it’s nothing. Look who I’ve brought along.”

“I—I wasn’t too keen on coming,” said Secoh, shyly, to Jim. “But your granduncle can be pretty persuasive, your wo— you know.”

“That’s right!” boomed Smrgol. “Don’t you go calling anybody your worship. Never heard of such stuff!” He turned to Jim. “And letting a george go in where he didn’t dare go himself! Boy, I said to him, don’t give me this only a mere-dragon and just a mere-dragon. Mere’s got nothing to do with what kind of dragon you are. What kind of a world would it be if we were all like that?” Smrgol mimicked (as well as his dragon-basso would let him) someone talking in a high, simpering voice. “Oh, I’m just a plowland-and-pasture dragon—you’ll have to excuse me I’m only a halfway-up-the-hill dragon—Boy!” bellowed Smrgol, “I said you’re a dragon! Remember that. And a dragon acts like a dragon or he doesn’t act at all!”

“Hear! Hear!” said Nevile-Smythe, carried away by enthusiasm.

“Hear that, boy? Even the george here knows that. Don’t believe I’ve met you, george,” he added, turning to the knight.

“Nevile-Smythe, Sir Reginald. Knight bachelor.”

“Smrgol. Dragon.”

“Smrgol? You aren’t the—but you couldn’t be. Over a hundred years ago.”

“The dragon who slew the Ogre of Gormely Keep? That’s who I am, boy—george, I mean.”

“By Jove! Always thought it was a legend, only.”

“Legend? Not on your honor, george! I’m old—even for a dragon, but there was a time—well, well, we won’t go into that. I’ve something more important to talk to you about. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking the last decade or so about us dragons and you georges getting together. Actually, we’re really a lot alike—”

“If you don’t mind, Smrgol,” cut in Carolinus, snappishly, “we aren’t out here to hold a parlement. It’ll be noon in—when will it be noon, you?”

“Four hours, thirty-seven minutes, twelve seconds at the sound of the gong,” replied the invisible bass voice. There was a momentary pause, and then a single mellow, chimed note. “Chime, I mean,” the voice corrected itself.

“Oh, go back to bed!” cried Carolinus, furiously.

“I’ve been up for hours,” protested the voice, indignantly.

Carolinus ignored it, herding the party together and starting them off for the Tower. The knight fell in beside Smrgol.

“About this business of men and dragons getting together,” said Nevile-Smythe. “Confess I wasn’t much impressed until I heard your name. D’you think it’s possible?”

“Got to make a start sometime, george.” Smrgol rumbled on. Jim, who had moved up to the head of the column to walk beside Carolinus, spoke to the magician.

“What lives in the Tower?”

Carolinus jerked his fierce old bearded face around to look at him.

“What’s living there?” he snapped. “I don’t know. We’ll find out soon enough. What is there—neither alive nor dead, just in existence at the spot—is the manifestation of pure evil.”

“But how can we do anything against that?”

“We can’t. We can only contain it. Just as you—if you’re essentially a good person—contain the potentialities for evil in yourself, by killing its creatures, your evil impulses and actions.”

“Oh?” said Jim.

“Certainly. And since evil opposes good in like manner, its creatures, the ones in the Tower, will try to destroy us.”

Jim felt a cold lump in his throat. He swallowed.

“Destroy us?”

“Why no, they’ll probably just invite us to tea—” The sarcasm in the old magician’s voice broke off suddenly with the voice itself. They had just stepped through a low screen of bushes and instinctively checked to a halt.

Lying on the ground before them was what once had been a man in full armor. Jim heard the sucking intake of breath from Nevile-Smythe behind him.

“A most foul death,” said the knight softly, “most foul . . .” He came forward and dropped clumsily to his armored knees, joining his gauntleted hands in prayer. The dragons were silent. Carolinus poked with his staff at a wide trail of slime that led around and over the body and back toward the Tower. It was the sort of trail a garden slug might have left—if this particular garden slug had been two or more feet wide where it touched the ground.

“A Worm,” said Carolinus. “But Worms are mindless. No Worm killed him in such cruel fashion.” He lifted his head to the old dragon.

“I didn’t say it, Mage,” rumbled Smrgol, uneasily.

“Best none of us say it until we know for certain. Come on.” Carolinus took up the lead and led them forward again.

They had come up off the Causeway onto the barren plain that sloped up into a hill on which stood the Tower. They could see the wide fens and the tide flats coming to meet them in the arms of a small bay—and beyond that the sea, stretching misty to the horizon.

The sky above was blue and clear. No breeze stirred; but, as they looked at the Tower and the hill that held it, it seemed that the azure above had taken on a metallic cast. The air had a quivering unnaturalness like an atmosphere dancing to heat waves, though the day was chill; and there came on Jim’s ears, from where he did not know, a high-pitched dizzy singing like that which accompanies delirium, or high fever.

The Tower itself was distorted by these things. So that although to Jim it seemed only the ancient, ruined shell of a building, yet, between one heartbeat and the next, it seemed to change. Almost, but not quite, he caught glimpses of it unbroken and alive and thronged about with fantastic, half-seen figures. His heart beat stronger with the delusion; and its beating shook the scene before him, all the hill and Tower, going in and out of focus, in and out, in and out . . . And there was Angie, in the Tower’s doorway, calling him . . .

Stop!” shouted Carolinus. His voice echoed like a clap of thunder in Jim’s ears; and Jim awoke to his senses, to find himself straining against the barrier of Carolinus’ staff, that barred his way to the Tower like a rod of iron. “By the Powers!” said the old magician, softly and fiercely. “Will you fall into the first trap set for you?”

“Trap?” echoed Jim, bewilderedly. But he had no time to go further, for at that moment there rose from among the giant boulders at the Tower’s base the heavy, wicked head of a dragon as large as Smrgol.

The thunderous bellow of the old dragon beside Jim split the unnatural air.

Anark! Traitor—thief—inchworm! Come down here!”

Booming dragon-laughter rolled back an answer.

“Tell us about Gormely Keep, old bag of bones. Ancient mud-puppy, fat lizard, scare us with words!”

Smrgol lurched forward; and again Carolinus’ staff was extended to bar the way.

“Patience,” said the magician. But with one wrenching effort, the old dragon had himself until control. He turned, panting, to Carolinus.

“What’s hidden, Mage?” he demanded.

“We’ll see.” Grimly, Carolinus brought his staff, endwise, three times down upon the earth. With each blow the whole hill seemed to shake and shudder.

Up among the rocks, one particularly large boulder tottered and rolled aside. Jim caught his breath and Secoh cried out, suddenly.

In the gap that the boulder revealed, a thick, slug-like head was lifting from the ground. It reared, yellow-brown in the sunlight, its two sets of horns searching and revealing a light external shell, a platelet with a merest hint of spire. It lowered its head and slowly, inexorably, began to flow downhill toward them, leaving its glistening trail behind it.

“Now—” said the knight. But Carolinus shook his head. He struck the ground again.

“Come forth!” he cried, his thin, old voice piping on the quivering air. “By the Powers! Come forth!”

And then they saw it.

From behind the great barricade of boulders, slowly, there reared first a bald and glistening dome of hairless skin. Slowly this rose, revealing two perfectly round eyes below which they saw, as the whole came up, no proper nose, but two air-slits side by side as if the whole of the bare, enormous skull was covered with a simple sheet of thick skin. And rising still further, this unnatural head, as big around as a beach ball, showed itself to possess a wide and idiot-grinning mouth, entirely lipless and revealing two jagged, matching rows of yellow teeth.

Now, with a clumsy, studied motion, the whole creature rose to its feet and stood knee-deep in the boulders and towering above them. It was man-like in shape, but clearly nothing ever spawned by the human race. A good twelve feet high it stood, a rough patchwork kilt of untanned hides wrapped around its thick waist—but this was not the extent of its differences from the race of Man. It had, to begin with, no neck at all. That obscene beachball of a hairless, near-featureless head balanced like an apple on thick, square shoulders of gray, coarse-looking skin. Its torso was one straight trunk, from which its arms and legs sprouted with a disproportionate thickness and roundness, like sections of pipe. Its knees were hidden by its kilt and its further legs by the rocks; but the elbows of its oversize arms had unnatural hinges to them, almost as if they had been doubled, and the lower arms were almost as large as the upper and near-wristless, while the hands themselves were awkward, thick-fingered parodies of the human extremity, with only three digits, of which one was a single, opposed thumb.

The right hand held a club, bound with rusty metal, that surely not even such a monster should have been able to lift. Yet one grotesque hand carried it lightly, as lightly as Carolinus had carried his staff. The monster opened its mouth.

“He!” it went. “He! He!”

The sound was fantastic. It was a bass titter, if such a thing could be imagined. Though the tone of it was as low as the lowest note of a good operatic basso, it clearly came from the creature’s upper throat and head. Nor was there any real humor in it. It was an utterance with a nervous, habitual air about it, like a man clearing his throat. Having sounded, it fell silent, watching the advance of the great slug with its round, light blue eyes.

Smrgol exhaled slowly.

“Yes,” he rumbled, almost sadly, almost as if to himself. “What I was afraid of. An ogre.”

In the silence that followed, Nevile-Smythe got down from his horse and began to tighten the girths of its saddle.

“So, so, Clarivaux,” he crooned to the trembling horse. “So ho, boy.”

The rest of them were looking all at Carolinus. The magician leaned on his staff, seeming very old indeed, with the deep lines carven in the ancient skin of his face. He had been watching the ogre, but now he turned back to Jim and the other two dragons.

“I had hoped all along,” he said, “that it needn’t come to this. However,” he crackled sourly, and waved his hand at the approaching Worm, the silent Anark and the watching ogre, “as you see . . . The world goes never the way we want it by itself, but must be haltered and led.” He winced, produced his flask and cup, and took a drink of milk. Putting the utensils back, he looked over at Nevile-Smythe, who was now checking his weapons. “I’d suggest, Knight, that you take the Worm. It’s a poor chance, but your best. I know you’d prefer that renegade dragon, but the Worm is the greater danger.”

“Difficult to slay, I imagine?” queried the knight.

“Its vital organs are hidden deep inside it,” said Carolinus, “and being mindless, it will fight on long after being mortally wounded. Cut off those eye-stalks and blind it first, if you can—”

“Wait!” cried Jim, suddenly. He had been listening bewilderedly. Now the word seemed to jump out of his mouth. “What’re we going to do?”

“Do?” said Carolinus, looking at him. “Why, fight, of course.”

“But,” stammered Jim, “wouldn’t it be better to go get some help? I mean—”

“Blast it, boy!” boomed Smrgol. “We can’t wait for that! Who knows what’ll happen if we take time for something like that? Hell’s bells, Gorbash, lad, you got to fight your foes when you meet them, not the next day, or the day after that.”

“Quite right, Smrgol,” said Carolinus, dryly. “Gorbash, you don’t understand this situation. Every time you retreat from something like this, it gains and you lose. The next time the odds would be even worse against us.”

They were all looking at him. Jim felt the impact of their curious glances. He did not know what to say. He wanted to tell them that he was not a fighter, that he did not know the first thing to do in this sort of battle, that it was none of his business anyway and that he would not be here at all, if it were not for Angie. He was, in fact, quite humanly scared, and floundered desperately for some sort of strength to lean on.

“What—what am I supposed to do?” he said.

“Why, fight the ogre, boy! Fight the ogre!” thundered Smrgol—and the inhuman giant up on the slope, hearing him, shifted his gaze suddenly from the Worm to fasten it on Jim. “And I’ll take on that louse of an Anark. The george here’ll chop up the Worm, the Mage’ll hold back the bad influences—and there we are.”

“Fight the ogre . . .” If Jim had still been possessed of his ordinary two legs, they would have buckled underneath him. Luckily his dragon-body knew no such weakness. He looked at the overwhelming bulk of his expected opponent, contrasted the ogre with himself, the armored, ox-heavy body of the Worm with Nevile-Smythe, the deep-chested over-size Anark with the crippled old dragon beside him—and a cry of protest rose from the very depths of his being. “But we can’t win!”

He turned furiously on Carolinus, who, however, looked at him calmly. In desperation he turned back to the only normal human he could find in the group.

“Nevile-Smythe,” he said. “You don’t need to do this.”

“Lord, yes,” replied the knight, busy with his equipment. “Worms, ogres—one fights them when one runs into them, you know.” He considered his spear and put it aside. “Believe I’ll face it on foot,” he murmured to himself.

“Smrgol!” said Jim. “Don’t you see—can’t you understand? Anark is a lot younger than you. And you’re not well—”

“Er . . .” said Secoh, hesitantly.

“Speak up, boy!” rumbled Smrgol.

“Well,” stammered Secoh, “it’s just . . . what I mean is, I couldn’t bring myself to fight that Worm or that ogre—I really couldn’t. I just sort of go to pieces when I think of them getting close to me. But I could—well, fight another dragon. It wouldn’t be quite so bad, if you know what I mean, if that dragon up there breaks my neck—” He broke down and stammered incoherently. “I know I sound awfully silly—”

“Nonsense! Good lad!” bellowed Smrgol. “Glad to have you. I—er—can’t quite get into the air myself at the moment—still a bit stiff. But if you could fly over and work him down this way where I can get a grip on him, we’ll stretch him out for the buzzards.” And he dealt the mere-dragon a tremendous thwack with his tail by way of congratulation, almost knocking Secoh off his feet.

In desperation, Jim turned back to Carolinus.

“There is no retreat,” said Carolinus, calmly, before Jim could speak. “This is a game of chess where if one piece withdraws, all fall. Hold back the creatures, and I will hold back the forces—for the creatures will finish me, if you go down, and the forces will finish you if they get me.”

“Now, look here, Gorbash!” shouted Smrgol in Jim’s ear. “That Worm’s almost here. Let me tell you something about how to fight ogres, based on experience. You listening, boy?”

“Yes,” said Jim, numbly.

“I know you’ve heard the other dragons calling me an old windbag when I wasn’t around. But I have conquered an ogre—the only one in our race to do it in the last eight hundred years—and they haven’t. So pay attention, if you want to win your own fight.”

Jim gulped.

“All right,” he said.

“Now, the first thing to know,” boomed Smrgol, glancing at the Worm who was now less than fifty yards distant, “is about the bones in an ogre—”

“Never mind the details!” cried Jim. “What do I do?”

“In a minute,” said Smrgol. “Don’t get excited, boy. Now, about the bones in an ogre. The thing to remember is that they’re big—matter of fact in the arms and legs, they’re mainly bone. So there’s no use trying to bite clear through, if you get a chance. What you try to do is get at the muscle—that’s tough enough as it is—and hamstring. That’s point one.” He paused to look severely at Jim.

“Now, point two,” he continued, “also connected with bones. Notice the elbows on that ogre. They aren’t like a george’s elbows. They’re what you might call double-jointed. I mean, they have two joints where a george has just the one. Why? Simply because with the big bones they got to have and the muscle of them, they’d never be able to bend an arm more than halfway up before the bottom part’d bump the top if they had a george-type joint. Now, the point of all this is that when it swings that club, it can only swing in one way with that elbow. That’s up and down. If it wants to swing it side to side, it’s got to use its shoulder. Consequently if you can catch it with its club down and to one side of the body, you got an advantage; because it takes two motions to get it back up and in line again—instead of one, like a george.”

“Yes, yes,” said Jim, impatiently, watching the advance of the Worm.

“Don’t get impatient, boy. Keep cool. Keep cool. Now, the knees don’t have that kind of joint, so if you can knock it off its feet you got a real advantage. But don’t try that, unless you’re sure you can do it; because once it gets you pinned, you’re a goner. The way to fight it is in-and-out—fast. Wait for a swing, dive in, tear him, get back out again. Got it?”

“Got it,” said Jim, numbly.

“Good. Whatever you do, don’t let it get a grip on you. Don’t pay attention to what’s happening to the rest of us, no matter what you hear or see. It’s every one for himself. Concentrate on your own foe; and keep your head. Don’t let your dragon instinct to get in there and slug run away with you. That’s why the georges have been winning against us as they have. Just remember you’re faster than that ogre and your brains’ll win for you if you stay clear, keep your head and don’t rush. I tell you, boy—”

He was interrupted by a sudden cry of joy from Nevile-Smythe, who had been rummaging around in Clarivaux’s saddle.

“I say!” shouted Nevile-Smythe, running up to them with surprising lightness, considering his armor. “The most marvelous stroke of luck! Look what I found.” He waved a wispy stretch of cloth at them.

“What?” demanded Jim, his heart going up in one sudden leap.

“Elinor’s favor! And just in time, too. Be a good fellow, will you,” went on Nevile-Smythe, turning to Carolinus, “and tie it about my vambrace here on the shield arm. Thank you, Mage.”

Carolinus, looking grim, tucked his staff into the crook of his arm and quickly tied the kerchief around the armor of Nevile-Smythe’s lower left arm. As he tightened the final knot and let his hands drop away, the knight caught up his shield into position and drew his sword with the other hand. The bright blade flashed like a sudden streak of lightning in the sun, he leaned forward to throw the weight of his armor before him, and with a shout of “A Nevile-Smythe! Elinor! Elinor!” he ran forward up the slope toward the approaching Worm.

Jim heard, but did not see, the clash of shell and steel that was their coming together. For just then everything began to happen at once. Up on the hill, Anark screamed suddenly in fury and launched himself down the slope in the air, wings spread like some great bomber gliding in for a crash landing. Behind Jim, there was the frenzied flapping of leathery wings as Secoh took to the air to meet him—but this was drowned by a sudden short, deep-chested cry, like a wordless shout; and, lifting his club, the ogre stirred and stepped clear of the boulders, coming forward and straight down the hill with huge, ground-covering strides.

“Good luck, boy,” said Smrgol, in Jim’s ear. “And Gorbash—” Something in the old dragon’s voice made Jim turn his head to look at Smrgol. The ferocious red mouth-pit and enormous fangs were frighteningly open before him; but behind it Jim read a strange affection and concern in the dark dragon-eyes. “—remember,” said the old dragon, almost softly, “that you are a descendant of Ortosh and Agtval, and Gleingul who slew the sea serpent on the tide-banks of the Gray Sands. And be therefore valiant. But remember too, that you are my only living kin and the last of our line . . . and be careful.”

Then Smrgol’s head was jerked away, as he swung about to face the coming together of Secoh and Anark in mid-air and bellowed out his own challenge. While Jim, turning back toward the Tower, had only time to take to the air before the rush of the ogre was upon him.

He had lifted on his wings without thinking—evidently this was dragon instinct when attacked. He was aware of the ogre suddenly before him, checking now, with its enormous hairy feet digging deep into the ground. The rust-bound club flashed before Jim’s eyes and he felt a heavy blow high on his chest that swept him backward through the air.

He flailed with his wings to regain balance. The over-size idiot face was grinning only a couple of yards off from him. The club swept up for another blow. Panicked, Jim scrambled aside, and saw the ogre sway forward a step. Again the club lashed out—quick!—how could something so big and clumsy-looking be so quick with its hands? Jim felt himself smashed down to earth and a sudden lance of bright pain shot through his right shoulder. For a second a gray, thick-skinned forearm loomed over him and his teeth met in it without thought.

He was shaken like a rat by a rat terrier and flung clear. His wings beat for the safety of altitude, and he found himself about twenty feet off the ground, staring down at the ogre, which grunted a wordless sound and shifted the club to strike upwards. Jim cupped air with his wings, to fling himself backward and avoid the blow. The club whistled through the unfeeling air; and, sweeping forward, Jim ripped at one great blocky shoulder and beat clear. The ogre spun to face him, still grinning. But now blood welled and trickled down where Jim’s teeth had gripped and torn, high on the shoulder.

—And suddenly, Jim realized something:

He was no longer afraid. He hung in the air, just out of the ogre’s reach, poised to take advantage of any opening; and a hot sense of excitement was coursing through him. He was discovering the truth about fights—and about most similar things—that it is only the beginning that is bad. Once the chips are down, several million years of instinct take over and there is no time for thought for anything but confronting the enemy. So it was with Jim—and then the ogre moved in on him again; and that was his last specific intellectual thought of the fight, for everything else was drowned in his overwhelming drive to avoid being killed and, if possible, to kill, himself . . .

 

 

 

IV

 

It was a long, blurred time, about which later Jim had no clear memory. The sun marched up the long arc of the heavens and crossed the nooning point and headed down again. On the torn-up sandy soil of the plain he and the ogre turned and feinted, smashed and tore at each other. Sometimes he was in the air, sometimes on the ground. Once he had the ogre down on one knee, but could not press his advantage. At another time they had fought up the long slope of the hill almost to the Tower and the ogre had him pinned in the cleft between two huge boulders and had hefted its club back for the final blow that would smash Jim’s skull. And then he had wriggled free between the monster’s very legs and the battle was on again.

Now and then throughout the fight he would catch brief kaleidoscopic glimpses of the combats being waged about him: Nevile-Smythe now wrapped about by the blind body of the Worm, its eye-stalks hacked away—and striving in silence to draw free his sword-arm, which was pinned to his side by the Worm’s encircling body. Or there would roll briefly into Jim’s vision a tangled roaring tumble of flailing leathery wings and serpentine bodies that was Secoh, Anark and old Smrgol. Once or twice he had a momentary view of Carolinus, still standing erect, his staff upright in his hand, his long white beard blowing forward over his blue gown with the cabalistic golden signs upon it, like some old seer in the hour of Armageddon. Then the gross body of the ogre would blot out his vision and he would forget all but the enemy before him.

The day faded. A dank mist came rolling in from the sea and fled in little wisps and tatters across the plain of battle. Jim’s body ached and slowed, and his wings felt leaden. But the ever-grinning face and sweeping club of the ogre seemed neither to weaken nor to tire. Jim drew back for a moment to catch his breath; and in that second, he heard a voice cry out.

“Time is short!” it cried, in cracked tones. “We are running out of time. The day is nearly gone!”

It was the voice of Carolinus. Jim had never heard him raise it before with just such a desperate accent. And even as Jim identified the voice, he realized that it came clearly to his ears—and that for sometime now upon the battlefield, except for the ogre and himself, there had been silence.

He shook his head to clear it and risked a quick glance about him. He had been driven back almost to the neck of the Causeway itself, where it entered onto the plain. To one side of him, the snapped strands of Clarivaux’s bridle dangled limply where the terrified horse had broken loose from the earth-thrust spear to which Nevile-Smythe had tethered it before advancing against the Worm on foot. A little off from it stood Carolinus, upheld now only by his staff, his old face shrunken and almost mummified in appearance, as if the life had been all but drained from it. There was nowhere else to retreat to; and Jim was alone.

He turned back his gaze to see the ogre almost upon him. The heavy club swung high, looking gray and enormous in the mist. Jim felt in his limbs and wings a weakness that would not let him dodge in time; and, with all his strength, he gathered himself, and sprang instead, up under the monster’s guard and inside the grasp of those cannon-thick arms.

The club glanced off Jim’s spine. He felt the arms go around him, the double triad of bone-thick fingers searching for his neck. He was caught, but his rush had knocked the ogre off his feet. Together they went over and rolled on the sandy earth, the ogre gnawing with his jagged teeth at Jim’s chest and striving to break a spine or twist a neck, while Jim’s tail lashed futilely about.

They rolled against the spear and snapped it in half. The ogre found its hold and Jim felt his neck begin to be slowly twisted, as if it were a chicken’s neck being wrung in slow motion. A wild despair flooded through him. He had been warned by Smrgol never to let the ogre get him pinned. He had disregarded that advice and now he was lost, the battle was lost. Stay away, Smrgol had warned, use your brains . . .

The hope of a wild chance sprang suddenly to life in him. His head was twisted back over his shoulder. He could see only the gray mist above him, but he stopped fighting the ogre and groped about with both forelimbs. For a slow moment of eternity, he felt nothing, and then something hard nudged against his right foreclaw, a glint of bright metal flashed for a second before his eyes. He changed his grip on what he held, clamping down on it as firmly as his clumsy foreclaws would allow—

—and with every ounce of strength that was left to him, he drove the fore-part of the broken spear deep into the middle of the ogre that sprawled above him.

The great body bucked and shuddered. A wild scream burst from the idiot mouth alongside Jim’s ear. The ogre let go, staggered back and up, tottering to its feet, looming like the Tower itself above him. Again, the ogre screamed, staggering about like a drunken man, fumbling at the shaft of the spear sticking from him. It jerked at the shaft, screamed again, and, lowering its unnatural head, bit at the wood like a wounded animal. The tough ash splintered between its teeth. It screamed once more and fell to its knees. Then slowly, like a bad actor in an old-fashioned movie, it went over on its side, and drew up its legs like a man with the cramp. A final scream was drowned in bubbling. Black blood trickled from its mouth and it lay still.

Jim crawled slowly to his feet and looked about him.

The mists were drawing back from the plain and the first thin light of late afternoon stretching long across the slope. In its rusty illumination, Jim made out what was to be seen there.

The Worm was dead, literally hacked in two. Nevile-Smythe, in bloody, dinted armor, leaned wearily on a twisted sword not more than a few feet off from Carolinus. A little farther off, Secoh raised a torn neck and head above the intertwined, locked-together bodies of Anark and Smrgol. He stared dazedly at Jim. Jim moved slowly, painfully over to the mere-dragon.

Jim came up and looked down at the two big dragons. Smrgol lay with his eyes closed and his jaws locked in Anark’s throat. The neck of the younger dragon had been broken like the stem of a weed.

“Smrgol . . .” croaked Jim.

“No—” gasped Secoh. “No good. He’s gone . . . I led the other one to him. He got his grip—and then he never let go . . .” The mere-dragon choked and lowered his head.

“He fought well,” creaked a strange harsh voice which Jim did not at first recognize. He turned and saw the Knight standing at his shoulder. Nevile-Smythe’s face was white as sea-foam inside his helmet and the flesh of it seemed fallen in to the bones, like an old man’s. He swayed as he stood.

“We have won,” said Carolinus, solemnly, coming up with the aid of his staff. “Not again in our lifetimes will evil gather enough strength in this spot to break out.” He looked at Jim. “And now,” he said, “the balance of Chance and History inclines in your favor. It’s time to send you back.”

“Back?” said Nevile-Smythe.

“Back to his own land, Knight,” replied the magician. “Fear not, the dragon left in this body of his will remember all that happened and be your friend.”

“Fear!” said Nevile-Smythe, somehow digging up a final spark of energy to expend on hauteur. “I fear no dragon, dammit. Besides, in respect to the old boy here”—he nodded at the dead Smrgol—”I’m going to see what can be done about this dragon-alliance business.”

“He was great!” burst out Secoh, suddenly, almost with a sob. “He—he made me strong again. Whatever he wanted, I’ll do it.” And the mere-dragon bowed his head.

“You come along with me then, to vouch for the dragon end of it,” said Nevile-Smythe. “Well,” he turned to Jim, “it’s goodby, I suppose, Sir James.”

“I suppose so,” said Jim. “Goodby to you, too. I—” Suddenly he remembered.

“Angie!” he cried out, spinning around. “I’ve got to go get Angie out of that Tower!”

Carolinus put his staff out to halt Jim.

“Wait,” he said. “Listen . . .”

“Listen?” echoed Jim. But just at that moment, he heard it, a woman’s voice calling, high and clear, from the mists that still hid the Tower.

“Jim! Jim, where are you?”

A slight figure emerged from the mist, running down the slope toward them.

“Here I am!” bellowed Jim. And for once he was glad of the capabilities of his dragon-voice. “Here I am, Angie—”

—but Carolinus was chanting in a strange, singing voice, words without meaning, but which seemed to shake the very air about them. The mist swirled, the world rocked and swung. Jim and Angie were caught up, were swirled about, were spun away and away down an echoing corridor of nothingness . . .

. . . and then they were back in the Grille, seated together on one side of the table in the booth. Hanson, across from them, was goggling like a bewildered accident victim.

“Where—where am I?” he stammered. His eyes suddenly focused on them across the table and he gave a startled croak. “Help!” he cried, huddling away from them. “Humans!”

“What did you expect?” snapped Jim. “Dragons?”

“No!” shrieked Hanson. “Watch-beetles—like me!” And, turning about, he tried desperately to burrow his way through the wood seat of the booth to safety.

 

 

 

V

 

It was the next day after that Jim and Angie stood in the third floor corridor of Chumley Hall, outside the door leading to the office of the English Department.

“Well, are you going in or aren’t you?” demanded Angie.

“In a second, in a second,” said Jim, adjusting his tie with nervous fingers. “Just don’t rush me.”

“Do you suppose he’s heard about Grottwold?” Angie asked.

“I doubt it,” said Jim. The Student Health Service says Hanson’s already starting to come out of it—except that he’ll probably always have a touch of amnesia about the whole afternoon. Angie!” said Jim, turning on her. “Do you suppose, all the time we were there, Hanson was actually being a watch-beetle underground?”

“I don’t know, and it doesn’t matter,” interrupted Angie, firmly. “Honestly, Jim, now you’ve finally promised to get an answer out of Dr. Howells about a job, I’d think you’d want to get it over and done with, instead of hesitating like this. I just can’t understand a man who can go about consorting with dragons and fighting ogres and then—”

“—still not want to put his boss on the spot for a yes-or-no answer,” said Jim. “Hah! Let me tell you something.” He waggled a finger in front of her nose. “Do you know what all this dragon-ogre business actually taught me? It wasn’t not to be scared, either.”

“All right,” said Angie, with a sigh. “What was it then?”

“I’ll tell you,” said Jim. “What I found out . . .” He paused. “What I found out was not, not to be scared. It was that scared or not doesn’t matter; because you just go ahead, anyway.”

Angie blinked at him.

“And that,” concluded Jim, “is why I agreed to have it out with Howells, after all. Now you know.”

He yanked Angie to him, kissed her grimly upon her startled lips, and, letting go of her, turned about. Giving a final jerk to his tie, he turned the knob of the office door, opened it, and strode valiantly within.

 

 

Afterword by Eric Flint




I'm not sure when I first encountered the writings of Gordon R. Dickson, except that it was sometime during my teenage years, and he's always been one of the writers who are inseparable from what I think of as "science fiction." As was usually the case with me, however, I was more interested in novels than short stories—a preference that was reflected many years later when I started writing myself. So the Dickson I remembered was the Dickson who wrote such things as The Genetic General (aka Dorsai!), The Alien Way, Naked to the Stars, and the two marvelous Dilbian novels. Even the Hoka stories he wrote with Poul Anderson were things I first encountered in their later novelized form.

So, when the time came to select a Dickson story for this anthology, I was a little stumped. There was no room for a novel in such an anthology, obviously. The only thing I could suggest was "Call Him Lord," because that was the only shorter piece of fiction by Dickson I could remember having had much of an impact on me. When Dave proposed "St. Dragon and the George" as an alternative, I was a little astonished. I'd read the novel version of the story, of course—and it had always been one of my favorites since the first time I read it. But I'd had no idea that he'd written a shorter version of it first.

The minute Dave advanced the proposal, I agreed to it. To be sure, "Call Him Lord" would have made a fine alternative. It's no accident that it won the Nebula award for best novelette in 1967 and was a finalist for the Hugo in the same year. Still, I didn't hesitate. That's because every writer knows what every actor knows: comedy gets little respect, but it's a lot harder to do well than serious drama. Whether you read this shorter version of the story or the novel-length The Dragon and the George, I think you're reading comic fantasy at its very best. And, as Dave says in his preface, when comedy is good enough it's more than just funny. A lot more.

Thy Rocks and Rills by Robert Ernest Gilbert

Thy Rocks and Rills

by Robert Ernest Gilbert

Preface by David Drake

 

In 9th grade (1959) my English teacher gave me some SF magazines that her sons had left around the house. One of them was the September 1953 issue of If containing "Thy Rocks and Rills." That was my good luck, because the story made a real impact on me and the present anthology is the first time it's been reprinted.

I believe fiction is to entertain, not to teach; but good entertainment has to have a foundation of reality. Looking back on it, I believe this story hit me so hard because it graphically illustrated three points:

1) You can live your life outside the norms of society, but

2) Society will probably crush you if you try, but

3) It may be worth being crushed.

I still believe those statements are true.

 

 

 

Prelude

 

M. Stonecypher lifted his reed sun hat with the square brim, and used a red handkerchief to absorb the perspiration streaking his forehead. He said, “The pup’ll make a good guard, especially for thrill parties.”

L. Dan’s golden curls flickered in July 1 sunlight. The puppy growled when Dan extended a gloved hand. “I don’t want a guard,” the hobbyist said. “I want him for a dogfight.”

A startling bellow rattled the windows of the dog house and spilled in deafening waves across the yard. Dan whirled, clutching his staff. Light glinted on his plastic cuirass and danced on his red nylon tights. His flabby face turned white. “What—” he panted.

Stonecypher concealed a smile behind a long corded hand and said, “Just the bull. Serenades us sometimes.”

Dan circled the dog house. Stonecypher followed with a forefinger pressed to thin lips. In the paddock, the bull’s head moved up and down. It might or might not have been a nod.

The crest of long red and blue-black hairs on the bull’s neck and shoulders created an illusion of purple, but the rest of the animal matched the black of a duelmaster’s tam. Behind large eyes encircled by a white band, his skull bulged in a swelling dome, making the distance between his short horns seem much too great.

“He’s purple!” Dan gasped. “Why in the Government don’t you put him in the ring?”

Stonecypher gestured toward the choppy surface of Kings Lake, nine hundred feet below. He said, “Coincidence. I make out the ringmaster’s barge just leavin’ Highland Pier.”

“You’re selling him?”

“Yeah. If they take ‘im. I’d like to see ‘im in the ring on Dependence Day.”

Glancing at the watch embedded in the left pectoral of his half-armor, Dan said, “That would be a show! I’ll take the dog and fly. I’ve a duel in Highland Park at 11:46.”

“The pup’s not for sale.”

“Not for sale!” Dan yelled. “You told—”

“Thought you wanted a guard. I don’t sell for dogfights.”

A sound like “Goood!” came from the paddocked bull.

Dan opened his mouth wide. Whatever he intended to say died without vocalization, for Catriona came driving the mule team up through the apple orchard. The almost identical mules had sorrel noses, gray necks, buckskin flanks, and black and white pinto backs and haunches. “Great Government!” Dan swore. “This place is worse than a museum!”

“Appaloosa mules,” Stonecypher said.

Catriona jumped from the seat of the mowing machine. Dan stared. Compared to the standard woman of the Manly Age who, by dieting, posturing, and exercise from childhood, transformed herself into a small, thin, dominated creature, Catriona constituted a separate species. She was taller than Dan, slightly plump, and her hair could have been classed as either red or blonde. Green coveralls became her better than they did Stonecypher. With no trace of a smile on face or in voice, Stonecypher said, “L. Dan, meet Catriona.”

* * *

Like a hypnopath’s victim, Dan walked to Catriona. He looked up at her and whispered, but too loudly. Stonecypher heard. His hands clamped on the hobbyist’s neck and jerked. Dan smashed in the grass with sufficient force to loosen the snaps of his armor. He rolled to his feet and swung his staff.

Stonecypher’s left hand snatched the staff. His right fist collided with Dan’s square jaw. Glaring down at the hobbyist, Stonecypher gripped the staff and rotated thick wrists outward. The tough plastic popped when it broke.

Scuttling backward, Dan regained his feet. “You inhuman brute!” he growled. “I intended to pay for her!”

“My wife’s not for sale either,” Stonecypher said. “You know how to fly.”

Dan thrust out a coated tongue and made a noise with it. In a memorized singsong, he declared, “I challenge you to a duel, in accordance with the laws of the Government, to be fought in the nearest duelpen at the earliest possible hour.”

“Stony, don’t!” Catriona protested. “He’s not wo’th it!”

Stonecypher smiled at her. “Have to follow the law,” he said. He extended his tongue, blurted, and announced, “As required by the Government, I accept your challenge.”

“We’ll record it!” Dan snapped. He stalked toward the green and gold butterflier parked in a field of seedling Sudan grass. Horns rattled on the concrete rails of the paddock.

“Burstaard!” the bull bellowed.

Dan shied and trampled young grass under sandaled feet. His loosened cuirass clattered rhythmically. Raising the canopy of the butterflier, he slid out the radioak and started typing. Stonecypher and Catriona approached the hobbyist. Catriona said, “This is cowa’dly! Stony nevah fought a duel in his life. He won’t have a chance!”

“You’ll see me soon then, woman. Where’d you get all that equipment? You look like something in a circus.”

“Ah used to be in a cahnival,” Catriona said. She kept Stonecypher in place with a plump arm across his chest. “That’s wheah you belong,” she told Dan. “That’s all you’ah good fo’.”

“Watch how you address a man, woman,” Dan snarled, “or you’ll end in the duelpen, too.”

Stonecypher snatched the sheet from the typer. The request read:

 

Duelmaster R. Smith, Watauga Duelpen, Highland Park, Tennessee. L. Dan challenges M. Stonecypher. Cause: Interference with basic amatory rights. July 1. 11:21 amest. 

 

Stonecypher said, “The cause is a lie. You got no rights with Catriona. Why didn’t you tell ’em it’s because I knocked you ears-over-endways, and you’re scared to fight without a gun?”

Dan shoved the request into the slot and pulled the switch. “I’ll kill you,” he promised.

While the request was transmitted by radiophotography, minutes passed, bare of further insults. Catriona and Stonecypher stood near the concrete fence enclosing the rolling top of Bays Mountain. Interminable labor had converted 650 acres at the top to arable land. Below the couple, the steep side of the mountain, denuded of timber, dangerously eroded, and scarred by limestone quarries, fell to the ragged shore of Kings Lake. Two miles of water agitated by many boats separated the shore and the peninsula, which resembled a wrinkled dragon with underslung lower jaw distended. The town of Highland Park clung to the jutting land, and the Highland Bullring appeared as a white dot more than four miles from where Catriona and Stonecypher stood. The ringmaster’s barge was a red rectangle skirting Russel Chapel Island.

Dan pulled the answer from the buzzing radioak. He walked over and held the radiophoto an inch from Stonecypher’s long nose. It read:

 

Request OK. Time: July 4. 3:47 pmest. 

 

Two attached permits granted each duelist the privilege of carrying one handgun with a capacity of not more than ten cartridges of not less than .32 caliber. Below the permits appeared an additional message:

 

L. Dan due at Watauga Duelpen. 11:46 amest. For duel with J. George. 

 

“Government and Taxes!” Dan cursed. Throwing Stonecypher’s permit, he leaped into the green and gold butterflier and slammed the canopy. The four wings of the semi-ornithopter blurred with motion, lifting the craft into the sky. The forward wings locked with negative dihedral, the rear wings angled to form a ruddevator, and the five-bladed propeller whined, driving the butterflier in a shallow dive for the peninsula.

* * *

Catriona said, “Ah hope he’s late, and they shoot him. Ah knew you’d finally have to fight, but—”

“You keep out of it next time,” said Stonecypher. “I happen to know that feller’s killed two women in the pen. He don’t care for nothin’. Oughta known better than to let him come here. He made out like he wanted a guard dog, and I thought—”

“Nevah mind, Stony. Ah’ve got to help you. You nevah even fiahed a gun.”

“Later, Cat. The ringmaster may want to stay for dinner. I’ll look after the mules.”

Catriona touched Stonecypher’s cheek and went to the house. Stonecypher unharnessed the Appaloosa mules. While they rolled, he took, from an empty hay rack, a rubber-tipped spear and a tattered cloth dummy. The dummy’s single arm terminated in a red flag.

Stonecypher concealed spear and dummy beneath the floor of the dog house. Going to the paddock, he patted the bull between the horns, which had been filed to a needle point. “Still goin’ through with it?” Stonecypher asked.

“Yaaaa,” the bull lowed. “Yaooo kuhl Daan. Err’ll kuhl uhh kuhlerrs.”

“All right, Moe. I’ll kill Dan, and you kill the killers.” Stonecypher stroked the massive hemisphere of the bull’s jaw. “Goodbye, Moe.”

“Gooodba,” the bull echoed. He lowered his nose to the shelled corn seasoned with molasses, the rolled oats, and the ground barley in the trough.

Stonecypher walked down the road to the staircase of stone that dammed the old Kingsport Reservoir, abandoned long before Kings Lake covered the city. A red electric truck crawled up the steep road hewn from the slope of the gap formed by Dolan Branch. When the truck had crossed the bridge below the buttressed dam, Stonecypher spoke to the fat and sweltering man seated beside the drive. “I’m M. Stonecypher. Proud for you to visit my farm. Dinner’s ready up at the house.”

“No, no time,” smiled the fat man, displaying stainless steel teeth. “Only time to see the bull. I thought we weren’t going to make that grade! Why don’t those scientists develop synthetic elements, so that we can have atomic power again? This radio-electric is so unreliable! I am Ringmaster Oswell, naturally. This heat is excruciating! I had hoped it would be cooler up here, but something seems to have happened to our inland-oceanic climate this summer. Lead us to the bull, Stonecypher!”

Clinging to the slatted truck bed, Stonecypher directed the stoic driver to the paddock. The electric motor rattled and stopped, and Ringmaster Oswell wheezed and squirmed from the cab. The ringmaster wore a vaguely Arabic costume, in all variations of red.

The bull lumbered bellowing around the fence. His horns raked white gashes in the beech tree forming on corner. He tossed the feed trough to splintering destruction.

“Magnificent!” Oswell gasped. Then the ringmaster frowned. “But he looks almost purple. His horns are rather short.”

“Stay back from the fence!” Stonecypher warned. “He’s real wide between the horns, ringmaster. I reckon the spread’ll match up to standard. Same stock my grandfather used to sell Boon Bullring before the water. Wouldn’t sell ‘im, only the tenants are scared to come about the house.”

Oswell fingered his balloon neck and mumbled, “But he’s odd. That long hair on his neck . . . I don’t know . . .”

The bull’s horns lifted the mineral feeder from the center of the paddock. The box rotated over the rails and crashed in a cloud of floured oyster shells and phosphate salt at the ringmaster’s feet.

Oswell took cover behind the truck driver, who said, “Fergus’d like him. Jeeze! Remember dat brown and white spotted one he kilt last year on Forrest Day? Da crowd like ta never stopt yelling!”

Ringmaster Oswell retreated farther as, under the bull’s onslaught, a piece of concrete broke from the top rail, exposing the reinforcing rod within. “Fergus does like strange ones,” he admitted.

Stonecypher said, “Don’t let the mane bother you. There’s one of these long-haired Scotch cows in his ancestors. He’s not really purple. Just the way the light hits ‘im.”

Oswell chewed lacquered fingernails with steel dentures. His bloodshot eyes studied the spotted and speckled Appaloosa mules chasing around the pasture, but the sight failed to register on his brain. “The crowd likes a good show on Dependence Day,” he proclaimed. “I considered trying a fat Aberdeen Angus with artificial horns for laughs, but this may do as well. I must find some shade! I’ll take him, Stonecypher, if fifteen hundred in gold is agreeable.”

“Sold,” Stonecypher said. The word cracked in the middle.

While the ringmaster, muttering about trying bulldogs sometime, retired to the narrow shadow of the dog house, the driver backed the truck to the ramp. Stonecypher opened the gate and waved his handkerchief. The bull charged into the truck, and the driver locked the heavy doors.

From within his red burnoose, Oswell produced a clinking bag. “Fifteen hundred,” he said. From other recesses, he withdrew documents, notebooks, and a pencil. He said, “Here is a pass for you and one for any woman-subject you may wish to bring. You’ll want to see your first bull on Dependence Day! And here is the standard release absolving you of any damage the bull may do. Oh, yes! His name and number?”

“Number?”

“Yes, his brand.”

“Not branded. Make it Number 1. Name’s Moe.”

Oswell chuckled. “Moe. Very good! Most breeders name them things like Chainlightning and Thunderbird. Your GE number?”

“I’m not a Government Employee.”

“You’re not?” Oswell wheezed. “How unusual! Your colors? He’ll wear your colors in his shoulder.”

“Yeah. Black.”

“Black?”

“Dead black.”

Oswell, scribbling, managed a faint smile. “Sorry I can’t accept that invitation to lunch.” He struggled into the truck. “Hope this bull is brave in the ring. Nice antique old place you have here! I don’t see a feed tower, but you surely don’t use pasture—” the ringmaster’s babble passed down the road with the truck.

Stonecypher watched the vehicle descend the dangerous grade. He lifted his square hat from his black hair, dropped it on the ground, and crushed the reeds under a booted foot.

The temporary house, a squat cubical structure, stood at the end of a spruce-lined path beside the ruin that a thrill party had made of the century-old farm house. The plastic screen squeaked when Stonecypher opened it. He stood on the white floor of the robot kitchen and dug a fifty dollar gold piece from the bag Oswell had given him. Glaring at the head of the woman with Liberty inscribed on her crown, he muttered, “Thirty pieces of gold.”

Catriona called, “Oswell’s lucky he couldn’t stay foah dinnah! Ah had the potassium cyanide all ready.”

Stonecypher passed through the diner door into a room containing more yellowed history books and agricultural pamphlets than eating utensils. Catriona waited by the table. She held a large revolver in her right hand.

 

 

 

Intermezzo

 

Stonecypher stood on Bay Knob, near the ruins of the old FM transmitter station, looking down at the Tennessee Lakes. Catriona sat behind him and held the revolver on her thigh. Stonecypher said, “I never see it but I wonder how it looked before the water.”

Before him, North Fork, an arm of Kings Lake, twisted across the Virginia line four and one-half miles away, while to Stonecypher’s right, Boone Lake sparkled like a gigantic, badly drawn V. He did not look toward Surgoinsville Dam securing Kings Lake far to the west.

The Tennessee Lakes were born in 1918 when Wilson Dam spanned the Tennessee River at Muscle Shoals, Alabama; but their growth was retarded for fifteen years, until an Act of Congress injected them with vitamins. Then the mile-long bastions of concrete crawled between the ridges. Norris, Wheeler, Pickwick Landing, Guntersville, Watts Bar, Kentucky, Cherokee, Fort Henry, Boone, Sevier, Surgoinsville—almost innumerable dams blocked the rivers. The rivers stopped and overflowed. The creeks swelled into rivers.

Congressional Committees investigated, the Supreme Court tested the dams against the Constitution, ethnologists and archeologists hastily checked for Indian relics; and the dams, infused with youthful vigor, matured. Beginning with Norris, which backed up the Clinch and Powell Rivers to inundate 25,000 acres and displace 3,000 families, the dams expanded mighty aquatic muscles. The Tennessee, the Little Tennessee, the Nolichucky, the Holston, the French Broad, the Watauga, the Hiwassee, the Little Pigeon—all the rivers spread their waters into lengthy, ragged lakes, changing the map of Tennessee more than any natural cataclysm, such as the great earthquake of 1811, had ever done. The Lakes provided jobs, electric power, flood control, soil conservation, a fisherman’s paradise, milder winters, cooler summers, and they covered all the really good farming land in the eastern part of the state.

Catriona loaded the revolver. It was an obsolete .357 Magnum with a 6½ inch barrel, and the cartridge cases of the metal-piercing bullets had a greenish sheen. “Now, put it in the holstah, and be ca’eful,” Catriona said.

Stonecypher wore the holster, a leather silhouette studded with two spring clips opening forward, on a belt and secured to his leg by a thong. Gingerly, he took the revolver and slipped it under the clips. “I’ve kept outa duels all my life,” he said, “but, so long as it’s for you, I don’t much mind.”

“Ah’ll mind if he kills you. You do like I tell you, and you can beat him. Why, mah best act in the How-To Cahnival was How to Win a Duel. Cou’se, they didn’t know ah was really drawin’ befoah the buzzah sounded. Why, ah used to set two plates ten yahds apaht, draw two revolvahs, and shoot both plates, all in foah-tenths of a second!”

Stonecypher grinned. “Sorry I missed that carnival first time it came through here. I coulda seen you in that costume they poured on you, three years earlier.”

“Nevah mind the veiled compliments. Now, try it!”

Stonecypher faced the target, a sheet of plastiboard roughly sawed to the shape of a man, and backed by a heap of earth removed from the new, as yet dry, pond in which they stood. Catriona pressed a small buzzer concealed in her palm. Stonecypher’s big hand closed on the revolver butt, pushing the weapon up and forward. The sound of the shot rattled away over the mountain top.

“That’s good!” Catriona cried, consulting the sonic timer. “One and two-tenths seconds from buzzah to shot!”

“But I missed,” Stonecypher protested. “Look bad on tevee.”

“You’ll hit him. Watch the recoil next time.”

Stonecypher drew and fired a second wild shot. He snorted, “Confound Westerns, anyhow!”

“Weste’ns?”

“Sure. That’s where this duelin’ started. Used to, almost ever’ movie or tevee was called a Western. Sort of a fantasy, because they were just slightly based on real history. They generally showed a feller in a flowered shirt, ridin’ a Tennessee Walking Horse, and shootin’ a gun. Ever’body in these Westerns had a gun, and they all shot at each other.

“The youngin’s were hep on ’em, so they all wore toy guns, and a whole generation grew up on Westerns. When they got big, they carried real guns. I’ve heard my great-uncle tell about it, how before the Government built duelpens and passed laws, you couldn’t hardly cross the Lakes without runnin’ into a bunch of fools on water skis shootin’ at each other.”

“You leave the histo’y books alone foah awhile,” Catriona commanded, “and practice. The tenants and ah’ll tend to the wo’k. Try it loaded and empty. Hook this little buzzah to the timeah, and practice. Ah’ve got to go see the chickens.”

” ‘Bye, teacher.” Stonecypher dropped the buzzer in his pocket and watched her vanish into the grove. He fired the remaining shots, nicking the target once. With the revolver holstered, he followed the path to the summer pasture.

* * *

Belly-deep in red clover, twenty-four cows, twenty-four calves, and twenty-four yearlings grazed or played in the shady field. Stonecypher cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “Smart-calves! Smart-calves to school!”

The entire herd turned sorrowful eyes on him. Seven of the calves and four of the yearlings trotted to the gate, which Stonecypher held open, and jostled out of the pasture. As the calves began to lie down under the trees, a white heifer-calf nuzzled Stonecypher’s hand and bawled, “Paaapy gyoing a fyightt?”

“Yeah, he’s going to fight,” Stonecypher answered. “Your pappy’s gone to the bullring. He suggested it, and made the choice himself. He’s got real courage. You oughta all be proud of him.”

The calves bawled their pride. Including those remaining in the pasture, they presented a colorful variety of spots, specks, splotches, browns, reds, blacks, and even occasional blue and greenish tinges. Stonecypher sat facing them from a stump. He said, “I’m sorta late for the lesson, today, so we’ll get on with it. Some of this will be repetition for you yearlings, but it won’t hurt. If you get too bored, there’s corn and cottonseed meal in the trough, only be quiet about it.

“Now. To look at you all, nobody would think you’re the same breed of cattle; but you, and your mammys, and Moe are the only Atohmy cattle on Earth. It’s usually hard to say exactly when a breed started; but you all started a long, long time ago, on July 16, 1945, near Alamogordo, New Mexico, when they exploded the first Atomic Bomb.”

At mention of Atomic Bomb, who had succeeded the Bogger Man as a means of frightening children, one of the younger calves bawled. Her polled, brindled mother ran in ungainly fashion to the fence and mooed with great carrying power.

“All right!” Stonecypher yelled. The cow closed her big mouth, but stayed by the gate. “Can’t go by what you hear the tenants tell their kids,” Stonecypher cautioned the calf. “Atomic Bomb is as dead as the tank and the battleship.

“Now, like I was sayin’, the scientists put Atomic Bomb on a hundred foot tower and blowed him up. There was a flash of fire, and an awful racket, and the blast raised up a lot of dirt and dust from the ground. All this dust achurnin’ around in the cloud bumped into little bits of metal and stuff that was highly radioactive. That means, the basic atoms of matter had been thrown out of kilter, sorta deranged. The protons and electrons in an atom oughta be about equal for it to be stable, but these were shootin’ off electrons, or beta particles, and givin’ off something like powerful x-rays, called gamma rays, and things like that.

“Anyhow, this radiation affected all the sand and bits of rock and dirt in that bomb cloud. This radiation is dangerous. Some of it will go right through several inches of lead. Enough’ll kill you. Your ancestors were ten miles or so from where Atomic Bomb went off.

“They were just plain Whiteface cattle. They weren’t supposed to be there, but I reckon none of the scientists bothered to warn ’em. The dust started settlin’ all over your ancestors. In about a week, there were sores and blisters on their backs. The red hair dropped off. When it grew back, it was gray.

“The scientists got real excited when they heard about it, ’cause they wanted to see how horrible they could make Atomic Bomb. So, they shipped fifty-nine cattle up to Oak Ridge. That was a Government town, a hundred miles southwest of here, where they made some of the stuff to put in Atomic Bomb. The University of Tennessee was runnin’ an experimental farm there. They had donkeys, and pigs, and chickens, and other animals that they exposed to radioactivity. Then they killed ’em and cut ’em up to see what had happened. I know it’s gruesome, but that’s how it was.

“The awful fact is, the scientists slaughtered more than half that original Atohmy herd for experiments. Some of the rest, they—uh—married. Wanted to see if the calves had two heads, or something; if radioactivity had speeded up the mutation rate.

“Back then, they didn’t understand much about mutation. Some claimed a little radioactivity would cause it, some said a whole lot, and some said it wouldn’t hurt a bit.”

“Whaa mootyaaonn?” asked the calf which was not yet assured of the extinction of Atomic Bomb.

“Well, you-all are all mutations. I’ve told you how life starts from one cell. This cell has thread-like things in it called chromosomes, and the chromosomes are made up of things called genes. Mutations, sort of unexpected changes, can take place in either the chromosomes or the genes. You see, when this one cell starts dividing, every gene makes a copy of itself; but, sometimes, the copy is a little different from the original. Lots of things, like x-rays and ultraviolet rays, heat, chemicals, disease, can cause this. Radioactivity had caused mutation in some experiment, so the scientists were anxious to see what happened with these cattle.

“Genes determine the way an animal develops. Two mutant genes can start reactions that end up as a man with one leg, or maybe as a bull with the intelligence of an eight-year-old man. Lots of mutations are recessive. They may be carried along for generations. But, when two like mutant genes come together in reproduction, the animal is bound to be something different, the way you eleven calves are.

“Now. The scientists watched the Atohmy cattle for fifteen or twenty years, and nothin’ much happened. They started sayin’ radioactivity wasn’t dangerous, and a man could walk into a place right after Atomic Bomb went off, and it wouldn’t matter. They should be here to see the mess in Japan today. All the time, though, I think the cattle were changing. It may have been in little things like the length of hair, or the shape of an eyeball, or the curve of a horn, so the scientists couldn’t tell without they made exact measurements all the time.

“Then, a bull-calf was born. He had shaggy black hair, and his horns grew in a spiral like a ram’s. Some scientists said, ‘I told you so! It speeded the mutation rate!’

“Others said, ‘He’s a natural mutation, or else, a throw-back to prehistoric wild cattle. It happens in every breed. Atomic Bomb had nothing to do with it.’

“They married the bull, and then they fixed to slaughter ‘im to see what his insides was like. The bull fooled ’em, though. He came down with contagious pleuro-pneumonia, the first case in years, ’cause it was supposed to have been wiped out in this country away back in the Nineteenth Century. They had to cremate the bull for fear the disease would spread. Ever’ one of the calves were normal Whitefaces.

“Finally, the nineteen Atohmy cattle that were left were put up for sale. My great-grandfather, Cary McPheeter, bought ’em and shipped ’em here to Bays Mountain. He’s the man started this farm where there was nothin’ but rattlesnakes, and trees, and rocks.”

“Whyy theyea selll um?” a red roan calf interrupted.

“Well, they sold ’em ’cause Oak Ridge had been condemned. That was several years after the German Civil War. It was peace time, for a change, and folks were sick of Atomic Bomb. Anyhow, new, modern plants for makin’ the stuff had been built in secret places a lot easier to defend. The women were cryin’ for more automatic kitchens, so the Bureau of Interior Hydroelectric Power (that’s the name Federal Power, Inc., went by then) put another dam across the Clinch River below Norris. Bush Lake covered up Oak Ridge.

“There wasn’t much mutation, except for color, in you Atohmy cattle, till seven years ago when your pappy, Moe, was born. I remember—”

A hoarse excited voice shouted from a distance. “Thrill party!” it cried. “Thrill party!”

* * *

Stonecypher leaped off the stump, stamped his right foot to restore circulation, and yelled on the run, “That’s all today! Stay under the trees!”

He loped along the pasture fence and across the makeshift target range. Two tenants, Teddy and Will, stood on the dirt heap with pitchforks in their hands. Over Bay Knob, an old Model 14 butterflier hovered on vibrating wings. Sloppy white letters on the sides of the aircraft spelled such slang expressions as, “Flash the MAGNETS,” “SuperOlossalSoniC Flap ship,” and “Redheads amble OTHer canop.”

An impossible number of middleschool-age boys bulged from the cabin windows. Methodically, they dumped trash and garbage over the transmitter station ruins. The butterflier wheeled and flapped over the pasture. Red clover bent and writhed in the artificial wind from the ornithopter wings. Cows bawled and ran wild. Calves fell over each other.

Stonecypher jumped the fence. He wrested the revolver from the holster. “Clear out, or I’ll shoot!” he howled.

Voices spilled from the butterflier. “He got a handgun!”

“Dis ain’t legal!”

“Whatcha say, tall, bones, and ugly?”

Stonecypher aimed the Magnum at the shaven head in the pilot’s seat. The boys looked faint. Agitated air thundered as the butterflier lifted straight up two hundred feet and glided away in the direction of Surgoinsville Dam.

Teddy and Will stood by with pitchforks unrelaxed. Will spat a globule of tobacco juice. “The things these here psychologists git made law!” he sneered. “You want me to make out a Thrill Damage Claim?”

“No, Will,” Stonecypher said, “just deduct it from taxes.”

Teddy looked at the revolver and said, “Ever’body oughta take guns to them crazy youngin’s. Reckon you’ll git into trouble?”

“No. It’s an empty antique. That’s legal. You guys did all right. Let the calves back in, huh?”

The tenants left by the gate, and, with a minimum of driving, urged the calves into the pasture. Stonecypher watched the men pass through the grove. Although the tenants undoubtedly recognized the peculiarities of the calves, they never mentioned them. Since the late 1700s, through Revolution, Civil War, automobile, the Department of Internal Revenue, the multiple bureaus that had controlled the Lakes, the Moon rocket, and the expedition to Pluto, these people had remained suspiciously interested in strangers, suspicious of indoor plumbing, doubtful of the Government, quick-tempered, and as immovable as Chimney Top. They had exchanged little except log and frame houses for concrete. The tenants, not really tenants, had been squatting on Bays Mountains when Cary McPheeter bought the farm; and there they stayed.

Stonecypher vaulted the fence. Catriona, with hands firmly planted on hips, stood in the dry pond. Stonecypher said, “If I just knew what these thrill parties think they’re up to, it might help.”

Catriona shook her head of red-yellow hair. “Nevah mind them. Ah told you to practice shootin’, but the minute ah turn mah back, you run off and staht teachin’ those calves! You’ve got to practice, Stony! You’ve nevah done any shootin’, and L. Dan’s killed ten people. Ah—”

“Watch the tears, or you’ll have red and green eyes,” Stonecypher said. Clumsily, he ejected the shells and reloaded the revolver. He occupied two seconds in drawing and firing. The bullets struck dirt a yard to the left of the target.

 

 

 

Sonata

 

A short vicious thunderstorm lashed Bays Mountain on the afternoon of July 3. As the storm passed, a blood-red butterflier, with a pusher propeller in the tail and a plastic bull head on the nose, descended in the young Sudan grass. Stonecypher dropped the saw—he had been clearing away a beech limb the storm left in the abandoned paddock—and strolled to greet Ringmaster A. Oswell.

“Stonecypher!” the ringmaster announced. “That storm almost caught us!” Oswell’s stainless steel teeth clacked, and the breezes trailing the thunderclouds ballooned his orange silk kimono. “I never liked these butterfliers. They’re too slow, and that swooping motion! Five hundred miles per hour may seem fast to a man your age; but in my day, back before petroleum was classified as armament, we had jets! Real speed!”

“Come on up to the house, ringmaster,” Stonecypher invited. “I’ll mix up some dextrose and citric acid.”

“No, no time,” the fat man panted. “Only time to see you about that bull you sold me. The storm took a limb of your beech tree! Almost the only one left, I suppose. About that bull, Stonecypher, you know I was a bit hesitant when I bought him, but my driver talked me into it. I’m so disappointed I had him drafted immediately!”

“But what—” Stonecypher attempted to ask.

“The young woman there in the butterflier is a much better driver and pilot,” Oswell babbled. “I wouldn’t have believed it of a woman! She weighs a good ninety-eight pounds, too! That bull—he has changed completely since we put him under the stands. He eats well, but he shows no spirit at all. Tomorrow is the big day, Stonecypher! I can’t disappoint the crowd! I thought he might be sick, but the vet says not. That bull let the vet come into the cage and made absolutely no attempt to kill him!”

“But does Fergus—”

“Fergus’s manager saw the bull! He’s all for it. Fergus made an extremely poor showing on Memorial Day, and the manager thinks this odd bull would provide a real comeback! I advised against it. This heat is terrible! The storm didn’t cool the air at all.”

Stonecypher maneuvered the perspiring ringmaster into the shade of the beech. He said, “I wanta do the fair thing with you, ringmaster, so I’ll give you a guarantee, in writing if you want. If that bull’s not the bravest ever fought in Highland Bullring, I give you double-money-back.”

Oswell’s face wobbled in a tentative smile. He counted his stubby fingers. “Double-money-back?”

“Yeah. I wanta get into the business. My grandfather used to sell bulls. Then my father came along, and he wouldn’t sell a one.”

“Yes. Yes, I once tried to reason with him, but—”

“He had funny ideas,” Stonecypher pressed his advantage. “I never did understand the old man myself. He used to lecture me on something he called the Man-Animal War. He said one of the worst things in the war was the thousands of bulls that had been tortured to death.”

“Peculiar idea. Of course—”

“He claimed bullfights slipped up on this country. Back when it wasn’t legal, they spaded up the ground real good. There were movies, and books, and magazines, and foreign broadcasts, all ravin’ about how brave and noble it was for a bunch of men to worry and torture a stupid animal like a bull, till he couldn’t hardly hold his head up, and then run a sword in ‘im.”

“Naturally, you—”

“I don’t know how many times he told me a bull had more brains than a horse, but less than a jackass. He said bullfightin’ wasn’t a sport, even if the bull got a man sometimes; and he had the idea the worst thing was the four or five horses, that ever’ bull killed, took with ‘im. They had some bloodless bullfights in California, and the nut colonies out there like it so good, first thing you know, we really had it. It came to East Tennessee ’cause this was one of the biggest cattle-raisin’ sections, before the Lakes took the grazin’ land.”

“Surely, Stonecypher, you—”

“My father always claimed if the bullfighters were near as brave as they said, they’d take on a really intelligent animal sometimes, like a man-eatin’ tiger. He even thought a man was mentalill to fight a bull in the first place.” Stonecypher grinned. “No, you don’t need to worry about me, ringmaster. I hate to admit it, but the old man is the one who was mentalill.”

Oswell revealed all of his steel teeth in a broad smile. “You had me worried!” he wheezed. “Now, your offer.”

“I’ll go even better,” Stonecypher said, “just to show how set I am on getting’ back in the business. If Moe’s not brave, I got two yearlin’s you can have for free.”

“How generous! You’ve reassured me, Stonecypher. I have confidence, now, that the show will be a great success! I must go! You have no conception of the life a ringmaster leads before a fight. I won’t require a written guarantee. I trust you, Stonecypher! See you tomorrow, I hope! I never liked July. If the Government would only make more Lakes, it might cool off! I hope—”

The whir of the red butterflier’s wings terminated Oswell’s discourse. With a face like a gored bullkiller, Stonecypher watched the ringmaster’s departure. Another butterflier hovered above the mountain. This one was green and gold with the canopy pushed back and a glint of twin lenses in the cockpit.

Will appeared at Stonecypher’s side. He spat in a long arc and said, “That’s a new one, ain’t it, peepin’ from a butterfly? I reckon L. Dan never got kilt in that other duel like I hoped he would. You want us to git you outa this, Stonecypher?”

“No, Will.”

“We can see you git to the Smokies. The Givernment’ll never find you down in there.”

“I’ll be all right, Will. If he does kill me, take care of Catriona. And look after the calf records.”

“Sure thing.”

Stonecypher walked slowly toward Catriona’s open-topped sunbathing tent.

 

 

 

Danse Macabre

 

Duelmaster R. Smith adjusted his black tam. “Do not touch your shooting hand to your weapon until the buzzer sounds,” he instructed. “Otherwise, the weapon may be carried as you wish. At the slightest infringement of the rules, a robot gun will kill you. If you have any elaborate last words, say them now; because the pen is soundproof.” He laughed an obviously much rehearsed laugh.

L. Dan wore orange tights today, but no armor, since the rules required duelists to present naked torsos for probable bullets. Stonecypher faced the duelmaster. “I reckon this room is the only place a man really has free speech,” he said. “You’re deaf, and can’t see good enough to read lips, and me or him will soon be dead.

“I don’t believe in this duelin’. It gives a man who’s wrong a chance to kill one who’s right. A man shouldn’t oughta have to die because he’s right. Just like ever’thing else in this Manly Age. It’s painful. That oughta be our motto, More Pain, just like in the Machine Age it was More Gadgets At Any Cost.”

“Why don’t you go on tevee?” Dan jeered. “She’ll soon forget you, farmer.”

Stonecypher’s words rolled over the hobbyist. “I reckon the Manly Age came because a man started thinkin’ he wasn’t much of a man any more. He was just as fast as his car, and just as strong as his electric lawn mower. And a loud minority of the women was claimin’ they could do anything a man could, and maybe better. So the men started playin’ football in shorts and huntin’ each other on game preserves, and the women went back to the kitchen and bedroom. Lots of things that went on undercover come out in the open. Cockfights, dogfights, coon-on-a-log, duels, stallion fights, bullfights.

“And people like you, L. Dan, went on livin’. You got no right to live. You don’t do any useful work. The Earth is slowly starvin’, and you take the grub out of some feller’s mouth who might could help a little. That’s why—”

“Time!” announced the duelmaster with his face close to a large clock on the wall. He opened the door. Two men carrying a body on a stretcher passed. The body had four bullet wounds in it.

Dan said, “That drivel gives me a real reason to kill you, farmer. I’ll be good to her for a few days.”

As prearranged, Dan took the right branch of the corridor and Stonecypher, the left. A hooded man gave Stonecypher the Magnum revolver and shut him into a space resembling a windowed closet with a door on either side. Stonecypher secured the revolver in the clip holster. His bony hands formed knotted fists.

The pen door slid back. Stonecypher stepped into a room thirty by ninety feet with three bullet-marred concrete walls and a fourth wall of bulletproof glass, behind which sat the ghoulish audience. Dan, crouched and with his pistol in the crook of his left elbow, advanced. His right hand fluttered an inch from the pistol butt.

Stonecypher, grotesque with thin chest exposed and overall bib wrapped around belt, waited. Two photoelectric robot machine guns followed each movement of the duelists. A buzzer sounded. Dan’s index finger failed to reach the trigger, for a guardian machine gun removed the hobbyist’s head in a short efficient burst. The noise of a loud buzzer punctuated the execution.

When the soundproof inner door of the closet opened, the hooded man, who had a pair of crossed pistols tattooed on the back of his right hand, said, “He was too anxious.”

“Yeah,” Stonecypher grunted.

The man watched Stonecypher pass out to the street. Stonecypher snapped up the bib of his overalls. An extremely rare bird, a robin, hopped from his path and continued a fruitless search for insects. Stonecypher walked down Watauga Street until the pavement vanished under the brownish-green water of Kings Lake.

Catriona squealed when she saw him. Ignoring all Correct Procedures, she almost knocked him down and attempted to smother him. “Ah told you it just took practice!” she blubbered. “You did it, Stony!”

With muffled mumbles, Stonecypher managed to put her in the Tenite canoe. The few people along the quay, who had witnessed the illegal manner of their meeting, watched with shock, or with incredulity, or with guarded admiration. When they saw that Stonecypher’s hand rested on a holstered revolver, they lost their curiosity.

Wading, Stonecypher shoved the canoe off and hopped aboard. As he took up the paddle, his hand trailed in the water and released the small buzzer that had made possible Catriona’s best carnival act.

* * *

For July, the afternoon was cool. Blue-gray clouds drifted before larger dirty white masses. To the southwest opened the mile-wide mouth of Horse Creek; and, far beyond, the great blue pyramid of Chimney Top Mountain stood defiantly above Sevier Lake. The world seemed water broken only by partly submerged hills and mountains.

Stonecypher gazed across the Lake at Bays Mountain and at the five Cement Islands apparently floating against that backdrop. Softly, he said, “Some folks call the big one Martyrs Island. There’s a marble pillar right in the middle. Nobody knows who put it there, and the Government never bothered to knock it down. I reckon the poison ivy’s covered it by now, but I went and read the inscription, once, when I was a boy. It says:

 


‘They moved me off the Powell River.
They covered my farm with water.
I bought me another near Beans Station.
The water covered it.
I was getting old, but I built at Galloway Mill.
When they flooded that, I gave up and lived in Kingsport.
I will not move again.'”

 

The canoe bounded over the choppy water, one hundred feet above the silted streets of the flooded city of Kingsport. Stonecypher said, “The time I was there, you could still find a few copter-trooper helmets and old cankered shells. Couple of years back, a diver brought up two skulls off shore.”

Catriona’s eyes remained moist, but she smiled. Her teeth were beautiful. “It’ll be all rahght, Stony. You can’t change the wo’ld in one day. You did fine, and Moe will too.”

“I told you to stay at the bullring,” Stonecypher said.

“Ah couldn’t watch that! And those puny, little, mousy women stare and talk about me, because theah’s a little meat on mah cahcass. Oswell said Moe would be last, anyhow. Ah was so wo’ied about you, ah couldn’t sit still.”

Only a few boats, mainly those of piscatorial maniacs, were on the lake. Stonecypher glared at them and muttered, “I hope I did right by Moe. He wanted to fight. Maybe, Catriona, if I’d had you when I found out he could talk—not just mimic—I’d of raised him different. Maybe I shouldn’t have shown him that bullfight movie, but I wondered what the only bull to see a bullfight from outside the ring thought about it.

“That led to him wantin’ to know all about the Man-Animal War. I told him the best I could, how one of a man’s basic drives is to exterminate, ever’ since prehistoric times when he did in the wooly mammoth and rhinoceros. The dodo, quagga, passenger pigeon, great auk, aurochs, Key deer, bison, African elephant, gorilla, tiger—there’s an awful list. Why, five hundred species of mammals, alone, have become extinct since 1 A.D., ’bout four hundred of them since 1850. A man’ll even kill off other men, like the Neanderthals and the Tasmanians!” Stonecypher rested the paddle and grinned, faintly, at Catriona reclining in the bow. “I guess you’ve heard this before.”

“Go rahght ahead, Stony,” Catriona sighed. “Ah like to heah yoah speech. It’s the only time you really get angry, and you look so fine and noble.”

“Yeah. Well. I told Moe how a man exterminates useful or harmless species, and then he lets dangerous ones, like rats, eat him out of house and home. Course, I explained this was just kinship. Folks used to argue man come from a monkey, or from spontaneous combustion, or something. Now we got fossil proof he’s not like anything anybody ever saw. He’s a case of straight line development all the way back to the first mammal, a sort of rat.”

The canoe glided past Highland Pier. Every type of small watercraft, from a punt, through an electric motorboat, to a sloop, had docked. More boats lined the shore on either side of the pier. The flying field contained so many butterfliers and copters that there seemed no possibility of any of them taking off. Human voices welled in a mob roar from the great open cylinder of the bullring. A huge banner draped on the curving white wall proclaimed, in ten-foot letters:

 

DEPENDENCE DAY
BULLFIGHT
HONOR THE GREAT
GOVERNMENT ON WHICH
WE DEPEND
SIX BULLS—THREE KILLERS

 

Stonecypher ran the canoe aground in a patch of dead weeds, exposed by a slight lowering of the lake level, and helped Catriona over the rocks that lined the bank. He said, “I told Moe other things men do to animals. All the laboratory butchery, done because it would be cruel to treat a man like that, but it’s all right with a animal, like takin’ out a dog’s brains and lettin’ ‘im live. I told him about huntin’, how the kudu became extinct ’cause a bunch of fools wanted to see who could kill the one with the biggest horns.

“I told him the things done to domestic animals. Dehornin’, emasculatin’, brandin’, slaughterin’ with sledge hammers and butcher knives, keepin’ ’em in filthy barns. A man tells hisself he’s superior to other animals. If he does somethin’ bad, he uses words like inhuman, brutal, animal instincts, instead of admittin’ it’s just typical behavior. And the psychologists take some animal, say a dog, and put him in a maze, something the dog never saw before. If the dog don’t run the maze in two seconds flat, they say he’s a pretty stupid animal. He just operates on instinct, but they can’t say how instinct operates. They’ll have a time explainin’ Moe’s instincts.

“I reckon the American bison made Moe madder than anything. They killed the bison off, ‘cept for protected herds, in the Nineteenth Century. A hundred years later, the herds had got pretty big, so they declared open season on bison. No more bison.”

A recorded voice growled, “No guns permitted in ring. Deposit gun in slot. No guns permitted in ring.”

Stonecypher moved his permit in ineffectual passes before the electric eye. He shrugged, dropped the revolver into the slot, and left his thumb print. Catriona displayed the passes Ringmaster Oswell had given them. The teveer blinked, and the gate granted admission. They rode the escalator to the sixth tier and squirmed through pandemonium to their seats.

The male portion of the crowd wore every possible style and color of dress, in complete emancipation from the old business suit uniform, but the women wore sober false-bosomed sundresses and expressed excitement in polite chirps. Stonecypher pressed his mouth against Catriona’s ear and whispered through the din, “You got to understand, Cat, whatever happens, Moe wanted it. He says he can scare some killers into givin’ up bullfights and maybe help stop it.”

“He’ll do fine, Stony.”

Several spectators stopped venting their wrath on the unfortunate man in the ring to gawk at the couple. Catriona’s unorthodox physique aroused sufficient amazement; but, in addition, Stonecypher gave her the front seat and took the rear one, the correct place for a woman, himself.

Below, through a rain of plasti-bottles and rotten eggs, a tired man walked to the barrier which Oswell advertised as the only wooden fence in seven states. Behind the killer, a small electric tractor dragged out the bloody carcass of a bull.

A gasping, gibbering little man grabbed Stonecypher’s arm and yelped, “Illard is the clumsiest killer, he ran the sword in three times, and the kid with the dagger had to stick twice before they finished, Big Dependence Day Bullfight my jet! This is the worst in years, Fergus made the only clean kill all afternoon, and I flew every one of eighteen hundred miles myself to see it, this last bull better be good!” The little man waved his bag of rotten eggs.

Although the bullfight followed the basic procedures established by Francisco Romero in the Spain of 1700, changes had occurred, including the elimination of all Spanish words from the vocabulary of the spectacle since the unpleasant dispute with the Spanish Empire twenty years before. The gaudy costumes worn by participants had been replaced by trunks and sneakers.

A purring grader smoothed the sand. The crowd quieted, except for those near the box of Ringmaster Oswell. They suggested in obscene terms that their money be refunded. A trumpet recording blared. A scarlet door, inscribed, “Moe of Bays Mountain Farm,” opened. The crowd awaited the first wild rush of the bull. It failed to materialize.

 

 

 

Grand Finale

 

Slowly, Moe came through the doorway. Above, on a platform inside the barrier, stood a gray-haired man who stuck identifying, streamered darts into bovine shoulders. His hand swept down, carrying Stonecypher’s chosen colors, black.

Moe’s walk upset the man’s timing. His arm moved too soon. Moe’s front hooves left the ground. Horns hooked. The gray-haired man screamed and dropped the dart. With a spike of horn through his arm, between bone and biceps, he gyrated across the barrier. He screamed a second time before cloven hooves slashed across his body.

The crowd inhaled, then cheered the unprecedented entrance. Killer Fergus’s team stood rigid, not comprehending. Then men dashed through shielded openings in the barrier, yelling and waving pink and yellow capes to draw the bull from his victim.

Moe ignored the distraction, trotted nonchalantly to the center of the ring, and turned his bulging head to examine the spectators jabbering at his strange appearance. The short horns, the round skull, the white-banded eyes, the mane that seemed slightly purple under the cloudy sky, and the exaggerated slope from neck to rump that made the hind legs too short—together they amounted to a ton of muscle almost like a bull. “Where’d you trap it, Oswell?” someone near the ringmaster’s box yelled.

Forgetting the mess Illard had made with the previous bull, the crowd commented. “It’s the last of the bison!”

“He’s poiple! Lookit! Poiple!”

“The bull of the woods!”

“Howya like ‘im, Fergus?”

Killer Fergus posed behind the barrier and studied his specialty, an odd bull. Two stickers, Neel and Tomas, flourished capes to test the bull’s charge, with Neel chanting, “Come on, bull! Come on, bull! Come on! Bull, bull, bull!”

Moe did not charge. He moved, in a speculative walk, toward the chanting Neel who tantalized with the cape and retreated with shuffling steps. The charge, when it came, occurred almost too fast for sight. Neel wriggled on the horns, struck the sand, and the horns lifted him again. He smashed against the barrier. Tomas threw his cape over the bull’s face. The left horn pinned the cape to Tomas’s naked chest over the heart.

Moe retired to the center of the ring and bellowed at the crowd, which, delirious from seeing human blood, applauded. Blood covered Moe’s horns, dripped through the long hair on his neck, and trickled down between his eyes.

Quavering helpers removed the bodies. The first lancer, livid and trembling, rode a blindfolded horse into the ring. “He’ll fix this horse!” the crowd slavered. “We’ll see guts this time!”

Moe charged. The lancer backed his mount against the barrier and gripped his weapon, a stout pike. Sand sprayed like water as Moe swerved. On the left side of the horse, away from the menacing pike, Moe reared. The lancer left the saddle. A tangle of naked limbs thrashed across the wooden fence and thudded against the wall of the stands.

Twenty-five thousand people held their breaths. The blindfolded horse waited with dilated nostrils and every muscle vibrating in terror. Moe produced a long red tongue and licked the horse’s jaw.

Fergus dispersed the tableau. Red-haired, lean, and scarred with many past gorings, the popular killer stalked across the sand dragging his cape and roaring incomprehensible challenges. In the stands, the cheer leaders of the Fergus Fanclub lead a welcoming yell. “Yeaaaa, Fergus! Fergus! Fergus! Rah, rah, rah!”

Moe wandered through the helpers trying to distract him from the horse and looked at the killer. Fergus stamped his foot, shook his cape, and called, “Bull! Come on! Charge!” Moe completely circled the killer, who retired in disgust when another lancer rode into the ring. “Stick him good!” Fergus directed.

The pike pointed at the great muscles of Moe’s back, as the bull charged. Moe’s head twisted in a blur of violence. Teeth clamped on the shaft behind the point. Too surprised to let go, the lancer followed his weapon from the saddle. He released his hold when Moe walked on him.

Like some fantastic dog stealing a fresh bone, the bull trotted around the ring, tail high and pike in mouth. The crowd laughed. Wild-eyed men carried out the trampled lancer.

A third, and extremely reluctant, lancer reined his horse through the gate. A pike in the mouth of a ton of beef utterly unnerved the man. He stood in the saddle and jumped over the barrier where a rain of rotten eggs from the booing fans spattered him thoroughly.

* * *

An uninjured bull pawed alone in the sand when the trumpet recording announced the end of the lancers’ period. The crowd noises softened to a buzz of speculation, questions, and comment, as the realization that weird events had been witnessed slowly penetrated that collective mind. The bull had not touched a horse, no pike had jabbed the bull, and five men had been killed or injured.

“Great Government!” a clear voice swore. “That ain’t no bull, it’s a monster!” This opinion came from a sticker in Illard’s team. Fergus attempted to persuade the man to help, since both of Fergus’s stickers were dead. Part of the crowd agreed with the sticker’s thought, for people began moving furtively to the exits with cautious glances at the animal in the ring. They, of course, could not know that the bull had been trained, with rubber-tipped pikes and dummies, in every phase of the bullfight; that he knew the first, and only, law of staying alive in the ring, “Charge the man and not the cloth.”

The clouds that had obscured the sky all day formed darker masses tinted with pink to the east, and the black dot of a turkey buzzard wheeled soaring in the gloom. Carrying, in either hand, a barbed stick sparkling with plastic streamers, Fergus walked into the ring. His assistants cautiously flanked him with capes.

Moe dropped the pike and charged in the approved manner of a bull. Fergus raised the sticks high and brought them down on the humped back, although the back was not there. The sticks dropped in the sand.

As the killer leaped aside in the completion of a reflex action, a horn penetrated the seat of his trunks. The Fergus Fanclub screamed while their hero dangled in ignominy from the horn. Moe ignored the flapping, frantic capes. The killer gingerly gripped a horn in either hand and tried to lift himself off. Gently, Moe lowered his head and deposited the man beside an opening. Fergus scrabbled to safety like a rat to a hole.

Four helpers with capes occupied the ring. When they saw death approaching on cloven hooves, two of them cleared the fence. The third received a horn beside his backbone and tumbled into the fourth. A dual scream, terrible enough to insure future nightmares, echoed above the screeching of the crowd. Moe tossed the bodies again and again across the bloody sand.

Silence slithered over the Highland Bullring and over a scene reminiscent of the ring’s bloody parent, the Roman Arena. Men sprawled gored, crushed, and dead across the sand. A section of the blood-specked barrier leaned splintered and cracked, almost touching the concrete wall. Unharmed, Fergus stood on one side of the battleground, Illard on the other.

Fergus reached over the wooden fence for red flag and sword. Turning his back on the heaving Moe, who stood but ten feet behind, the killer faced the quaking flesh that was Ringmaster Oswell, high up in the official box. The killer’s voice shook, but the bitter satire came through the sound of departing boats and aircraft. Fergus said, “I dedicate this bull to Ringmaster Oswell who has provided for us this great Dependence Day Bullfight in honor of the Great Government on which we all depend.” He turned and faced the bull.

Moe, for once, rushed the red flag, the only thing that made bullfights possible. His great shoulders presented a fair target for the sword.

Fergus, perhaps the only bullfighter ever to be gored in the brain, died silently. The sword raked a shallow gash long Moe’s loin.

In the sixth tier of the stands, saliva drooled from the slack mouth of the little man seated beside Stonecypher. “Now’s your chance, Illard!” the man squalled. “Be a hero! The last of the bullfighters! Kill him, Illard!”

Illard walked on shaking legs over bodies he did not see. He was short, for a killer, and growing bald. He picked up the sword Fergus had dropped, looked into the gory face of the bull, and toppled in the sticky sand. The sword quivered point-first beside his body.

 

 

 

Recessional

 

A wind whipped down into Highland Bullring. Riding the wind, blacker than the clouds, the inquisitive turkey buzzard glided over the rim of the stands with air whistling through the spatulate feathers of rigid wings. The buzzard swooped a foot above Moe’s horns and soared swiftly over the opposite side of the ring.

That started the panic, although Moe’s charge accentuated it. He crashed into the sagging section of the barrier. Cloven hooves scraped the wooden inclined plane, and Moe stopped with front feet in the first tier of the stands. He bellowed.

The bull killed only one spectator, a man on whom he stepped. The hundreds who died killed themselves or each other. They leaped from the towering rim of the ring, and they jammed the exits in writhing heaps.

Moe’s precarious stance slipped. Slowly, he slid back into the ring, where Ringmaster Oswell, quivering in a red toga, gestured from the darkness under the stands. The fat man squeaked and waved. Moe’s charge embodied the genuine fighting rage of a maddened bull. The scarlet door closed behind him.

Stonecypher, with fists bloody and a heap of unconscious fear-crazed spectators piled before him, sat down. “Well, Moe,” he whispered, “I reckon you got even for a few of the bulls that’s been tortured to death to amuse a bunch of nuts. Maybe it wasn’t the right way to do it. I don’t know. If I’d only had the gun—”

Catriona turned a white mask of a face up to Stonecypher. “They killed him, in theah?”

“Sure. Bullfightin’ never was a sport. The bull can’t win. If he’s not killed in the ring, he’s slaughtered under the stands.

“You have moah smart-bulls, Stony.”

The black copter came in with the sunset and hovered over the sand. The face of Duelmaster Smith peered out under his black tam, while a hooded man, with pistols tattooed on his hand, aimed an automatic rifle. The duelmaster smiled at Stonecypher and cried, “You really should have waited until you were farther out in the Lake, before you dropped that little buzzer in the water.”

 

 

 

 

Quietus by Ross Rocklynne

Quietus

by Ross Rocklynne



Preface by David Drake



Like a number of my other picks for this anthology, I read "Quietus" before authors' names meant anything to me. I didn't run into the story later, when the name Ross Rocklynne would've been familiar. (In 1972 I read early '40s issues of Planet Stories, and then a series by Rocklynne stood out very vividly.)

I didn't remember the story's title, either, so I didn't rediscover it until a few years ago when I made a determined search through a number of anthologies I'd read when I was thirteen or fourteen. There I found "Quietus," just as effective as I remembered it being. A story that stands out so clearly decades after I'd forgotten its title and author belongs in this collection.

"Quietus" hit me between the eyes with the concept that who we are creates a bias in how we view the world. I've never forgotten that lesson, though I won't pretend it's always been as close to the front of my mind as it should've been. Still, I'd like to think that because of Rocklynne's story I've been somewhat less of an arrogant prick than I've watched some other WASP males of my acquaintance being.

 

 

The creatures from Alcon saw from the first that Earth, as a planet, was practically dead; dead in the sense that it had given birth to life, and was responsible, indirectly, for its almost complete extinction.

“This type of planet is the most distressing,” said Tark, absently smoothing down the brilliantly colored feathers of his left wing. “I can stand the dark, barren worlds which never have, and probably never will, hold life. But these that have been killed by some celestial catastrophe! Think of what great things might have come from their inhabitants.”

As he spoke thus to his mate, Vascar, he was marking down in a book the position of this planet, its general appearance from space, and the number and kind of satellites it supported.

Vascar, sitting at the controls, both her claws and her vestigial hands at work, guided the spherical ship at slowly decreasing speed toward the planet Earth. A thousand miles above it, she set the craft into an orbital motion, and then proceeded to study the planet, Tark setting the account into his book, for later insertion into the Astronomical Archives of Alcon.

“Evidently,” mused Vascar, her brilliant, unblinking eyes looking at the planet through a transparent section above the control board, “some large meteor, or an errant asteroid—that seems most likely—must have struck this specimen a terrible blow. Look at those great, gaping cracks that run from pole to pole, Tark. It looks as if volcanic eruptions are still taking place, too. At any rate, the whole planet seems entirely denuded—except for that single, short strip of green we saw as we came in.”

Tark nodded. He was truly a bird, for in the evolutionary race on his planet, distant uncounted light-years away, his stock had won out over the others. His wings were short, true, and in another thousand years would be too short for flight, save in a dense atmosphere; but his head was large, and his eyes, red, small, set close together, showed intelligence and a kind benevolence. He and Vascar had left Alcon, their planet, a good many years ago; but they were on their way back now. Their outward-bound trip had taken them many light-years north of the Solar System; but on the way back, they had decided to make it one of the stop-off points in their zigzag course. Probably their greatest interest in all this long cruise was in the discovery of planets—they were indeed few. And that pleasure might even be secondary to the discovery of life. To find a planet that had almost entirely died was, conversely, distressing. Their interest in the planet Earth was, because of this, a wistful one.

The ship made the slow circuit of Earth—the planet was a hodge-podge of tumbled, churned mountains; of abysmal, frightfully long cracks exuding unholy vapors; of volcanoes that threw their fires and hot liquid rocks far into the sky; of vast oceans disturbed from the ocean bed by cataclysmic eruptions. And of life they saw nothing save a single strip of green perhaps a thousand miles long, a hundred wide, in the Western Hemisphere.

“I don’t think we’ll find intelligent life,” Tark said pessimistically. “This planet was given a terrific blow—I wouldn’t be surprised if her rotation period was cut down considerably in a single instant. Such a charge would be unsupportable. Whole cities would literally be snapped away from their foundations—churned, ground to dust. The intelligent creatures who built them would die by the millions—the billions—in that holocaust; and whatever destruction was left incomplete would be finished up by the appearance of volcanoes and faults in the crust of the planet.”

Vascar reminded him, “Remember, where there’s vegetation, even as little as evidenced by that single strip down there, there must be some kind of animal life.”

Tark ruffled his wings in a shrug. “I doubt it. The plants would get all the carbon dioxide they needed from volcanoes—animal life wouldn’t have to exist. Still, let’s take a look. Don’t worry, I’m hoping there’s intelligent life, too. If there is, it will doubtless need some help if it is to survive. Which ties in with our aims, for that is our principal purpose on this expedition—to discover intelligent life, and, wherever possible, to give it what help we can, if it needs help.”

Vascar’s vestigial hands worked the controls, and the ship dropped leisurely downward toward the green strip.

* * *

A rabbit darted out of the underbrush—Tommy leaped at it with the speed and dexterity of a thoroughly wild animal. His powerful hands wrapped around the creature—its struggles ceased as its vertebra was snapped. Tommy squatted, tore the skin off the creature, and proceeded to eat great mouthfuls of the still warm flesh.

Blacky cawed harshly, squawked, and his untidy form came flashing down through the air to land precariously on Tommy’s shoulder. Tommy went on eating, while the crow fluttered its wings, smoothed them out, and settled down to a restless somnolence. The quiet of the scrub forest, save for the cries and sounds of movement of birds and small animals moving through the forest, settled down about Tommy as he ate. “Tommy” was what he called himself. A long time ago, he remembered, there used to be a great many people in the world—perhaps a hundred—many of whom, and particularly two people whom he had called Mom and Pop, had called him by that name. They were gone now, and the others with them. Exactly where they went, Tommy did not know. But the world had rocked one night—it was the night Tommy ran away from home, with Blacky riding on his shoulder—and when Tommy came out of the cave where he had been sleeping, all was in flames, and the city on the horizon had fallen so that it was nothing but a huge pile of dust—but in the end it had not mattered to Tommy. Of course, he was lonesome, terrified, at first, but he got over that. He continued to live, eating, drinking, sleeping, walking endlessly; and Blacky, his talking crow, was good company. Blacky was smart. He could speak every word that Tommy knew, and a good many others that he didn’t. Tommy was not Blacky’s first owner.

But though he had been happy, the last year had brought the recurrence of a strange feeling that had plagued him off and on, but never so strongly as now. A strange, terrible hunger was settling on him. Hunger? He knew this sensation. He had forthwith slain a wild dog, and eaten of the meat. He saw then that it was not a hunger of the belly. It was a hunger of the mind, and it was all the worse because he could not know what it was. He had come to his feet, restless, looking into the tangled depths of the second growth forest.

“Hungry,” he had said, and his shoulders shook and tears coursed out of his eyes, and he sat down on the ground and sobbed without trying to stop himself, for he had never been told that to weep was unmanly. What was it he wanted?

He had everything there was all to himself. Southward in winter, northward in summer, eating of berries and small animals as he went, and Blacky to talk to and Blacky to talk the same words back at him. This was the natural life—he had lived it ever since the world went bang. But still he cried, and felt a panic growing in his stomach, and he didn’t know what it was he was afraid of, or longed for, whichever it was. He was twenty-one years old. Tears were natural to him, to be indulged in whenever he felt like it. Before the world went bang—there were some things he remembered—the creature whom he called Mom generally put her arms around him and merely said, “It’s all right, Tommy, it’s all right.”

So on that occasion, he arose from the ground and said, “It’s all right, Tommy, it’s all right.”

Blacky, he with the split tongue, said harshly, as was his wont, “It’s all right, Tommy, it’s all right! I tell you, the price of wheat is going down!”

Blacky, the smartest crow anybody had—why did he say that? There wasn’t anybody else, and there weren’t any more crows—helped a lot. He not only knew all the words and sentences that Tommy knew, but he knew others that Tommy could never understand because he didn’t know where they came from, or what they referred to. And in addition to all that, Blacky had the ability to anticipate what Tommy said, and frequently took whole words and sentences right out of Tommy’s mouth.

* * *

Tommy finished eating the rabbit, and threw the skin aside, and sat quite still, a peculiarly blank look in his eyes. The strange hunger was on him again. He looked off across the lush plain of grasses that stretched away, searching into the distance, toward where the Sun was setting. He looked to left and right. He drew himself softly to his feet, and peered into the shadows of the forest behind him. His heavily bearded lips began to tremble, and the tears started from his eyes again. He turned and stumbled from the forest, blinded.

Blacky clutched at Tommy’s broad shoulder, and rode him, and a split second before Tommy said, “It’s all right, Tommy, it’s all right.”

Tommy said the words angrily to himself, and blinked the tears away.

He was a little bit tired. The Sun was setting, and night would soon come. But it wasn’t that that made him tired. It was a weariness of the mind, a feeling of futility, for, whatever it was he wanted, he could never, never find it, because he would not know where he should look for it.

His bare foot trampled on something wet—he stopped and looked at the ground. He stooped and picked up the skin of a recently killed rabbit. He turned it over and over in his hands, frowning. This was not an animal he had killed, certainly—the skin had been taken off in a different way. Someone else—no! But his shoulders began to shake with a wild excitement. Someone else? No, it couldn’t be! There was no one—there could be no one—could there? The skin dropped from his nerveless fingers as he saw a single footprint not far ahead of him. He stooped over it, examining, and knew again that he had not done this, either. And certainly it could be no other animal than a man!

It was a small footprint at which he stared, as if a child, or an under-sized man, might have stepped in the soft humus. Suddenly he raised his head. He had definitely heard the crackling of a twig, not more than forty feet away, certainly. His eyes stared ahead through the gathering dusk. Something looking back at him? Yes! Something there in the bushes that was not an animal!

“No noise, Blacky,” he whispered, and forgot Blacky’s general response to that command.

“No noise, Blacky!” the big, ugly bird blasted out. “No noise, Blacky! Well, fer cryin’ out loud!”

Blacky uttered a scared squawk as Tommy leaped ahead, a snarl contorting his features, and flapping from his master’s shoulder. For several minutes Tommy ran after the vanishing figure, with all the strength and agility of his singularly powerful legs. But whoever—or whatever—it was that fled him, outdistanced him easily, and Tommy had to stop at last, panting. Then he stooped, and picked up a handful of pebbles and hurled them at the squawking bird. A single tail feather fell to earth as Blacky swooped away.

“Told you not to make noise,” Tommy snarled, and the tears started to run again. The hunger was starting up in his mind again, too! He sat down on a log, and put his chin in his palms, while his tears flowed. Blacky came flapping through the air, almost like a shadow—it was getting dark. The bird tentatively settled on his shoulder, cautiously flapped away again and then came back.

Tommy turned his head and looked at it bitterly, and then turned away, and groaned.

“It’s all your fault, Blacky!”

“It’s all your fault,” the bird said. “Oh, Tommy, I could spank you! I get so exasperated!”

Sitting there, Tommy tried to learn exactly what he had seen. He had been sure it was a human figure, just like himself, only different. Different! It had been smaller, had seemed to possess a slender grace—it was impossible! Every time he thought of it, the hunger in his mind raged!

He jumped to his feet, his fists clenched. This hunger had been in him too long! He must find out what caused it—he must find her—why did the word her come to his mind? Suddenly, he was flooded with a host of childhood remembrances.

“It was a girl!” he gasped. “Oh, Tommy must want a girl!”

The thought was so utterly new that it left him stunned; but the thought grew. He must find her, if it took him all the rest of his life! His chest deepened, his muscles swelled, and a new light came into his blue eyes. Southward in winter, northward in summer—eating—sleeping—truly, there was nothing in such a life. Now he felt the strength of a purpose swelling up in him. He threw himself to the ground and slept; and Blacky flapped to the limb of a tree, inserted his head beneath a wing, and slept also. Perhaps, in the last ten or fifteen years, he also had wanted a mate, but probably he had long ago given up hope—for, it seemed, there were no more crows left in the world. Anyway, Blacky was very old, perhaps twice as old as Tommy; he was merely content to live.

* * *

Tark and Vascar sent their spherical ship lightly plummeting above the green strip—it proved to be vegetation, just as they had supposed. Either one or the other kept constant watch of the ground below—they discovered nothing that might conceivably be classed as intelligent life. Insects they found, and decided that they worked entirely by instinct; small animals, rabbits, squirrels, rats, raccoons, otters, opossums, and large animals, deer, horses, sheep, cattle, pigs, dogs, they found to be just that—animals, and nothing more.

“Looks as if it was all killed off, Vascar,” said Tark, “and not so long ago at that, judging by the fact that this forest must have grown entirely in the last few years.”

Vascar agreed; she suggested they put the ship down for a few days and rest.

“It would be wonderful if we could find intelligent life after all,” she said wistfully. “Think what a great triumph it would be if we were the ones to start the last members of that race on the upward trail again. Anyway,” she added, “I think this atmosphere is dense enough for us to fly in.”

He laughed—a trilling sound. “You’ve been looking for such an atmosphere for years. But I think you’re right about this one. Put the ship down there, Vascar—looks like a good spot.”

 

For five days Tommy followed the trail of the girl with a grim determination. He knew now that it was a woman; perhaps—indeed, very probably—the only one left alive. He had only the vaguest of ideas of why he wanted her—he thought it was for human companionship, that alone. At any rate, he felt that this terrible hunger in him—he could give it no other word—would be allayed when he caught up with her.

She was fleeing him, and staying just near enough to him to make him continue the chase, and he knew that with a fierce exultation. And somehow her actions seemed right and proper. Twice he had seen her, once on the crest of a ridge, once as she swam a river. Both times she had easily outdistanced him. But by cross-hatching, he picked up her trail again—a bent twig or weed, a footprint, the skin of a dead rabbit.

Once, at night, he had the impression that she crept up close, and looked at him curiously, perhaps with the same great longing that he felt. He could not be sure. But he knew that very soon now she would be his—and perhaps she would be glad of it.

Once he heard a terrible moaning, high up in the air. He looked upward. Blacky uttered a surprised squawk. A large, spherical thing was darting overhead.

“I wonder what that is,” Blacky squawked.

“I wonder what that is,” said Tommy, feeling a faint fear. “There ain’t nothin’ like that in the yard.”

He watched as the spaceship disappeared from sight. Then, with the unquestioning attitude of the savage, he dismissed the matter from his mind, and took up his tantalizing trail again.

“Better watch out, Tommy,” the bird cawed.

“Better watch out, Tommy,” Tommy muttered to himself. He only vaguely heard Blacky—Blacky always anticipated what Tommy was going to say, because he had known Tommy so long.

The river was wide, swirling, muddy, primeval in its surge of resistless strength. Tommy stood on the bank, and looked out over the waters—suddenly his breath soughed from his lungs.

“It’s her!” he gasped. “It’s her, Blacky! She’s drownin’!”

No time to waste in thought—a figure truly struggled against the push of the treacherous waters, seemingly went under. Tommy dived cleanly, and Blacky spread his wings at the last instant and escaped a bath. He saw his master disappear beneath the swirling waters, saw him emerge, strike out with singularly powerful arms, slightly upstream, fighting every inch of the way. Blacky hovered over the waters, cawing frantically, and screaming.

“Tommy, I could spank you! I could spank you! I get so exasperated! You wait till your father comes home!”

A log was coming downstream. Tommy saw it coming, but knew he’d escape it. He struck out, paid no more attention to it. The log came down with a rush, and would have missed him had it not suddenly swung broadside on. It clipped the swimming man on the side of the head. Tommy went under, threshing feebly, barely conscious, his limbs like leaden bars. That seemed to go on for a very long time. He seemed to be breathing water. Then something grabbed hold of his long black hair—

When he awoke, he was lying on his back, and he was staring into her eyes. Something in Tommy’s stomach fell out—perhaps the hunger was going. He came to his feet, staring at her, his eyes blazing. She stood only about twenty feet away from him. There was something pleasing about her, the slimness of her arms, the roundness of her hips, the strangeness of her body, her large, startled, timid eyes, the mass of ebon hair that fell below her hips. He started toward her. She gazed at him as if in a trance.

Blacky came flapping mournfully across the river. He was making no sound, but the girl must have been frightened as he landed on Tommy’s shoulder. She tensed, and was away like a rabbit. Tommy went after her in long, loping bounds, but his foot caught in a tangle of dead grass, and he plummeted head foremost to the ground.

The other vanished over a rise of ground.

He arose again, and knew no disappointment that he had again lost her. He knew now that it was only her timidity, the timidity of a wild creature, that made her flee him. He started off again, for now that he knew what the hunger was, it seemed worse than ever.

* * *

The air of this planet was deliciously breathable, and was the nearest thing to their own atmosphere that Tark and Vascar had encountered.

Vascar ruffled her brilliant plumage, and spread her wings, flapping them. Tark watched her, as she laughed at him in her own way, and then made a few short, running jumps and took off. She spiraled, called down to him.

“Come on up. The air’s fine, Tark.”

Tark considered. “All right,” he conceded, “but wait until I get a couple of guns.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Vascar called down; but nevertheless, as they rose higher and higher above the second growth forest, each had a belt strapped loosely around the neck, carrying a weapon similar to a pistol.

“I can’t help but hope we run into some kind of intelligent life,” said Vascar. “This is really a lovely planet. In time the volcanoes will die down, and vegetation will spread all over. It’s a shame that the planet has to go to waste.”

“We could stay and colonize it,” Tark suggested rakishly.

“Oh, not I. I like Alcon too well for that, and the sooner we get back there, the better—Look! Tark! Down there!”

Tark looked, caught sight of a medium large animal moving through the underbrush. He dropped a little lower. And then rose again.

“It’s nothing,” he said. “An animal, somewhat larger than the majority we’ve seen, probably the last of its kind. From the looks of it, I’d say it wasn’t particularly pleasant on the eyes. Its skin shows—Oh, now I see what you mean, Vascar!”

This time he was really interested as he dropped lower, and a strange excitement throbbed through his veins. Could it be that they were going to discover intelligent life after all—perhaps the last of its kind?

It was indeed an exciting sight the two bird-creatures from another planet saw. They flapped slowly above and a number of yards behind the unsuspecting upright beast, that moved swiftly through the forest, a black creature not unlike themselves in general structure riding its shoulder.

“It must mean intelligence!” Vascar whispered excitedly, her brilliant red eyes glowing with interest. “One of the first requisites of intelligent creatures it to put animals lower in the scale of evolution to work as beasts of burden and transportation.”

“Wait awhile,” cautioned Tark, “before you make any irrational conclusions. After all, there are creatures of different species which live together in friendship. Perhaps the creature which looks so much like us keeps the other’s skin and hair free of vermin. And perhaps the other way around, too.”

“I don’t think so,” insisted his mate. “Tark, the bird-creature is riding the shoulder of the beast. Perhaps that means its race is so old, and has used this means of transportation so long, that its wings have atrophied. That would almost certainly mean intelligence. It’s talking now—you can hear it. It’s probably telling its beast to stop—there, it has stopped!”

“Its voice is not so melodious,” said Tark dryly.

She looked at him reprovingly; the tips of their flapping wings were almost touching.

“That isn’t like you, Tark. You know very well that one of our rules is not to place intelligence on creatures who seem like ourselves, and neglect others while we do so. Its harsh voice proves nothing—to one of its race, if there are any left, its voice may be pleasing in the extreme. At any rate, it ordered the large beast of burden to stop—you saw that.”

“Well, perhaps,” conceded Tark.

* * *

They continued to wing their slow way after the perplexing duo, following slightly behind, skimming the tops of trees. They saw the white beast stop, and place its paws on its hips. Vascar, listening very closely, because she was anxious to gain proof of her contention, heard the bird-creature say,

“Now what, Blacky?” and also the featherless beast repeat the same words: “Now what, Blacky?”

“There’s your proof,” said Vascar excitedly. “Evidently the white beast is highly imitative. Did you hear it repeat what its master said?”

Tark said uneasily, “I wouldn’t jump to conclusions, just from a hasty survey like this. I admit that, so far, all the proof points to the bird. It seems truly intelligent; or at least more intelligent than the other. But you must bear in mind that we are naturally prejudiced in favor of the bird—it may not be intelligent at all. As I said, they may merely be friends in the sense that animals of different species are friends.”

Vascar made a scornful sound.

“Well, let’s get goin’, Blacky,” she heard the bird say; and heard the white, upright beast repeat the strange, alien words. The white beast started off again, traveling very stealthily, making not the least amount of noise. Again Vascar called this quality to the attention of her skeptical mate—such stealth was the mark of the animal, certainly not of the intelligent creature.

“We should be certain of it now,” she insisted. “I think we ought to get in touch with the bird. Remember, Tark, that our primary purpose on this expedition is to give what help we can to the intelligent races of the planets we visit. What creature could be more in need of help than the bird-creature down there? It is evidently the last of its kind. At least, we could make the effort of saving it from a life of sheer boredom; it would probably leap at the chance to hold converse with intelligent creatures. Certainly it gets no pleasure from the company of dumb beasts.”

But Tark shook his handsome, red-plumed head worriedly.

“I would prefer,” he said uneasily, “first to investigate the creature you are so sure is a beast of burden. There is a chance—though, I admit, a farfetched one—that it is the intelligent creature, and not the other.”

But Vascar did not hear him. All her feminine instincts had gone out in pity to the seemingly intelligent bird that rode Tommy’s broad shoulder. And so intent were she and Tark on the duo, that they did not see, less than a hundred yards ahead, that another creature, smaller in form, more graceful, but indubitably the same species as the white-skinner, unfeathered beast, was slinking softly through the underbrush, now and anon casting indecisive glances behind her toward him who pursued her. He was out of sight, but she could hear—

* * *

Tommy slunk ahead, his breath coming fast; for the trail was very strong, and his keen ears picked up the sounds of footsteps ahead. The chase was surely over—his terrible hunger about to end! He felt wildly exhilarated. Instincts were telling him much that his experience could not. He and this girl were the last of mankind. Something told him that now mankind could rise again—yet he did not know why. He slunk ahead, Blacky on his shoulder, all unaware of the two brilliantly colored denizens of another planet who followed above and behind him. But Blacky was not so easy of mind. His neck feathers were standing erect. Nervousness made him raise his wings up from his body—perhaps he heard the soft swish of large-winged creatures, beating the air behind, and though all birds of prey had been dead these last fifteen years, the old fear rose up.

Tommy glued himself to a tree, on the edge of a clearing. His breath escaped from his lungs as he caught a glimpse of a white, unclothed figure. It was she! She was looking back at him. She was tired of running. She was ready, glad to give up. Tommy experienced a dizzy elation. He stepped forth into the clearing, and slowly, very slowly, holding her large, dark eyes with his, started toward her. The slightest swift motion, the slightest untoward sound, and she would be gone. Her whole body was poised on the balls of her feet. She was not at all sure whether she should be afraid of him or not.

Behind him, the two feathered creatures from another planet settled slowly into a tree, and watched. Blacky certainly did not hear them come to rest—what he must have noticed was that the beat of wings, nagging at the back of his mind, had disappeared. It was enough.

“No noise, Blacky!” the bird screamed affrightedly, and flung himself into the air and forward, a bundle of ebon feathers with tattered wings outspread, as it darted across the clearing. For the third time, it was Blacky who scared her, for again she was gone, and had lost herself to sight even before Tommy could move.

“Come back!” Tommy shouted ragingly. “I ain’t gonna hurt you!” He ran after her full speed, tears streaming down his face, tears of rage and heartbreak at the same time. But already he knew it was useless! He stopped suddenly, on the edge of the clearing, and sobbing to himself, caught sight of Blacky, high above the ground, cawing piercingly, warningly. Tommy stooped and picked up a handful of pebbles. With deadly, murderous intent he threw them at the bird. It soared and swooped in the air—twice it was hit glancingly.

“It’s all your fault, Blacky!” Tommy raged. He picked up a rock the size of his fist. He started to throw it, but did not. A tiny, sharp sound bit through the air. Tommy pitched forward. He did not make the slightest twitching motion to show that he had bridged the gap between life and death. He did not know that Blacky swooped down and landed on his chest; and then flung himself upward, crying, “Oh, Tommy, I could spank you!” He did not see the girl come into the clearing and stoop over him; and did not see the tears that began to gush from her eyes, or hear the sobs that racked her body. But Tark saw.

Tark wrested the weapon from Vascar with a trill of rage.

“Why did you do that?” he cried. He threw the weapon from him as far as it would go. “You’ve done a terrible thing, Vascar!”

Vascar looked at him in amazement. “It was only a beast, Tark,” she protested. “It was trying to kill its master! Surely, you saw it. It was trying to kill the intelligent bird-creature, the last of its kind on the planet.”

But Tark pointed with horror at the two unfeathered beasts, one bent over the body of the other. “But they were mates! You have killed their species! The female is grieving for its mate, Vascar. You have done a terrible thing!”

But Vascar shook her head crossly. “I’m sorry I did it then,” she said acidly. “I suppose it was perfectly in keeping with our aim on this expedition to let the dumb beast kill its master! That isn’t like you at all, Tark! Come, let us see if the intelligent creature will not make friends with us.”

And she flapped away toward the cawing crow. When Blacky saw Vascar coming toward him, he wheeled and darted away.

Tark took one last look at the female bending over the male. He saw her raise her head, and saw the tears in her eyes, and heard the sobs that shook her. Then, in a rising, inchoate series of bewildering emotions, he turned his eyes away, and hurriedly flapped after Vascar. And all that day they pursued Blacky. They circled him, they cornered him; and Vascar tried to speak to him in friendly tones, all to no avail. It only cawed, and darted away, and spoke volumes of disappointingly incomprehensible words.

When dark came, Vascar alighted in a tree beside the strangely quiet Tark.

“I suppose it’s no use,” she said sadly. “Either it is terribly afraid of us, or it is not as intelligent as we supposed it was, or else it has become mentally deranged in these last years of loneliness. I guess we might as well leave now, Tark; let the poor creature have its planet to itself. Shall we stop by and see if we can help the female beast whose mate we shot?”

Tark slowly looked at her, his red eyes luminous in the gathering dusk. “No,” he said briefly. “Let us go, Vascar.”

* * *

The spaceship of the creatures from Alcon left the dead planet Earth. It darted out into space. Tark sat at the controls. The ship went faster and faster. And still faster. Fled at ever-increasing speed beyond the Solar System and into the wastes of interstellar space. And still farther, until the star that gave heat to Earth was not even visible.

Yet even this terrible velocity was not enough for Tark. Vascar looked at him strangely.

“We’re not in that much of a hurry to get home, are we, Tark?”

“No,” Tark said in a low, terrible voice; but still he urged the ship to greater and greater speed, though he knew it was useless. He could run away from the thing that had happened on the planet Earth; but he could never, never outrun his mind, though he passionately wished he could.

 

 

 

The Last Command by Keith Laumer

The Last Command

by Keith Laumer



Preface by David Drake

 

I was twenty-one when I read "The Last Command" on its appearance in the January 1967 issue of Analog. I was in my senior year of college and probably as mature then as I'm ever going to be. I read most of the other stories I've picked for this anthology when I was much younger.

It's not quite correct to describe Keith Laumer's Bolo series as stories about war machines. The three that really have an impact are about veterans who've been discarded by society; that the veterans happen to be machines is really beside the point. "The Last Command" makes this explicit.

The story hit me very hard the first time I read it. I'm not sure why: I don't come from a military family, and I'd been accepted at Duke Law School. Students were deferred from the draft. I never dreamed that someday I'd be a veteran.

Then things changed.

In January 1971, I got back to the World and took off my uniform for the last time. Since that day I've never, in my heart of hearts, been able to forget that I'm a veteran.

 

 

1

 

I come to awareness, sensing a residual oscillation traversing me from an arbitrarily designated heading of 035. From the damping rate I compute that the shock was of intensity 8.7, emanating from a source within the limits 72 meters/46 meters. I activate my primary screens, trigger a return salvo. There is no response. I engage reserve energy cells, bring my secondary battery to bear—futilely. It is apparent that I have been ranged by the Enemy and severely damaged. 

My positional sensors indicate that I am resting at an angle of 13 degrees 14 seconds, deflected from a baseline at 21 points from median. I attempt to right myself, but encounter massive resistance. I activate my forward scanners, shunt power to my I-R microstrobes. Not a flicker illuminates my surroundings. I am encased in utter blackness. 

Now a secondary shock wave approaches, rocks me with an intensity of 8.2. It is apparent that I must withdraw from my position—but my drive trains remain inert under full thrust. I shift to base emergency power, try again. Pressure mounts; I sense my awareness fading under the intolerable strain; then, abruptly, resistance falls off and I am in motion. 

It is not the swift maneuvering of full drive, however; I inch forward, as if restrained by massive barriers. Again I attempt to penetrate the surrounding darkness and this time perceive great irregular outlines shot through with fracture planes. I probe cautiously, then more vigorously, encountering incredible densities. 

I channel all available power to a single ranging pulse, direct it upward. The indication is so at variance with all experience that I repeat the test at a new angle. Now I must accept the fact: I am buried under 207.6 meters of solid rock! 

I direct my attention to an effort to orient myself to my uniquely desperate situation. I run through an action-status checklist of thirty thousand items, feel dismay at the extent of power loss. My main cells are almost completely drained, my reserve units at no more than .4 charge. Thus my sluggishness is explained. I review the tactical situation, recall the triumphant announcement from my commander that the Enemy forces were annihilated, that all resistance had ceased. In memory, I review the formal procession; in company with my comrades of the Dinochrome Brigade, many of us deeply scarred by Enemy action, we parade before the Grand Commandant, then assemble on the depot ramp. At command, we bring our music storage cells into phase and display our Battle Anthem. The nearby star radiates over a full spectrum unfiltered by atmospheric haze. It is a moment of glorious triumph. Then the final command is given— 

The rest is darkness. But it is apparent that the victory celebration was premature. The Enemy has counterattacked with a force that has come near to immobilizing me. The realization is shocking, but the .1 second of leisurely introspection has clarified my position. At once, I broadcast a call on Brigade Action wave length: 

“Unit LNE to Command, requesting permission to file VSR.” 

I wait, sense no response, call again, using full power. I sweep the enclosing volume of rock with an emergency alert warning. I tune to the all-units band, await the replies of my comrades of the Brigade. None answer. Now I must face the reality: I alone have survived the assault. 

I channel my remaining power to my drive and detect a channel of reduced density. I press for it and the broken rock around me yields reluctantly. Slowly, I move forward and upward. My pain circuitry shocks my awareness center with emergency signals; I am doing irreparable damage to my overloaded neural systems, but my duty is clear: I must seek out and engage the Enemy. 

 

 

 

2

 

Emerging from behind the blast barrier, Chief Engineer Pete Reynolds of the New Devonshire Port Authority pulled off his rock mask and spat grit from his mouth.

“That’s the last one; we’ve bottomed out at just over two hundred yards. Must have hit a hard stratum down there.”

“It’s almost sundown,” the paunchy man beside him said shortly. “You’re a day and a half behind schedule.”

“We’ll start backfilling now, Mr. Mayor. I’ll have pilings poured by oh-nine hundred tomorrow, and with any luck the first section of pad will be in place in time for the rally.”

“I’m—” The mayor broke off, looked startled. “I thought you told me that was the last charge to be fired . . .”

Reynolds frowned. A small but distinct tremor had shaken the ground underfoot. A few feet away, a small pebble balanced atop another toppled and fell with a faint clatter.

“Probably a big rock fragment falling,” he said. At that moment, a second vibration shook the earth, stronger this time. Reynolds heard a rumble and a distant impact as rock fell from the side of the newly blasted excavation. He whirled to the control shed as the door swung back and Second Engineer Mayfield appeared.

“Take a look at this, Pete!”

Reynolds went across to the hut, stepped inside. Mayfield was bending over the profiling table.

“What do you make of it?” he pointed. Superimposed on the heavy red contour representing the detonation of the shaped charge that had completed the drilling of the final pile core were two other traces, weak but distinct.

“About .1 intensity.” Mayfield looked puzzled. “What—”

The tracking needle dipped suddenly, swept up the screen to peak at .21, dropped back. The hut trembled. A stylus fell from the edge of the table. The red face of Mayor Dougherty burst through the door.

“Reynolds, have you lost your mind? What’s the idea of blasting while I’m standing out in the open? I might have been killed!”

“I’m not blasting,” Reynolds snapped. “Jim, get Eaton on the line, see if they know anything.” He stepped to the door, shouted. A heavyset man in sweat-darkened coveralls swung down from the seat of a cable-lift rig.

“Boss, what goes on?” he called as he came up. “Damn near shook me out of my seat!”

“I don’t know. You haven’t set any trim charges?”

“Jesus, no, boss. I wouldn’t set no charges without your say-so.”

“Come on.” Reynolds started out across the rubble-littered stretch of barren ground selected by the Authority as the site of the new spaceport. Halfway to the open mouth of the newly-blasted pit, the ground under his feet rocked violently enough to make him stumble. A gout of dust rose from the excavation ahead. Loose rock danced on the ground. Beside him the drilling chief grabbed his arm.

“Boss, we better get back!”

Reynolds shook him off, kept going. The drill chief swore and followed. The shaking of the ground went on, a sharp series of thumps interrupting a steady trembling.

“It’s a quake!” Reynolds yelled over the low rumbling sound.

He and the chief were at the rim of the core now.

“It can’t be a quake, boss,” the latter shouted. “Not in these formations!”

“Tell it to the geologists—” The rock slab they were standing on rose a foot, dropped back. Both men fell. The slab bucked like a small boat in choppy water.

“Let’s get out of here!” Reynolds was up and running. Ahead, a fissure opened, gaped a foot wide. He jumped it, caught a glimpse of black depths, a glint of wet clay twenty feet below—

A hoarse scream stopped him in his tracks. He spun, saw the drill chief down, a heavy splinter of rock across his legs. He jumped to him, heaved at the rock. There was blood on the man’s shirt. The chief’s hands beat the dusty rock before him. Then other men were there, grunting, sweaty hands gripping beside Reynolds. The ground rocked. The roar from under the earth had risen to a deep, steady rumble. They lifted the rock aside, picked up the injured man, and stumbled with him to the aid shack.

The mayor was there, white-faced.

“What is it, Reynolds? By God, if you’re responsible—”

“Shut up!” Reynolds brushed him aside, grabbed the phone, punched keys.

“Eaton! What have you got on this temblor?”

“Temblor, hell.” The small face on the four-inch screen looked like a ruffled hen. “What in the name of Order are you doing out there? I’m reading a whole series of displacements originating from that last core of yours! What did you do, leave a pile of trim charges lying around?”

“It’s a quake. Trim charges, hell! This thing’s broken up two hundred yards of surface rock. It seems to be traveling north-northeast—”

“I see that; a traveling earthquake!” Eaton flapped his arms, a tiny and ridiculous figure against a background of wall charts and framed diplomas. “Well—do something, Reynolds! Where’s Mayor Dougherty?”

“Underfoot!” Reynolds snapped, and cut off.

Outside, a layer of sunset-stained dust obscured the sweep of level plain. A rock-dozer rumbled up, ground to a halt by Reynolds. A man jumped down.

“I got the boys moving equipment out,” he panted. “The thing’s cutting a trail straight as a rule for the highway!” He pointed to a raised roadbed a quarter mile away.

“How fast is it moving?”

“She’s done a hundred yards; it hasn’t been ten minutes yet!”

“If it keeps up another twenty minutes, it’ll be into the Intermix!”

“Scratch a few million cees and six months’ work then, Pete!”

“And Southside Mall’s a couple miles farther.”

“Hell, it’ll damp out before then!”

“Maybe. Grab a field car, Dan.”

“Pete!” Mayfield came up at a trot. “This thing’s building! The centroid’s moving on a heading of oh-two-two—”

“How far subsurface?”

“It’s rising; started at two-twenty yards, and it’s up to one-eighty!”

“What the hell have we stirred up?” Reynolds stared at Mayfield as the field car skidded to a stop beside them.

“Stay with it, Jim. Give me anything new. We’re taking a closer look.” He climbed into the rugged vehicle.

“Take a blast truck—”

“No time!” He waved and the car gunned away into the pall of dust.

 

 

 

3

 

The rock car pulled to a stop at the crest of the three-level Intermix on a lay-by designed to permit tourists to enjoy the view of the site of the proposed port, a hundred feet below. Reynolds studied the progress of the quake through field glasses. From this vantage point, the path of the phenomenon was a clearly defined trail of tilted and broken rock, some of the slabs twenty feet across. As he watched, the fissures lengthened.

“It looks like a mole’s trail.” Reynolds handed the glasses to his companion, thumbed the send key on the car radio.

“Jim, get Eaton and tell him to divert all traffic from the Circular south of Zone Nine. Cars are already clogging the right-of-way. The dust is visible from a mile away, and when the word gets out there’s something going on, we’ll be swamped.”

“I’ll tell him, but he won’t like it!”

“This isn’t politics! This thing will be into the outer pad area in another twenty minutes!”

“It won’t last—”

“How deep does it read now?”

“One-five!” There was a moment’s silence. “Pete, if it stays on course, it’ll surface about where you’re parked!”

“Uh-huh. It looks like you can scratch one Intermix. Better tell Eaton to get a story ready for the press.”

“Pete, talking about news hounds—” Dan said beside him. Reynolds switched off, turned to see a man in a gay-colored driving outfit coming across from a battered Monojag sportster which had pulled up behind the rock car. A big camera case was slung across his shoulder.

“Say, what’s going on down there?” he called.

“Rock slide,” Reynolds said shortly. “I’ll have to ask you to drive on. The road’s closed to all traffic—”

“Who’re you?” The man looked belligerent.

“I’m the engineer in charge. Now pull out, brother.” He turned back to the radio. “Jim, get every piece of heavy equipment we own over here, on the double.” He paused, feeling a minute trembling in the car. “The Intermix is beginning to feel it,” he went on. “I’m afraid we’re in for it. Whatever that thing is, it acts like a solid body boring its way through the ground. Maybe we can barricade it.”

“Barricade an earthquake?”

“Yeah, I know how it sounds—but it’s the only idea I’ve got.”

“Hey—what’s that about an earthquake?” The man in the colored suit was still there. “By gosh, I can feel it—the whole damned bridge is shaking!”

“Off, mister—now!” Reynolds jerked a thumb at the traffic lanes where a steady stream of cars were hurtling past. “Dan, take us over to the main track. We’ll have to warn this traffic off—”

“Hold on, fellow.” The man unlimbered his camera. “I represent the New Devon Scope. I have a few questions—”

“I don’t have the answers.” Pete cut him off as the car pulled away.

“Hah!” The man who had questioned Reynolds yelled after him. “Big shot! Think you can . . .” His voice was lost behind them.

 

 

 

4

 

In a modest retirees’ apartment block in the coast town of Idlebreeze, forty miles from the scene of the freak quake, an old man sat in a reclining chair, half dozing before a yammering Tri-D tank.

” . . . Grandpa,” a sharp-voice young woman was saying. “It’s time for you to go in to bed.”

“Bed? Why do I want to go to bed? Can’t sleep anyway . . .” He stirred, made a pretense of sitting up, showing an interest in the Tri-D. “I’m watching this show. Don’t bother me.”

“It’s not a show, it’s the news,” a fattish boy said disgustedly. “Ma, can I switch channels—”

“Leave it alone, Bennie,” the old man said. On the screen a panoramic scene spread out, a stretch of barren ground across which a furrow showed. As he watched, it lengthened.

” . . . up here at the Intermix we have a fine view of the whole curious business, lazangemmun,” the announcer chattered. “And in our opinion it’s some sort of publicity stunt staged by the Port Authority to publicize their controversial port project—”

“Ma, can I change channels?”

“Go ahead, Bennie—”

“Don’t touch it,” the old man said. The fattish boy reached for the control, but something in the old man’s eye stopped him . . .

 

 

 

5

 

“The traffic’s still piling in here,” Reynolds said into the phone. “Damn it, Jim, we’ll have a major jam on our hands—”

“He won’t do it, Pete! You know the Circular was his baby—the super all-weather pike that nothing could shut down. He says you’ll have to handle this in the field—”

“Handle, hell! I’m talking about preventing a major disaster! And in a matter of minutes, at that!”

“I’ll try again—”

“If he says no, divert a couple of the big ten-yard graders and block it off yourself. Set up field arcs, and keep any cars from getting in from either direction.”

“Pete, that’s outside your authority!”

“You heard me!”

Ten minutes later, back at ground level, Reynolds watched the boom-mounted polyarcs swinging into position at the two roadblocks a quarter of a mile apart, cutting off the threatened section of the raised expressway. A hundred yards from where he stood on the rear cargo deck of a light grader rig, a section of rock fifty feet wide rose slowly, split, fell back with a ponderous impact. One corner of it struck the massive pier supporting the extended shelf of the lay-by above. A twenty-foot splinter fell away, exposing the reinforcing-rod core.

“How deep, Jim?” Reynolds spoke over the roaring sound coming from the disturbed area.

“Just subsurface now, Pete! It ought to break through—” His voice was drowned in a rumble as the damaged pier shivered, rose up, buckled at its midpoint, and collapsed, bringing down with it a large chunk of pavement and guard rail, and a single still-glowing light pole. A small car that had been parked on the doomed section was visible for an instant just before the immense slab struck. Reynolds saw it bounce aside, then disappear under an avalanche of broken concrete.

“My God, Pete—” Dan started. “That damned fool news hound . . . !”

“Look!” As the two men watched, a second pier swayed, fell backward into the shadow of the span above. The roadway sagged, and two more piers snapped. With a bellow like a burst dam, a hundred-foot stretch of the road fell into the roiling dust cloud.

“Pete!” Mayfield’s voice burst from the car radio. “Get out of there! I threw a reader on that thing and it’s chattering off the scale . . . !”

Among the piled fragments something stirred, heaved, rising up, lifting multi-ton pieces of the broken road, thrusting them aside like so many potato chips. A dull blue radiance broke through from the broached earth, threw an eerie light on the shattered structure above. A massive, ponderously irresistible shape thrust forward through the ruins. Reynolds saw a great blue-glowing profile emerge from the rubble like a surfacing submarine, shedding a burden of broken stone, saw immense treads ten feet wide claw for purchase, saw the mighty flank brush a still-standing pier, send it crashing aside.

“Pete, what—what is it . . . ?”

“I don’t know.” Reynolds broke the paralysis that had gripped him. “Get us out of here, Dan, fast! Whatever it is, it’s headed straight for the city!”

 

 

 

6

 

I emerge at last from the trap into which I had fallen, and at once encounter defensive works of considerable strength. My scanners are dulled from lack of power, but I am able to perceive open ground beyond the barrier, and farther still, at a distance of 5.7 kilometers, massive walls. Once more I transmit the Brigade Rally signal; but as before, there is no reply. I am truly alone. 

I scan the surrounding area for the emanations of Enemy drive units, monitor the EM spectrum for their communications. I detect nothing; either my circuitry is badly damaged, or their shielding is superb. 

I must now make a decision as to possible courses of action. Since all my comrades of the Brigade have fallen, I compute that the fortress before me must be held by Enemy forces. I direct probing signals at them, discover them to be of unfamiliar construction, and less formidable than they appear. I am aware of the possibility that this may be a trick of the Enemy; but my course is clear. 

I reengage my driving engines and advance on the Enemy fortress. 

 

 

 

7

 

“You’re out of your mind, father,” the stout man said. “At your age—”

“At your age, I got my nose smashed in a brawl in a bar on Aldo,” the old man cut him off. “But I won the fight.”

“James, you can’t go out at this time of night . . .” an elderly woman wailed.

“Tell them to go home.” The old man walked painfully toward his bedroom door. “I’ve seen enough of them for today.” He passed out of sight.

“Mother, you won’t let him do anything foolish?”

“He’ll forget about it in a few minutes; but maybe you’d better go now and let him settle down.”

“Mother—I really think a home is the best solution.”

“Yes,” the young woman nodded agreement. “After all, he’s past ninety—and he has his veteran’s retirement . . .”

Inside his room, the old man listened as they departed. He went to the closet, took out clothes, began dressing . . .

 

 

 

8

 

City Engineer Eaton’s face was chalk-white on the screen.

“No one can blame me,” he said. “How could I have known—”

“Your office ran the surveys and gave the PA the green light,” Mayor Dougherty yelled.

“All the old survey charts showed was ‘Disposal Area,'” Eaton threw out his hands. “I assumed—”

“As City Engineer, you’re not paid to make assumptions! Ten minutes’ research would have told you that was a ‘Y’ category area!”

“What’s ‘Y’ category mean?” Mayfield asked Reynolds. They were standing by the field comm center, listening to the dispute. Nearby, boom-mounted Tri-D cameras hummed, recording the progress of the immense machine, its upper turret rearing forty-five feet into the air, as it ground slowly forward across smooth ground toward the city, dragging behind it a trailing festoon of twisted reinforcing iron crusted with broken concrete.

“Half-life over one hundred years,” Reynolds answered shortly. “The last skirmish of the war was fought near here. Apparently this is where they buried the radioactive equipment left over from the battle.”

“But what the hell, that was seventy years ago—”

“There’s still enough residual radiation to contaminate anything inside a quarter-mile radius.”

“They must have used some hellish stuff.” Mayfield stared at the dull shine half a mile distant.

“Reynolds, how are you going to stop this thing?” The mayor had turned on the PA engineer.

“Me stop it? You saw what it did to my heaviest rigs: flattened them like pancakes. You’ll have to call out the military on this one, Mr. Mayor.”

“Call in Federation forces? Have them meddling in civic affairs?”

“The station’s only sixty-five miles from here. I think you’d better call them fast. It’s only moving at about three miles per hour but it will reach the south edge of the Mall in another forty-five minutes.”

“Can’t you mine it? Blast a trap in its path?”

“You saw it claw its way up from six hundred feet down. I checked the specs; it followed the old excavation tunnel out. It was rubble-filled and capped with twenty-inch compressed concrete.”

“It’s incredible,” Eaton said from the screen. “The entire machine was encased in a ten-foot shell of reinforced armocrete. It had to break out of that before it could move a foot!”

“That was just a radiation shield; it wasn’t intended to restrain a Bolo Combat Unit.”

“What was, may I inquire?” The mayor glared from one face to another.

“The units were deactivated before being buried,” Eaton spoke up, as if he were eager to talk. “Their circuits were fused. It’s all in the report—”

“The report you should have read somewhat sooner,” the mayor snapped.

“What—what started it up?” Mayfield looked bewildered. “For seventy years it was down there, and nothing happened!”

“Our blasting must have jarred something,” Reynolds said shortly. “Maybe closed a relay that started up the old battle reflex circuit.”

“You know something about these machines?” The mayor beetled his brows at him.

“I’ve read a little.”

“Then speak up, man. I’ll call the station, if you feel I must. What measures should I request?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Mayor. As far as I know, nothing on New Devon can stop that machine now.”

The mayor’s mouth opened and closed. He whirled to the screen, blanked Eaton’s agonized face, punched in the code for the Federation station.

“Colonel Blane!” he blurted as a stern face came onto the screen. “We have a major emergency on our hands! I’ll need everything you’ve got! This is the situation . . .”

 

 

 

9

 

I encounter no resistance other than the flimsy barrier, but my progress is slow. Grievous damage has been done to my main drive sector due to overload during my escape from the trap; and the failure of my sensing circuitry has deprived me of a major portion of my external receptivity. Now my pain circuits project a continuous signal to my awareness center, but it is my duty to my Commander and to my fallen comrades of the Brigade to press forward at my best speed; but my performance is a poor shadow of my former ability. 

And now at last the Enemy comes into action! I sense aerial units closing at supersonic velocities; I lock my lateral batteries to them and direct salvo fire, but I sense that the arming mechanisms clatter harmlessly. The craft sweep over me, and my impotent guns elevate, track them as they release detonants that spread out in an envelopmental pattern which I, with my reduced capabilities, am powerless to avoid. The missiles strike; I sense their detonations all about me; but I suffer only trivial damage. The Enemy has blundered if he thought to neutralize a Mark XXVIII Combat Unit with mere chemical explosives! But I weaken with each meter gained. 

Now there is no doubt as to my course. I must press the charge and carry the walls before my reserve cells are exhausted. 

 

 

 

10

 

From a vantage point atop a bucket rig four hundred yards from the position the great fighting machine had now reached, Pete Reynolds studied it through night glasses. A battery of beamed polyarcs pinned the giant hulk, scarred and rust-scaled, in a pool of blue-white light. A mile and a half beyond it, the walls of the Mall rose sheer from the garden setting.

“The bombers slowed it some,” he reported to Eaton via scope. “But it’s still making better than two miles per hour. I’d say another twenty-five minutes before it hits the main ringwall. How’s the evacuation going?”

“Badly! I get no cooperation! You’ll be my witness, Reynolds, I did all I could—”

“How about the mobile batteries; how long before they’ll be in position?” Reynolds cut him off.

“I’ve heard nothing from Federation Central—typical militaristic arrogance, not keeping me informed—but I have them on my screens. They’re two miles out—say three minutes.”

“I hope you made your point about N-heads.”

“That’s outside my province!” Eaton said sharply. “It’s up to Brand to carry out this portion of the operation!”

“The HE Missiles didn’t do much more than clear away the junk it was dragging.” Reynolds’ voice was sharp.

“I wash my hands of responsibility for civilian lives,” Eaton was saying when Reynolds shut him off, changed channels.

“Jim, I’m going to try to divert it,” he said crisply. “Eaton’s sitting on his political fence; the Feds are bringing artillery up, but I don’t expect much from it. Technically, Brand needs Sector okay to use nuclear stuff, and he’s not the boy to stick his neck out—”

“Divert it how? Pete, don’t take any chances—”

Reynolds laughed shortly. “I’m going to get around it and drop a shaped drilling charge in its path. Maybe I can knock a tread off. With luck, I might get its attention on me and draw it away from the Mall. There are still a few thousand people over there, glued to their Tri-D’s. They think it’s all a swell show.”

“Pete, you can’t walk up on that thing! It’s hot—” He broke off. “Pete, there’s some kind of nut here—he claims he has to talk to you; says he knows something about that damned juggernaut. Shall I . . . ?”

Reynolds paused with his hand on the cut-off switch. “Put him on,” he snapped. Mayfield’s face moved aside and an ancient, bleary-eyed visage stared out at him. The tip of the old man’s tongue touched his dry lips.

“Son, I tried to tell this boy here, but he wouldn’t listen—”

“What have you got, old timer?” Pete cut in. “Make it fast.”

“My name’s Sanders. James Sanders. I’m . . . I was with the Planetary Volunteer Scouts, back in ’71—”

“Sure, dad,” Pete said gently. “I’m sorry, I’ve got a little errand to run—”

“Wait . . .” The old man’s face worked. “I’m old, son—too damned old. I know. But bear with me. I’ll try to say it straight. I was with Hayle’s squadron at Toledo. Then afterwards, they shipped us—but hell, you don’t care about that! I keep wandering, son; can’t help it. What I mean to say is—I was in on that last scrap, right here at New Devon—only we didn’t call it New Devon then. Called it Hellport. Nothing but bare rock and Enemy emplacement—”

“You were talking about the battle, Mr. Sanders,” Pete said tensely. “Go on with that part.”

“Lieutenant Sanders,” the oldster said. “Sure, I was Acting Brigade Commander. See, our major was hit at Toledo—and after Tommy Chee stopped a sidewinder at Belgrave—”

“Stick to the point, Lieutenant!”

“Yessir!” The old man pulled himself together with an obvious effort. “I took the Brigade in; put out flankers, and ran the Enemy into the ground. We mopped ’em up in a thirty-three hour running fight that took us from over by Crater Bay all the way down here to Hellport. When it was over, I’d lost sixteen units, but the Enemy was done. They gave us Brigade Honors for that action. And then . . .”

“Then what?”

“Then the triple-dyed yellow-bottoms at Headquarters put out the order the Brigade was to be scrapped; said they were too hot to make decon practical. Cost too much, they said! So after the final review”—he gulped, blinked—”they planted ’em deep, two hundred meters, and poured in special high-R concrete.”

“And packed rubble in behind them,” Reynolds finished for him. “All right, Lieutenant, I believe you! Now for the big one: what started that machine on a rampage?”

“Should have known they couldn’t hold down a Bolo Mark XXVIII!” The old man’s eyes lit up. “Take more than a few million tons of rock to stop Lenny when his battle board was lit!”

“Lenny?”

“That’s my old command unit out there, son. I saw the markings on the Tri-D. Unit LNE of the Dinochrome Brigade!”

“Listen!” Reynolds snapped out. “Here’s what I intend to try . . .” He outlined his plan.

“Ha!” Sanders snorted. “It’s a gutsy notion, mister, but Lenny won’t give it a sneeze.”

“You didn’t come here to tell me we were licked,” Reynolds cut in. “How about Brand’s batteries?”

“Hell, son, Lenny stood up to point-blank Hellbore fire on Toledo, and—”

“Are you telling me there’s nothing we can do?”

“What’s that? No, son, that’s not what I’m saying . . .”

“Then what!”

“Just tell these johnnies to get out of the way, mister. I think I can handle him.”

 

 

 

11

 

At the field comm hut, Pete Reynolds watched as the man who had been Lieutenant Sanders of the Volunteer Scouts pulled shiny black boots over his thin ankles and stood. The blouse and trousers of royal blue polyon hung on his spare frame like wash on a line. He grinned, a skull’s grin.

“It doesn’t fit like it used to; but Lenny will recognize it. It’ll help. Now, if you’ve got that power pack ready . . .”

Mayfield handed over the old-fashioned field instrument Sanders had brought in with him.

“It’s operating, sir—but I’ve already tried everything I’ve got on that infernal machine; I didn’t get a peep out of it.”

Sanders winked at him. “Maybe I know a couple of tricks you boys haven’t heard about.” He slung the strap over his bony shoulder and turned to Reynolds.

“Guess we better get going, mister. He’s getting close.”

In the rock car, Sanders leaned close to Reynolds’ ear. “Told you those Federal guns wouldn’t scratch Lenny. They’re wasting their time.”

Reynolds pulled the car to a stop at the crest of the road, from which point he had a view of the sweep of ground leading across to the city’s edge. Lights sparkled all across the towers of New Devon. Close to the walls, the converging fire of the ranked batteries of infinite repeaters drove into the glowing bulk of the machine, which plowed on, undeterred. As he watched, the firing ceased.

“Now, let’s get in there, before they get some other damn-fool scheme going,” Sanders said.

The rock car crossed the rough ground, swung wide to come up on the Bolo from the left side. Behind the hastily rigged radiation cover, Reynolds watched the immense silhouette grow before him.

“I knew they were big,” he said. “But to see one up close like this—” He pulled to a stop a hundred feet from the Bolo.

“Look at the side ports,” Sanders said, his voice crisper now. “He’s firing antipersonnel charges—only his plates are flat. If they weren’t, we wouldn’t have gotten within half a mile.” He unclipped the microphone and spoke into it:

“Unit LNE, break off action and retire to ten-mile line!”

Reynolds’ head jerked around to stare at the old man. His voice had rung with vigor and authority as he spoke the command.

The Bolo ground slowly ahead. Sanders shook his head, tried again.

“No answer, like that fella said. He must be running on nothing but memories now . . .” He reattached the microphone, and before Reynolds could put out a hand, had lifted the anti-R cover and stepped off on the ground.

“Sanders—get back in here!” Reynolds yelled.

“Never mind, son. I’ve got to get in close. Contact induction.” He started toward the giant machine. Frantically, Reynolds started the car, slammed it into gear, pulled forward.

“Better stay back.” Sanders’ voice came from his field radio. “This close, that screening won’t do you much good.”

“Get in the car!” Reynolds roared. “That’s hard radiation!”

“Sure; feels funny, like a sunburn, about an hour after you come in from the beach and start to think maybe you got a little too much.” He laughed. “But I’ll get to him . . .”

Reynolds braked to a stop, watched the shrunken figure in the baggy uniform as it slogged forward, leaning as against a sleet storm.

 

 

 

12

 

“I’m up beside him.” Sander’s voice came through faintly on the field radio. “I’m going to try to swing up on his side. Don’t feel like trying to chase him any farther.”

Through the glasses, Reynolds watched the small figure, dwarfed by the immense bulk of the fighting machine, as he tried, stumbled, tried again, swung up on the flange running across the rear quarter inside the churning bogie wheel.

“He’s up,” he reported. “Damned wonder the track didn’t get him . . .”

Clinging to the side of the machine, Sanders lay for a moment, bent forward across the flange. Then he pulled himself up, wormed his way forward to the base of the rear quarter turret, wedged himself against it. He unslung the communicator, removed a small black unit, clipped it to the armor; it clung, held by a magnet. He brought the microphone up to his face.

In the comm shack, Mayfield leaned toward the screen, his eyes squinted in tension. Across the field, Reynolds held the glasses fixed on the man lying across the flank of the Bolo. They waited . . .

 

 

 

13

 

The walls are before me, and I ready myself for a final effort, but suddenly I am aware of trickle currents flowing over my outer surface. Is this some new trick of the Enemy? I tune to the wave energies, trace the source. They originate at a point in contact with my aft port armor. I sense modulation, match receptivity to a computed pattern. And I hear a voice: 

“Unit LNE, break it off, Lenny. We’re pulling back now, boy. This is Command to LNE; pull back to ten miles. If you read me, Lenny, swing to port and halt.”

I am not fooled by the deception. The order appears correct, but the voice is not that of my Commander. Briefly I regret that I cannot spare energy to direct a neutralizing power flow at the device the Enemy has attached to me. I continue my charge. 

“Unit LNE! Listen to me, boy; maybe you don’t recognize my voice, but it’s me. You see, boy—some time has passed. I’ve gotten old. My voice has changed some, maybe. But it’s me! Make a port turn, Lenny. Make it now!”

I am tempted to respond to the trick, for something in the false command seems to awaken secondary circuits which I sense have been long stilled. But I must not be swayed by the cleverness of the Enemy. My sensing circuitry has faded further as my energy cells drain; but I know where the Enemy lies. I move forward, but I am filled with agony, and only the memory of my comrades drives me on. 

“Lenny, answer me. Transmit on the old private band—the one we agreed on. Nobody but me knows it, remember?

Thus the Enemy seeks to beguile me into diverting precious power. But I will not listen. 

“Lenny—not much time left. Another minute and you’ll be into the walls. People are going to die. Got to stop you, Lenny. Hot here. My God, I’m hot. Not breathing too well, now. I can feel it; cutting through me like knives. You took a load of Enemy power, Lenny; and now I’m getting my share. Answer me, Lenny. Over to you . . .”

It will require only a tiny allocation of power to activate a communication circuit. I realize that it is only an Enemy trick, but I compute that by pretending to be deceived, I may achieve some trivial advantage. I adjust circuitry accordingly and transmit: 

“Unit LNE to Command. Contact with Enemy defensive line imminent. Request support fire!” 

“Lenny . . . you can hear me! Good boy, Lenny! Now make a turn, to port. Walls . . . close . . .”

“Unit LNE to Command. Request positive identification; transmit code 685749.”

“Lenny—I can’t . . . don’t have code blanks. But it’s me . . .”

“In absence of recognition code, your transmission disregarded,” I send. And now the walls loom high above me. There are many lights, but I see them only vaguely. I am nearly blind now. 

“Lenny—less’n two hundred feet to go. Listen, Lenny. I’m climbing down. I’m going to jump down, Lenny, and get around under your fore scanner pickup. You’ll see me, Lenny. You’ll know me then.”

The false transmission ceases. I sense a body moving across my side. The gap closes. I detect movement before me, and in automatic reflex fire anti-P charges before I recall that I am unarmed. 

A small object has moved out before me, and taken up a position between me and the wall behind which the Enemy conceal themselves. It is dim, but appears to have the shape of a man . . .  

I am uncertain. My alert center attempts to engage inhibitory circuitry which will force me to halt, but it lacks power. I can override it. But still I am unsure. Now I must take a last risk; I must shunt power to my forward scanner to examine this obstacle more closely. I do so, and it leaps into greater clarity. It is indeed a man—and it is enclothed in regulation blues of the Volunteers. Now, closer, I see the face and through the pain of my great effort, I study it . . .  

 

 

 

14

 

“He’s backed against the wall,” Reynolds said hoarsely. “It’s still coming. A hundred feet to go—”

“You were a fool, Reynolds!” the mayor barked. “A fool to stake everything on that old dotard’s crazy ideas!”

“Hold it!” As Reynolds watched, the mighty machine slowed, halted, ten feet from the sheer wall before it. For a moment, it sat, as though puzzled. Then it backed, halted again, pivoted ponderously to the left, and came about.

On its side, a small figure crept up, fell across the lower gun deck. The Bolo surged into motion, retracing its route across the artillery-scarred gardens.

“He’s turned it.” Reynolds let his breath out with a shuddering sigh. “It’s headed out for open desert. It might get twenty miles before it finally runs out of steam.”

The strange voice that was the Bolo’s came from the big panel before Mayfield:

“Command . . . Unit LNE reports main power cells drained, secondary cells drained; now operating at .037 per cent efficiency, using Final Emergency Power. Request advice as to range to be covered before relief maintenance available.” 

“It’s a long way, Lenny . . .” Sanders’ voice was a bare whisper. “But I’m coming with you . . .”

Then there was only the crackle of static. Ponderously, like a great mortally stricken animal, the Bolo moved through the ruins of the fallen roadway, heading for the open desert.

“That damned machine,” the mayor said in a hoarse voice. “You’d almost think it was alive.”

“You would at that,” Pete Reynolds said.

 

 

 

Afterword by Eric Flint:

In his preface, David refers to three of the Bolo stories “that really have an impact.” The other two, for the record—at least so far as Dave and I are concerned—are “A Relic of War” and “Combat Unit” (aka “Dinochrome”). Among the three, it’s hard to pick and choose. As it happens, I chose “Dinochrome” to include in the first volume of Laumer’s writings which I edited for Baen Books’ current reissue of many of Laumer’s writings, but I could just as easily have chosen this one.

My reasons are similar to David’s, but not exactly the same. I’m not a combat veteran, so on that level the story doesn’t have the same personal impact. The thing I’ve always liked so much about the three great Bolo stories is that they give you the best of Laumer’s ethos of duty without the veneer that I often find repellent in so many other stories Laumer wrote.

Laumer, like Van Vogt, was an author who naturally gravitated toward superman stories. Stories like that, no matter how well crafted and enjoyable—and on that level Laumer was a superb writer, one of the best ever in science fiction—just naturally tend to rub me the wrong way. It doesn’t matter how admirable and courageous the hero might be, or how worthy his cause, I soon get impatient with story after story where the fate of the world rests almost entirely on one person doing the right thing, and where the role of everyone else is pretty much reduced to one of three roles:

a) Loyal sidekick;
b) Enemy;
c) Most people, who are irrelevant at best and sluggards as a rule.

Oh, bah. The great divide in science fiction is not political, it’s the divide between those writers—Heinlein, Clarke and Andre Norton, to name three great figures—who generally tell stories about fairly ordinary people doing their best in difficult circumstances, and those writers—Van Vogt, “Doc” Smith and Laumer prominent among them, with George Lucas’ Star Wars series the latest embodiment—for whom most stories are heroic epics centered around supermen.
There’s an attraction to such stories, of course, even for someone with my inclination. That’s because, in the hands of good writers, the theme of Duty rings so strongly. It’s a theme which is difficult not to like, because without a sense of duty no virtues of any kind are possible.

And that’s why the best of the Bolo stories always have such an impact on me—today just as much as they did when I first read them many decades ago. The theme comes without the dross, so to speak. The Bolos are not supermen, they are simply servants trying to follow their duty as best as they can manage. In the end, for me at least, that makes these machines ultimately more human than many other of Laumer’s characters. Well . . . maybe not more human, but certainly a lot more sympathetic.

 

 

 

 

Shambleau by C. L. Moore

Shambleau

by C. L. Moore



Preface by David Drake



Catherine L. Moore is rightly regarded as one of the most remarkable stylists in the SF field. She once described the basic thread of her fiction as, "Love is the most dangerous thing."

"Shambleau" is a perfect illustration of both the above statements. It's about hard-bitten adventurers ranging the spaceways, meeting violence with violence . . . and it's nothing like any of the many other stories using the same elements being written then or written since then.

It was Moore's first story, written in a bank vault during the Depression because she had a typewriter and no work to do.

Her first story.

 

 

 

Shambleau! Ha . . . Shambleau!” The wild hysteria of the mob rocketed from wall to wall of Lakkdarol’s narrow streets and the storming of heavy boots over the slag-red pavement made an ominous undernote to that swelling bay, “Shambleau! Shambleau!”

Northwest Smith heard it coming and stepped into the nearest doorway, laying a wary hand on his heat-gun’s grip, and his colorless eyes narrowed. Strange sounds were common enough in the streets of Earth’s latest colony on Mars—a raw, red little town where anything might happen, and very often did. But Northwest Smith, whose name is known and respected in every dive and wild outpost on a dozen wild planets, was a cautious man, despite his reputation. He set his back against the wall and gripped his pistol, and heard the rising shout come nearer and nearer.

Then into his range of vision flashed a red running figure, dodging like a hunted hare from shelter to shelter in the narrow street. It was a girl—a berry-brown girl in a single tattered garment whose scarlet burnt the eyes with its brilliance. She ran wearily, and he could hear her gasping breath from where he stood. As she came into view he saw her hesitate and lean one hand against the wall for support, and glance wildly around for shelter. She must not have seen him in the depths of the doorway, for as the bay of the mob grew louder and the pounding of feet sounded almost at the corner she gave a despairing little moan and dodged into the recess at his very side.

When she saw him standing there, tall and leather-brown, hand on his heat-gun, she sobbed once, inarticulately, and collapsed at his feet, a huddle of burning scarlet and bare, brown limbs.

Smith had not seen her face, but she was a girl, and sweetly made and in danger; and though he had not the reputation of a chivalrous man, something in her hopeless huddle at his feet touched that chord of sympathy for the underdog that stirs in every Earthman, and he pushed her gently into the corner behind him and jerked out his gun, just as the first of the running mob rounded the corner.

It was a motley crowd, Earthmen and Martians and a sprinkling of Venusian swampmen and strange, nameless denizens of unnamed planets—a typical Lakkdarol mob. When the first of them turned the corner and saw the empty street before them there was a faltering in the rush and the foremost spread out and began to search the doorways on both sides of the street.

“Looking for something?” Smith’s sardonic call sounded clear above the clamor of the mob.

They turned. The shouting died for a moment as they took in the scene before them—tall Earthman in the space-explorer’s leathern garb, all one color from the burning of savage suns save for the sinister pallor of his no-colored eyes in a scarred and resolute face, gun in his steady hand and the scarlet girl crouched behind him, panting.

The foremost of the crowd—a burly Earthman in tattered leather from which the Patrol insignia had been ripped away—stared for a moment with a strange expression of incredulity on his face overspreading the savage exultation of the chase. Then he let loose a deep-throated bellow, “Shambleau!” and lunged forward. Behind him the mob took up the cry again. “Shambleau! Shambleau! Shambleau!” and surged after.

Smith, lounging negligently against the wall, arms folded and gun-hand draped over his left forearm, looked incapable of swift motion, but at the leader’s first forward step the pistol swept in a practiced half-circle and the dazzle of blue-white heat leaping from its muzzle seared an arc in the slag pavement at his feet. It was an old gesture, and not a man in the crowd but understood it. The foremost recoiled swiftly against the surge of those in the rear, and for a moment there was confusion as the two tides met and struggled. Smith’s mouth curled into a grim curve as he watched. The man in the mutilated Patrol uniform lifted a threatening fist and stepped to the very edge of the deadline, while the crowd rocked to and fro behind him.

“Are you crossing that line?” queried Smith in an ominously gentle voice.

“We want that girl!”

“Come and get her!” Recklessly Smith grinned into his face. He saw danger there, but his defiance was not the foolhardy gesture it seemed. An expert psychologist of mobs from long experience, he sensed no murder here. Not a gun had appeared in any hand in the crowd. They desired the girl with an inexplicable bloodthirstiness he was at a loss to understand, but toward himself he sensed no such fury. A mauling he might expect, but his life was in no danger. Guns would have appeared before now if they were coming out at all. So he grinned in the man’s angry face and leaned lazily against the wall.

Behind their self-appointed leader the crowd milled impatiently, and threatening voices began to rise again. Smith heard the girl moan at his feet.

“What do you want with her?” he demanded.

“She’s Shambleau! Shambleau, you fool! Kick her out of there—we’ll take care of her!”

“I’m taking care of her,” drawled Smith.

“She’s Shambleau, I tell you! Damn your hide, man, we never let those things live! Kick her out here!”

The repeated name had no meaning to him, but Smith’s innate stubbornness rose defiantly as the crowd surged forward to the very edge of the arc, their clamor growing louder. “Shambleau! Kick her out here! Give us Shambleau! Shambleau!”

Smith dropped his indolent pose like a cloak and planted both feet wide, swinging up his gun threatening. “Keep back!” he yelled. “She’s mine! Keep back!”

He had no intention of using that heat-beam. He knew by now that they would not kill him unless he started the gunplay himself, and he did not mean to give up his life for any girl alive. But a severe mauling he expected, and he braced himself instinctively as the mob heaved within itself.

To his astonishment a thing happened then that he had never known to happen before. At his shouted defiance the foremost of the mob—those who had heard him clearly—drew back a little, not in alarm but evidently surprised. The ex-Patrolman said, “Yours! She’s yours?” in a voice from which puzzlement crowded out the anger.

Smith spread his booted legs wide before the crouching figure and flourished his gun.

“Yes,” he said. “And I’m keeping her! Stand back there!”

The man stared at him wordlessly, and horror and disgust and incredulity mingled on his weather-beaten face. The incredulity triumphed for a moment and he said again,

“Yours!”

Smith nodded defiance.

The man stepped back suddenly, unutterable contempt in his very pose. He waved an arm to the crowd and said loudly, “It’s—his!” and the press melted away, gone silent, too, and the look of contempt spread from face to face.

The ex-Patrolman spat on the slag-paved street and turned his back indifferently. “Keep her, then,” he advised briefly over one shoulder. “But don’t let her out again in this town!”

* * *

Smith stared in perplexity almost open-mouthed as the suddenly scornful mob began to break up. His mind was in a whirl. That such bloodthirsty animosity should vanish in a breath he could not believe. And the curious mingling of contempt and disgust on the faces he saw baffled him even more. Lakkdarol was anything but a puritan town—it did not enter his head for a moment that his claiming the brown girl as his own had caused that strangely shocked revulsion to spread through the crowd. No, it was something deeper-rooted than that. Instinctive, instant disgust had been in the faces he saw—they would have looked less so if he had admitted cannibalism or Pharol-worship.

And they were leaving his vicinity as swiftly as if whatever unknowing sin he had committed were contagious. The street was emptying as rapidly as it had filled. He saw a sleek Venusian glance back over his shoulder as he turned the corner and sneer, “Shambleau!” and the word awoke a new line of speculation in Smith’s mind. Shambleau! Vaguely of French origin, it must be. And strange enough to hear it from the lips of Venusian and Martian drylanders, but it was their use of it that puzzled him more. “We never let those things live,” the ex-Patrolman had said. It reminded him dimly of something . . . an ancient line from some writing in his own tongue . . . “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.” He smiled to himself at the similarity, and simultaneously was aware of the girl at his elbow.

She had risen soundlessly. He turned to face her, sheathing his gun and stared at first with curiosity and then in the entirely frank openness with which men regard that which is not wholly human. For she was not. He knew it at a glance, though the brown, sweet body was shaped like a woman’s and she wore the garment of scarlet—he saw it was leather—with an ease that few unhuman beings achieve toward clothing. He knew it from the moment he looked into her eyes, and a shiver of unrest went over him as he met them. They were frankly green as young grass, with slit-like, feline pupils that pulsed unceasingly, and there was a look of dark, animal wisdom in their depths—that look of the beast which sees more than man.

There was no hair upon her face—neither brows nor lashes, and he would have sworn that the tight scarlet turban bound around her head covered baldness. She had three fingers and a thumb, and her feet had four digits apiece too, and all sixteen of them were tipped with round claws that sheathed back into the flesh like a cat’s. She ran her tongue over her lips—a thin, pink, flat tongue as feline as her eyes—and spoke with difficulty. He felt that that throat and tongue had never been shaped for human speech.

“Not—afraid now,” she said softly, and her little teeth were white and polished as a kitten’s.

“What did they want you for?” he asked her curiously. “What have you done? Shambleau . . . is that your name?”

“I—not talk your—speech,” she demurred hesitantly.

“Well, try to—I want to know. Why were they chasing you? Will you be safe on the street now, or hadn’t you better get indoors somewhere? They looked dangerous.”

“I—go with you.” She brought it out with difficulty.

“Say you!” Smith grinned. “What are you, anyhow? You look like a kitten to me.”

“Shambleau.” She said it somberly.

“Where d’you live? Are you a Martian?”

“I come from—from far—from long ago—far country—”

“Wait!” laughed Smith. “You’re getting your wires crossed. You’re not a Martian?”

She drew herself up very straight beside him, lifting the turbaned head, and there was something queenly in the pose of her.

“Martian?” she said scornfully. “My people—are—are—you have no word. Your speech—hard for me.”

“What’s yours? I might know it—try me.”

She lifted her head and met his eyes squarely, and there was in hers a subtle amusement—he could have sworn it.

“Some day I—speak to you in—my own language,” she promised, and the pink tongue flicked out over her lips, swiftly, hungrily.

Approaching footsteps on the red pavement interrupted Smith’s reply. A dryland Martian came past, reeling a little and exuding an aroma of segir-whisky, the Venusian brand. When he caught the red flash of the girl’s tatters he turned his head sharply, and as his segir-steeped brain took in the fact of her presence he lurched toward the recess unsteadily, bawling, “Shambleau, by Pharol! Shambleau!” and reached out a clutching hand.

Smith struck it aside contemptuously.

“On your way, drylander,” he advised.

The man drew back and stared, bleary-eyed.

“Yours, eh?” he croaked. “Zut! You’re welcome to it!” And like the ex-Patrolman before him he spat on the pavement and turned away, muttering harshly in the blasphemous tongue of the drylands.

Smith watched him shuffle off, and there was a crease between his colorless eyes, a nameless unease rising within him.

“Come on,” he said abruptly to the girl. “If this sort of thing is going to happen we’d better get indoors. Where shall I take you?”

“With—you,” she murmured.

He stared down into the flat green eyes. Those ceaselessly pulsing pupils disturbed him, but it seemed to him, vaguely, that behind the animal shallows of her gaze was a shutter—a closed barrier that might at any moment open to reveal the very deeps of that dark knowledge he sensed there.

Roughly he said again, “Come on, then,” and stepped down into the street.

She pattered along a pace or two behind him, making no effort to keep up with his long strides, and though Smith—as men know from Venus to Jupiter’s moons—walks as softly as a cat, even in spacemen’s boots, the girl at his heels slid like a shadow over the rough pavement, making so little sound that even the lightness of his footsteps was loud in the empty street.

Smith chose the less frequented ways of Lakkdarol, and somewhat shamefacedly thanked his nameless gods that his lodgings were not far away, for the few pedestrians he met turned and stared after the two with that by now familiar mingling of horror and contempt which he was as far as ever from understanding.

The room he had engaged was a single cubicle in a lodging-house on the edge of the city. Lakkdarol, raw camptown that it was in those days, could have furnished little better anywhere within its limits, and Smith’s errand there was not one he wished to advertise. He had slept in worse places than this before, and knew that he would do so again.

There was no one in sight when he entered, and the girl slipped up the stairs at his heels and vanished through the door, shadowy, unseen by anyone in the house. Smith closed the door and leaned his broad shoulders against the panels, regarding her speculatively.

She took in what little the room had to offer in a glance—frowsy bed, rickety table, mirror hanging unevenly and cracked against the wall, unpainted chairs—a typical camptown room in an Earth settlement abroad. She accepted its poverty in that single glance, dismissed it, then crossed to the window and leaned out for a moment, gazing across the low roof-tops toward the barren countryside beyond, red slag under the late afternoon sun.

“You can stay here,” said Smith abruptly, “until I leave town. I’m waiting here for a friend to come in from Venus. Have you eaten?”

“Yes,” said the girl quickly. “I shall—need no—food for—a while.”

“Well—” Smith glanced around the room. “I’ll be in sometime tonight. You can go or stay just as you please. Better lock the door behind me.”

With no more formality than that he left her. The door closed and he heard the key turn, and smiled to himself. He did not expect, then, ever to see her again.

He went down the steps and out into the late-slanting sunlight with a mind so full of other matters that the brown girl receded very quickly into the background. Smith’s errand in Lakkdarol, like most of his errands, is better not spoken of. Man lives as he must, and Smith’s living was a perilous affair outside the law and ruled by the ray-gun only. It is enough to say that the shipping-port and its cargoes outbound interested him deeply just now, and that the friend he awaited was Yarol the Venusian, in that swift little Edsel ship the Maid that can flash from world to world with a derisive speed that laughs at Patrol boats and leaves pursuers floundering in the ether far behind. Smith and Yarol and the Maid were a trinity that had caused Patrol leaders much worry and many gray hairs in the past, and the future looked very bright to Smith himself that evening as he left his lodging-house.

* * *

Lakkdarol roars by night, as Earthmen’s camp-towns have a way of doing on every planet where Earth’s outposts are, and it was beginning lustily as Smith went down among the awakening lights toward the center of town. His business there does not concern us. He mingled with the crowd where the lights were brightest, and there was the click of ivory counters and the jingle of silver, and red segir gurgled invitingly from black Venusian bottles, and much later Smith strolled homeward under the moving moons of Mars, and if the street wavered a little under his feet now and then—why, that is only understandable. Not even Smith could drink red segir at every bar from the Martian Lamb to the New Chicago and remain entirely steady on his feet. But he found his way back with very little difficulty—considering—and spent a good five minutes hunting for his key before he remembered he had left it in the inner lock for the girl.

He knocked then, and there was no sound of footsteps from within, but in a few moments the latch clicked and the door swung open. She retreated soundlessly before him as he entered, and took up her favorite place against the window, leaning back on the sill and outlined against the starry sky beyond. The room was in darkness.

Smith flipped the switch by the door and then leaned back against the panels, steadying himself. The cool night air had sobered him a little and his head was clear enough—liquor went to Smith’s feet, not his head, or he would never have come this far along the lawless way he had chosen. He lounged against the door now and regarded the girl in the sudden glare of the bulbs, blinking a little as much at the scarlet of her clothing as at the light.

“So you stayed,” he said.

“I—waited,” she answered softly, leaning farther back against the sill and clasping the rough wood with slim, three-fingered hands, pale brown against the darkness.

“Why?”

She did not answer that, but her mouth curved into a slow smile. On a woman it would have been reply enough—provocative, daring. On Shambleau there was something pitiful and horrible in it—so human on the face of one half-animal. And yet . . . that sweet brown body curving so softly from the tatters of scarlet leather—the velvety texture of that brownness—the white-flashing smile . . . Smith was aware of a stirring excitement within him. After all—time would be hanging heavy now until Yarol came . . . Speculatively he allowed the steel-pale eyes to wander over her, with a slow regard that missed nothing. And when he spoke he was aware that his voice had deepened a little . . .

“Come here,” he said.

She came forward slowly, on bare clawed feet that made no slightest sound on the floor, and stood before him with downcast eyes and mouth trembling in that pitifully human smile. He took her by the shoulders—velvety soft shoulders, of a creamy smoothness that was not the texture of human flesh. A little tremor went over her, perceptibly, at the contact of his hands. Northwest Smith caught his breath suddenly and dragged her to him . . . sweet yielding brownness in the circle of his arms . . . heard her own breath catch and quicken as her velvety arms closed about his neck. And then he was looking down into her face, very near, and the green animal eyes met his with the pulsing pupils and the flicker of—something—deep behind their shallows—and through the rising clamor of his blood, even as he stooped his lips to hers, Smith felt something deep within him shudder away—inexplicable, instinctive, revolted. What it might be he had no words to tell, but the very touch of her was suddenly loathsome—so soft and velvet and unhuman—and it might have been an animal’s face that lifted itself to his mouth—the dark knowledge looked hungrily from the darkness of those slit pupils—and for a mad instant he knew that same wild, feverish revulsion he had seen in the faces of the mob . . .

“God!” he gasped, a far more ancient invocation against evil than he realized, then or ever, and he ripped her arms from his neck, swung her away with such a force that she reeled half across the room. Smith fell back against the door, breathing heavily, and stared at her while the wild revolt died slowly within him.

She had fallen to the floor beneath the window, and as she lay there against the wall with bent head he saw, curiously, that her turban had slipped—the turban that he had been so sure covered baldness—and a lock of scarlet hair fell below the binding leather, hair as scarlet as her garment, as unhumanly red as her eyes were unhumanly green. He stared, and shook his head dizzily and stared again, for it seemed to him that the thick lock of crimson had moved, squirmed of itself against her cheek.

At the contact of it her hands flew up and she tucked it away with a very human gesture and then dropped her head again into her hands. And from the deep shadow of her fingers he thought she was staring up at him covertly.

Smith drew a deep breath and passed a hand across his forehead. The inexplicable moment had gone as quickly as it came—too swiftly for him to understand or analyze it. “Got to lay off the segir,” he told himself unsteadily. Had he imagined that scarlet hair? After all, she was no more than a pretty brown girl-creature from one of the many half-human races peopling the planets. No more than that, after all. A pretty little thing, but animal . . . He laughed, a little shakily.

“No more of that,” he said. “God knows I’m no angel, but there’s got to be a limit somewhere. Here.” He crossed to the bed and sorted out a pair of blankets from the untidy heap, tossing them to the far corner of the room. “You can sleep there.”

Wordlessly she rose from the floor and began to rearrange the blankets, the uncomprehending resignation of the animal eloquent in every line of her.

* * *

Smith had a strange dream that night. He thought he had awakened to a room full of darkness and moonlight and moving shadows, for the nearer moon of Mars was racing through the sky and everything on the planet below her was endued with a restless life in the dark. And something . . . some nameless, unthinkable thing . . . was coiled about his throat . . . something like a soft snake, wet and warm. It lay loose and light about his neck . . . and it was moving gently, very gently, with a soft, caressive pressure that sent little thrills of delight through every nerve and fiber of him, a perilous delight—beyond physical pleasure, deeper than joy of the mind. That warm softness was caressing the very roots of his soul and with a terrible intimacy. The ecstasy of it left him weak, and yet he knew—in a flash of knowledge born of this impossible dream—that the soul should not be handled . . . And with that knowledge a horror broke upon him, turning the pleasure into a rapture of revulsion, hateful, horrible—but still most foully sweet. He tried to lift his hands and tear the dream-monstrosity from his throat—tired but half-heartedly; for though his soul was revolted to its very deeps, yet the delight of his body was so great that his hands all but refused the attempt. But when at last he tried to lift his arms a cold shock went over him and he found that he could not stir . . . his body lay stony as marble beneath the blankets, a living marble that shuddered with a dreadful delight through every rigid vein.

The revulsion grew strong upon him as he struggled against the paralyzing dream—a struggle of soul against sluggish body—titanically, until the moving dark was streaked with blankness that clouded and closed about him at last and he sank back into the oblivion from which he had awakened.

* * *

Next morning, when the bright sunlight shining through Mars’ clear thin air awakened him, Smith lay for a while trying to remember. The dream had been more vivid than reality, but he could not now quite recall . . . only that it had been more sweet and horrible than anything else in life. He lay puzzling for a while, until a soft sound from the corner aroused him from his thoughts and he sat up to see the girl lying in a cat-like coil on her blankets, watching him with round, grave eyes. He regarded her somewhat ruefully.

“Morning,” he said. “I’ve just had the devil of a dream . . . Well, hungry?”

She shook her head silently, and he could have sworn there was a covert gleam of strange amusement in her eyes.

He stretched and yawned, dismissing the nightmare temporarily from his mind.

“What am I going to do with you?” he inquired, turning to more immediate matters. “I’m leaving here in a day or two and I can’t take you along, you know. Where’d you come from in the first place?”

Again she shook her head.

“Not telling? Well, it’s your business. You can stay here until I give up the room. From then on you’ll have to do your own worrying.”

He swung his feet to the floor and reached for his clothes.

Ten minutes later, slipping the heat-gun into its holster at his thigh, Smith turned to the girl. “There’s food-concentrate in that box on the table. It ought to hold you until I get back. And you’d better lock the door again after I’ve gone.”

Her wide, unwavering stare was his only answer, and he was not sure she had understood, but at any rate the lock clicked after him as before, and he went down the steps with a faint grin on his lips.

The memory of last night’s extraordinary dream was slipping from him, as such memories do, and by the time he had reached the street the girl and the dream and all of yesterday’s happenings were blotted out by the sharp necessities of the present.

Again the intricate business that had brought him here claimed his attention. He went about it to the exclusion of all else, and there was a good reason behind everything he did from the moment he stepped out into the street until the time when he turned back again at evening; though had one chosen to follow him during the day his apparently aimless rambling through Lakkdarol would have seemed very pointless.

He must have spent two hours at the least idling by the space-port, watching with sleepy, colorless eyes the ships that came and went, the passengers, the vessels lying at wait, the cargoes—particularly the cargoes. He made the rounds of the town’s saloons once more, consuming many glasses of varied liquors in the course of the day and engaging in idle conversation with men of all races and worlds, usually in their own languages, for Smith was a linguist of repute among his contemporaries. He heard the gossip of the spaceways, news from a dozen planets of a thousand different events. He heard the latest joke about the Venusian Emperor and the latest report on the Chino-Aryan war and the latest song hot from the lips of Rose Robertson, whom every man on the civilized planets adored as “the Georgia Rose.” He passed the day quite profitably, for his own purposes, which do not concern us now, and it was not until late evening, when he turned homeward again, that the thought of the brown girl in his room took definite shape in his mind, though it had been lurking there, formless and submerged, all day.

He had no idea what comprised her usual diet, but he bought a can of New York roast beef and one of Venusian frog-broth and a dozen fresh canal-apples and two pounds of that Earth lettuce that grows so vigorously in the fertile canal-soil of Mars. He felt that she must surely find something to her liking in this broad variety of edibles, and—for his day had been very satisfactory—he hummed “The Green Hills of Earth” to himself in a surprisingly good baritone as he climbed the stairs.

* * *

The door was locked, as before, and he was reduced to kicking the lower panels gently with his boot, for his arms were full. She opened the door with that softness that was characteristic of her and stood regarding him in the semidarkness as he stumbled to the table with his load. The room was unlit again.

“Why don’t you turn on the lights?” he demanded irritably after he had barked his shin on the chair by the table in an effort to deposit his burden there.

“Light and—dark—they are alike—to me,” she murmured.

“Cat eyes, eh? Well, you look the part. Here, I’ve brought you some dinner. Take your choice. Fond of roast beef? Or how about a little frog-broth?”

She shook her head and backed away a step.

“No,” she said. “I can not—eat your food.”

Smith’s brows wrinkled. “Didn’t you have any of the food-tablets?”

Again the red turban shook negatively.

“Then you haven’t had anything for—why, more than twenty-four hours! You must be starved.”

“Not hungry,” she denied.

“What can I find for you to eat, then? There’s time yet if I hurry. You’ve got to eat, child.”

“I shall—eat,” she said softly. “Before long—I shall—feed. Have no—worry.”

She turned away then and stood at the window, looking out over the moonlit landscape as if to end the conversation. Smith cast her a puzzled glance as he opened the can of roast beef. There had been an odd undernote in that assurance that, undefinably, he did not like. And the girl had teeth and tongue and presumably a fairly human digestive system, to judge from her human form. It was nonsense for her to pretend that he could find nothing that she could eat. She must have had some of the food concentrate after all, he decided, prying up the thermos lid of the inner container to release the long-sealed savor of the hot meat inside.

“Well, if you won’t eat you won’t,” he observed philosophically as he poured hot broth and diced beef into the dish-like lid of the thermos can and extracted the spoon from its hiding-place between the inner and outer receptacles. She turned a little to watch him as he pulled up a rickety chair and sat down to the food, and after a while the realization that her green gaze was fixed so unwinkingly upon him made the man nervous, and he said between bites of creamy canal-apple, “Why don’t you try a little of this? It’s good.”

“The food—I eat is—better,” her soft voice told him in its hesitant murmur, and again he felt rather than heard a faint undernote of unpleasantness in the words. A sudden suspicion struck him as he pondered on that last remark—some vague memory of horror-tales told about campfires in the past—and he swung round in the chair to look at her, a tiny, creeping fear unaccountably arising. There had been that in her words—in her unspoken words, that menaced . . .

She stood up beneath his gaze demurely, wide green eyes with their pulsing pupils meeting his without a falter. But her mouth was scarlet and her teeth were sharp . . .

“What food do you eat?” he demanded. And then, after a pause, very softly, “Blood?”

She stared at him for a moment, uncomprehending; then something like amusement curled her lips and she said scornfully, “You think me—vampire, eh? No—I am Shambleau!”

Unmistakably there were scorn and amusement in her voice at the suggestion, but as unmistakably she knew what he meant—accepted it as a logical suspicion—vampire! Fairy-tales—but fairy-tales this unhuman, outland creature was most familiar with. Smith was not a credulous man, nor a superstitious one, but he had seen too many strange things himself to doubt that the wildest legend might have a basis of fact. And there was something namelessly strange about her . . .

He puzzled over it for a while between deep bites of the canal-apple. And though he wanted to question her about a great many things, he did not, for he knew how futile it would be.

He said nothing more until the meat was finished and another canal-apple had followed the first, and he had cleared away the meal by the simple expedient of tossing the empty can out of the window. Then he lay back in the chair and surveyed her from half-closed eyes, colorless in a face tanned like saddle-leather. And again he was conscious of the brown, soft curves of her, velvety—subtle arcs and planes of smooth flesh under the tatters of scarlet leather. Vampire she might be, unhuman she certainly was, but desirable beyond words as she sat submissive beneath his low regard, her red-turbaned head bent, her clawed fingers lying in her lap. They sat very still for a while, and the silence throbbed between them.

She was so like a woman—an Earth woman—sweet and submissive and demure, and softer than soft fur, if he could forget the three-fingered claws and the pulsing eyes—and that deeper strangeness beyond words . . . (Had he dreamed that red lock of hair that moved? Had it been segir that woke the wild revulsion he knew when he held her in his arms? Why had the mob so thirsted for her?) He sat and stared, and despite the mystery of her and the half-suspicions that thronged his mind—for she was so beautifully soft and curved under those revealing tatters—he slowly realized that his pulses were mounting, became aware of a kindling within . . . brown girl-creature with downcast eyes . . . and then the lids lifted and the green flatness of a cat’s gaze met his, and last night’s revulsion woke swiftly again, like a warning bell that clanged as their eyes met—animal, after all, too sleek and soft for humanity, and that inner strangeness . . .

Smith shrugged and sat up. His failings were legion, but the weakness of the flesh was not among the major ones. He motioned the girl to her pallet of blankets in the corner and turned to his own bed.

* * *

From deeps of sound sleep he awoke much later. He awoke suddenly and completely, and with that inner excitement that presages something momentous. He awoke to brilliant moonlight, turning the room so bright that he could see the scarlet of the girl’s rags as she sat up on her pallet. She was awake, she was sitting with her shoulder half turned to him and her head bent, and some warning instinct crawled coldly up his spine as he watched what she was doing. And yet it was a very ordinary thing for a girl to do—any girl, anywhere. She was unbinding her turban . . .

He watched, not breathing, a presentiment of something horrible stirring in his brain, inexplicably . . . The red folds loosened, and—he knew then that he had not dreamed—again a scarlet lock swung down against her cheek . . . a hair, was it? a lock of hair? . . . thick as a thick worm it fell, plumply, against that smooth cheek . . . more scarlet than blood and thick as a crawling worm . . . and like a worm it crawled.

Smith rose on an elbow, not realizing the motion, and fixed an unwinking stare, with a sort of sick, fascinated incredulity, on that—that lock of hair. He had not dreamed. Until now he had taken it for granted that it was the segir which had made it seem to move on that evening before. But now . . . it was lengthening, stretching, moving of itself. It must be hair, but it crawled; with a sickening life of its own it squirmed down against her cheek, caressingly, revoltingly, impossibly . . . Wet, it was, and round and thick and shining . . .

She unfastened the last fold and whipped the turban off. From what he saw then Smith would have turned his eyes away—and he had looked on dreadful things before, without flinching—but he could not stir. He could only lie there on elbow staring at the mass of scarlet, squirming—worms, hairs, what?—that writhed over her head in a dreadful mockery of ringlets. And it was lengthening, falling, somehow growing before his eyes, down over her shoulders in a spilling cascade, a mass that even at the beginning could never have been hidden under the skull-tight turban she had worn. He was beyond wondering, but he realized that. And still it squirmed and lengthened and fell, and she shook it out in a horrible travesty of a woman shaking out her unbound hair—until the unspeakable tangle of it—twisting, writhing, obscenely scarlet—hung to her waist and beyond, and still lengthened, an endless mass of crawling horror that until now, somehow, impossibly, had been hidden under the tight-bound turban. It was like a nest of blind, restless red worms . . . it was—it was like naked entrails endowed with an unnatural aliveness, terrible beyond words.

Smith lay in the shadows, frozen without and within in a sick numbness that came of utter shock and revulsion.

She shook out the obscene, unspeakable tangle over her shoulders, and somehow he knew that she was going to turn in a moment and that he must meet her eyes. The thought of that meeting stopped his heart with dread, more awfully than anything else in this nightmare horror; for nightmare it must be, surely. But he knew without trying that he could not wrench his eyes away—the sickened fascination of that sight held him motionless, and somehow there was a certain beauty . . .

Her head was turning. The crawling awfulness rippled and squirmed at the motion, writhing thick and wet and shining over the soft brown shoulders about which they fell now in obscene cascades that all but hid her body. Her head was turning. Smith lay numb. And very slowly he saw the round of her cheek foreshorten and her profile come into view, all the scarlet horrors twisting ominously, and the profile shortened in turn and her full face came slowly round toward the bed—moonlight shining brilliantly as day on the pretty girl-face, demure and sweet, framed in tangled obscenity that crawled . . .

The green eyes met his. He felt a perceptible shock, and a shudder rippled down his paralyzed spine, leaving an icy numbness in its wake. He felt the goose-flesh rising. But that numbness and cold horror he scarcely realized, for the green eyes were locked with his in a long, long look that somehow presaged nameless things—not altogether unpleasant things—the voiceless voice of her mind assailing him with little murmurous promises . . .

For a moment he went down into a blind abyss of submission; and then somehow the very sight of that obscenity in eyes that did not then realize they saw it, was dreadful enough to draw him out of the seductive darkness . . . the sight of her crawling and alive with unnamable horror.

She rose, and down about her in a cascade fell the squirming scarlet of—of what grew upon her head. It fell in a long, alive cloak to her bare feet on the floor, hiding her in a wave of dreadful, wet, writhing life. She put up her hands and like a swimmer she parted the waterfall of it, tossing the masses back over her shoulders to reveal her own brown body, sweetly curved. She smiled exquisitely, and in starting waves back from her forehead and down about her in a hideous background writhed the snaky wetness of her living tresses. And Smith knew that he looked upon Medusa.

The knowledge of that—the realization of vast backgrounds reaching into misted history—shook him out of his frozen horror for a moment, and in that moment he met her eyes again, smiling, green as glass in the moonlight, half hooded under drooping lids. Through the twisting scarlet she held out her arms. And there was something soul-shakingly desirable about her, so that all the blood surged to his head suddenly and he stumbled to his feet like a sleeper in a dream as she swayed toward him, infinitely graceful, infinitely sweet in her cloak of living horror.

And somehow there was beauty in it, the wet scarlet writhings with moonlight sliding and shining along the thick, worm-round tresses and losing itself in the masses only to glint again and move silvery along writhing tendrils—an awful, shuddering beauty more dreadful than any ugliness could be.

But all this, again, he but half realized, for the insidious murmur was coiling again through his brain, promising, caressing, alluring, sweeter than honey; and the green eyes that held his were clear and burning like the depths of a jewel, and behind the pulsing slits of darkness he was staring into a greater dark that held all things . . . He had known—dimly he had known when he first gazed into those flat animal shallows that behind them lay this—all beauty and terror, all horror and delight, in the infinite darkness upon which her eyes opened like windows, paned with emerald glass.

Her lips moved, and in a murmur that blended indistinguishably with the silence and the sway of her body and the dreadful sway of her—her hair—she whispered—very softly, very passionately, “I shall—speak to you now—in my own tongue—oh, beloved!”

And in her living cloak she swayed to him, the murmur swelling seductive and caressing in his innermost brain—promising, compelling, sweeter than sweet. His flesh crawled to the horror of her, but it was a perverted revulsion that clasped what it loathed. His arms slid round her under the sliding cloak, wet, wet and warm and hideously alive—and the sweet velvet body was clinging to his, her arms locked about his neck—and with a whisper and a rush the unspeakable horror closed about them both.

In nightmares until he died he remembered that moment when the living tresses of Shambleau first folded him in their embrace. A nauseous, smothering odor as the wetness shut around him—thick, pulsing worms clasping every inch of his body, sliding, writhing, their wetness and warmth striking through his garments as if he stood naked to their embrace.

All this in a graven instant—and after that a tangled flash of conflicting sensation before oblivion closed over him for he remembered the dream—and knew it for nightmare reality now, and the sliding, gently moving caresses of those wet, warm worms upon his flesh was an ecstasy above words—that deeper ecstasy that strikes beyond the body and beyond the mind and tickles the very roots of soul with unnatural delight. So he stood, rigid as marble, as helplessly stony as any of Medusa’s victims in ancient legends were, while the terrible pleasure of Shambleau thrilled and shuddered through every fiber of him; through every atom of his body and the intangible atoms of what men call the soul, through all that was Smith the dreadful pleasure ran. And it was truly dreadful. Dimly he knew it, even as his body answered to the root-deep ecstasy, a foul and dreadful wooing from which his very soul shuddered away—and yet in the innermost depths of that soul some grinning traitor shivered with delight. But deeply, behind all this, he knew horror and revulsion and despair beyond telling, while the intimate caresses crawled obscenely in the secret places of his soul—knew that the soul should not be handled—and shook with the perilous pleasure through it all.

And this conflict and knowledge, this mingling of rapture and revulsion all took place in the flashing of a moment while the scarlet worms coiled and crawled upon him, sending deep, obscene tremors of that infinite pleasure into every atom that made up Smith. And he could not stir in that slimy, ecstatic embrace—and a weakness was flooding that grew deeper after each succeeding wave of intense delight, and the traitor in his soul strengthened and drowned out the revulsion—and something within him ceased to struggle as he sank wholly into a blazing darkness that was oblivion to all else but that devouring rapture . . .

* * *

The young Venusian climbing the stairs to his friend’s lodging-room pulled out his key absent-mindedly, a pucker forming between his fine brows. He was slim, as all Venusians are, as fair and sleek as any of them, and as with most of his countrymen the look of cherubic innocence on his face was wholly deceptive. He had the face of a fallen angel, without Lucifer’s majesty to redeem it; for a black devil grinned in his eyes and there were faint lines of ruthlessness and dissipation about his mouth to tell of the long years behind him that had run the gamut of experiences and made his name, next to Smith’s, the most hated and the most respected in the records of the Patrol.

He mounted the stairs now with a puzzled frown between his eyes. He had come into Lakkdarol on the noon liner—the Maid in her hold very skillfully disguised with paint and otherwise—to find in lamentable disorder the affairs he had expected to be settled. And cautious inquiry elicited the information that Smith had not been seen for three days. That was not like his friend—he had never failed before, and the two stood to lose not only a large sum of money but also their personal safety by the inexplicable lapse on the part of Smith. Yarol could think of one solution only: fate had at last caught up with his friend. Nothing but physical disability could explain it.

Still puzzling, he fitted his key in the lock and swung the door open.

In that first moment, as the door opened, he sensed something very wrong . . . The room was darkened, and for a while he could see nothing, but at the first breath he scented a strange, unnamable odor, half sickening, half sweet. And deep stirrings of ancestral memory awoke within him—ancient swamp-born memories from Venusian ancestors far away and long ago . . .

Yarol laid his hand on his gun, lightly, and opened the door wider. In the dimness all he could see at first was a curious mound in the far corner . . . Then his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, and he saw it more clearly, a mound that somehow heaved and stirred within itself . . . A mound of—he caught his breath sharply—a mound like a mass of entrails, living, moving, writhing with an unspeakable aliveness. Then a hot Venusian oath broke from his lips and he cleared the door-sill in a swift stride, slammed the door and set his back against it, gun ready in his hand, although his flesh crawled—for he knew . . .

“Smith!” he said softly, in a voice thick with horror.

The moving mass stirred—shuddered—sank back into crawling quiescence again.

“Smith! Smith!” The Venusian’s voice was gentle and insistent, and it quivered a little with terror.

An impatient ripple went over the whole mass of aliveness in the corner. It stirred again, reluctantly, and then tendril by writhing tendril it began to part itself and fall aside, and very slowly the brown of a spaceman’s leather appeared beneath it, all slimed and shining.

“Smith! Northwest!” Yarol’s persistent whisper came again, urgently, and with a dream-like slowness the leather garments moved . . . a man sat up in the midst of the writhing worms, a man who once, long ago, might have been Northwest Smith. From head to foot he was slimy from the embrace of the crawling horror about him. His face was that of some creature beyond humanity—dead-alive, fixed in a gray stare, and the look of terrible ecstasy that overspread it seemed to come from somewhere far within, a faint reflection from immeasurable distances beyond the flesh. And as there is mystery and magic in the moonlight which is after all but a reflection of the everyday sun, so in that gray face turned to the door was a terror unnamable and sweet, a reflection of ecstasy beyond the understanding of any who had known only earthly ecstasy themselves. And as he sat there turning a blank, eyeless face to Yarol the red worms writhed ceaselessly about him, very gently, with a soft, caressive motion that never slacked.

“Smith . . . come here! Smith . . . get up . . . Smith, Smith!” Yarol’s whisper hissed in the silence, commanding, urgent—but he made no move to leave the door.

And with a dreadful slowness, like a dead man rising, Smith stood up in the nest of slimy scarlet. He swayed drunkenly on his feet, and two or three crimson tendrils came writhing up his legs to the knees and wound themselves there, supportingly, moving with a ceaseless caress that seemed to give him some hidden strength, for he said then, without inflection.

“Go away. Go away. Leave me alone.” And the dead ecstatic face never changed.

“Smith!” Yarol’s voice was desperate. “Smith, listen! Smith, can’t you hear me?”

“Go away,” the monotonous voice said. “Go away. Go away. Go—”

“Not unless you come too. Can’t you hear? Smith! Smith! I’ll—”

He hushed in mid-phrase, and once more the ancestral prickle of race-memory shivered down his back, for the scarlet mass was moving again, violently, rising . . .

Yarol pressed back against the door and gripped his gun, and the name of a god he had forgotten years ago rose to his lips unbidden. For he knew what was coming next, and the knowledge was more dreadful than any ignorance could have been.

The red, writhing mass rose higher, and the tendrils parted and a human face looked out—no, half human, with green cat-eyes that shone in that dimness like lighted jewels, compellingly . . .

Yarol breathed “Shar!” again, and flung up an arm across his face, and the tingle of meeting that green gaze for even an instant went thrilling through him perilously.

“Smith!” he called in despair. “Smith, can’t you hear me?”

“Go away,” said that voice that was not Smith’s. “Go away.”

And somehow, although he dared not look, Yarol knew that the—the other—had parted those worm-thick tresses and stood there in all the human sweetness of the brown, curved woman’s body, cloaked in living horror. And he felt the eyes upon him, and something was crying insistently in his brain to lower that shielding arm . . . He was lost—he knew it, and the knowledge gave him that courage which comes from despair. The voice in his brain was growing, swelling, deafening him with a roaring command that all but swept him before it—command to lower that arm—to meet the eyes that opened upon darkness—to submit—and a promise, murmurous and sweet and evil beyond words, of pleasure to come . . .

But somehow he kept his head—somehow, dizzily, he was gripping his gun in his upflung hand—somehow, incredibly, crossing the narrow room with averted face, groping for Smith’s shoulder. There was a moment of blind fumbling in emptiness, and then he found it, and gripped the leather that was slimy and dreadful and wet—and simultaneously he felt something loop gently about his ankle and a shock of repulsive pleasure went through him, and then another coil, and another, wound about his feet . . .

Yarol set his teeth and gripped the shoulder hard, and his hand shuddered of itself, for the feel of that leather was slimy as the worms about his ankles, and a faint tingle of obscene delight went through him from the contact.

That caressive pressure on his legs was all he could feel, and the voice in his brain drowned out all other sounds, and his body obeyed him reluctantly—but somehow he gave one heave of tremendous effort and swung Smith, stumbling, out of that nest of horror. The twining tendrils ripped loose with a little sucking sound, and the whole mass quivered and reached after, and then Yarol forgot his friend utterly and turned his whole being to the hopeless task of freeing himself. For only a part of him was fighting, now—only a part of him struggled against the twining obscenities, and in his innermost brain the sweet, seductive murmur sounded, and his body clamored to surrender . . .

Shar! Shar y’danis . . . Shar mor’la-rol—” prayed Yarol, gasping and half unconscious that he spoke, boy’s prayers that he had forgotten years ago, and with his back half turned to the central mass he kicked desperately with his heavy boots at the red, writhing worms about him. They gave back before him, quivering and curling themselves out of reach, and though he knew that more were reaching for his throat from behind, at least he could go on struggling until he was forced to meet those eyes . . .

He stamped and kicked and stamped again, and for one instant he was free of the slimy grip as the bruised worms curled back from his heavy feet, and he lurched away dizzily, sick with revulsion and despair as he fought off the coils, and then he lifted his eyes and saw the cracked mirror on the wall. Dimly in its reflection he could see the writhing scarlet horror behind him, cat face peering out with its demure girl-smile, dreadfully human, and all the red tendrils reaching after him. And remembrance of something he had read long ago swept incongruously over him, and the gasp of relief and hope that he gave shook for a moment the grip of the command in his brain.

Without pausing for a breath he swung the gun over his shoulder, the reflected barrel in line with the reflected horror in the mirror, and flicked the catch.

In the mirror he saw its blue flame leap in a dazzling spate across the dimness, full into the midst of that squirming, reaching mass behind him. There was a hiss and a blaze and a high, thin scream of inhuman malice and despair—the flame cut a wide arc and went out as the gun fell from his hand, and Yarol pitched forward to the floor.

* * *

Northwest Smith opened his eyes to Martian sunlight streaming thinly through the dingy window. Something wet and cold was slapping his face, and the familiar fiery sting of segir-whiskey burnt his throat.

“Smith!” Yarol’s voice was saying from far away. “N.W.! Wake up, damn you! Wake up!”

“I’m—awake,” Smith managed to articulate thickly. “Wha’s matter?”

Then a cup-rim was thrust against his teeth and Yarol said irritably, “Drink it, you fool!”

Smith swallowed obediently and more of the fire-hot segir flowed down his grateful throat. It spread a warmth through his body that awakened him from the numbness that had gripped him until now, and helped a little toward driving out the all-devouring weakness he was becoming aware of slowly. He lay still for a few minutes while the warmth of the whisky went through him, and memory sluggishly began to permeate his brain with the spread of the segir. Nightmare memories . . . sweet and terrible . . . memories of—

“God!” gasped Smith suddenly, and tried to sit up. Weakness smote him like a blow, and for an instant the room wheeled as he fell back against something firm and warm—Yarol’s shoulder. The Venusian’s arm supported him while the room steadied, and after a while he twisted a little and stared into the other’s black gaze.

Yarol was holding him with one arm and finishing the mug of segir himself, and the black eyes met his over the rim and crinkled into sudden laughter, half hysterical after that terror that was passed.

“By Pharol!” gasped Yarol, choking into his mug. “By Pharol, N.W.! I’m never gonna let you forget this! Next time you have to drag me out of a mess I’ll say—”

“Let it go,” said Smith. “What’s been going on? How—”

“Shambleau,” Yarol’s laughter died. “Shambleau! What were you doing with a thing like that?”

“What was it?” Smith asked soberly.

“Mean to say you didn’t know? But where’d you find it? How—”

“Suppose you tell me first what you know,” said Smith firmly. “And another swig of that segir, too. I need it.”

“Can you hold the mug now? Feel better?”

“Yeah—some. I can hold it—thanks. Now go on.”

“Well—I don’t know just where to start. They call them Shambleau—”

“Good God, is there more than one?”

“It’s a—a sort of race, I think, one of the very oldest. Where they come from nobody knows. The name sounds a little French, doesn’t it? But it goes back beyond the start of history. There have always been Shambleau.”

“I never heard of ’em.”

“Not many people have. And those who know don’t care to talk about it much.”

“Well, half this town knows. I hadn’t any idea what they were talking about, then. And I still don’t understand—”

“Yes, it happens like this, sometimes. They’ll appear, and the news will spread and the town will get together and hunt them down, and after that—well, the story doesn’t get around very far. It’s too—too unbelievable.”

“But—my God, Yarol!—what was it? Where’d it come from? How—”

“Nobody knows just where they come from. Another planet—maybe some undiscovered one. Some say Venus—I know there are some rather awful legends of them handed down in our family—that’s how I’ve heard about it. And the minute I opened that door, awhile back—I—I think I knew that smell . . .”

“But—what are they?”

“God knows. Not human, though they have the human form. Or that may be only an illusion . . . or maybe I’m crazy. I don’t know. They’re a species of the vampire—or maybe the vampire is a species of—of them. Their normal form must be that—that mass, and in that form they draw nourishment from the—I suppose the life-forces of men. And they take some form—usually a woman form, I think, and key you up to the highest pitch of emotion before they—begin. That’s to work the life-force up to intensity so it’ll be easier . . . And they give, always, that horrible, foul pleasure as they—feed. There are some men who, if they survive the first experience, take to it like a drug—can’t give it up—keep the thing with them all their lives—which isn’t long—feeding it for that ghastly satisfaction. Worse than smoking ming or—or ‘praying to Pharol.'”

“Yes,” said Smith. “I’m beginning to understand why that crowd was so surprised and—and disgusted when I said—well, never mind. Go on.”

“Did you get to talk to—to it?” asked Yarol.

“I tried to. It couldn’t speak very well. I asked it where it came from and it said—’from far away and long ago’—something like that.”

“I wonder. Possibly some unknown planet—but I think not. You know there are so many wild stories with some basis of fact to start from, that I’ve sometimes wondered—mightn’t there be a lot more of even worse and wilder superstitions we’ve never even heard of? Things like this, blasphemous and foul, that those who know have to keep still about? Awful, fantastic things running around loose that we never hear rumors of at all!

“These things—they’ve been in existence for countless ages. No one knows when or where they first appeared. Those who’ve seen them, as we saw this one, don’t talk about it. It’s just one of those vague, misty rumors you find half hinted at in old books sometimes . . . I believe they are an older race than man, spawned from ancient seed in times before ours, perhaps on planets that have gone to dust, and so horrible to man that when they are discovered the discoverers keep still about it—forget them again as quickly as they can.

“And they go back to time immemorial. I suppose you recognized the legend of Medusa? There isn’t any question that the ancient Greeks knew of them. Does it mean that there have been civilizations before yours that set out from Earth and explored other planets? Or did one of the Shambleau somehow make its way into Greece three thousand years ago? If you think about it long enough you’ll go off your head! I wonder how many other legends are based on things like this—things we don’t suspect, things we’ll never know.

“The Gorgon, Medusa, a beautiful woman with—with snakes for hair, and a gaze that turned men to stone, and Perseus finally killed her—I remembered this just by accident, N.W., and it saved your life and mine—Perseus killed her by using a mirror as he fought to reflect what he dared not look at directly. I wonder what the old Greek who first started that legend would have thought if he’d known that three thousand years later his story would save the lives of two men on another planet. I wonder what that Greek’s own story was, and how he met the thing, and what happened . . .

“Well, there’s a lot we’ll never know. Wouldn’t the records of that race of—of things, whatever they are, be worth reading! Records of other planets and other ages and all the beginnings of mankind! But I don’t suppose they’ve kept any records. I don’t suppose they’ve even any place to keep them—from what little I know, or anyone knows about it, they’re like the Wandering Jew, just bobbing up here and there at long intervals, and where they stay in the meantime I’d give my eyes to know! But I don’t believe that terribly hypnotic power they have indicates any superhuman intelligence. It’s their means of getting food—just like a frog’s long tongue or a carnivorous flower’s odor. Those are physical because the frog and the flower eat physical food. The Shambleau uses a—a mental reach to get mental food. I don’t quite know how to put it. And just as a beast that eats the bodies of other animals acquires with each meal greater power over the bodies of the rest, so the Shambleau, stoking itself up with the life-forces of men, increases its power over the minds and souls of other men. But I’m talking about things I can’t define—things I’m not sure exist.

“I only know that when I felt—when those tentacles closed around my legs—I didn’t want to pull loose, I felt sensations that—that—oh, I’m fouled and filthy to the very deepest part of me by that—pleasure—and yet—”

“I know,” said Smith slowly. The effect of the segir was beginning to wear off, and weakness was washing back over him in waves, and when he spoke he was half meditating in a lower voice, scarcely realizing that Yarol listened. “I know it—much better than you do—and there’s something so indescribably awful that the thing emanates, something so utterly at odds with everything human—there aren’t any words to say it. For a while I was a part of it, literally, sharing its thoughts and memories and emotions and hungers, and—well, it’s over now and I don’t remember very clearly, but the only part left free was that part of me that was all but insane from the—the obscenity of the thing. And yet it was a pleasure so sweet—I think there must be some nucleus of utter evil in me—in everyone—that needs only the proper stimulus to get complete control; because even while I was sick all through from the touch of those—things—there was something in me that was—was simply gibbering with delight . . . Because of that I saw things—and knew things—horrible, wild things I can’t quite remember—visited unbelievable places, looked backward through the memory of that—creature—I was one with, and saw—God, I wish I could remember!”

“You ought to thank your God you can’t,” said Yarol soberly.

* * *

His voice roused Smith from the half-trance he had fallen into, and he rose on his elbow, swaying a little from weakness. The room was wavering before him, and he closed his eyes, not to see it, but he asked, “You say they—they don’t turn up again? No way of finding—another?”

Yarol did not answer for a moment. He laid his hands on the other man’s shoulders and pressed him back, and then sat staring down into the dark, ravaged face with a new, strange, undefinable look upon it that he had never seen there before—whose meaning he knew, too well.

“Smith,” he said finally, and his black eyes for once were steady and serious, and the little grinning devil had vanished from behind them, “Smith, I’ve never asked your word on anything before, but I’ve—I’ve earned the right to do it now, and I’m asking you to promise me one thing.”

Smith’s colorless eyes met the black gaze unsteadily. Irresolution was in them, and a little fear of what that promise might be. And for just a moment Yarol was looking, not into his friend’s familiar eyes, but into a wide gray blankness that held all horror and delight—a pale sea with unspeakable pleasures sunk beneath it. Then the wide stare focused again and Smith’s eyes met his squarely and Smith’s voice said, “Go ahead. I’ll promise.”

“That if you ever should meet a Shambleau again—ever, anywhere—you’ll draw your gun and burn it to hell the instant you realize what it is. Will you promise me that?”

There was a long silence. Yarol’s somber black eyes bored relentlessly into the colorless ones of Smith, not wavering. And the veins stood out on Smith’s tanned forehead. He never broke his word—he had given it perhaps half a dozen times in his life, but once he had given it, he was incapable of breaking it. And once more the gray seas flooded in a dim tide of memories, sweet and horrible beyond dreams. Once more Yarol was staring into blankness that hid nameless things. The room was very still.

The gray tide ebbed. Smith’s eyes, pale and resolute as steel, met Yarol’s levelly.

“I’ll—try,” he said. And his voice wavered.

 

 

 

Heavy Planet by Lee Gregor

Heavy Planet

by Lee Gregor

Ennis was completing his patrol of Sector EM, Division 426 of the Eastern Ocean. The weather had been unusually fine, the liquid-thick air roaring along in a continuous blast that propelled his craft with a rush as if it were flying, and lifting short, choppy waves that rose and fell with a startling suddenness. A short savage squall whirled about, pounding down on the ocean like a million hammers, flinging the little boat ahead madly.

Ennis tore at the controls, granite-hard muscles standing out in bas-relief over his short, immensely thick body, skin gleaming scalelike in the splashing spray. The heat from the sun that hung like a huge red lantern on the horizon was a tangible intensity, making an inferno of the gale.

The little craft, that Ennis maneuvered by sheer brawn, took a leap into the air and seemed to float for many seconds before burying its keel again in the sea. It often floated for long distances, the air was so dense. The boundary between air and water was sometimes scarcely defined at all—one merged into the other imperceptibly. The pressure did strange things.

Like a dust mote sparkling in a beam, a tiny speck of light above caught Ennis’ eye. A glider, he thought, but he was puzzled. Why so far out here on the ocean? They were nasty things to handle in the violent wind.

The dust mote caught the light again. It was lower, tumbling down with a precipitancy that meant trouble. An upward blast caught it, checked its fall. Then it floated down gently for a space until struck by another howling wind that seemed to distort its very outlines.

Ennis turned the prow of his boat to meet the path of the falling vessel. Curious, he thought; where were its wings? Were they retracted, or broken off? It ballooned closer, and it wasn’t a glider. Far larger than any glider ever made, it was of a ridiculous shape that would not stand up for an instant. And with the sharp splash the body made as it struck the water—a splash that fell in almost the same instant it rose—a thought seemed to leap up in his mind. A thought that was more important than anything else on that planet; or was to him, at least. For if it was what he thought it was—and it had to be that—it was what Shadden had been desperately seeking for many years. What a stroke of inconceivable luck, falling from the sky before his very eyes!

The silvery shape rode the ragged waters lightly. Ennis’ craft came up with a rush; he skillfully checked its speed and the two came together with a slight jar. The metal of the strange vessel dented as if it were made of rubber. Ennis stared. He put out an arm and felt the curved surface of the strange ship. His finger prodded right through the metal. What manner of people were they who made vessels of such weak materials?

He moored his little boat to the side of the larger one and climbed to an opening. The wall sagged under him. He knew he must be careful; it was frightfully weak. It would not hold together very long; he must work fast if it were to be saved. The atmospheric pressure would have flattened it out long ago, had it not been for the jagged rent above which had allowed the pressure to be equalized.

He reached the opening and lowered himself carefully into the interior of the vessel. The rent was too small; he enlarged it by taking the two edges in his hands and pulling them apart. As he went down he looked askance at the insignificant plates and beams that were like tissue paper on his world. Inside was wreckage. Nothing was left in its original shape. Crushed, mutilated machinery, shattered vacuum tubes, sagging members, all ruined by the gravity and the pressure.

There was a pulpy mess on the floor that he did not examine closely. It was like red jelly, thin and stalky, pulped under a gravity a hundred times stronger and an atmosphere ten thousand times heavier than that it had been made for.

He was in a room with many knobs and dials on the walls, apparently a control room. A table in the center with a chart on it, the chart of a solar system. It had nine planets; his had but five.

Then he knew he was right. If they came from another system, what he wanted must be there. It could be nothing else.

He found a staircase, descended. Large machinery bulked there. There was no light, but he did not notice that. He could see well enough by infrared, and the amount of energy necessary to sustain his compact gianthood kept him constantly radiating.

Then he went through a door that was of a comfortable massiveness, even for his planet—and there it was. He recognized it at once. It was big, squat, strong. The metal was soft, but it was thick enough even to stand solidly under the enormous pull of this world. He had never seen anything quite like it. It was full of coils, magnets, and devices of shapes unknown to him. But Shadden would know. Shadden, and who knows how many other scientists before him, had tried to make something which would do what this could do, but they had all failed. And without the things this machine could perform, the race of men on Heavyplanet was doomed to stay down on the surface of the planet, chained there immovably by the crushing gravity.

* * *

It was atomic energy. That he had known as soon as he knew that the body was not a glider. For nothing else but atomic energy and the fierce winds was capable of lifting a body from the surface of Heavyplanet. Chemicals were impotent. There is no such thing as an explosion where the atmosphere pressed inward with more force than an explosion could press outward. Only atomic, of all the theoretically possible sources of energy, could supply the work necessary to lift a vessel away from the planet. Every other source of energy was simply too weak.

Yes, Shadden, all the scientists must see this. And quickly, because the forces of sea and storm would quickly tear the ship to shreds, and, even more vital, because the scientists of Bantin and Marak might obtain the secret if there was delay. And that would mean ruin—the loss of its age-old supremacy—for his nation. Bantin and Marak were war nations; did they obtain the secret they would use it against all the other worlds that abounded in the Universe.

The Universe was big. That was why Ennis was so sure there was atomic energy on this ship. For, even though it might have originated on a planet that was so tiny that chemical energy—although that was hard to visualize—would be sufficient to lift it out of the pull of gravity, to travel the distance that stretched between the stars only one thing would suffice.

He went back through the ship, trying to see what had happened.

There were pulps lying behind long tubes that pointed out through clever ports in the outer wall. He recognized them as weapons, worth looking into.

There must have been a battle. He visualized the scene. The forces that came from atomic energy must have warped even space in the vicinity. The ship pierced, the occupants killed, the controls wrecked, the vessel darting off at titanic speed, blindly into nothing. Finally it had come near enough to Heavyplanet to be enmeshed in its huge web of gravity.

Weeaao-o-ow! It was the wailing roar of his alarm siren, which brought him spinning around and dashing for his boat. Beyond, among the waves that leaped and fell so suddenly, he saw a long, low craft making way toward the derelict spaceship. He glimpsed a flash of color on the rounded, gray superstructure, and knew it for a battleship of Marak. Luck was going strong both ways; first good, now bad. He could easily have eluded the battleship in his own small craft, but he couldn’t leave the derelict. Once lost to the enemy he could never regain it, and it was too valuable to lose.

The wind howled and buffeted about his head, and he strained his muscles to keep from being blasted away as he crouched there, half on his own boat and half on the derelict. The sun had set and the evening winds were beginning to blow. The hulk scudded before them, its prow denting from the resistance of the water it pushed aside.

He thought furiously fast. With a quick motion he flipped the switch of the radiophone and called Shadden. He waited with fierce impatience until the voice of Shadden was in his ear. At last he heard it, then: “Shadden! This is Ennis. Get your glider, Shadden, fly to a45j on my route! Quickly! It’s come, Shadden! But I have no time. Come!”

He flipped the switch off, and pounded the valve out of the bottom of his craft, clutching at the side of the derelict. With a rush the ocean came up and flooded his little boat and in an instant it was gone, on its way down to the bottom. That would save him from being detected for a short time.

* * *

Back into the darkness of the spaceship. He didn’t think he had been noticed climbing through the opening. Where could he hide? Should he hide? He couldn’t defeat the entire battleship singlehanded, without weapons. There were no weapons that could be carried anyway. A beam of concentrated actinic light that ate away the eyes and the nervous system had to be powered by the entire output of a battleship’s generators. Weapons for striking and cutting had never been developed on a world where flesh was tougher than metal. Ennis was skilled in personal combat, but how could he overcome all that would enter the derelict?

Down again, into the dark chamber where the huge atomic generator towered over his head. This time he looked for something he had missed before. He crawled around it, peering into its recesses. And then, some feet above, he saw the opening, and pulled himself up to it, carefully, not to destroy the precious thing with his mass. The opening was shielded with a heavy, darkly transparent substance through which seeped a dim glow from within. He was satisfied then. Somehow, matter was still being disintegrated in there, and energy could be drawn off if he knew how.

There were leads—wires of all sizes, and busbars, and thick, heavy tubes that bent under their own weight. Some must lead in and some must lead out; it was not good to tamper with them. He chose another track. Upstairs again, and to the places where he had seen the weapons.

They were all mounted on heavy, rigid swivels. He carefully detached the tubes from the bases. The first time he tried it he was not quite careful enough, and part of the projector itself was ripped away, but next time he knew what he was doing and it came away nicely. It was a large thing, nearly as thick as his arm and twice as long. Heavy leads trailed from its lower end and a lever projected from behind. He hoped it was in working condition. He dared not try it; all he could do was to trace the leads back and make sure they were intact.

He ran out of time. There came a thud from the side, and then smaller thuds, as the boarding party incautiously leaped over. Once there was a heavy sound, as someone went all the way through the side of the ship.

“Idiot!” Ennis muttered, and moved forward with his weapon toward the stairway. Noises came from overhead, and then a loud crash buckled the plates of the ceiling. Ennis leaped out of the way, but the entire section came down, with two men on it. The floor sagged, but held for the moment. Ennis, caught beneath the down-coming mass, beat his way free. He came up with a girder in his hand, which he bent over the head of one of the Maraks. The man shook himself and struck out for Ennis, who took the blow rolling and countered with a buffet that left a black splotch on a skin that was like armor plate and sent the man through the opposite wall. The other was upon Ennis, who whirled with the quickness of one who maneuvers habitually under a pressure of ten thousand atmospheres, and shook the Marak from him, leaving him unconscious with a twist in a sensitive spot.

The first opponent returned, and the two grappled, searching for nerve centers to beat upon. Ennis twisted frantically, conscious of the real danger that the frail vessel might break to pieces beneath his feet. The railing of a staircase gave behind the two, and they hurtled down it, crashing through the steps to the floor below. Their weight and momentum carried them through. Ennis released his grip on the Marak, stopped his fall by grasping one of the girders that was part of the ship’s framework. The other continued his devastating way down, demolishing the inner shell, and then the outer shell gave way with a grinding crash that ominously became a burbling rush of liquid.

Ennis looked down into the space where the Marak had fallen, hissed with a sudden intake of breath, then dove down himself. He met rising water, gushing in through a rent in the keel. He braced himself against a girder which sagged under his hand and moved onward against the rushing water. It geysered through the hole in a heavy stream that pushed him back and started to fill the bottom level of the ship. Against that terrific pressure he strained forward slowly, beating against the resisting waves, and then, with a mighty flounder, was at the opening. Its edges had been folded back upon themselves by the inrushing water, and they gaped inward like a jagged maw. He grasped them in a huge hand and exerted force. They strained for a moment and began to straighten. Irresistibly he pushed and stretched them into their former position, and then took the broken ends in his hands and squeezed. The metal grew soft under his grip and began to flow. The edges of the plate welded under that mighty pressure. He moved down the crack and soon it was watertight. He flexed his hands as he rose. They ached; even his strength was beginning to be taxed.

Noises from above; pounding feet. Men were coming down to investigate the commotion. He stood for a moment in thought, then turned to a blank wall, battered his way through it, and shoved the plates and girders back into position. Down to the other end of the craft, and up a staircase there. The corridor above was deserted, and he stole along it, hunting for the place he had left the weapon he had prepared. There was a commotion ahead as the Maraks found the unconscious man.

Two men came pounding up the passageway, giving him barely enough time to slip into a doorway to the side. The room he found himself in was a sleeping chamber. There were two red pulps there, and nothing that could help him, so he stayed in there only long enough to make sure that he would not be seen emerging into the hall. He crept down it again, with as little noise as possible. The racket ahead helped him; it sounded as though they were tearing the ship apart. Again he cursed their idiocy. Couldn’t they see how valuable this was?

They were in the control room, ripping apart the machinery with the curiosity of children, wondering at the strange weakness of the paperlike metal, not realizing that, on the world where it was fabricated, it was sufficiently strong for any strain the builders could put upon it.

The strange weapon Ennis had prepared was on the floor of the passage, and just outside the control room. He looked anxiously at the trailing cables. Had they been stepped on and broken? Was the instrument in working condition? He had to get it and be away; no time to experiment to see if it would work.

A noise from behind, and Ennis again slunk into a doorway as a large Marak with a colored belt around his waist strode jarringly through the corridor into the control room. Sharp orders were barked, and the men ceased their havoc with the machinery of the room. All but a few left and scattered through the ship. Ennis’ face twisted into a scowl. This made things more difficult. He couldn’t overcome them all single-handed, and he couldn’t use the weapon inside the ship if it was what he thought it was from the size of the cables.

A Marak was standing immediately outside the room in which Ennis lurked. No exit that way. He looked around the room; there were no other doors. A porthole in the outer wall was a tiny disk of transparency. He looked at it, felt it with his hands, and suddenly pushed his hands right through it. As quietly as he could, he worked at the edges of the circle until the hole was large enough for him to squeeze through. The jagged edges did not bother him. They felt soft, like a ragged pat of butter.

The Marak vessel was moored to the other side of the spaceship. On this side the wind howled blankly, and the sawtooth waves stretched on and on to a horizon that was many miles distant. He cautiously made his way around the glistening rotundity of the derelict, past the prow, straining silently against the vicious backward sweep of the water that tore at every inch of his body. The darker hump of the battleship loomed up as he rounded the curve, and he swam across the tiny space to grasp a row of projections that curved up over the surface of the craft. He climbed up them, muscles that were hard as carborundum straining to hold against all the forces of gravity and wind that fought him down. Near the top of the curve was a rounded, streamlined projection. He felt around its base and found a lever there, which he moved. The metal hump slid back, revealing a rugged swivel mounting with a stubby cylindrical projector atop it.

He swung the mounting around and let loose a short, sudden blast of white fire along the naked deck of the battleship. Deep voices yelled within and men sprang out, to fall back with abrupt screams clogged in their throats as Ennis caught them in the intolerable blast from the projector. Men, shielded by five thousand miles of atmosphere from actinic light, used to receiving only red and infra red, were painfully vulnerable to his frightful concentration of ultraviolet.

Noise and shouts burst from the derelict spaceship alongside, sweeping away eerily in the thundering wind that seemed to pound down upon them with new vigor in that moment. Heads appeared from the openings in the craft.

Ennis suddenly stood up to his full height, bracing himself against the wind, so dense it made him buoyant. With a deep bellow he bridged the space to the derelict. Then, as a squad of Maraks made their difficult, slippery way across the flank of the battleship toward him, and as the band that had boarded the spaceship crowded out on its battered deck to see what the noise was about, he dropped down into a crouch behind his ultraviolet projector, and whirled it around, pulling the firing lever.

That was what he wanted. Make a lot of noise and disturbance, get them all on deck, and then blow them to pieces. The ravening blast spat from the nozzle of the weapon, and the men on the battleship dropped flat on the deck. He found he could not depress the projector enough to reach them. He spun it to point at the spaceship. The incandescence reached out, and then seemed to waver and die. The current was shut off at the switchboard.

Ennis rose from behind the projector, and then hurtled from the flank of the battleship as he was struck by two Maraks leaping on him from behind the hump of the vessel. The three struck the water and sank, Ennis struggling violently. He was on the last lap, and he gave all his strength to the spurt. The water swirled around them in little choppy waves that fell more quickly than the eye could follow. Heavier blows than those from an Earthly trip hammer were scoring Ennis’ face and head. He was in a bad position to strike back, and suddenly he became limp and sank below the surface. The pressure of the water around him was enormous, and it increased very rapidly as he went lower and lower. He saw the shadowy bulk of the spaceship above him. His lungs were fighting for air, but he shook off his pretended stupor and swam doggedly through the water beneath the derelict. He went on and on. It seemed as though the distance were endless, following the metal curve. It was so big from beneath, and trying to swim the width without air made it bigger.

Clear, finally, his lungs drew in the saving breaths. No time to rest, though. He must make use of his advantage while it was his; it wouldn’t last long. He swam along the side of the ship looking for an opening. There was none within reach from the water, so he made one, digging his stubby fingers into the metal, climbing up until it was safe to tear a rent in the thick outer and inner walls of the ship.

He found himself in one of the machine rooms of the second level. He went out into the corridor and up the stairway which was half-wrecked, and found himself in the main passage near the control room. He darted down it, into the room. There was nobody there, although the noises from above indicated that the Maraks were again descending. There was his weapon on the floor, where he had left it. He was glad that they had not gotten around to pulling that instrument apart. There would be one thing saved for intelligent examination.

The clatter from the descending crowd turned into a clamor of anger as they discovered him in the passageway. They stopped there for a moment, puzzled. He had been in the ocean, and had somehow magically reappeared within the derelict. It gave him time to pick up the weapon.

Ennis debated rapidly and decided to risk the unknown. How powerful the weapon was he did not know, but with atomic energy it would be powerful. He disliked using it inside the spaceship; he wanted to have enough left to float on the water until Shadden arrived; but they were beginning to advance on him, and he had to start something.

He pulled a lever. The cylinder in his arms jerked back with great force; a bolt of fierce, blinding energy tore out of it and passed with the quickness of light down the length of the corridor.

When he could see again there was no corridor. Everything that had been in the way of the projector was gone, simply disappeared.

Unmindful of the heat from the object in his hands, he turned and directed it at the battleship that was plainly outlined through the space that had been once the walls of the derelict. Before the men on the deck could move, he pulled the lever again.

And the winds were silenced for a moment. The natural elements were still in fear at the incredible forces that came from the destruction of atoms. Then with an agonized scream the hurricane struck again, tore through the spot where there had been a battleship.

Far off in the sky Ennis detected motion. It was Shadden, speeding in a glider.

Now would come the work that was important. Shadden would take the big machine apart and see how it ran. That was what history would remember.

 

 

 

Afterword by Eric Flint

The oldest story in this anthology is C.L. Moore’s “Shambleau,” which was first published in the November 1933 issue of Weird Tales. Five years have to pass before another one of the stories collected here first appears: John W. Campbell, Jr.’s “Who Goes There?” in the August 1938 issue of Astounding. Two more come in the following year: Van Vogt’s “Black Destroyer” in the July 1939 issue of Astounding, and, one month later in the same magazine, this story: Lee Gregor’s “Heavy Planet.”

C.L. Moore, John W. Campbell, Jr., A. E. Van Vogt . . . all of them among the great names in the history of science fiction.

Lee Gregor was not. In fact, the name itself is a pseudonym. “Lee Gregor” was actually Milton A. Rothman, a minor science fiction writer who published not more than a dozen stories, scattered across four decades from the late ’30s to the late ’70s, many of them using the pseudonym of Lee Gregor. Under his own name, he was probably better known to SF readers as one of the scientists who periodically wrote factual articles for either Astounding/Analog or, later in his life, Issac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine and anthologies associated with it.

And yet . . .

“Heavy Planet” has been anthologized since its first appearance over a dozen times—about as often as Moore’s “Shambleau” and Van Vogt’s “Black Destroyer,” and almost as many times as Campbell’s “Who Goes There?” In fact, the first time I read it was in one of the great, classic science fiction anthologies: Adventures in Time and Space, edited by Raymond J. Healy and J. Francis McComas and first published in 1946 by Random House. My parents gave me the volume as a gift, if memory serves me correctly, on my fourteenth birthday.

Odd success, perhaps, for such a simple and straight-forward story. But I think that’s the key to it. It’s such a clean story, and one of the very first in the history of science fiction (that I can think of, anyway) that is told entirely from the viewpoint of an alien. Even the supposition that the bodies Ennis encounters on the wrecked spaceship are those of human beings is simply that—a supposition. The story does not say, one way or the other. It does not need to, because the story is not about humans. It is about hope and aspiration, which although they are human qualities, may well be shared by others.

That was what struck me most about the story, at the time. And even at that age, I wasn’t so callow that I didn’t understand that Gregor’s story applied to the world I saw around me. I didn’t have to wait for aliens to appear to start thinking about what a mile might feel like in someone else’s moccasins.

 

Environment by Chester S. Geier

Environment

by Chester S. Geier

 

The sun was rising above the towers and spires of the city to the west. It sent questing fingers of brightness through the maze of streets and avenues, wiping away the last, pale shadows of night. But in the ageless splendor of the dawn, the city dreamed on.

The ship came with the dawn, riding down out of the sky on wings of flame, proclaiming its arrival in a voice of muted thunder. It came out of the west, dropping lower and lower, to cruise finally in great, slow circles. It moved over the city like a vast, silver-gray hunting hawk, searching for prey. There was something of eagerness in the leashed thunder of its voice.

Still the city dreamed on. Nothing, it seemed, could disturb its dreaming. Nothing could. It was not a sentient dreaming. It was a part of the city itself, something woven into every flowing line and graceful curve. As long as the city endured, the dream would go on.

The voice of the ship had grown plaintive, filled with an aching disappointment. Its circling was aimless, dispirited. It rose high in the sky, hesitated, then glided down and down. It landed on an expanse of green in what had once been a large and beautiful park.

It rested now on the sward, a great, silver-gray ovoid that had a certain harsh, utilitarian beauty. There was a pause of motionlessness, then a circular lock door opened in its side. Jon Gaynor appeared in the lock and jumped to the ground. He gazed across the park to where the nearest towers of the city leaped and soared, and his gray eyes were narrowed in a frown of mystification.

“Deserted!” he whispered. “Deserted— But why?”

Jon Gaynor turned as Wade Harlan emerged from the lock. The two glanced at each other, then, in mutual perplexity, their eyes turned to the dreaming city. After a long moment, Wade Harlan spoke.

“Jon, I was thinking— Perhaps this isn’t the right planet. Perhaps . . . perhaps old Mark Gaynor and the Purists never landed here at all—”

Jon Gaynor shook his brown head slowly. He was a tall, lean figure in a tight-fitting, slate-gray overall. “I’ve considered that possibility, Wade. No—this is the place, all right. Everything checks against the data given in that old Bureau of Expeditions report. Seven planets in the system—this the second planet. And this world fits perfectly the description given in the report—almost a second Earth. Then there’s the sun. Its type, density, rate of radiation, spectrum—all the rest—they check, too.”

Gaynor shook his head again. “Granted there could exist another system of seven planets, with the second habitable. But it’s too much to suppose that the description of that second planet, as well as the description of its sun, would exactly fit the expedition report. And the report mentioned a deserted city. We’re standing in the middle of it now. The only thing that doesn’t check is that it’s still deserted.”

Harlan gave a slight shrug. “That may not mean anything, Jon. How can you be certain that Mark Gaynor and the Purists came back here at all? The only clue you have is that old Bureau of Expeditions report, describing this city and planet, which you found among the personal effects Mark Gaynor left behind. It may not have meant anything.”

“Perhaps— But I’m pretty sure it did. You see, old Mark and the Purists wanted to live far from all others, somewhere where there would be none to laugh at them for their faith in the ancient religious beliefs. The only habitable planets which answered their purposes were a tremendously remote few. Of them all, this was the only one possessing a city—and a deserted city at that.”

“So you think they must have come here because of the benefits offered by the city?”

“That’s one reason. The other . . . well, old Mark had a pile of Bureau of Expedition reports dating back for two hundred years. The report relating to this planetary system was marked in red, as being of special interest. It was the only report so marked—”

Harlan smiled in friendly derision. “Add that to a misplaced hero-worship for a crackpot ancestor—and the answer is that we’ve come on a goose chase. Lord, Jon, even with the Hyperspacial Drive to carry us back over the immense distance, it’s going to be a terrific job getting back to Earth. You know what a time we had, finding this planet. The Hyperspacial Drive is a wonderful thing—but it has its drawbacks. You go in here, and you come out there—millions of miles away. If you’re lucky, you’re only within a few million miles or so of your destination. If not—and that’s most of the time—you simply try again. And again—”

“That’s a small worry,” Gaynor replied. “And as for old Mark, he was hardly a crackpot. It took one hundred and twenty years for the world to realize that. His ideas on how people should live and think were fine—but they just didn’t fit in with the general scheme of things. On a small group, they could have been applied beautifully. And such a group, living and thinking that way, might have risen to limitless heights of greatness. Hero-worship? No—I never had such feelings for my great-great-uncle, Mark Gaynor. I just had a feverish desire to see how far the Purists had risen—to see if their way of life had given them an advantage over others.”

Harlan was sober. “Maybe we’ll never learn what happened to them, Jon. The city is deserted. Either the Purists came here and left—or they never came here at all.”

Gaynor straightened with purpose. “We’ll learn which is the answer. I’m not leaving until we do. We’ll—” Gaynor broke off, his eyes jerking toward the sky. High up and far away in the blue, something moved, a vast swarm of objects too tiny for identification. They soared and circled, dipped and swooped like birds. And as the two men from another planet watched, sounds drifted down to them—sweet, crystalline tinklings and chimings, so infinitely faint that they seemed to be sensed rather than heard.

“Life—” Harlan murmured. “There’s life here of sorts, Jon.”

Gaynor nodded thoughtfully. “And that may mean danger. We’re going to examine the city—and I think we’d better be armed.”

While Harlan watched the graceful, aimless maneuvers of the aerial creatures, Gaynor went back into the ship. In a moment, he returned with laden arms. He and Harlan strapped the antigravity flight units to their backs, buckled the positron blasters about their waists. Then they lifted into the air, soared with easy speed toward a cluster of glowing towers.

As they flew, a small cloud of the aerial creatures flashed past. The things seemed to be intelligent, for, as though catching sight of the two men, they suddenly changed course, circling with a clearly evident display of excited curiosity. The crystalline chimings and tinklings which they emitted held an elfin note of astonishment.

If astonishment it actually was, Gaynor and Harlan were equally amazed at close view of the creatures. For they were great, faceted crystals whose interiors flamed with glorious color—exquisite shades that pulsed and changed with the throb of life. Like a carillon of crystal bells, their chimings and tinklings rang out—so infinitely sweet and clear and plaintive that it was both a pain and a pleasure to hear.

“Crystalline life!” Harlan exclaimed. His voice became thoughtful. “Wonder if it’s the only kind of life here.”

Gaynor said nothing. He watched the circling crystal creatures with wary eyes, the positron blaster gripped in his hand. But the things gave no evidence of being inimical—or at least no evidence of being immediately so. With a last exquisite burst of chimings, they coalesced into a small cloud and soared away, glittering, flashing, with prismatic splendor in the sunlight.

On the invisible wings of their antigravity flight units, Gaynor and Harlan had approached quite close to the cluster of towers which was their goal. Gliding finally through the space between two, they found themselves within a snug, circular enclosure, about the circumference of which the towers were spaced. The floor of the enclosure was in effect a tiny park, for grass and trees grew here, and there were shaded walks built of the same palely glowing substance as the towers. In the exact center of the place was a fountain, wrought of some lustrous, silvery metal. Only a thin trickle of water came from it now.

Gaynor dipped down, landed gently beside the fountain. He bent, peering, then gestured excitedly to Harlan, who was hovering close.

“Wade—there’s a bas-relief around this thing! Figures—”

Harlan touched ground, joined Gaynor in a tense scrutiny of the design. A procession of strange, lithe beings was pictured in bas-relief around the curving base of the fountain. Their forms were essentially humanoid, possessed of two arms, two legs, and large, well-formed head. Except for an exotic, fawnlike quality about the graceful, parading figures, Gaynor and Harlan might have been gazing at a depiction of garlanded, Terrestrial youths and maidens.

“The builders of the city,” Gaynor said softly. “They looked a lot like us. Parallel evolution, maybe. This planet and sun are almost twins of ours. Wade—I wonder what happened to them?”

Harlan shook his shock of red hair slowly, saying nothing. His blue eyes were dark with somber speculation.

Gaynor’s voice whispered on. “The city was already deserted when that government expedition discovered it some one hundred and thirty years ago. The city couldn’t always have been that way. Once there were people on this planet—beings who thought and moved and dreamed, who built in material things an edifice symbolic of their dreaming. Why did they disappear? What could have been responsible? War, disease—or simply the dying out of a race?”

Harlan shrugged his great shoulders uncomfortably. His voice was gruff. “Maybe the answer is here somewhere. Maybe not. If it isn’t, maybe we’ll be better off, not knowing. When an entire race disappears for no apparent reason, as the people of this city seem to have done, the answer usually isn’t a nice one.”

The two men took to one of the paths radiating away from the fountain, followed it to a great, arching entranceway at the base of a tower-building. Slowly they entered—the sunlight dimmed and they moved through a soft gloom. Presently they found themselves in a vast foyer—if such it was. In the middle of the place was a circular dais, with steps leading to a small platform at the top.

They mounted the steps, gained the platform. Of a sudden, a faint whispering grew, and without any other warning, they began to rise slowly into the air. Harlan released a cry of surprise and shock. Gaynor ripped his positron blaster free, sought desperately to writhe from the influence of the force that had gripped him.

And then Gaynor quieted. His eyes were bright with a realization. “An elevator!” he gasped. “Wade—we stepped into some kind of elevating force.”

They ceased struggling and were borne gently up and up. They passed through an opening in the ceiling of the foyer, found themselves within a circular shaft, the top of which was lost in the dimness above. Vertical handrails lined the shaft. It was only after passing two floors that they divined the purpose of these. Then, reaching the third floor, each gripped a handrail, and they stepped from the force.

They found themselves within a vast, well-lighted apartment. The source of illumination was not apparent, seeming to emanate from the very walls. Room opened after spacious room—and each was as utterly barren of furnishings as the last. Barren, that is, except for two things. The first was that the walls were covered with murals or paintings—life-sized, rich with glowing color, and almost photographic in detail. The second was that one wall of each room contained a tiny niche. Gaynor and Harlan investigated a niche in one room they entered. Within it was a solitary object—a large jewel, or at least what seemed to be a jewel.

“This is screwy,” Harlan muttered. “It doesn’t make sense. How could anyone have lived in a place like this?”

Gaynor’s eyes were dark with thought. He answered slowly, “Don’t make the mistake of judging things here according to our standard of culture. To the builders of this city, Wade, these rooms might have been thoroughly cozy and comfortable, containing every essential necessary to their daily lives.”

“Maybe,” Harlan grunted. “But I certainly don’t see those essentials.”

“This thing—” Gaynor lifted the jewel from its niche. “Maybe this thing holds an answer of some kind.” Gaynor balanced the jewel in his palm, gazing down at it frowningly. His thoughts were wondering, speculative. Then the speculation faded—he found himself concentrating on the thing, as though by sheer force of will he could fathom its purpose.

And then it happened—the jewel grew cold in his hand—a faint, rose-colored glow surrounded it like an aura. A musical tinkling sounded. Harlan jumped, a yell bursting full-throated from his lungs. Gaynor spun about, surprised, uncomprehending.

“I . . . I saw things!” Harlan husked. “Objects, Jon— The room was full of them—angular ghosts!”

Gaynor stared at the other without speaking. His features were lax with a dawning awe.

Harlan said suddenly, “Try it again, Jon. Look at that thing. Maybe—”

Gaynor returned his gaze to the jewel. He forced his mind quiet, concentrated. Again the jewel grew cold, and again the tinkling sounded. Harlan was tense, rigid, his narrowed eyes probing the room. Within the room, outlines wavered mistily—outlines of things which might have been strange furniture, or queer, angular machines.

“Harder, Jon! Harder!” Harlan prompted.

Gaynor was sweating. He could feel the perspiration roll down his temples. His eyes seemed to be popping from their sockets.

Harlan strained with his peering. The outlines grew stronger, darkened—but only for a moment. The next they wavered mistily again, thinned, and were gone.

Gaynor drew a sobbing breath, straightened up. He asked, “Wade—what did you see?”

“I don’t know for sure. Things—or the ghosts of things. Here—give me that. I’m going to see what I can do.”

Gaynor relinquished the jewel. Holding it in his palm, Harlan gathered his thoughts, poised them, focused them. And, watching, Gaynor saw the ghostly outlines for the first time—misty suggestions of angles and curves, hints of forms whose purpose he could not guess. Alien ghosts of alien objects, summoned by will from some alien limbo.

Abruptly, the outlines faded and were gone. The tinkling of the jewel thinned and died.

Harlan drew a shuddering breath. “Jon—you saw them?”

“Yes. Dimly.”

“We . . . we haven’t got the strength, Jon. We haven’t got the power necessary to materialize the objects—whatever they are.”

“Maybe that’s the drawback. Or—maybe we’ve got the strength, but simply can’t materialize things—objects—whose size, shape, and purpose we do not know and cannot guess.”

“That might be it.” Harlan’s voice grew sharp. “But, great space, Jon, what possibly could be the idea behind it? Why did they—that other race—construct buildings in which the rooms were left unfurnished, or which could be furnished merely by concentrating on . . . on these jewels? What could have been the reason behind it?”

Gaynor shook his head. “We’ll never know that, perhaps. At least, we’ll never know if we persist in thinking in terms of our own culture. The builders of this city were humanoid, Wade—but mentally they were alien. Don’t forget that. These rooms may not have been living quarters at all. They may have been repositories for valuable things, of which the jewels were the means of materializing. Only those who knew how could materialize them. Thus, perhaps, those things were kept safe.”

“That might be it,” Harlan muttered. “It makes sense.”

“These pictures”—Gaynor gestured at the paintings on the walls—”might contain the answer. If we knew how to read them, they might tell us the purpose of these empty rooms—why the furnishings or machines had to be materialized. I wonder, Wade . . . I wonder if each of these pictures is complete in itself, or if each is part of a greater series. You know—like a book. You read one page, and it doesn’t make sense. You read the whole thing—and it does.”

“The beginning, Jon,” Harlan whispered. “We’d have to start at the beginning.”

“Yes—the beginning.”

Harlan replaced the jewel in its niche, and on the invisible wings of their antigravity flight units, they glided back to the force shaft. Here they switched off their units, allowed the force to carry them up. But the apartments on the upper floors contained nothing new or illuminating. Like the first they had visited, these were empty, save for the wall paintings and the jewels in their niches. They returned to the shaft again, this time to meet a complication.

“Say—how do we get down?” Harlan puzzled. “This thing has been carrying us up all the time, and there doesn’t seem to be another one for descending.”

“Why, you simply will yourself to go down,” Gaynor said. Then he looked blankly surprised.

Harlan nodded gravely. “Of course,” he said. “That’s the answer. I should have thought of it myself.”

They descended. Outside, the sun was bright and warm. Under its light the city dreamed on.

Gaynor and Harlan soared through the warmth. The city was very bright and still. Far away and high in the blue, glittering swarms of the crystal creatures darted. Their tinkling and chiming drifted down to the two men.

Gaynor and Harlan descended several times to investigate tower buildings, but these were very much like the first they had visited. The spacious apartments seemed to echo in their strange emptiness, each one seemingly louder than the last. Twice they took turns, attempted to materialize the unguessable furnishings of the rooms. Each time they failed. And afterward they did not disturb the jewels in their niches. They merely gazed at the flaming wall paintings, and came away.

Again they glided through the air, though slowly and thoughtfully, now. They were silent. Beneath them, the city dreamed. Once a cloud of crystal creatures flashed past, sparkling, chiming, but the two did not seem to notice.

“Jon—?” Harlan’s voice was hesitant.

“Yes?”

“I don’t know how to put it into words, but—well, don’t you feel that you are beginning to know?

“Yes—there’s the ghost of something in my mind. Those pictures, Wade—”

“Yes, Jon, the pictures.”

Again they were silent. Gaynor broke the silence.

“Wade—all my life I’ve been reading primers. Someone just gave me a college textbook, and I glanced through several pages. Naturally, I did not understand, but here and there I found words familiar to me. They left a ghost in my mind—”

“You’ve got to go back to the beginning, Jon. You’ve got to read all the books which will help you to understand that college textbook.”

“Yes, Wade, the beginning—”

They drifted on while the city dreamed beneath them. The sun was a swaddling blanket of brightness. Like memory-sounds, faint chimings and tinklings wafted on the air.

And then Gaynor was grasping Harlan’s arm. “Wade—down there. Look!” He pointed tensely.

Harlan stiffened as he saw it. The ship was a tiny thing, almost lost amid the greenery of the park. Almost in unison, the two touched the controls of their antigravity flight units, arrowed down in a swift, gentle arc.

The ship was very big, like no ship they had ever seen before. It was a thing of harsh angles, built of some strange red metal or alloy that gleamed in the sunlight with the hue of blood. A square opening gaped in its side. Slowly, Gaynor and Harlan entered it.

It was as though they entered the gloom of another world. Little of what they saw was familiar to them, and they had to guess the purpose of the rest. There were passageways and corridors, and rooms opened from these. A few they were able to identify, but the rest, filled with queer, angular furniture and sprawling machines, escaped classification. They left the ship—and the sunlight felt good.

Gaynor’s voice rustled dryly. “They were humanoid, Wade, the people who built that ship. If nothing else made sense, the things we saw showed that. But the people who made that ship were not of the city. They were spawned on some planet circling another sun.”

“They came here,” Harlan rasped. “They came—and they left that ship behind—Jon . . . they came . . . and they never left this world—”

“Wade—I’m thinking. There might have been other ships—”

Harlan touched the butt of his positron blaster, and his face was pale. “We’ve got to look, Jon. That’s something we’ve got to know.”

They lifted into the air. Circling and dipping, they searched. The sun was at zenith when they found the second ship. By mid-afternoon they had found a third and a fourth. The fourth was the Ark, the hyperspacial cruiser in which old Mark Gaynor and his band of Purists had left the Earth some one hundred and twenty years before.

The four ships which Gaynor and Harlan had found had two things in common. Each had been built by a different humanoid people, and each was completely deserted. Other than this, there was no basis of comparison between them. Each was separate and distinct, unique in its alienness. Even the Ark, long outmoded, seemed strange.

In the Ark, Gaynor and Harlan found nothing to indicate what had happened to its passengers. Everything was orderly and neat—more, even in the most excellent condition. Nothing written had been left behind, not the slightest scrap of rotting paper.

Gaynor whispered, “They did come here, then. And the same thing happened to them that happened to all the rest of the people who landed here. The same thing, I’m sure, that happened to the builders of the city. Why did they leave these ships behind? Where did they go? What could have happened to them?”

Harlan shook his red head somberly. “We’d better not know that. If we stay and try to find out, the same thing will happen to us. The government expedition which discovered this planet encountered the same mystery—but they didn’t try to find out. They returned to Earth. Jon—we’d better get back to the Paragon. We’d better leave while we can.”

“And in time more people would come to settle here. And there would be more empty ships.” Gaynor’s lips tightened to a stubborn line. “Wade—I’m not leaving until I crack the mystery of this place. I’m going to find what happened to old Mark and the Purists. We’ve been warned—we’ll be on the alert.”

Harlan met Gaynor’s determined gaze, and then he looked away. He moistened his lips. After a long moment he gave a stiff nod. His voice was very low.

“Then we’ve got to start at the beginning, Jon. Those pictures—”

“Yes, Wade, the pictures. I’m sure they hold the answer to the whole thing. We’ve got to find that beginning. You’ve noticed how the city is strung out. At one end is the beginning, at the other—”

“The end!” Harlan said abruptly.

“No. Wade. The answer.”

They returned first to the Paragon, to satisfy pangs of hunger too intense to be ignored any longer. Then, donning their antigravity flight units once more, they took to the air. They circled several times, set out finally for a point on the horizon where the city thinned out and finally terminated.

Their flight ended at a single, slender tower set in the midst of a parklike expanse. That they had reached the end of the city, they knew, for ahead of them no other building was in sight. They floated to the ground, stared silently at the tower. It glowed with a chaste whiteness in the late afternoon light—serene, somewhat aloof, lovely in its simplicity and solitariness.

Harlan spoke softly. “The beginning? Or—the end?”

“That’s what we have to find out,” Gaynor responded. “We’re going in there, Wade.”

The interior of the tower was dark and cool, filled with the solemn hush of a cathedral. It consisted solely of one great room, its ceiling lost in sheerness of height. And except for the ever-present wall paintings, it was empty—utterly bare.

Gaynor and Harlan gazed at the paintings, and then they looked at each other, and slowly they nodded. Silently they left.

“That . . . that wasn’t the beginning,” Harlan stated slowly.

“No, Wade. That was—the end. The beginning lies on the opposite side of the city. But we’ll have to postpone our investigation until morning. We wouldn’t reach the other end of the city until dark.”

They returned to the Paragon. The sun was setting behind the towers of the city to the east, sinking into a glory of rose and gold. Slowly the paling fingers of its radiance withdrew from the city. Night came in all its starry splendor.

Gaynor and Harlan were up with the dawn. Eagerness to be back at their investigations fired them. They hurried impatiently through breakfast. Then, attaching kits of emergency ration concentrates to their belts and donning their antigravity flight units, they took to the air.

As they flew, Gaynor and Harlan had to remind themselves that this was the second day of their visit and not the first, so closely did the new day resemble the one preceding. Nothing had changed. The city beneath them still dreamed on. And far away and high in the blue, glittering clouds of the crystal creatures darted and danced, their chimings and tinklings sounding like echoes of melody from an elfin world.

The sun was bright and warm when Gaynor and Harlan reached the end of the city opposite the one which they had investigated the day before. Here they found no slender tower. There was nothing to show that this part of the city was in any way different from the rest. The general plan of tower-encircled courts was the same as everywhere else. The city merely terminated—or looking at it the other way, merely began.

Gaynor and Harlan glided down into one of the very first of the tower-encircled courts. They touched ground, switched off their flight units, stood gazing slowly about them.

Gaynor muttered, “The beginning? Or— Maybe we were wrong, Wade. Maybe there is no beginning.”

“Those towers should tell us,” Harlan said. “Let’s have a look inside them, Jon.”

They entered an arching doorway, strode into a great foyer. Within this they had their first indication that this part of the city actually was different from the rest. For within the foyer was no dais and force shaft as they had found previously. Instead, a broad stairway led to the floors above.

They mounted the stairs. The walls of the first apartment they investigated were covered with paintings, as everywhere else, but this time the spacious rooms were not empty. They were furnished. Gaynor and Harlan gazed upon softly gleaming objects which very clearly were tables and chairs, deep, luxurious couches, and cabinets of various sizes and shapes. At first everything seemed strange to them, and as they glanced about, they found themselves comparing the furniture to that which they had seen in homes on Earth. And after a while things no longer seemed strange at all.

Gaynor blinked his eyes rapidly several times. He frowned puzzledly. “Wade—either I’m crazy, or this room has changed.”

Harlan was gazing at the wall paintings. His voice came as from far away. “Changed? Why, yes. Things are as they should be—now.”

Gaynor gazed at the walls, and then he nodded. “That’s right, Wade. Of course.”

Gaynor walked over to a low cabinet. Somewhere before he had seen a cabinet like this one. He felt that he should know its purpose, yet it eluded him. He stared at it musingly. And then he remembered something—his eyes lifted to the paintings on the wall. No. The other wall? Yes.

Gaynor looked at the cabinet again—and now a slow murmur of melody arose within the room. Hauntingly familiar, poignantly sweet, yet formless. Gaynor looked at the walls again. The melody shaped itself, grew stronger, and the lilting strains of a spaceman’s song flooded richly through the room.


I’m blasting the far trails,
Following the star trails,
Taking the home trails,
Back, dear, to you—

 

“The Star Trails Home to You,” Gaynor whispered. Sudden nostalgia washed over him in a wave. Home. The Earth— His eyes lifted to the walls, and he was comforted.

Gaynor looked around for Harlan. He found the other standing before a second cabinet across the room. Gaynor approached him, noting as he did so that Harlan stood strangely rigid and still. In alarm, Gaynor ran the remaining distance. Harlan did not seem to notice. His face was rapt, trance-like.

Gaynor grasped Harlan’s arm, shook him. “Wade! Wade—what is it? Snap out of it!”

Harlan stirred. Expression came back into his features—his eyes sharped upon Gaynor’s face. “What . . . what— Oh, it’s you, Jon. She . . . she had red hair, and . . . and her arms were around me, and—” Harlan broke off, flushing.

Investigation of the cabinets in the other rooms produced still more interesting results. One had a spigot projecting from its front, with a catchbasin below, much like a drinking fountain. Gaynor looked at the wall paintings, and then he looked at the spigot, and suddenly liquid jetted from it. He tasted it cautiously, nodded approvingly, not at all surprised.

“Scotch,” he said. “I’ll have it with soda.”

“Hurry up, then,” Harlan prompted impatiently.

There was another cabinet that they found particularly interesting. This one had a foot-square opening in its front, and after Gaynor and Harlan had gotten their proper instructions from the paintings, they moved on—each munching at a delicious leg of roast chicken.

Not all the cabinets produced things which were edible or audible, but all opened up new vistas of thought and experience. Gaynor and Harlan learned the purpose of each, and already in their minds they were devising new methods of test and application. The wall paintings were very extensive, and they were learning rapidly.

That was the beginning—

After the cabinets, which supplied every possible physical or mental want, came the machines. Simple things at first, for Gaynor and Harlan were still in the equivalent of kindergarten. But they were humanoid—and, therefore, inquisitive. The machines were delightful and of absorbing interest. Once their purpose and function became known, however, their novelty died, and Gaynor and Harlan quested on for new fields to conquer. Thus, in a very few days, they moved to the next unit.

Here was the same plan of tower-encircled court, but the cabinets and machines had become more complicated, more difficult of operation. But Gaynor and Harlan had become quite adept at reading the wall paintings which were their primers. They learned—

Instruction followed application, and in a very few days again, Gaynor and Harlan moved on. Thus they went, from unit to unit, and always the wall paintings pointed out the way.

The sun rose and the sun set, and the city dreamed on. And always, high in the sky, the crystal creatures circled and soared, tinkling and chiming. The days passed gently, mere wraiths of sunlight.

The machines grew larger, more intricate, ever more difficult of solution. Each was a new test upon the growing knowledge of Gaynor and Harlan. And each test was harder than the last, for the wall paintings no longer pointed out the way, but merely hinted now.

Gaynor and Harlan progressed more slowly, though none the less steadily. They were not impatient. They had no sense of restless striving toward a future goal. They lived for the present. They were submerged heart and soul in the never-ending fascinations of their environment to the exclusion of all else.

The machines continued to grow larger. At one point they were so huge, that a single machine filled an entire apartment. But that was the climax, for afterward the machines grew smaller, ever smaller, until at last they came to a unit the apartments of which were empty. Empty, that is, except for the wall paintings and the jewels in their niches.

Harlan peered about him, frowning. “I seem to remember this place.”

“It is familiar,” Gaynor said. His brows drew together, and after a time he nodded. “We were here before, I think. But that was many toree ago, when we were children.”

“Yes—when we were children. I recall it, now.” Harlan smiled reminiscently. “It is strange we knew so little as children that it should be so easily forgotten.”

“Yes, we have grown. The memories of childhood are very dim. I can recall some things, but they are not very clear. There was a purpose that brought us to the city. A purpose— But what else could it have been than to learn? And there was a mystery. But there is nothing mysterious about the city, nothing strange at all. Mere imaginings of childhood perhaps—meaningless trifles at best. We will not let them concern us now. We have grown.”

Harlan nodded gravely, and his blue eyes, deep with an ocean of new knowledge, lifted to the painting-covered walls. “Events of the past should no longer concern us. We have entered upon the Third Stage. The tasks of this alone should occupy our thoughts.”

“Yes—the past has been left behind.” Gaynor was looking at the walls. “The Third Stage. The tasks will be very difficult, Wade—but interesting. We’ll be putting our knowledge into practice—actually creating. This means we’ll have to deal directly with the powers of the various soldani and varoo. As these are extradimensional, control will be solely by cholthening at the six level, through means of the taadron. We’ll have to be careful, though—any slightest relaxation of the sorran will have a garreling effect—”

“I guessed that. But there must be some way to minimize the garreling effect, if it should occur.”

“A field of interwoven argroni of the eighth order should prevent it from becoming overpowering.”

“We can try it. You’re working on the woratis patterns?”

“Yes. I’ve managed to cholthen them into the fifth stage of development.”

“Mine’s the vandari patterns. I’ve found them more interesting than those of the woratis. Fourth stage of development. I’m starting at once. I’ll use the next room.”

Harlan left, and Gaynor took the jewel from its niche—the taadron, that is—and set his cholthening power at the sixth level. The thing flamed gloriously in his hand—light pulsed out in great, soft waves, washed over the wall paintings, made them glow with exquisite richness. Unearthly melody filled the room, tuneless, silver-sweet. Gaynor was creating. And as he did so, things began to take on form and substance within the room—things which might have been machines, but weren’t machines, because they were intelligent and alive in a way no machine can ever be. Finally, Gaynor and his creations communicated. It was somewhat difficult at first, but he was well along now, and took the difficulty in his stride.

Gaynor learned things—just as, in the other room, Harlan was learning, too. And then he took up the taadron again and cholthened. The things which he had created vanished. He began to develop the woratis patterns into the fifth stage—

Bright day blended into bright day, gently, unnoticeably. The city floated on the gentle, green swells of the planet, and floating, dreamed.

After a time, Gaynor and Harlan moved on to the next unit. Then the next—and the next. Soon it came to pass that they entered the Fourth Stage. This, they knew, was the last one, but what came afterward did not worry them. They had reached a level of mind which was beyond all worrying.

The Third Stage had changed them greatly, though they were not aware of it. They would not have been concerned even if they had. They no longer used their natural vocal apparatus, now, for they had come to think in terms which simply could not have been put into words. They had become telepathic, conversing in pure ideas of the highest order. And they no longer materialized their food from the atoms of the air. A simple rearrangement of their body cells—simple, when understood as they understood it—now enabled them to feed directly upon certain nourishing extradimensional subatomic energies. And the antigravity flight units, which they had reduced to the size of peas for convenience, were now discarded entirely. They had learned to fly without the aid of any device.

The Fourth Stage changed them still further. They created now—the word does not quite describe their activities—without the aid of the taadron, for they had learned to ennathen, which was as great an advancement over cholthening as telepathy is over speech. Thus is came about that Gaynor and Harlan—or the beings who once had been Gaynor and Harlan—found their bodies an annoying encumbrance. For arms and legs, heart and lungs, and the senses and nerves which use of these required, had become quite unnecessary to them. They had outgrown these impedimenta of their childhood.

They spoke of this now by a telepathic means that was not quite telepathy, and they wondered what to do. For though they had mastered well the wall paintings which were their college textbooks, there was no clear answer. Their discussion of the problem could not have been made understandable, however roughly it might have been put, but suffice it to say that at last they reached a decision.

They had progressed from one end of the city to the edge of the other. Not quite the edge, though—for there was one building in which they had not yet narleened. They had examined it before, of course, but that was when they had been children—in those dim, pale days when they did not understand.

They decided to vogelar to this very last building. Here, perhaps, every question would be answered.

It was dawn when they vogelared through the arching doorway. The first feeble rays of morning crept through the opening—the interior of the Temple was very dark and cool. All the dreaming of the city seemed to be concentrated here in one vast stillness.

The beings who once had been Gaynor and Harlan narleened the paintings on the walls of the Temple, gazed upon them with this new, all-embracing sense which went far beyond the limited realms of mere vision—so that almost the paintings spoke to them and they answered back. They narleened the paintings.

Their every question was answered—for all eternity.

And thus it came about, after a time, that two great, faceted crystals emerged from the doorway of the Temple, and lifted, pulsing with a vibrant new life, flashing in rainbow splendor, into the sky. Higher, they lifted, and higher, chiming and tinkling, soaring to join the others of their kind.

The sun shone brightly in the sky. High and far away in the blue, glittering clouds of crystal creatures darted and danced, sending wave after exquisite wave of crystalline melody upon the gentle shores of air. Among them now were two who had still to learn the intricacies of flight.

And the city dreamed on.

A perfect environment, the city. Ideal for the inquisitive humanoid.

 

 

 

Afterword by David Drake




When I read "Environment" in Groff Conklin's The Omnibus of Science Fiction I didn't know who Chester S. Geier was. At the time I barely knew who Heinlein was, so that isn't surprising. Geier wrote quite a lot of SF in the '40s, during the Golden Age—but not of the Golden Age, because he wrote mostly for the Ziff-Davis magazines, Amazing and Fantastic Adventures, which were then edited by Ray Palmer. These magazines were and are widely reviled as the worst kind of juvenile trash . . . but issue for issue, they outsold John W. Campbell's Astounding by more than three to one.

Geier did sell four stories to Campbell, though: this story and another to Astounding, and two more to Unknown, Astounding's fantasy companion. "Environment" is the only one that stands out, but it stands very far out.


When I first read "Environment," I thought it was about a trap of the most subtle and effective kind, one which the victim can't resist even when he sees it clearly. And you know, maybe that is what the story's about: you start with human beings and at the end they've been destroyed.

But consider another way of describing the action: you start with animals, and at the end all their animal nature has been polished away.

When I reread "Environment," I remembered the time I looked into the back of a second-year Latin book before I'd started taking the language. "How could anyone make sense of this?" I thought. But a few years later I was sight-reading those passages from Caesar easily; and now I translate far more difficult Latin authors for the pleasure of keeping my mind supple.

"Environment" is a story about education.

Hunting Problem by Robert Sheckley

Hunting Problem

by Robert Sheckley

Preface by David Drake




In the 1950s, Robert Sheckley's short stories appeared frequently in the top range of SF magazines. They were always funny: sometimes cynically funny, sometimes bitterly funny, sometimes horrifically funny . . . but often enough warmly funny. This is a warmly funny story.

One other thing, though: a Sheckley story was never merely funny.

 

 

 

It was the last troop meeting before the big Scouter Jamboree, and all the patrols had turned out. Patrol 22—the Soaring Falcon Patrol—was camped in a shady hollow, holding a tentacle pull. The Brave Bison Patrol, number 31, was moving around a little stream. The Bisons were practicing their skill at drinking liquids, and laughing excitedly at the odd sensation.

And the Charging Mirash Patrol, number 19, was waiting for Scouter Drog, who was late as usual.

Drog hurtled down from the ten-thousand-foot level, went solid, and hastily crawled into the circle of scouters. “Gee,” he said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize what time—”

The Patrol Leader glared at him. “You’re out of uniform, Drog.”

“Sorry, sir,” Drog said, hastily extruding a tentacle he had forgotten.

The others giggled. Drog blushed a dim orange. He wished he were invisible.

But it wouldn’t be proper right now.

“I will open our meeting with the Scouter Creed,” the Patrol Leader said. He cleared his throat. “We, the Young Scouters of the planet Elbonai, pledge to perpetuate the skills and virtues of our pioneering ancestors. For that purpose, we Scouters adopt the shape our forebears were born to when they conquered the virgin wilderness of Elbonai. We hereby resolve—”

Scouter Drog adjusted his hearing receptors to amplify the Leader’s soft voice. The Creed always thrilled him. It was hard to believe that his ancestors had once been earthbound. Today the Elbonai were aerial beings, maintaining only the minimum of body, fueling by cosmic radiation at the twenty-thousand-foot level, sensing by direct perception, coming down only for sentimental or sacramental purposes. They had come a long way since the Age of Pioneering. The modern world had begun with the Age of Submolecular Control, which was followed by the present age of Direct Control.

” . . . honesty and fair play,” the Leader was saying. “And we further resolve to drink liquids, as they did, and to eat solid food, and to increase our skill in their tools and methods.”

* * *

The invocation completed, the youngsters scattered around the plain. The Patrol Leader came up to Drog.

“This is the last meeting before the Jamboree,” the Leader said.

“I know,” Drog said.

“And you are the only second-class scouter in the Charging Mirash Patrol. All the others are first-class, or at least Junior Pioneers. What will people think about our patrol?”

Drog squirmed uncomfortably. “It isn’t entirely my fault,” he said. “I know I failed the tests in swimming and bomb making, but those just aren’t my skills. It isn’t fair to expect me to know everything. Even among the pioneers there were specialists. No one was expected to know all—”

“And just what are your skills?” the Leader interrupted.

“Forest and Mountain Lore,” Drog answered eagerly. “Tracking and hunting.”

The Leader studied him for a moment. Then he said slowly, “Drog, how would you like one last chance to make first class, and win an achievement badge as well?”

“I’d do anything!” Drog cried.

“Very well,” the Patrol Leader said. “What is the name of our patrol?”

“The Charging Mirash Patrol.”

“And what is a Mirash?”

“A large and ferocious animal,” Drog answered promptly. “Once they inhabited large parts of Elbonai, and our ancestors fought many savage battles with them. Now they are extinct.”

“Not quite,” the Leader said. “A scouter was exploring the woods five hundred miles north of here, coordinates S-233 by 482-W, and he came upon a pride of three Mirash, all bulls, and therefore huntable. I want you, Drog, to track them down, to stalk them, using Forest and Mountain Lore. Then, utilizing only pioneering tools and methods, I want you to bring back the pelt of one Mirash. Do you think you can do it?”

“I know I can, sir!”

“Go at once,” the Leader said. “We will fasten the pelt to our flagstaff. We will undoubtedly be commended at the Jamboree.”

“Yes, sir!” Drog hastily gathered up his equipment, filled his canteen with liquid, packed a lunch of solid food, and set out.

* * *

A few minutes later, he had levitated himself to the general area of S-233 by 482-W. It was a wild and romantic country of jagged rocks and scrubby trees, thick underbrush in the valleys, snow on the peaks. Drog looked around, somewhat troubled.

He had told the Patrol Leader a slight untruth.

The fact of the matter was, he wasn’t particularly skilled in Forest and Mountain Lore, hunting or tracking. He wasn’t particularly skilled in anything except dreaming away long hours among the clouds at the five-thousand-foot level. What if he failed to find a Mirash? What if the Mirash found him first?

But that couldn’t happen, he assured himself. In a pinch, he could always gestibulize. Who would ever know?

In another moment he picked up a faint trace of Mirash scent. And then he saw a slight movement about twenty yards away, near a curious T-shaped formation of rock.

Was it really going to be this easy? How nice! Quietly he adopted an appropriate camouflage and edged forward.

* * *

The mountain trail became steeper, and the sun beat harshly down. Paxton was sweating, even in his air-conditioned coverall. And he was heartily sick of being a good sport.

“Just when are we leaving this place?” he asked.

Herrera slapped him genially on the shoulder. “Don’t you wanna get rich?”

“We’re rich already,” Paxton said.

“But not rich enough,” Herrera told him, his long brown face creasing into a brilliant grin.

Stellman came up, puffing under the weight of his testing equipment. He set it carefully on the path and sat down. “You gentlemen interested in a short breather?” he asked.

“Why not?” Herrera said. “All the time in the world.” He sat down with his back against a T-shaped formation of rock.

Stellman lighted a pipe and Herrera found a cigar in the zippered pocket of his coverall. Paxton watched them for a while. Then he asked, “Well, when are we getting off this planet? Or do we set up permanent residence?”

Herrera just grinned and scratched a light for his cigar.

“Well, how about it?” Paxton shouted.

“Relax, you’re outvoted,” Stellman said. “We formed this company as three equal partners.”

“All using my money,” Paxton said.

“Of course. That’s why we took you in. Herrera had the practical mining experience. I had the theoretical knowledge and a pilot’s license. You had the money.”

“But we’ve got plenty of stuff on board now,” Paxton said. “The storage compartments are completely filled. Why can’t we go to some civilized place now and start spending?”

“Herrera and I don’t have your aristocratic attitude toward wealth,” Stellman said with exaggerated patience. “Herrera and I have the childish desire to fill every nook and cranny with treasure. Gold nuggets in the fuel tanks, emeralds in the flour cans, diamonds a foot deep on deck. And this is just the place for it. All manner of costly baubles are lying around just begging to be picked up. We want to be disgustingly, abysmally rich, Paxton.”

Paxton hadn’t been listening. He was staring intently at a point near the edge of the trail. In a low voice, he said, “That tree just moved.”

Herrera burst into laughter. “Monsters, I suppose,” he sneered.

“Be calm,” Stellman said mournfully. “My boy, I am a middle-aged man, overweight and easily frightened. Do you think I’d stay here if there were the slightest danger?”

“There! It moved again!”

“We surveyed this planet three months ago,” Stellman said. “We found no intelligent beings, no dangerous animals, no poisonous plants, remember? All we found were woods and mountains and gold and lakes and emeralds and rivers and diamonds. If there were something here, wouldn’t it have attacked us long before?”

“I’m telling you I saw it move,” Paxton insisted.

Herrera stood up. “This tree?” he asked Paxton.

“Yes. See, it doesn’t even look like the others. Different texture—”

In a single synchronized movement, Herrera pulled a Mark II blaster from a side holster and fired three charges into the tree. The tree and all underbrush for ten yards around burst into flame and crumpled.

“All gone now,” Herrera said.

Paxton rubbed his jaw. “I heard it scream when you shot it.”

“Sure. But it’s dead now,” Herrera said soothingly. “If anything else moves, you just tell me, I shoot it. Now we find some more little emeralds, huh?”

Paxton and Stellman lifted their packs and followed Herrera up the trail. Stellman said in a low, amused voice, “Direct sort of fellow, isn’t he?”

* * *

Slowly Drog returned to consciousness. The Mirash’s flaming weapon had caught him in camouflage, almost completely unshielded. He still couldn’t understand how it had happened. There had been no premonitory fear-scent, no snorting, no snarling, no warning whatsoever. The Mirash had attacked with blind suddenness, without waiting to see whether he was friend or foe.

At last Drog understood the nature of the beast he was up against.

He waited until the hoofbeats of the three bull Mirash had faded into the distance. Then, painfully, he tried to extrude a visual receptor. Nothing happened. He had a moment of utter panic. If his central nervous system was damaged, this was the end.

He tried again. This time, a piece of rock slid off him, and he was able to reconstruct.

Quickly he performed an internal scansion. He sighed with relief. It had been a close thing. Instinctively he had quondicated at the flash moment and it had saved his life.

He tried to think of another course of action, but the shock of that sudden, vicious, unpremeditated assault had driven all Hunting Lore out of his mind. He found that he had absolutely no desire to encounter the savage Mirash again.

Suppose he returned without the stupid hide? He could tell the Patrol Leader that the Mirash were all females, and therefore unhuntable. A Young Scouter’s word was honored, so no one would question him, or even check up.

But that would never do. How could he even consider it?

Well, he told himself gloomily, he could resign from the Scouters, put an end to the whole ridiculous business; the campfires, the singing, the games, the comradeship . . .

This would never do, Drog decided, taking himself firmly in hand. He was acting as though the Mirash were antagonists capable of planning against him. But the Mirash were not even intelligent beings. No creature without tentacles had ever developed true intelligence. That was Etlib’s Law, and it had never been disputed.

In a battle between intelligence and instinctive cunning, intelligence always won. It had to. All he had to do was figure out how.

Drog began to track the Mirash again, following their odor. What colonial weapon should he use? A small atomic bomb? No, that would more than likely ruin the hide.

He stopped suddenly and laughed. It was really very simple, when one applied oneself. Why should he come into direct and dangerous contact with the Mirash? The time had come to use his brain, his understanding of animal psychology, his knowledge of Lures and Snares.

Instead of tracking the Mirash, he would go to their den.

And there he would set a trap.

* * *

Their temporary camp was in a cave, and by the time they arrived there it was sunset. Every crag and pinnacle of rock threw a precise and sharp-edged shadow. The ship lay five miles below them on the valley floor, its metallic hide glistening red and silver. In their packs were a dozen emeralds, small, but of an excellent color.

At an hour like this, Paxton thought of a small Ohio town, a soda fountain, a girl with bright hair. Herrera smiled to himself, contemplating certain gaudy ways of spending a million dollars before settling down to the serious business of ranching. And Stellman was already phrasing his Ph.D. thesis on extraterrestrial mineral deposits.

They were all in a pleasant, relaxed mood. Paxton had recovered completely from his earlier attack of nerves. Now he wished an alien monster would show up—a green one, by preference—chasing a lovely, scantily clad woman.

“Home again,” Stellman said as they approached the entrance of the cave. “Want beef stew tonight?” It was his turn to cook.

“With onions,” Paxton said, starting into the cave. He jumped back abruptly. “What’s that?”

A few feet from the mouth of the cave was a small roast beef, still steaming hot, four large diamonds, and a bottle of whiskey.

“That’s odd,” Stellman said. “And a trifle unnerving.”

Paxton bent down to examine a diamond. Herrera pulled him back.

“Might be booby-trapped.”

“There aren’t any wires,” Paxton said.

Herrera stared at the roast beef, the diamonds, the bottle of whiskey. He looked very unhappy.

“I don’t trust this,” he said.

“Maybe there are natives here,” Stellman said. “Very timid ones. This might be their goodwill offering.”

“Sure,” Herrera said. “They sent to Terra for a bottle of Old Space Ranger just for us.”

“What are we going to do?” Paxton asked.

“Stand clear,” Herrera said. “Move ‘way back.” He broke off a long branch from a nearby tree and poked gingerly at the diamonds.

“Nothing’s happening,” Paxton said.

The long grass Herrera was standing on whipped tightly around his ankles. The ground beneath him surged, broke into a neat disk fifteen feet in diameter and, trailing root-ends, began to lift itself into the air. Herrera tried to jump free, but the grass held him like a thousand green tentacles.

“Hang on!” Paxton yelled idiotically, rushed forward and grabbed a corner of the rising disk of earth. It dipped steeply, stopped for a moment, and began to rise again. By then Herrera had his knife out, and was slashing the grass around his ankles. Stellman came unfrozen when he saw Paxton rising past his head.

Stellman seized him by the ankles, arresting the flight of the disk once more. Herrera wrenched one foot free and threw himself over the edge. The other ankle was held for a moment, then the tough grass parted under his weight. He dropped headfirst to the ground, at the last moment ducking his head and landing on his shoulders. Paxton let go of the disk and fell, landing on Stellman’s stomach.

The disk of earth, with its cargo of roast beef, whiskey and diamonds, continued to rise until it was out of sight.

The sun had set. Without speaking, the three men entered their cave, blasters drawn. They built a roaring fire at the mouth and moved back into the cave’s interior.

“We’ll guard in shifts tonight,” Herrera said.

Paxton and Stellman nodded.

Herrera said, “I think you’re right, Paxton. We’ve stayed here long enough.”

“Too long,” Paxton said.

Herrera shrugged his shoulders. “As soon as it’s light, we return to the ship and get out of here.”

“If,” Stellman said, “we are able to reach the ship.”

* * *

Drog was quite discouraged. With a sinking heart he had watched the premature springing of his trap, the struggle, and the escape of the Mirash. It had been such a splendid Mirash, too. The biggest of the three!

He knew now what he had done wrong. In his eagerness, he had overbaited his trap. Just the minerals would have been sufficient, for Mirash were notoriously mineral-tropic. But no, he had to improve on pioneer methods, he had to use food stimuli as well. No wonder they had reacted suspiciously, with their senses so overburdened.

Now they were enraged, alert, and decidedly dangerous.

And a thoroughly aroused Mirash was one of the most fearsome sights in the Galaxy.

Drog felt very much alone as Elbonai’s twin moons rose in the western sky. He could see the Mirash campfire blazing in the mouth of their cave. And by direct perception he could see the Mirash crouched within, every sense alert, weapons ready.

Was a Mirash hide really worth all this trouble?

Drog decided that he would much rather be floating at the five-thousand-foot level, sculpturing cloud formations and dreaming. He wanted to sop up radiation instead of eating nasty old solid food. And what use was all this hunting and trapping, anyhow? Worthless skills that his people had outgrown.

For a moment he almost had himself convinced. And then, in a flash of pure perception, he understood what it was all about.

True, the Elbonaians had outgrown their competition, developed past all danger of competition. But the Universe was wide, and capable of many surprises. Who could foresee what would come, what new dangers the race might have to face? And how could they meet them if the hunting instinct was lost?

No, the old ways had to be preserved, to serve as patterns; as reminders that peaceable, intelligent life was an unstable entity in an unfriendly Universe.

He was going to get that Mirash hide, or die trying!

The most important thing was to get them out of that cave. Now his hunting knowledge had returned to him.

Quickly, skillfully, he shaped a Mirash horn.

* * *

“Did you hear that?” Paxton asked.

“I thought I heard something,” Stellman said, and they all listened intently.

The sound came again. It was a voice crying, “Oh, help, help me!”

“It’s a girl!” Paxton jumped to his feet.

“It sounds like a girl,” Stellman said.

“Please, help me,” the girl’s voice wailed. “I can’t hold out much longer. Is there anyone who can help me?”

Blood rushed to Paxton’s face. In a flash he saw her, small, exquisite, standing beside her wrecked sports-spacer (what a foolhardy trip it had been!) with monsters, green and slimy, closing in on her. And then he arrived, a foul alien beast.

Paxton picked up a spare blaster. “I’m going out there,” he said coolly.

“Sit down, you moron!” Herrera ordered.

“But you heard her, didn’t you?”

“That can’t be a girl,” Herrera said. “What would a girl be doing on this planet?”

“I’m going to find out,” Paxton said, brandishing two blasters. “Maybe a spaceliner crashed, or she could have been out joyriding, and—”

“Siddown!” Herrera yelled.

“He’s right,” Stellman tried to reason with Paxton. “Even if a girl is out there, which I doubt, there’s nothing we can do.”

“Oh, help, help, it’s coming after me!” the girl’s voice screamed.

“Get out of my way,” Paxton said, his voice low and dangerous.

“You’re really going?” Herrera asked incredulously.

“Yes! Are you going to stop me?”

“Go ahead.” Herrera gestured at the entrance of the cave.

“We can’t let him!” Stellman gasped.

“Why not? His funeral,” Herrera said lazily.

“Don’t worry about me,” Paxton said. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes—with her!” He turned on his heel and started toward the entrance. Herrera leaned forward and, with considerable precision, clubbed Paxton behind the ear with a stick of firewood. Stellman caught him as he fell.

They stretched Paxton out in the rear of the cave and returned to their vigil. The lady in distress moaned and pleaded for the next five hours. Much too long, as Paxton had to agree, even for a movie serial.

* * *

A gloomy, rain-splattered daybreak found Drog still camped a hundred yards from the cave. He saw the Mirash emerge in a tight group, weapons ready, eyes watching warily for any movement.

Why had the Mirash horn failed? The Scouter Manual said it was an infallible means of attracting the bull Mirash. But perhaps this wasn’t mating season.

They were moving in the direction of a metallic ovoid which Drog recognized as a primitive spatial conveyance. It was crude, but once inside it the Mirash were safe from him.

He could simply trevest them, and that would end it. But it wouldn’t be very humane. Above all, the ancient Elbonaians had been gentle and merciful, and a Young Scouter tried to be like them. Besides, trevestment wasn’t a true pioneering method.

That left ilitrocy. It was the oldest trick in the book, and he’d have to get close to work it. But he had nothing to lose.

And luckily, climatic conditions were perfect for it.

* * *

It started as a thin ground-mist. But, as the watery sun climbed the gray sky, fog began forming.

Herrera cursed angrily as it grew more dense. “Keep close together now. Of all the luck!”

Soon they were walking with their hands on each others’ shoulders, blasters ready, peering into the impenetrable fog.

“Herrera?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you sure we’re going in the right direction?”

“Sure. I took a compass course before the fog closed in.”

“Suppose your compass is off?”

“Don’t even think about it.”

They walked on, picking their way carefully over the rock-strewn ground.

“I think I see the ship,” Paxton said.

“No, not yet,” Herrera said.

Stellman stumbled over a rock, dropped his blaster, picked it up again and fumbled around for Herrera’s shoulder. He found it and walked on.

“I think we’re almost there,” Herrera said.

“I sure hope so,” Paxton said. “I’ve had enough.”

“Think your girl friend’s waiting for you at the ship?”

“Don’t rub it in.”

“Okay,” Herrera said. “Hey, Stellman, you better grab hold of my shoulder again. No sense getting separated.”

“I am holding your shoulder,” Stellman said.

“You’re not.”

“I am, I tell you!”

“Look I guess I know if someone’s holding my shoulder or not.”

“Am I holding your shoulder, Paxton?”

“No,” Paxton said.

“That’s bad,” Stellman said, very slowly. “That’s bad, indeed.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m definitely holding someone’s shoulder.”

Herrera yelled, “Get down, get down quick, give me room to shoot!” But it was too late. A sweet-sour odor was in the air. Stellman and Paxton smelled it and collapsed. Herrera ran forward blindly, trying to hold his breath. He stumbled and fell over a rock, tried to get back on his feet—

And everything went black.

The fog lifted suddenly and Drog was standing alone, smiling triumphantly. He pulled out a long-bladed skinning knife and bent over the nearest Mirash.

* * *

The spaceship hurtled toward Terra at a velocity which threatened momentarily to burn out the overdrive. Herrera, hunched over the controls, finally regained his self-control and cut the speed down to normal. His usual tan face was still ashen, and his hands shook on the instruments.

Stellman came in from the bunkroom and flopped wearily in the co-pilot’s seat.

“How’s Paxton?” Herrera asked.

“I dosed him with Drona-3,” Stellman said. “He’s going to be all right.”

“He’s a good kid,” Herrera said.

“It’s just shock, for the most part,” Stellman said. “When he comes to, I’m going to put him to work counting diamonds. Counting diamonds is the best of therapies, I understand.”

Herrera grinned, and his face began to regain its normal color. “I feel like doing a little diamond-cutting myself, now that it’s all turned out okay.” Then his long face became serious. “But I ask you, Stellman, who could figure it? I still don’t understand!”

* * *

The Scouter Jamboree was a glorious spectacle. The Soaring Falcon Patrol, number 22, gave a short pantomime showing the clearing of the land on Elbonai. The Brave Bisons, number 31, were in full pioneer dress.

And at the head of patrol 19, the Charging Mirash Patrol, was Drog, a first-class Scouter now, wearing a glittering achievement badge. He was carrying the Patrol flag—the position of honor—and everyone cheered to see it.

Because waving proudly from the flagpole was the firm, fine-textured, characteristic skin of an adult Mirash, its zippers, tubes, gauges, buttons and holsters flashing merrily in the sunshine.

 

 

 

Afterword by Jim Baen






When I read this story in my early teens, I laughed my head off. When I thought back on it, though, I realized that "Hunting Problem" might have been the first time a writer showed me that people who didn't look anything like me might be, well . . . people.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Code Three by Rick Raphael

Code Three

by Rick Raphael



Preface by Eric Flint



This story made its way into the anthology by accident. We had never planned to include it at the beginning. In fact, none of us had even remembered the story, or the author—whose career in science fiction only lasted a few years and ended long ago. Instead, we'd wanted to include a story by Eric Frank Russell, a writer whom we'd all enjoyed for years and who had been especially significant for me as a youngster.

Alas, the decision on which stories get included in an anthology like this aren't simply made by the editors. The estates (or, in some cases, still-living authors) obviously have a say in the matter also. And, in the case of Eric Frank Russell, the agency representing the estate proved too difficult for us to deal with. (Never mind the details. Expletives would have to be deleted. Many many many expletives.)

I was the one who handled the negotiations with that estate, and after they finally fell through, I was in a foul mood. I'd really wanted a Russell story. So I decided to work off my frustration with some long-postponed manual labor: unpacking several big boxes of old science fiction magazines I'd purchased for my editing work and filing them away.

Halfway through the first box, which was full of old Analog magazines, a cover illustration caught my eye. Jumped out at me, to be more precise. In a split second, I not only recognized that cover but I rememberedthe story it illustrated and the name of the author—Rick Raphael's novella Code Three, which I hadn't read in something like forty years but now recalled very vividly.

This was . . . a very good sign. So I immediately sat down and read the story, wondering if I'd still like it as much as I could remember liking it as a teenager.

As it happened, if anything, I liked it even more. As an experienced writer now well into middle age—being charitable to myself—I could spot little subtleties and nuances which I'm sure I missed as a sixteen-year-old.

I then called Dave on the phone and I began describing the story to him. Before I'd gotten out more than three sentences, he remembered it also—even though, like me, he hadn't read it in many years.

Oh, a very good sign.

So, here it is. The third story of the anthology, to serve all of us as a reminder that science fiction was constructed by many people, not simply a small number of famous writers. Rick Raphael came and went, but he had his moment in the sun.

 

 

 

The late afternoon sun hid behind gray banks of snow clouds and a cold wind whipped loose leaves across the drill field in front of the Philadelphia Barracks of the North American Continental Thruway Patrol. There was the feel of snow in the air but the thermometer hovered just at the freezing mark and the clouds could turn either into icy rain or snow.

Patrol Sergeant Ben Martin stepped out of the door of the barracks and shivered as a blast of wind hit him. He pulled up the zipper on his loose blue uniform coveralls and paused to gauge the storm clouds building up to the west.

The broad planes of his sunburned face turned into the driving cold wind for a moment and then he looked back down at the weather report secured to the top of a stack of papers on his clipboard.

Behind him, the door of the barracks was shouldered open by his junior partner, Patrol Trooper Clay Ferguson. The young, tall Canadian officer’s arms were loaded with paper sacks and his patrol work helmet dangled by its strap from the crook of his arm.

Clay turned and moved from the doorway into the wind. A sudden gust swept around the corner of the building and a small sack perched atop one of the larger bags in his arms blew to the ground and began tumbling towards the drill field.

“Ben,” he yelled, “grab the bag.”

The sergeant lunged as the sack bounded by and made the retrieve. He walked back to Ferguson and eyed the load of bags in the blond-haired officer’s arms.

“Just what is all this?” he inquired.

“Groceries,” the youngster grinned. “Or to be more exact, little gourmet items for our moments of gracious living.”

Ferguson turned into the walk leading to the motor pool and Martin swung into step beside him. “Want me to carry some of that junk?”

“Junk,” Clay cried indignantly. “You keep your grimy paws off these delicacies, peasant. You’ll get yours in due time and perhaps it will help Kelly and me to make a more polished product of you instead of the clodlike cop you are today.”

Martin chuckled. This patrol would mark the start of the second year that he, Clay Ferguson and Medical-Surgical Officer Kelly Lightfoot had been teamed together. After twenty-two patrols, cooped up in a semiarmored vehicle with a man for ten days at a time, you got to know him pretty well. And you either liked him or you hated his guts.

As senior officer, Martin had the right to reject or keep his partner after their first eleven-month duty tour. Martin had elected to retain the lanky Canadian. As soon as they had pulled into New York Barracks at the end of their last patrol, he had made his decisions. After eleven months and twenty-two patrols on the Continental Thruways, each team had a thirty-day furlough coming.

Martin and Ferguson had headed for the city the minute they put their signatures on the last of the stack of reports needed at the end of a tour. Then, for five days and nights, they tied one on. MSO Kelly Lightfoot had made a beeline for a Columbia Medical School seminar on tissue regeneration. On the sixth day, Clay staggered out of bed, swigged down a handful of antireaction pills, showered, shaved and dressed and then waved good-by. Twenty minutes later he was aboard a jet, heading for his parents’ home in Edmonton, Alberta. Martin soloed around the city for another week, then rented a car and raced up to his sister’s home in Burlington, Vermont, to play Uncle Bountiful to Carol’s three kids and to lap up as much as possible of his sister’s real cooking.

While the troopers and their med officer relaxed, a service crew moved their car down to the Philadelphia motor pool for a full overhaul and refitting for the next torturous eleven-month tour of duty.

The two patrol troopers had reported into the Philadelphia Barracks five days ago—Martin several pounds heavier courtesy of his sister’s cooking; Ferguson several pounds lighter courtesy of three assorted, starry-eyed, uniform-struck Alberta maidens.

They turned into the gate of the motor pool and nodded to the sentry at the gate. To their left, the vast shop buildings echoed to the sound of body-banging equipment and roaring jet engines. The darkening sky made the brilliant lights of the shop seem even brighter and the hulls of a dozen patrol cars cast deep shadows around the work crews.

The troopers turned into the dispatcher’s office and Clay carefully placed the bags on a table beside the counter. Martin peered into one of the bags. “Seriously, kid, what do you have in that grab bag?”

“Oh, just a few essentials,” Clay replied. “Pate de foie gras, sharp cheese, a smidgen of cooking wine, a handful of spices. You know, stuff like that. Like I said—essentials.”

“Essentials,” Martin snorted, “you give your brains to one of those Alberta chicks of yours for a souvenir?”

“Look, Ben,” Ferguson said earnestly, “I suffered for eleven months in that tin mausoleum on tracks because of what you fondly like to think is edible food. You’ve got as much culinary imagination as Beulah. I take that back. Even Beulah turns out some better smells when she’s riding on high jet than you’ll ever get out of her galley in the next one hundred years. This tour, I intend to eat like a human being once again. And I’ll teach you how to boil water without burning it.”

“Why you ungrateful young—” Martin yelped.

The patrol dispatcher, who had been listening with amused tolerance, leaned across the counter.

“If Oscar Waldorf is through with his culinary lecture, gentlemen,” he said, “perhaps you two could be persuaded to take a little pleasure ride. It’s a lovely night for a drive and it’s just twenty-six hundred miles to the next service station. If you two aren’t cooking anything at the moment, I know that NorCon would simply adore having the services of two such distinguished Continental Commandos.”

Ferguson flushed and Martin scowled at the dispatcher. “Very funny, clown. I’ll recommend you for trooper status one of these days.”

“Not me,” the dispatcher protested. “I’m a married man. You’ll never get me out on the road in one of those blood-and-gut factories.”

“So quit sounding off to us heroes,” Martin said, “and give us the clearances.”

The dispatcher opened a loose-leaf reference book on the counter and then punched the first of a series of buttons on a panel. Behind him, the wall lighted with a map of the eastern United States to the Mississippi River. Ferguson and Martin had pencils out and poised over their clipboards.

The dispatcher glanced at the order board across the room where patrol car numbers and team names were displayed on an illuminated board. “Car 56—Martin-Ferguson-Lightfoot,” glowed with an amber light. In the column to the right was the number “26-W.” The dispatcher punched another button. A broad belt of multi-colored lines representing the eastern segment of North America Thruway 26 flashed onto the map in a band extending from Philadelphia to St. Louis. The thruway went on to Los Angeles on its western segment, not shown on the map. Ten bands of color—each five separated by a narrow clear strip, detailed the thruway. Martin and Ferguson were concerned with the northern five bands; NAT 26-westbound. Other unlighted lines radiated out in tangential spokes to the north and south along the length of the multi-colored belt of NAT 26.

This was just one small segment of the Continental Thruway system that spanned North America from coast to coast and crisscrossed north and sound under the Three Nation Road Compact from the southern tip of Mexico into Canada and Alaska.

Each arterial cut a five-mile-wide path across the continent and from one end to the other, the only structures along the roadways were the turretlike NorCon Patrol check and relay stations—looming up at one-hundred-mile intervals like the fire control islands of earlier-day aircraft carries.

Car 56 with Trooper Sergeant Ben Martin, Trooper Clay Ferguson and Medical-Surgical Officer Kelly Lightfoot, would take their first ten-day patrol on NAT 26-west. Barring major disaster, they would eat, sleep and work the entire time from their car; out of sight of any but distant cities until they had reached Los Angeles at the end of the patrol. Then a five-day resupply and briefing period and back onto another thruway.

During the coming patrol they would cross ten state lines as if they didn’t exist. And as far as thruway traffic control and authority was concerned, state and national boundaries actually didn’t exist. With the growth of the old interstate highway system and the Alcan Highway it became increasingly evident that variation in motor vehicle laws from state to state and country to country were creating impossible situations for any uniform safety control.

* * *

With the establishment of the Continental Thruway System two decades later, came the birth of the supra-cop—The North American Thruway Patrol—known as NorCon. Within the five-mile bands of the thruways—all federally-owned land by each of the three nations—the blue-coveralled “Continental Commandos” of NorCon were the sole law enforcement agency and authority. Violators of thruway law were cited into NorCon district traffic courts located in the nearest city to each access port along every thruway.

There was no challenge to the authority of NorCon. Public demand for faster and more powerful vehicles had forced the automotive industry to put more and more power under the touch of the ever-growing millions of drivers crowding the continent’s roads. Piston drive gave way to turbojet; turbojet was boosted by a modification of ram jet and air-cushion drive was added. In the last two years, the first of the nuclear reaction mass engines had hit the roads. Even as the hot Ferraris and Jags of the mid-’60s would have been suicide vehicles on the T-model roads of the ’20s so would today’s vehicles be on the interstates of the ’60s. But building roads capable of handling three hundred to four hundred miles an hour speeds was beyond the financial and engineering capabilities of individual states and nations. Thus grew the continental thruways with their four speed lanes in each direction, each a half-mile wide separated east and west and north and south by a half-mile-wide landscaped divider. Under the Three Nation Compact, the thruways now wove a net across the entire North American continent.

* * *

On the big wall map, NAT 26-west showed as four colored lines; blue and yellow as the two high and ultra-high speed lanes; green and white for the intermediate and slow lanes. Between the blue and yellow and the white and green was a red band. This was the police emergency lane, never used by other than official vehicles and crossed by the traveling public shifting from one speed lane to another only at sweeping crossovers.

The dispatcher picked up an electric pointer and aimed the light beam at the map. Referring to his notes, he began to recite.

“Resurfacing crews working on 26-W blue at milestone Marker 185 to Marker 187, estimated clearance 0300 hours Tuesday—Let’s see, that’s tomorrow morning.”

The two officers were writing the information down on their trip-analysis sheets.

“Ohio State is playing Cal under the lights at Columbus tonight so you can expect a traffic surge sometime shortly after 2300 hours but most of it will stay in the green and white. Watch out for the drunks though. They might filter out onto the blue or yellow.

“The crossover for NAT 163 has painting crews working. Might watch out for any crud on the roadway. And they’ve got the entrance blocked there so that all 163 exchange traffic is being re-routed to 164 west of Chillicothe.”

The dispatcher thumbed through his reference sheets. “That seems to be about all. No, wait a minute. This is on your trick. The Army’s got a priority missile convoy moving out of the Aberdeen Proving Grounds bound for the west coast tonight at 1800 hours. It will be moving at green lane speeds so you might watch out for it. They’ll have thirty-four units in the convoy. And that is all. Oh, yes. Kelly’s already aboard. I guess you know about the weather.”

Martin nodded. “Yup. We should be hitting light snows by 2300 hours tonight in this area and it could be anything from snow to ice-rain after that.” He grinned at his younger partner. “The vacation is over, sonny. Tonight we make a man out of you.”

Ferguson grinned back. “Nuts to you, pop. I’ve got character witnesses back in Edmonton who’ll give you glowing testimonials about my manhood.”

“Testimonials aren’t legal unless they’re given by adults,” Martin retorted. “Come on, lover boy. Duty calls.”

Clay carefully embraced his armload of bundles and the two officers turned to leave. The dispatcher leaned across the counter.

“Oh, Ferguson, one thing I forgot. There’s some light corrugations in red lane just east of St. Louis. You might be careful with your soufflés in that area. Wouldn’t want them to fall, you know.”

Clay paused and started to turn back. The grinning dispatcher ducked into the back office and slammed the door.

* * *

The wind had died down by the time the troopers entered the brilliantly lighted parking area. The temperature seemed warmer with the lessening winds but in actuality, the mercury was dropping. The snow clouds to the west were much nearer and the overcast was getting darker.

But under the great overhead light tubes, the parking area was brighter than day. A dozen huge patrol vehicles were parked on the front “hot” line. Scores more were lined out in ranks to the back of the parking zone. Martin and Ferguson walked down the line of military blue cars. Number 56 was fifth on the line. Service mechs were just re-housing fueling lines into a ground panel as the troopers walked up. The technician corporal was the first to speak. “All set, Sarge,” he said. “We had to change an induction jet at the last minute and I had the port engine running up to reline the flow. Thought I’d better top ‘er off for you, though, before you pull out. She sounds like a purring kitten.”

He tossed the pair a waving salute and then moved out to his service dolly where three other mechs were waiting.

“Beulah looks like she’s been to the beauty shop and had the works,” Martin said. He reached out and slapped the maglurium plates. “Welcome home, sweetheart. I see you’ve kept a candle in the window for your wandering son.” Ferguson looked up at the lighted cab, sixteen feet above the pavement.

Car 56—Beulah to her team—was a standard NorCon Patrol vehicle. She was sixty feet long, twelve feet wide and twelve feet high; topped by a four-foot-high bubble canopy over her cab. All the way across her nose was a three-foot-wide luminescent strip. This was the variable beam headlight that could cut a day-bright swath of light through night, fog, rain or snow and could be varied in intensity, width and elevation. Immediately above the headlight strip were two red-black plastic panels which when lighted, sent out a flashing red emergency signal that could be seen for miles. Similar emergency lights and back-up white light strips adorned Beulah’s stern. Her bow rounded down like an old-time tank and blended into the track assembly of her dual propulsion system. With the exception of the cabin bubble and a two-foot stepdown on the last fifteen feet of her hull, Beulah was free of external protrusions. Racked into a flush-decked recess on one side of the hull was a crane arm with a two-hundred-ton lift capacity. Several round hatches covered other extensible gear and periscopes used in the scores of multiple operations the Nor Con cars were called upon to accomplish on routine road patrols.

Beulah resembled a gigantic offspring of a military tank, sans heavy armament. But even a small stinger was part of the patrol car equipment. As for armament, Beulah had weapons to meet every conceivable skirmish in the deadly battle to keep Continental Thruways fast-moving and safe. Her own two-hundred-fifty-ton bulk could reach speeds of close to six hundred miles an hour utilizing one or both of her two independent propulsion systems.

At ultra-high speeds, Beulah never touched the ground—floating on an impeller air cushion and driven forward by a pair of one hundred fifty thousand pound thrust jets and ram jets. At intermediate high speeds, both her air cushion and the four-foot-wide tracks on each side of the car pushed her along at two hundred-mile-an-hour-plus speeds. Synchro mechanisms reduced the air cushion as the speeds dropped to afford more surface traction for the tracks. For slow speeds and heavy duty, the tracks carried the burden.

Martin thumbed open the portside ground-level cabin door.

“I’ll start the outside check,” he told Clay. “You stow that garbage of yours in the galley and start on the dispensary. I’ll help you after I finish out here.”

As the younger officer entered the car and headed up the short flight of steps to the working deck, the sergeant unclipped a check list from the inside of the door and turned towards the stern of the big vehicle.

* * *

Clay mounted to the work deck and turned back to the little galley just aft of the cab. As compact as a spaceship kitchen—as a matter of fact, designed almost identically from models on the Moon run—the galley had but three feet of open counter space. Everything else, sink, range, oven and freezer, were built-ins with pull-downs for use as needed. He set his bags on the small counter to put away after the pre-start check. Aft of the galley and on the same side of the passageway were the double-decked bunks for the patrol troopers. Across the passageway was a tiny latrine and shower. Clay tossed his helmet on the lower bunk as he went down the passageway. At the bulkhead to the rear, he pressed a wall panel and a thick, insulated door slid back to admit him to the engine compartment. The service crews had shut down the big power plants and turned off the air exchangers and already the heat from the massive engines made the compartment uncomfortably warm.

He hurried through into a small machine shop. In an emergency, the troopers could turn out small parts for disabled vehicles or for other uses. It also stocked a good supply of the most common failure parts. Racked against the ceiling were banks of cutting torches, a grim reminder that death and injury still rode the thruways with increasing frequency.

In the tank storage space between the ceiling and top of the hull were the chemical fire-fighting liquids and foam that could be applied by nozzles, hoses and towers now telescoped into recesses in the hull. Along both sides and beneath the galley, bunks, engine and machine-shop compartments between the walls, deck and hull, were Beulah’s fuel storage tanks.

The last after compartment was a complete dispensary, one that would have made the emergency room or even the light surgery rooms of earlier-day hospitals proud.

Clay tapped on the door and went through. Medical-Surgical Officer Kelly Lightfoot was sitting on the deck, stowing sterile bandage packs into a lower locker. She looked up at Clay and smiled. “Well, well, you DID manage to tear yourself away from your adoring bevies,” she said. She flicked back a wisp of golden-red hair from her forehead and stood up. The patrol-blue uniform coverall with its belted waist didn’t do much to hide a lovely, properly curved figure. She walked over to the tall Canadian trooper and reached up and grabbed his ear. She pulled his head down, examined one side critically and then quickly snatched at his other ear and repeated the scrutiny. She let go of his ear and stepped back. “Damned if you didn’t get all the lipstick marks off, too.”

Clay flushed. “Cut it out, Kelly,” he said. “Sometimes you act just like my mother.”

The olive-complexioned redhead grinned at him and turned back to her stack of boxes on the deck. She bent over and lifted one of the boxes to the operating table. Clay eyed her trim figure. “You might act like ma sometimes,” he said, “but you sure don’t look like her.”

It was the Irish-Cherokee Indian girl’s turn to flush. She became very busy with the contents of the box. “Where’s Ben?” she asked over her shoulder.

“Making outside check. You about finished in here?”

Kelly turned and slowly scanned the confines of the dispensary. With the exception of the boxes on the table and floor, everything was behind secured locker doors. In one corner, the compact diagnostician—capable of analyzing many known human bodily ailments and every possible violent injury to the body—was locked in its riding clamps. Surgical trays and instrument racks were all hidden behind locker doors along with medical and surgical supplies. On either side of the emergency ramp door at the stern of the vehicle, three collapsible auto-litters hung from clamps. Six hospital bunks in two tiers of three each, lined another wall. On patrol, Kelly utilized one of the hospital bunks for her own use except when they might all be occupied with accident or other kind of patients. And this would never be for more than a short period, just long enough to transfer them to a regular ambulance or hospital vehicle. Her meager supply of personal items needed for the ten-day patrol were stowed in a small locker and she shared the latrine with the male members of the team.

Kelly completed her scan, glanced down at the check list in her hand. “I’ll have these boxes stowed in five minutes. Everything else is secure.” She raised her hand to her forehead in mock salute. “Medical-Surgical Officer Lightfoot reports dispensary ready for patrol, sir.”

Clay smiled and made a check-mark on his clipboard. “How was the seminar, Kelly?” he asked.

Kelly hiked herself onto the edge of the operating table. “Wonderful, Clay, just wonderful. I never saw so many good-looking, young, rich and eligible doctors together in one place in all my life.”

She sighed and smiled vacantly into space.

Clay snorted. “I thought you were supposed to be learning something new about tissue regeneration,” he said.

“Generation, regeneration, who cares,” Kelly grinned.

Clay started to say something, got flustered and wheeled around to leave—and bounded right off Ben Martin’s chest. Ferguson mumbled something and pushed past the older officer.

Ben looked after him and then turned back to Car 56’s combination doctor, surgeon and nurse. “Glad to see the hostess aboard for this cruise. I hope you make the passengers more comfortable than you’ve just made the first mate. What did you do to Clay, Kelly?”

“Hi, Ben,” Kelly said. “Oh, don’t worry about junior. He just gets all fluttery when a girl takes away his masculine prerogative to make cleverly lewd witticisms. He’ll be all right. Have a happy holiday, Ben? You look positively fat.”

Ben patted his stomach. “Carol’s good cooking. Had a nice restful time. And how about you. That couldn’t have been all work. You’ve got a marvelous tan.”

“Don’t worry,” Kelly laughed, “I had no intention of letting it be all study. I spent just about as much time under the sun dome at the pool as I did in class. I learned a lot, though.”

Ben grinned and headed back to the front of the car. “Tell me more after we’re on the road,” he said from the doorway. “We’ll be rolling in ten minutes.”

When he reached the cab, Clay was already in the right-hand control seat and was running down the instrument panel check. The sergeant lifted the hatch door between the two control seats and punched on a light to illuminate the stark compartment at the lower front end of the car. A steel grill with a dogged handle on the upper side covered the opening under the hatch cover. Two swing-down bunks were racked up against the walls on either side and the front hull door was without an inside handle. This was the patrol car brig, used for bringing in unwilling violators or other violent or criminal subjects who might crop up in the course of a patrol tour. Satisfied with the appearance of the brig, Ben closed the hatch cover and slid into his own control seat on the left of the cab. Both control seats were molded and plastiformed padded to the contours of the troopers and the armrests on both were studded with buttons and a series of small, finger-operated knobs. All drive, communication and fire fighting controls for the massive vehicle were centered in the knobs and buttons on the seat arms, while acceleration and braking controls were duplicated in two footrest pedals beneath their feet.

Ben settled into his seat and glanced down to make sure his work-helmet was racked beside him. He reached over and flipped a bank of switches on the instrument panel. “All communications to ‘on,'” he said. Clay made a checkmark on his list. “All pre-engine start check complete,” Clay replied.

“In that case, the senior trooper said, “let’s give Beulah some exercise. Start engines.”

Clay’s fingers danced across the array of buttons on his seat arms and flicked lightly at the throttle knobs. From deep within the engine compartment came the muted, shrill whine of the starter engines, followed a split-second later by the full-throated roar of the jets as they caught fire. Clay eased the throttles back and the engine noise softened to a muffled roar.

Martin fingered a press-panel on the right arm of his seat.

“Car 56 to Philly Control,” Ben called.

The speakers mounted around the cab came to life. “Go ahead Five Six.”

“Five Six fired up and ready to roll,” Martin said.

“Affirmative Five Six,” came the reply. “You’re clear to roll. Philly Check estimates white density 300; green, 840; blue, 400; yellow, 75.”

Both troopers made mental note of the traffic densities in their first one-hundred-mile patrol segment; an estimated three hundred vehicles for each ten miles of thruway in the white or fifty to one hundred miles an hour lane; eight hundred forty vehicles in the one hundred to one hundred fifty miles an hour green, and so on. More than sixteen thousand westbound vehicles on the thruway in the first one hundred miles; nearly five thousand of them traveling at speeds between one hundred fifty and three hundred miles an hour.

Over the always-hot intercom throughout the big car Ben called out. “All set, Kelly?”

“I’m making coffee,” Kelly answered from the galley. “Let ‘er roll.”

Martin started to kick off the brakes, then stopped. “Ooops,” he exclaimed, “almost forgot.” His finger touched another button and a blaring horn reverberated through the vehicle.

In the galley, Kelly hurled herself into a corner. Her body activated a pressure plant and a pair of mummy-like plastifoam plates slid curvingly out the wall and locked her in a soft cocoon. A dozen similar safety clamps were located throughout the car at every working and relaxation station.

In the same instance, both Ben and Clay touched another plate on their control seats. From kiosk-type columns behind each seat, pairs of body-molded crash pads snapped into place to encase both troopers in their seats, their bodies cushioned and locked into place. Only their fingers were loose beneath the spongy substance to work arm controls. The half-molds included headforms with a padded band that locked across their foreheads to hold their heads rigidly against the backs of their reinforced seats. The instant all three crew members were locked into their safety gear, the bull horn ceased.

“All tight,” Ben called out as he wiggled and tried to free himself from the cocoon. Kelly and Clay tested their harnesses.

Satisfied that the safety cocoons were operating properly, Ben released them and the molds slid back into their recesses. The cocoons were triggered automatically in any emergency run or chase at speeds in excess of two hundred miles an hour.

Again he kicked off the brakes, pressed down on the foot feed and Car 56—Beulah—rolled out of the Philadelphia motor pool on the start of its ten-day patrol.

* * *

The motor pool exit opened into a quarter-mile wide tunnel sloping gently down into the bowels of the great city. Car 56 glided down the slight incline at a steady fifty miles an hour. A mile from the mouth of the tunnel the roadway leveled off and Ben kicked Beulah up another twenty-five miles an hour. Ahead, the main tunnel ended in a series of smaller portal ways, each emblazoned with a huge illuminated number designating a continental thruway.

Ben throttled back and began edging to the left lanes. Other patrol cars were heading down the main passageway, bound for their assigned thruways. As Ben eased down to a slow thirty, another patrol vehicle slid alongside. The two troopers in the cab waved. Clay flicked on the “car-to-car” transmit.

The senior trooper in Car 104 looked over at Martin and Ferguson. “If it isn’t the gruesome twosome,” he called. “Where have you been? We thought the front office had finally caught up with you and found out that neither one of you could read or write and that they had canned you.”

“We can’t read,” Ben quipped back. “That’s why we’re still on the job. The front office would never hire anyone who would embarrass you two by being smarter than either of you. Where’re you headed, Eddie?”

“Got 154-north,” the other officer said.

“Hey,” Clay called out, “I’ve got a real hot doll in Toronto and I’ll gladly sell her phone number for a proper price.”

“Wouldn’t want to hurt you, Clay,” the other officer replied. “If I called her up and took her out, she’d throw rocks at you the next time you drew the run. It’s all for your own good.”

“Oh, go get lost in a cloverleaf,” Clay retorted.

The other car broke the connection and with a wave, veered off to the right. The thruway entrances were just ahead. Martin aimed Beulah at the lighted orifice topped by the number 26-W. The patrol car slid into the narrower tunnel, glided along for another mile, and then turned its bow upwards. Three minutes later, they emerged from the tunnel into the red patrol lane of Continental Thruway 26-West. The late afternoon sky was a covering of gray wool and a drop or two of moisture struck the front face of the cab canopy. For a mile on either side of the police lane, streams of cars sped westward. Ben eyed the sky, the traffic and then peered at the outer hull thermometer. It read thirty-two degrees. He made a mental bet with himself that the weather bureau was off on its snow estimates by six hours. His Vermont upbringing told him it would be flurrying within the hour.

He increased speed to a steady one hundred and the car sped silently and easily along the police lane. Across the cab, Clay peered pensively at the steady stream of cars and cargo carriers racing by in the green and blue lanes—all of them moving faster than the patrol car.

The young officer turned in his seat and looked at his partner.

“You know, Ben,” he said gravely, “I sometimes wonder if those oldtime cowboys got as tired looking at the south end of northbound cows as I get looking at the vanishing tail pipes of cars.”

The radio came to life.

“Philly Control to Car 56.”

Clay touched his transmit plate. “This is Five Six. Go ahead.”

“You’ve got a bad one at Marker 82,” Control said. “A sideswipe in the white.”

“Couldn’t be too bad in the white,” Ben broke in, thinking of the one-hundred mile-an-hour limit in the slow lane.

“That’s not the problem,” Control came back. “One of the sideswiped vehicles was flipped around and bounded into the green, and that’s where the real mess is. Make it code three.”

“Five Six acknowledge,” Ben said. “On the way.”

He slammed forward on the throttles. The bull horn blared and a second later, with MSO Kelly Lightfoot snugged in her dispensary cocoon and both troopers in body cushions, Car 56 lifted a foot from the roadway, and leaped forward on a turbulent pad of air. It accelerated from one hundred to two hundred fifty miles an hour.

The great red emergency lights on the bow and stern began to blink and from the special transmitter in the hull a radio siren wail raced ahead of the car to be picked up by the emergency receptor antennas required on all vehicles.

The working part of the patrol had begun.

* * *

Conversation died in the speeding car, partly because of the concentration required by the troopers, secondly because all transmissions whether intercom or radio, on a code two or three run, were taped and monitored by Control. In the center of the instrument panel, an oversized radiodometer was clicking off the mileage marks as the car passed each milestone. The milestone posts beamed a coded signal across all five lanes and as each vehicle passed the marker, the radiodometer clicked up another number.

Car 56 had been at MM 23 when the call came. Now, at better than four miles a minute, Beulah whipped past MM 45 with ten minutes yet to go to reach the scene of the accident. Light flurries of wet snow bounced off the canopy, leaving thin, fast-drying trails of moisture. Although it was still a few minutes short of 1700 hours, the last of the winter afternoon light was being lost behind the heavy snow clouds overhead. Ben turned on the patrol car’s dazzling headlight and to the left and right, Clay could see streaks of white lights from the traffic on the green and blue lanes on either side of the quarter-mile wide emergency lane.

The radio filled them in on the movement of other patrol emergency vehicles being routed to the accident site. Car 82, also assigned to NAT 26-West, was more than one hundred fifty miles ahead of Beulah. Pittsburgh Control ordered Eight Two to hold fast to cover anything else that might come up while Five Six was handling the current crisis. Eastbound Car 119 was ordered to cut across to the scene to assist Beulah’s crew, and another eastbound patrol vehicle was held in place to cover for One One Nine.

At mile marker 80, yellow caution lights were flashing on all westbound lanes, triggered by Philadelphia Control the instant the word of the crash had been received. Traffic was slowing down and piling up despite the half-mile wide lanes.

“Philly Control this is Car 56.”

“Go ahead Five Six.”

“It’s piling up in the green and white,” Ben said. “Let’s divert to blue on slowdown and seal the yellow.”

“Philly Control acknowledged,” came the reply.

The flashing amber caution lights on all lanes switched to red. As Ben began de-acceleration, diagonal red flashing barriers rose out of the roadway on the green and white lanes at the 85 mile marker and lane crossing. This channeled all traffic from both lanes to the left and into the blue lane where the flashing reds now prohibited speeds in excess of fifty miles an hour around the emergency situation. At the same time, all crossovers on the ultra high yellow lane were sealed by barriers to prevent changing of lanes into the over-congested area.

As Car 56’s speed dropped back below the two hundred mile an hour mark the cocoon automatically slid open. Freed from her safety restraints, Kelly jumped for the rear entrance of the dispensary and cleared the racking clamps from the six auto-litters. That done, she opened another locker and reached for the mobile first-aid kit. She slid it to the door entrance on its retractable casters. She slipped on her work helmet with the built-in transmitter and then sat down on the seat by the rear door to wait until the car stopped.

Car 56 was now less than two miles from the scene of the crash and traffic in the green lane to the left was at a standstill. A half mile farther westward, lights were still moving slowly along the white lane. Ahead, the troopers could see a faint wisp of smoke rising from the heaviest congregation of headlights. Both officers had their work helmets on and Clay had left his seat and descended to the side door, ready to jump out the minute the car stopped.

Martin saw a clear area in the green lane and swung the car over the dividing curbing. The big tracks floated the patrol car over the two-foot high, rounded abutment that divided each speed lane. Snow was falling faster as the headlight picked out a tangled mass of wreckage smoldering a hundred feet inside the median separating the green and white lanes. A crumpled body lay on the pavement twenty feet from the biggest clump of smashed metal, and other fragments of vehicles were strung out down the roadway for fifty feet. There was no movement.

NorCon thruway laws were strict and none were more rigidly enforced than the regulation that no one other than a member of the patrol set foot outside of their vehicle while on any thruway traffic lane. This meant not giving any assistance whatsoever to accident victims. The ruling had been called inhuman, monstrous, unthinkable, and lawmakers in the three nations of the compact had forced NorCon to revoke the rule in the early days of the thruways. After speeding cars and cargo carriers had cut down twice as many do-gooders on foot at accident scenes than the accidents themselves caused, the law was reinstated. The lives of the many were more vital than the lives of a few.

Martin halted the patrol vehicle a few feet from the wreckage and Beulah was still rocking gently on her tracks by the time both Patrol Trooper Clay Ferguson and MSO Kelly Lightfoot hit the pavement on the run.

In the cab, Martin called in on the radio. “Car 56 is on scene. Release blue at Marker 95 and resume speeds all lanes at Marker 95 in—” he paused and looked back at the halted traffic piled up before the lane had been closed “—seven minutes.” He jumped for the steps and sprinted out of the patrol car in the wake of Ferguson and Kelly.

The team’s surgeon was kneeling beside the inert body on the road. After an ear to the chest, Kelly opened her field kit bag and slapped an electrode to the victim’s temple. The needle on the encephalic meter in the lid of the kit never flickered. Kelly shut the bag and hurried with it over to the mass of wreckage. A thin column of black, oily smoke rose from somewhere near the bottom of the heap. It was almost impossible to identify at a glance whether the mangled metal was the remains of one or more cars. Only the absence of track equipment made it certain that they even had been passenger vehicles.

Clay was carefully climbing up the side of the piled up wrecks to a window that gaped near the top.

“Work fast, kid,” Martin called up. “Something’s burning down there and this whole thing may go up. I’ll get this traffic moving.”

He turned to face the halted mass of cars and cargo carriers east of the wreck. He flipped a switch that cut his helmet transmitter into the remote standard vehicular radio circuit aboard the patrol car.

“Attention, please, all cars in green lane. All cars in the left line move out now, the next line fall in behind. You are directed to clear the area immediately. Maintain fifty miles an hour for the next mile. You may resume desired speeds and change lanes at mile Marker 95. I repeat, all cars in green lane . . .” he went over the instructions once more, relayed through Beulah’s transmitter to the standard receivers on all cars. He was still talking as the traffic began to move.

By the time he turned back to help his teammates, cars were moving in a steady stream past the huge, red-flashing bulk of the patrol car.

Both Clay and Kelly were lying flat across the smashed, upturned side of the uppermost car in the pile. Kelly had her field bag open on the ground and she was reaching down through the smashed window.

“What is it, Clay?” Martin called.

The younger officer looked down over his shoulder. “We’ve got a woman alive down here but she’s wedged in tight. She’s hurt pretty badly and Kelly’s trying to slip a hypo into her now. Get the arm out, Ben.”

Martin ran back to the patrol car and flipped up a panel on the hull. He pulled back on one of the several levers recessed into the hull and the big wrecking crane swung smoothly out of its cradle and over the wreckage. The end of the crane arm was directly over Ferguson. “Lemme have the spreaders,” Clay called. The arm dipped and from either side of the tip, a pair of flanges shot out like tusks on an elephant. “Put ‘er in neutral,” Clay directed. Martin pressed another lever and the crane now could be moved in any direction by fingertip pulls at its extremity. Ferguson carefully guided the crane with its projecting tusks into the smashed orifice of the car window. “O.K., Ben, spread it.”

The crane locked into position and the entire arm split open in a “V” from its base. Martin pressed steadily on the two levers controlling each side of the divided arm and the tusks dug into the sides of the smashed window. There was a steady screeching of tearing and ripping metal as the crane tore window and frame apart. “Hold it,” Ferguson yelled and then eased himself into the widened hole.

“Ben,” Kelly called from her perch atop the wreckage, “litter.”

Martin raced to the rear of the patrol car where the sloping ramp stood open to the lighted dispensary. He snatched at one of the autolitters and triggered its tiny drive motor. A homing beacon in his helmet guided the litter as it rolled down the ramp, turned by itself and rolled across the pavement a foot behind him. It stopped when he stopped and Ben touched another switch, cutting the homing beacon.

Clay’s head appeared out of the hole. “Get it up here, Ben. I can get her out. And I think there’s another one alive still further down.”

Martin raised the crane and its ripper bars retracted. The split arms spewed a pair of cables terminating in magnalocks. The cables dangled over the ends of the autolitter, caught the lift plates on the litter and a second later, the cart was swinging beside the smashed window as Clay and Kelly eased the torn body of a woman out of the wreckage and onto the litter. As Ben brought the litter back to the pavement, the column of smoke had thickened. He disconnected the cables and homed the stretcher back to the patrol car. The hospital cart with its unconscious victim rolled smoothly back to the car, up the ramp and into the dispensary to the surgical table.

Martin climbed up the wreckage beside Kelly. Inside the twisted interior of the car, the thick smoke all but obscured the bent back of the younger trooper and his powerful handlight barely penetrated the gloom. Blood was smeared over almost every surface and the stink of leaking jet fuel was virtually overpowering. From the depths of the nightmarish scene came a tortured scream. Kelly reached into a coverall pocket and produced another sedation hypo. She squirmed around and started to slip down into the wreckage with Ferguson. Martin grabbed her arm. “No, Kelly, this thing’s ready to blow. Come on, Clay, get out of there. Now!”

Ferguson continued to pry at the twisted plates below him.

“I said ‘get out of there’ Ferguson,” the senior officer roared. “And that’s an order.”

Clay straightened up and put his hands on the edge of the window to boost himself out. “Ben, there’s a guy alive down there. We just can’t leave him.”

“Get down from there, Kelly,” Martin ordered. “I know that man’s down there just as well as you do, Clay. But we won’t be helping him one damn bit if we get blown to hell and gone right along with him. Now get outta there and maybe we can pull this thing apart and get to him before it does blow.”

The lanky Canadian eased out of the window and the two troopers moved back to the patrol car. Kelly was already in her dispensary, working on the injured woman.

Martin slid into his control seat. “Shut your ramp, Kelly,” he called over the intercom. “I’m going to move around to the other side.”

The radio broke in. “Car 119 to Car 56, we’re just turning into the divider. Be there in a minute.”

“Snap it up,” Ben replied. “We need you in a hurry.”

As he maneuvered Beulah around the wreckage he snapped orders to Ferguson.

“Get the foam nozzles up, just in case, and then stand by on the crane.”

A mile away, they saw the flashing emergency lights of Car 119 as it raced diagonally across the yellow and blue lanes, whipping with ponderous ease through the moving traffic.

“Take the south side, 119,” Martin called out. “We’ll try and pull this mess apart.”

“Affirmative,” came the reply. Even before the other patrol vehicle came to a halt, its crane was swinging out from the side, and the ganged magnalocks were dangling from their cables.

“O.K., kid,” Ben ordered, “hook it.”

At the interior crane controls, Clay swung Beulah’s crane and cable mags towards the wreckage. The magnalocks slammed into the metallic mess with a bang almost at the same instant the locks hit the other side from Car 119.

Clay eased up the cable slack. “Good,” Ben called to both Clay and the operating trooper in the other car, “now let’s pull it . . . LOOK OUT! FOAM . . . FOAM . . . FOAM,” he yelled.

The ugly, deep red fireball from the exploding wreckage was still growing as Clay slammed down on the fire-control panel. A curtain of thick chemical foam burst from the poised nozzles atop Beulah’s hull and a split-second later, another stream of foam erupted from the other patrol car. The dense, oxygen-absorbing retardant blanket snuffed the fire out in three seconds. The cranes were still secured to the foam-covered heap of metal. “Never mind the caution,” Ben called out, “get it apart. Fast.”

Both crane operators slammed their controls into reverse and with an ear-splitting screech, the twisted frames of the two vehicles ripped apart into tumbled heaps of broken metal and plastics. Martin and Ferguson jumped down the hatch steps and into ankle-deep foam and oil. They waded and slipped around the front of the car to join the troopers from the other car.

Ferguson was pawing at the scum-covered foam near the mangled section of one of the cars. “He should be right about,” Clay paused and bent over, “here.” He straightened up as the others gathered around the scorched and ripped body of a man, half-submerged in the thick foam. “Kelly,” he called over the helmet transmitter, “open your door. We’ll need a couple of sacks.”

He trudged to the rear of the patrol car and met the girl standing in the door with a pair of folded plastic morgue bags in her hands. Behind her, Clay could see the body of the woman on the surgical table, an array of tubes and probes leading to plasma drip bottles and other equipment racked out over the table.

“How is she?”

“Not good,” Kelly replied. “Skull fracture, ruptured spleen, broken ribs and double leg fractures. I’ve already called for an ambulance.”

Ferguson nodded, took the bags from her and waded back through the foam.

The four troopers worked in the silence of the deserted traffic lane. A hundred yards away, traffic was moving steadily in the slow white lane. Three-quarters of a mile to the south, fast and ultra high traffic sped at its normal pace in the blue and yellow lanes. Westbound green was still being rerouted into the slower white lane, around the scene of the accident. It was now twenty-six minutes since Car 56 had received the accident call. The light snow flurries had turned to a steady fall of thick wet flakes, melting as they hit on the warm pavement but beginning to coat the pitiful flotsam of the accident.

The troopers finished the gruesome task of getting the bodies into the morgue sacks and laid beside the dispensary ramp for the ambulance to pick up with the surviving victim. Car 119’s MSO had joined Kelly in Beulah’s dispensary to give what help she might. The four patrol troopers began the grim task of probing the scattered wreckage for other possible victims, personal possessions and identification. They were stacking a small pile of hand luggage when the long, low bulk of the ambulance swung out of the police lane and rolled to a stop. Longer than the patrol cars but without the non-medical emergency facilities, the ambulance was in reality a mobile hospital. A full, scrubbed-up surgical team was waiting in the main operating room even as the ramps opened and the techs headed for Car 56. The team had been briefed by radio on the condition of the patient; had read the full recordings of the diagnostician; and were watching transmitted pulse and respiration graphs on their own screens while the transfer was being made.

The two women MSOs had unlocked the surgical table in Beulah’s dispensary and a plastic tent covered not only the table and the patient, but also the plasma and Regen racks overhead. The entire table and rig slid down the ramp onto a motor-driven dolly from the ambulance. Without delay, it wheeled across the open few feet of pavement into the ambulance and to the surgery room. The techs locked the table into place in the other vehicle and left the surgery. From a storage compartment, they wheeled out a fresh patrol dispensary table and rack and placed it in Kelly’s miniature surgery. The dead went into the morgue aboard the ambulance, the ramp closed and the ambulance swung around and headed across the traffic lanes to eastbound NAT-26 and Philadelphia.

Outside, the four troopers had completed the task of collecting what little information they could from the smashed vehicles.

They returned to their cars and One One Nine’s medical-surgical officer headed back to her own cubbyhole.

The other patrol car swung into position almost touching Beulah’s left flank. With Ben at the control seat, on command, both cars extended broad bulldozer blades from their bows. “Let’s go,” Ben ordered. The two patrol vehicles moved slowly down the roadway, pushing all of the scattered scraps and parts onto a single great heap. They backed off, shifted direction towards the center police lane and began shoving the debris, foam and snow out of the green lane. At the edge of the police lane, both cars unshipped cranes and magnalifted the junk over the divider barrier onto the one-hundred-foot-wide service strip bordering the police lane. A slow cargo wrecker was already on the way from Pittsburgh barracks to pick up the wreckage and haul it away. When the last of the metallic debris had been deposited off the traffic lane, Martin called Control.

“Car 56 is clear. NAT 26-west green is clear.”

Philly Control acknowledged. Seven miles to the east, the amber warning lights went dark and the detour barrier at Crossover 85 sank back into the roadway. Three minutes later, traffic was again flashing by on green lane past the two halted patrol cars.

“Pitt Control, this is Car 119 clear of accident,” the other car reported.

“Car 119 resume eastbound patrol,” came the reply.

The other patrol car pulled away. The two troopers waved at Martin and Ferguson in Beulah. “See you later and thanks,” Ben called out. He switched to intercom. “Kelly. Any ID on that woman?”

“Not a thing, Ben,” she replied. “About forty years old, and she had a wedding band. She never was conscious, so I can’t help you.”

Ben nodded and looked over at his partner. “Go get into some dry clothes, kid,” he said, “while I finish the report. Then you can take it for a while.”

Clay nodded and headed back to the crew quarters.

* * *

Ben racked his helmet beside his seat and fished out a cigarette. He reached for an accident report form from the work rack behind his seat and began writing, glancing up from time to time to gaze thoughtfully at the scene of the accident. When he had finished, he thumbed the radio transmitter and called Philly Control. Somewhere in the bloody, oil and foam covered pile of wreckage were the registration plates for the two vehicles involved. When the wrecker collected the debris, it would be machine sifted in Pittsburgh and the plates fed to records and then relayed to Philadelphia where the identifications could be added to Ben’s report. When he had finished reading his report he asked, “How’s the woman?”

“Still alive, but just barely,” Philly Control answered. “Ben, did you say there were just two vehicles involved?”

“That’s all we found,” Martin replied.

“And were they both in the green?”

“Yes, why?”

“That’s funny,” Philly controller replied, “we got the calls as a sideswipe in white that put one of the cars over into the green. There should have been a third vehicle.”

“That’s right,” Ben exclaimed. “We were so busy trying to get that gal out and then making the try for the other man I never even thought to look for another car. You suppose that guy took off?”

“It’s possible,” the controller said. “I’m calling a gate filter until we know for sure. I’ve got the car number on the driver that reported the accident. I’ll get hold of him and see if he can give us a lead on the third car. You go ahead with your patrol and I’ll let you know what I find out.”

“Affirmative,” Ben replied. He eased the patrol car onto the police lane and turned west once again. Clay reappeared in the cab, dressed in fresh coveralls. “I’ll take it, Ben. You go and clean up now. Kelly’s got a pot of fresh coffee in the galley.” Ferguson slid into his control seat.

A light skiff of snow covered the service strip and the dividers as Car 56 swung back westward in the red lane. Snow was falling steadily but melting as it touched the warm ferrophalt pavement in all lanes. The wet roadways glistened with the lights of hundreds of vehicles. The chronometer read 1840 hours. Clay pushed the car up to a steady 75, just about apace with the slowest traffic in the white lane. To the south, densities were much lighter in the blue and yellow lanes and even the green had thinned out. It would stay moderately light now for another hour until the dinner stops were over and the night travelers again rolled onto the thruways.

Kelly was putting frozen steaks into the infra-oven as Ben walked through to crew quarters. Her coverall sleeves were rolled to the elbows as she worked and a vagrant strand of copper hair curled over her forehead. As Martin passed by, he caught a faint whisper of perfume and he smiled appreciatively.

In the tiny crew quarters, he shut the door to the galley and stripped out of his wet coveralls and boots. He eyed the shower stall across the passageway.

“Hey, mother,” he yelled to Kelly, “have I got time for a shower before dinner?”

“Yes, but make it a quickie,” she called back.

Five minutes later he stepped into the galley, his dark, crew-cut hair still damp. Kelly was setting plastic, disposable dishes on the little swing-down table that doubled as a food bar and work desk. Ben peered into a simmering pot and sniffed. “Smells good. What’s for dinner, Hiawatha?”

“Nothing fancy. Steak, potatoes, green beans, apple pie and coffee.”

Ben’s mouth watered. “You know, sometimes I wonder whether one of your ancestors didn’t come out of New England. Your menus always seem to coincide with my ideas of a perfect meal.” He noted the two places set at the table. Ben glanced out the galley port into the headlight-striped darkness. Traffic was still light. In the distance, the night sky glowed with the lights of Chambersburg, north of the thruway.

“We might as well pull up for dinner,” he said. “It’s pretty slow out there.”

Kelly shoved dishes over and began laying out a third setting. About half the time on patrol, the crew ate in shifts on the go, with one of the patrol troopers in the cab at all times. When traffic permitted, they pulled off to the service strip and ate together. With the communications system always in service, control stations could reach them anywhere in the big vehicle.

The sergeant stepped into the cab and tapped Ferguson on the shoulder. “Dinnertime, Clay. Pull her over and we’ll try some of your gracious living.”

“Light the candles and pour the wine,” Clay quipped, “I’ll be with you in a second.”

Car 56 swung out to the edge of the police lane and slowed down. Clay eased the car onto the strip and stopped. He checked the radiodometer and called in. “Pitt Control, this is Car 56 at Marker 158. Dinner is being served in the dining car to the rear. Please do not disturb.”

“Affirmative, Car 56,” Pittsburgh Control responded. “Eat heartily, it may be going out of style.” Clay grinned and flipped the radio to remote and headed for the galley.

* * *

Seated around the little table, the trio cut into their steaks. Parked at the north edge of the police lane, the patrol car was just a few feet from the green lane divider strip and cars and cargo carriers flashed by as they ate.

Clay chewed on a sliver of steak and looked at Kelly. “I’d marry you, Pocahontas, if you’d ever learn to cook steaks like beef instead of curing them like your ancestral buffalo robes. When are you going to learn that good beef has to be bloody to be edible?”

The girl glared at him. “If that’s what it takes to make it edible, you’re going to be an epicurean delight in just about one second if I hear another word about my cooking. And that’s also the second crack about my noble ancestors in the past five minutes. I’ve always wondered about the surgical techniques my great-great-great grandpop used when he lifted a paleface’s hair. One more word, Clay Ferguson, and I’ll have your scalp flying from Beulah’s antenna like a coontail on a kid’s scooter.”

Ben bellowed and nearly choked. “Hey, kid,” he spluttered at Clay, “ever notice how the wrong one of her ancestors keeps coming to the surface? That was the Irish.”

Clay polished off the last of his steak and reached for the individual frozen pies Kelly had put in the oven with the steak. “Now that’s another point,” he said, waving his fork at Kelly. “The Irish lived so long on potatoes and prayers that when they get a piece of meat on their menu, they don’t know how to do anything but boil it.”

“That tears it,” the girl exploded. She pushed back from the table and stood up. “I’ve cooked the last meal this big, dumb Canuck will ever get from me. I hope you get chronic indigestion and then come crawling to me for help. I’ve got something back there I’ve been wanting to dose you with for a long time.”

She stormed out of the galley and slammed the door behind her. Ben grinned at the stunned look on Clay’s face. “Now what got her on the warpath?” Clay asked. Before Ben could answer the radio speaker in the ceiling came to life.

“Car 56 this is Pitt Control.”

Martin reached for the transmit switch beside the galley table. “This is Five Six, go ahead.”

“Relay from Philly Control,” the speaker blared. “Reference the accident at Marker 92 at 1648 hours this date; Philly Control reports a third vehicle definitely involved.”

Ben pulled out a pencil and Clay shoved a message pad across the table.

“James J. Newhall, address 3409 Glen Cove Drive, New York City, license number BHT 4591 dash 747 dash 1609, was witness to the initial impact. He reports that a white over green, late model Travelaire, with two men in it, sideswiped one of the two vehicles involved in the fatal accident. The Travelaire did not stop but accelerated after the impact. Newhall was unable to get the full license number but the first six units were QABR dash 46 . . . rest of numerals unknown.”

Ben cut in. “Have we got identification on our fatalities yet?”

“Affirmative, Five Six,” the radio replied. “The driver of the car struck by the hit-and-run was a Herman Lawrence Hanover, age forty-two, of 13460 One Hundred Eighty-First Street South, Camden, New Jersey, license number LFM 4151 dash 603 dash 2738. With him was his wife, Clara, age forty-one, same address. Driver of the green lane car was George R. Hamilton, age thirty-five, address Box 493, Route 12, Tucumcari, New Mexico.”

Ben broke in once more. “You indicate all three are fatalities. Is this correct, Pitt Control? The woman was alive when she was transferred to the ambulance.”

“Stand by, Five Six, and I’ll check.”

A moment later Pitt Control was back. “That is affirmative, Five Six. The woman died at 1745 hours. Here is additional information. A vehicle answering to the general description of the hit-and-run vehicle is believed to have been involved in an armed robbery and multiple murder earlier this date at Wilmington, Delaware. Philly Control is now checking for additional details. Gate filters have been established on NAT 26-West from Marker-Exit 100 to Marker-Exit 700. Also, filters on all interchanges. Pitt Control out.”

Kelly Lightfoot, her not-too-serious peeve forgotten, had come back into the galley to listen to the radio exchange. The men got up from the table and Clay gathered the disposable dishware and tossed them into the waste receiver.

“We’d better get rolling,” Ben said, “those clowns could still be on the thruway, although they could have got off before the filters went up.”

They moved to the cab and took their places. The big engines roared into action as Ben rolled Car 56 back onto the policeway. Kelly finished straightening up in the galley and then came forward to sit on the jump seat between the two troopers. The snow had stopped again but the roadways were still slick and glistening under the headlights. Beulah rolled steadily along on her broad tracks, now cruising at one hundred miles an hour. The steady whine of the cold night wind penetrated faintly into the sound-proofed and insulated cabin canopy. Clay cut out the cabin lights, leaving only the instrument panel glowing faintly along with the phosphorescent buttons and knobs on the arms of the control seats.

A heavy express cargo carrier flashed by a quarter of a mile away in the blue lane, its big bulk lit up like a Christmas tree with running and warning lights. To their right, Clay caught the first glimpse of a set of flashing amber warning lights coming up from behind in the green lane. A minute later, a huge cargo carrier came abreast of the patrol car and then pulled ahead. On its side was a glowing star of the United States Army. A minute later, another Army carrier rolled by.

“That’s the missile convoy out of Aberdeen,” Clay told Kelly. “I wish our hit-runner had tackled one of those babies. We’d have scraped him up instead of those other people.”

The convoy rolled on past at a steady one hundred twenty-five miles an hour. Car 56 flashed under a crossover and into a long, gentle curve. The chronometer clicked up to 2100 hours and the radio sang out. “Cars 207, 56 and 82, this is Pitt Control. 2100 hours density report follows . . .”

Pittsburgh Control read off the figures for the three cars. Car 82 was one hundred fifty miles ahead of Beulah, Car 207 about the same distance to the rear. The density report ended and a new voice came on the air.

“Attention all cars and all stations, this is Washington Criminal Control.” The new voice paused, and across the continent, troopers on every thruway, control station, checkpoint and relay block, reached for clipboard and pen.

“Washington Criminal Control continuing, all cars and all stations, special attention to all units east of the Mississippi. At 1510 hours this date, two men held up the First National Bank of Wilmington, Delaware, and escaped with an estimated one hundred seventy-five thousand dollars. A bank guard and two tellers, together with five bank customers were killed by these subjects using automatic weapon fire to make good their escape. They were observed leaving the scene in a late model, white-over-green Travelaire sedan, license unknown. A car of the same make, model and color was stolen from Annapolis, Maryland, a short time prior to the holdup. The stolen vehicle, now believed to be the getaway car, bears USN license number QABR dash 468 dash 1113 . . .”

“That’s our baby,” Ben murmured as he and Clay scribbled on their message forms.

” . . . Motor number ZB 1069432,” Washington Criminal Control continued. “This car is also now believed to have been involved in a hit-and-run fatal accident on NAT 26-West at Marker 92 at approximately 1648 hours this date.

“Subject Number One is described as WMA, twenty to twenty-five years, five feet, eleven inches tall, medium complexion, dark hair and eyes, wearing a dark-gray sports jacket and dark pants, and wearing a gray sports cap. He was wearing a ring with a large red stone on his left hand.

“Subject Number Two is described as WMA, twenty to twenty-five years, six feet, light, ruddy complexion and reddish brown hair, light colored eyes. Has scar on back left side of neck. Wearing light-brown suit, green shirt and dark tie, no hat.

“These subjects are believed to be armed and psychotically dangerous. If observed, approach with extreme caution and inform nearest control of contact. Both subjects now under multiple federal warrants charging bank robbery, murder and hit-and-run murder. All cars and stations acknowledge. Washington Criminal Control out.”

The air chattered as the cars checked into their nearest controls with “acknowledged.”

“This looks like it could be a long night,” Kelly said, rising to her feet. “I’m going to sack out. Call me if you need me.”

“Good night, princess,” Ben called.

“Hey, Hiawatha,” Clay called out as Kelly paused in the galley door. “I didn’t mean what I said about your steaks. Your great-great-great grandpop would have gone around with his bare scalp hanging out if he had had to use a buffalo hide cured like that steak was cooked.”

He reached back at the same instant and slammed the cabin door just as Kelly came charging back. She slammed into the door, screamed and then went storming back to the dispensary while Clay doubled over in laugher.

Ben smiled at his junior partner. “Boy, you’re gonna regret that. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

* * *

Martin turned control over to the younger trooper and relaxed in his seat to go over the APB from Washington. Car 56 bored steadily through the night. The thruway climbed easily up the slight grade cut through the hills north of Wheeling, West Virginia, and once more snow began falling.

Clay reached over and flipped on the video scanners. Four small screens, one for each of the westbound lanes, glowed with a soft red light. The monitors were synchronized with the radiodometer and changed view at every ten-mile marker. Viewing cameras mounted on towers between each lane, lined the thruway, aimed eastward at the on-coming traffic back to the next bank of cameras ten miles away. Infra-red circuits took over from standard scan at dark. A selector system in the cars gave the troopers the option of viewing either the block they were currently patrolling; the one ahead of the next ten-mile block; or, the one they had just passed. As a rule, the selection was based on the speed of the car. Beamed signals from each block automatically switched the view as the patrol car went past the towers. Clay put the slower lane screens on the block they were in, turned the blue and yellow lanes to the block ahead.

They rolled past the interchange with NAT 114-South out of Cleveland and the traffic densities picked up in all lanes as many of the southbound vehicles turned west on to NAT 26. The screens flicked and Clay came alert. Some fifteen miles ahead in the one-hundred-fifty-to-two-hundred-mile an hour blue lane, a glowing dot remained motionless in the middle of the lane and the other racing lights of the blue lane traffic were sheering around it like a racing river current parting around a boulder.

“Trouble,” he said to Martin, as he shoved forward on the throttle.

A stalled car in the middle of the highspeed lane was an invitation to disaster. The bull horn blared as Beulah leaped past the two hundred mile an hour mark and safety cocoons slid into place. Aft in the dispensary, Kelly was sealed into her bunk by a cocoon rolling out of the wall and encasing the hospital bed.

Car 56 slanted across the police lane with red lights flashing and edged into the traffic flow in the blue lane. The great, red winking lights and the emergency radio siren signal began clearing a path for the troopers. Vehicles began edging to both sides of the lane to shift to crossovers to the yellow or green lanes. Clay aimed Beulah at the motionless dot on the screen and eased back from the four-mile-a-minute speed. The patrol car slowed and the headlight picked up the stalled vehicle a mile ahead. The cocoons opened and Ben slipped on his work helmet and dropped down the steps to the side hatch. Clay brought Beulah to a halt a dozen yards directly to the rear of the stalled car, the great bulk of the patrol vehicle with its warning lights serving as a shield against any possible fuzzy-headed speeders that might not be observing the road.

As Martin reached for the door, the Wanted bulletin flashed through his head. “What make of car is that, Clay?”

“Old jalopy Tritan with some souped-up rigs. Probably kids,” the junior officer replied. “It looks O.K.”

Ben nodded and swung down out of the patrol car. He walked quickly to the other car, flashing his handlight on the side of the vehicle as he went up to the driver. The interior lights were on and inside, two obviously frightened young couples smiled with relief at the sight of the uniform coveralls. A freckled-faced teenager in a dinner jacket was in the driver’s seat and had the blister window open. He grinned up at Martin. “Boy, am I glad to see you, officer,” he said.

“What’s the problem?” Ben asked.

“I guess she blew an impeller,” the youth answered. “We were heading for a school dance at Cincinnati and she was boiling along like she was in orbit when blooey she just quit.”

Ben surveyed the old jet sedan. “What year is this clunker?” he asked. The kid told him. “You kids have been told not to use this lane for any vehicle that old.” He waved his hand in protest as the youngster started to tell him how many modifications he had made on the car. “It doesn’t make one bit of difference whether you’ve put a first-stage Moon booster on this wreck. It’s not supposed to be in the blue or yellow. And this thing probably shouldn’t have been allowed out of the white—or even on the thruway.”

The youngster flushed and bit his lip in embarrassment at the giggles from the two evening-frocked girls in the car.

“Well, let’s get you out of here.” Ben touched his throat mike. “Drop a light, Clay and then let’s haul this junk pile away.”

In the patrol car, Ferguson reached down beside his seat and tugged at a lever. From a recess in Beulah’s stern, a big portable red warning light dropped to the pavement. As it touched the surface, it automatically flashed to life, sending out a bright, flashing red warning signal into the face of any approaching traffic. Clay eased the patrol car around the stalled vehicle and then backed slow into position, guided by Martin’s radioed instructions. A tow-bar extruded from the back of the police vehicle and a magnaclamp locked onto the front end of the teenager’s car. The older officer walked back to the portable warning light and rolled it on its four wheels to the rear plate of the jalopy where another magnalock secured it to the car. Beulah’s two big rear warning lights still shone above the low silhouette of the passenger car, along with the mobile lamp on the jalopy. Martin walked back to the patrol car and climbed in.

He slid into his seat and nodded at Clay. The patrol car, with the disabled vehicle in tow moved forward and slanted left towards the police lane. Martin noted the mileage marker on the radiodometer and fingered the transmitter. “Chillicothe Control this is Car 56.”

“This Chillicothe. Go ahead Five Six.”

“We picked up some kids in a stalled heap on the blue at Marker 382 and we’ve got them in tow now,” Ben said. “Have a wrecker meet us and take them off our hands.”

“Affirmative, Five Six. Wrecker will pick you up at Marker 412.”

* * *

Clay headed the patrol car and its trailed load into an emergency entrance to the middle police lane and slowly rolled westward. The senior trooper reached into his records rack and pulled out a citation book.

“You going to nail these kids?” Clay asked.

“You’re damned right I am,” Martin replied, beginning to fill in the violation report. “I’d rather have this kid hurting in the pocketbook than dead. If we turn him loose, he’ll think he got away with it this time and try it again. The next time he might not be so lucky.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Clay said, “but it does seem a little rough.”

Ben swung around in his seat and surveyed his junior officer. “Sometimes I think you spent four years in the patrol academy with your head up your jet pipes,” he said. He fished out another cigarette and took a deep drag.

“You’ve had four solid years of law; three years of electronics and jet and air-drive engine mechanics and engineering; pre-med, psychology, math, English, Spanish and a smattering of Portuguese, to say nothing of dozens of other subjects. You graduated in the upper tenth of your class with a B.S. in both Transportation and Criminology which is why you’re riding patrol and not punching a computer or tinkering with an engine. You’d think with all that education that somewhere along the line you’d have learned to think with your head instead of your emotions.”

Clay kept a studied watch on the roadway. The minute Ben had turned and swung his legs over the side of the seat and pulled out a cigarette, Clay knew that it was school time in Car 56. Instructor Sergeant Ben Martin was in a lecturing mood. It was time for all good pupils to keep their big, fat mouths shut.

“Remember San Francisco de Borja?” Ben queried. Clay nodded. “And you still think I’m too rough on them?” Ben pressed.

Ferguson’s memory went back to last year’s fifth patrol. He and Ben with Kelly riding hospital, had been assigned to NAT 200-North, running out of Villahermosa on the Guatamalan border of Mexico to Edmonton Barracks in Canada. It was the second night of the patrol. Some seven hundred fifty miles north of Mexico City, near the town of San Francisco de Borja, a gang of teenage Mexican youngsters had gone roaring up the yellow at speeds touching on four hundred miles an hour. Their car, a beat-up, fifteen-year-old veteran of less speedy and much rockier local mountain roads, had been gimmicked by the kids so that it bore no resemblance to its original manufacture.

From a junkyard they had obtained a battered air lift, smashed almost beyond use in the crackup of a ten-thousand dollar sports cruiser. The kids pried, pounded and bent the twisted impeller lift blades back into some semblance of alignment. From another wreck of a cargo carrier came a pair of 4000-pound thrust engines. They had jury-rigged the entire mess so that it stuck together on the old heap. Then they hit the thruway—nine of them packed into the jalopy—the oldest one just seventeen years old. They were doing three hundred fifty when they flashed past the patrol car and Ben had roared off in pursuit. The senior officer whipped the big patrol car across the crowded high speed blue lane, jockeyed into the ultra-high yellow and then turned on the power.

By this time the kids realized they had been spotted and they cranked their makeshift power plant up to the last notch. The most they could get out of it was four hundred and it was doing just that as Car 56, clocking better than five hundred, pulled in behind them. The patrol car was still three hundred yards astern when one of the bent and re-bent impeller blades let go. The out-of-balance fan, turning at close to 35,000 rpm’s, flew to pieces and the air cushion vanished. At four hundred miles an hour, the body of the old jalopy fell the twelve inches to the pavement and both front wheels caved under. There was a momentary shower of sparks, then the entire vehicle snapped cart-wheeling more than eighty feet into the air and exploded. Pieces of car and bodies were scattered for a mile down the thruway and the only whole, identifiable human bodies were those of the three youngsters thrown out and sent hurtling to their deaths more than two hundred feet away.

Clay’s mind snapped back to the present.

“Write ’em up,” he said quietly to Martin. The senior officer gave a satisfied nod and turned back to his citation pad.

* * *

At marker 412, which was also the Columbus turnoff, a big patrol wrecker was parked on the side strip, engines idling, service and warning lights blinking. Clay pulled the patrol car alongside and stopped. He disconnected the tow bar and the two officers climbed out into the cold night air. They walked back to the teenager’s car. Clay went to the rear of the disabled car and unhooked the warning light while Martin went to the driver’s window. He had his citation book in hand. The youngster in the driver’s seat went white at the sight of the violation pad. “May I see your license, please,” Ben asked. The boy fumbled in a back pocket and then produced a thin, metallic tab with his name, age, address and license number etched into the indestructible and unalterable metal.

“Also your car registration,” Ben added. The youth unclipped a similar metal strip from the dashboard.

The trooper took the two tabs and walked to the rear of the patrol car. He slid back to a panel to reveal two thin slots in the hull. Martin slid the driver’s license into one of the slots, the registration tab into the other. He pressed a button below each slot. Inside the car, a magnetic reader and auto-transmitter “scanned” the magnetic symbols implanted in the tags. The information was fed instantly to Continental Headquarters Records division at Colorado Springs. In fractions of a second, the great computers at Records were comparing the information on the tags with all previous traffic citations issued anywhere in the North American continent in the past forty-five years since the birth of the Patrol. The information from the driver’s license and registration tab had been relayed from Beulah via the nearest patrol relay point. The answer came back the same way.

Above the license recording slot were two small lights. The first flashed green, “license is in order and valid.” The second flashed green as well, “no previous citations.” Ben withdrew the tag from the slot. Had the first light come on red, he would have placed the driver under arrest immediately. Had the second light turned amber, it would have indicated a previous minor violation. This, Ben would have noted on the new citation. If the second light had been red, this would have meant either a major previous violation or more than one minor citation. Again, the driver would have been under immediate arrest. The law was mandatory. One big strike and you’re out—two foul tips and the same story. And “out” meant just that. Fines, possibly jail or prison sentence and lifetime revocation of driving privileges.

Ben flipped the car registration slot to “stand-by” and went back to the teenager’s car. Even though they were parked on the service strip of the police emergency lane, out of all traffic, the youngsters stayed in the car. This one point of the law they knew and knew well. Survival chances were dim anytime something went wrong on the highspeed thruways. That little margin of luck vanished once outside the not-too-much-better security of the vehicle body.

Martin finished writing and then slipped the driver’s license into a pocket worked into the back of the metallic paper foil of the citation blank. He handed the pad into the window to the driver together with a carbon stylus.

The boy’s lip trembled and he signed the citation with a shaky hand.

Ben ripped off the citation blank and license, fed them into the slot on the patrol car and pressed both the car registration and license “record” buttons. Ten seconds later the permanent record of the citation was on file in Colorado Springs and a duplicate recording of the action was in the Continental traffic court docket recorder nearest to the driver’s hometown. Now, no power in three nations could “fix” that ticket. Ben withdrew the citation and registration tag and walked back to the car. He handed the boy the license and registration tab, together with a copy of the citation. Ben bent down to peer into the car.

“I made it as light on you as I could,” he told the young diver. “You’re charged with improper use of the thruway. That’s a minor violation. By rights, I should have cited you for illegal usage.” He looked around slowly at each of the young people. “You look like nice kids,” he said. “I think you’ll grow up to be nice people. I want you around long enough to be able to vote in a few years. Who knows, maybe I’ll be running for president then and I’ll need your votes. It’s a cinch that falling apart in the middle of two-hundred-mile an hour traffic is no way to treat future voters.

“Good night, Kids.” He smiled and walked away from the car. The three young passengers smiled back at Ben. The young driver just stared unhappily at the citation.

Clay stood talking with the wrecker crewmen. Ben nodded to him and mounted into the patrol car. The young Canadian crushed out his cigarette and swung up behind the sergeant. Clay went to the control seat when he saw Martin pause in the door to the galley.

“I’m going to get a cup of coffee,” the older officer said, “and then take the first shift. You keep Beulah ’til I get back.”

Clay nodded and pushed the throttles forward. Car 56 rolled back into the police lane while behind it, the wrecker hooked onto the disabled car and swung north into the crossover. Clay checked both the chronometer and the radiodometer and then reported in. “Cinncy Control this is Car 56 back in service.” Cincinnati Control acknowledged.

Ten minute later, Ben reappeared in the cab, slid into the left-hand seat. “Hit the sack, kid,” he told Ferguson. The chronometer read 2204. “I’ll wake you at midnight—or sooner, if anything breaks.”

Ferguson stood up and stretched, then went into the galley. He poured himself a cup of coffee and carrying it with him, went back to the crew quarters. He closed the door to the galley and sat down on the lower bunk to sip his coffee. When he had finished, he tossed the cup into the basket, reached and dimmed the cubby lights and kicked off his boots. Still in his coveralls, Clay stretched out on the bunk and sighed luxuriously. He reached up and pressed a switch on the bulkhead above his pillow and the muted sounds of music from a standard broadcast commercial station drifted into the bunk area. Clay closed his eyes and let the sounds of the music and the muted rumble of the engines lull him to sleep. It took almost fifteen seconds for him to be in deep slumber.

* * *

Ben pushed Beulah up to her steady seventy-five-mile-an-hour cruising speed, moved to the center of the quarter-mile-wide police lane and locked her tracks into autodrive. He relaxed back in his seat and divided his gaze between the video monitors and the actual scene on either side of him in the night. Once again the sky was lighted, this time much brighter on the horizon as the roadways swept to the south of Cincinnati.

Traffic was once again heavy and fast with the blue and green carrying almost equal loads while white was really crowded and even the yellow “zoom” lane was beginning to fill. The 2200 hour density reports from Cinncy had been given before the Ohio State-Cal football game traffic had hit the thruways and densities now were peaking near twenty thousand vehicles for the one-hundred-mile block of westbound NAT 26 out of Cincinnati.

Back to the east, near the eastern Ohio state line, Martin could hear Car 207 calling for a wrecker and meat wagon. Beulah rumbled on through the night. The video monitors flicked to the next ten-mile stretch as the patrol car rolled past another interchange. More vehicles streamed onto the westbound thruways, crossing over and dropping down into the same lanes they held coming out of the north-south road. Seven years on patrols had created automatic reflexes in the trooper sergeant. Out of the mass of cars and cargoes streaming along the rushing tide of traffic, his eye picked out the track of one vehicle slanting across the white lane just a shade faster than the flow of traffic. The vehicle was still four or five miles ahead. It wasn’t enough out of the ordinary to cause more than a second, almost unconscious glance, on the part of the veteran officer. He kept his view shifting from screen to screen and out to the sides of the car.

But the reflexes took hold again as his eye caught the track of the same vehicle as it hit the crossover from white to green, squeezed into the faster lane and continued its sloping run towards the next faster crossover. Now Martin followed the movement of the car almost constantly. The moving blip had made the cutover across the half-mile wide green lane in the span of one crossover and was now whipping into the merger lane that would take it over the top of the police lane and drop down into the one hundred fifty to two hundred mile an hour blue. If the object of his scrutiny straightened out in the blue, he’d let it go. The driver had been bordered on violation in his fast crossover in the face of heavy traffic. If he kept it up in the now-crowded high-speed lane, he was asking for sudden death. The monitors flicked to the next block and Ben waited just long enough to see the speeding car make a move to the left, cutting in front of a speeding cargo carrier. Ben slammed Beulah into high. Once again the bull horn blared as the cocoons slammed shut, this time locking both Clay and Kelly into their bunks, sealing Ben into the control seat.

Beulah lifted on her air cushion and the twin jets roared as she accelerated down the police lane at three hundred miles an hour. Ben closed the gap on the speeder in less than a minute and then edged over to the south side of the police lane to make the jump into the blue lane. The red emergency lights and the radio siren had already cleared a hole for him in the traffic pattern and he eased back on the finger throttles as the patrol car sailed over the divider and into the blue traffic lane. Now he had eyeball contact with the speeding car, still edging over towards the ultra-high lane. On either side of the patrol car traffic gave way, falling back or moving to the left and right. Car 56 was now directly behind the speeding passenger vehicle. Ben fingered the cut-in switch that put his voice signal onto the standard vehicular emergency frequency—the band that carried the automatic siren-warning to all vehicles.

* * *

The patrol car was still hitting above the two-hundred-mile-an-hour mark and was five hundred feet behind the speeder. The headlamp bathed the other car in a white glare, punctuated with angry red flashes from the emergency lights.

“You are directed to halt or be fired upon,” Ben’s voice roared out over the emergency frequency. Almost without warning, the speeding car began braking down with such deceleration that the gargantuan patrol car with its greater mass came close to smashing over it and crushing the small passenger vehicle like an insect. Ben cut all forward power, punched up full retrojet and at the instant he felt Beulah’s tracks touch the pavement as the air cushion blew, he slammed on the brakes. Only the safety cocoon kept Martin from being hurled against the instrument panel and in their bunks, Kelly Lightfoot and Clay Ferguson felt their insides dragging down into their legs.

The safety cocoons snapped open and Clay jumped into his boots and leaped for the cab. “Speeder,” Ben snapped as he jumped down the steps to the side hatch. Ferguson snatched up his helmet from the rack beside his seat and leaped down to join his partner. Ben ran up to the stopped car through a thick haze of smoke from the retrojets of the patrol car and the friction-burning braking of both vehicles. Ferguson circled to the other side of the car. As they flashed their handlights into the car, they saw the driver of the car kneeling on the floor beside the reclined passenger seat. A woman lay stretched out on the seat, twisting in pain. The man raised an agonized face to the officers. “My wife’s going to have her baby right here!”

“Kelly,” Ben yelled into his helmet transmitter. “Maternity!”

The dispensary ramp was halfway down before Ben had finished calling. Kelly jumped to the ground and sprinted around the corner of the patrol car, medical bag in hand.

She shoved Clay out of the way and opened the door on the passenger side. On the seat, the woman moaned and then muffled a scream. The patrol doctor laid her palm on the distended belly. “How fast are your pains coming?” she asked. Clay and Ben had moved away from the car a few feet.

“Litter,” Kelly snapped over her shoulder. Clay raced for the patrol car while Ben unshipped a portable warning light and rolled it down the lane behind the patrol car. He flipped it to amber “caution” and “pass.” Blinking amber arrows pointed to the left and right of the halted passenger vehicle and traffic in the blue lane began picking up speed and parting around the obstructions.

By the time he returned to the patrol car, Kelly had the expectant mother in the dispensary. She slammed the door in the faces of the three men and then she went to work.

The woman’s husband slumped against the side of the patrol vehicle.

Ben dug out his pack of cigarettes and handed one to the shaking driver.

He waited until the man had taken a few drags before speaking.

“Mister, I don’t know if you realize it or not but you came close to killing your wife, your baby and yourself,” Ben said softly, “to say nothing of the possibility of killing several other families. Just what did you think you were doing?”

The driver’s shoulders sagged and his hand shook as he took the cigarette from his mouth. “Honestly, officer, I don’t know. I just got frightened to death,” he said. He peered up at Martin. “This is our first baby, you see, and Ellen wasn’t due for another week. We thought it would be all right to visit my folks in Cleveland and Ellen was feeling just fine. Well, anyway, we started home tonight—we live in Jefferson City—and just about the time I got on the thruway, Ellen started having pains. I was never so scared in my life. She screamed once and then tried to muffle them but I knew what was happening and all I could think of was to get her to a hospital. I guess I went out of my head, what with her moaning and the traffic and everything. The only place I could think of that had a hospital was Evansville, and I was going to get her there come hell or high water.” The young man tossed away the half-smoked cigarette and looked up at the closed dispensary door. “Do you think she’s all right?”

Ben sighed resignedly and put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Don’t you worry a bit. She’s got one of the best doctors in the continent in there with her. Come on.” He took the husband by the arm and led him around to the patrol car cab hatch. “You climb up there and sit down. I’ll be with you in a second.”

The senior officer signaled to Ferguson. “Let’s get his car out of the traffic, Clay,” he directed. “You drive it.”

* * *

Ben went back and retrieved the caution blinker and re-racked it in the side of the patrol car, then climbed up into the cab. He took his seat at the controls and indicated the jump seat next to him. “Sit down, son. We’re going to get us and your car out of this mess before we all get clobbered.”

He flicked the headlamp at Ferguson in the control seat of the passenger car and the two vehicles moved out. Ben kept the emergency lights on while they eased carefully cross-stream to the north and the safety of the police lane. Clay picked up speed at the outer edge of the blue lane and rolled along until he reached the first “patrol only” entrance through the divider to the service strip. Ben followed him in and then turned off the red blinkers and brought the patrol car to a halt behind the other vehicle.

The worried husband stood up and looked to the rear of the car. “What’s making it so long?” he asked anxiously. “They’ve been in there a long time.”

Ben smiled. “Sit down, son. These things take time. Don’t you worry. If there were anything wrong, Kelly would let us know. She can talk to us on the intercom anytime she wants anything.”

The man sat back down. “What’s your name?” Ben inquired.

“Haverstraw,” the husband replied distractedly, “George Haverstraw. I’m an accountant. That’s my wife back there,” he cried, pointing to the closed galley door. “That’s Ellen.”

“I know,” Ben said gently. “You told us that.”

Clay had come back to the patrol car and dropped into his seat across from the young husband. “Got a name picked out for the baby?” he asked.

Haverstraw’s face lighted. “Oh, yes,” he exclaimed. “If it’s a boy, we’re going to call him Harmon Pierce Haverstraw. That was my grandfather’s name. And if she’s a girl, it’s going to be Caroline May after Ellen’s mother and grandmother.”

The intercom came to life. “Anyone up there?” Kelly’s voice asked. Before they could answer, the wail of a baby sounded over the system. Haverstraw yelled.

“Congratulations, Mr. Haverstraw,” Kelly said, “you’ve got a fine-looking son.”

“Hey,” the happy young father yelped, “hey, how about that? I’ve got a son.” He pounded the two grinning troopers on the back. Suddenly he froze. “What about Ellen? How’s Ellen?” he called out.

“She’s just fine,” Kelly replied. “We’ll let you in here in a couple of minutes but we’ve got to get us gals and your new son looking pretty for papa. Just relax.”

Haverstraw sank down onto the jump seat with a happy dazed look on his face.

Ben smiled and reached for the radio. “I guess our newest citizen deserves a ride in style,” he said. “We’re going to have to transfer Mrs. Haverstraw and er, oh yes, Master Harmon Pierce to an ambulance and then to a hospital now, George. You have any preference on where they go?”

“Gosh, no,” the man replied. “I guess the closest one to wherever we are.” He paused thoughtfully. “Just where are we? I’ve lost all sense of distance or time or anything else.”

Ben looked at the radiodometer. “We’re just about due south of Indianapolis. How would that be?”

“Oh, that’s fine,” Haverstraw replied.

“You can come back now, Mr. Haverstraw,” Kelly called out. Haverstraw jumped up. Clay got up with him. “Come on, papa,” he grinned, “I’ll show you the way.”

Ben smiled and then called into Indianapolis Control for an ambulance.

“Ambulance on the way,” Control replied. “Don’t you need a wrecker, too, Five Six?”

Ben grinned. “Not this time. We didn’t lose one. We gained one.”

He got up and went back to have a look at Harmon Pierce Haverstraw, age five minutes, temporary address, North American Continental Thruway 26-West, Mile Marker 632.

Five minutes later, mother and baby were in the ambulance heading north to the hospital. Haverstraw, calmed down with a sedative administered by Kelly, had nearly wrung their hands off in gratitude as he said good-by.

“I’ll mail you all cigars when I get home,” he shouted as he waved and climbed into his car.

Beulah’s trio watched the new father ease carefully into the traffic as the ambulance headed down the police-way. Haverstraw would have to cut over to the next exchange and then go north to Indianapolis. He’d arrive later than his family. This time, he was the very picture of careful driving and caution as he threaded his way across the green.

“I wonder if he knows what brand of cigars I smoke?” Kelly mused.

* * *

The chrono clicked up to 2335 as Car 56 resumed patrol. Kelly plumped down onto the jump seat beside Ben. Clay was fiddling in the galley. “Why don’t you go back to the sack?” Ben called.

“What, for a lousy twenty-five minutes,” Clay replied. “I had a good nap before you turned the burners up to high. Besides, I’m hungry. Anyone else want a snack?”

Ben shook his head. “No, thanks,” Kelly said. Ferguson finished slapping together a sandwich. Munching on it, he headed into the engine room to make the midnight check. Car 56 had now been on patrol eight hours. Only two hundred thirty-two hours and two thousand miles to go.

Kelly looked around at the departing back of the younger trooper. “I’ll bet this is the only car in NorCon that has to stock twenty days of groceries for a ten-day patrol,” she said.

Ben chuckled. “He’s still a growing boy.”

“Well, if he is, it’s all between the ears,” the girl replied. “You’d think that after a year I would have realized that nothing could penetrate that thick Canuck’s skull. He gets me so mad sometimes that I want to forget I’m a lady.” She paused thoughtfully. “Come to think of it. No one ever accused me of being a lady in the first place.”

“Sounds like love,” Ben smiled.

Hunched over on the jump seat with her elbows on her knees and her chin cupped in both hands, Kelly gave the senior officer a quizzical sideways look.

Ben was watching his monitors and missed the glance. Kelly sighed and stared out into the light streaked night of the thruway. The heavy surge of football traffic had distributed itself into the general flow on the road and while all lanes were busy, there were no indications of any overcrowding or jam-ups. Much of the pattern was shifting from passenger to cargo vehicle as it neared midnight. The football crowds were filtering off at each exchange and exit and the California fans had worked into the blue and yellow—mostly the yellow—for the long trip home. The fewer passenger cars on the thruway and the increase in cargo carriers gave the troopers a breathing spell. The men in the control buckets of the three hundred and four hundred-ton cargo vehicles were the real pros of the thruways; careful, courteous and fast. The NorCon patrol cars could settle down to watch out for the occasional nuts and drunks that might bring disaster.

Once again, Martin had the patrol car on auto drive in the center of the police lane and he steeled back in his seat. Beside him, Kelly stared moodily into the night.

“How come you’ve never married, Ben?” she asked. The senior trooper gave her a startled look. “Why, I guess for the same reason you’re still a maiden,” he answered. “This just doesn’t seem to be the right kind of a job for a married man.”

Kelly shook her head. “No, it’s not the same thing with me,” she said. “At least, not entirely the same thing. If I got married, I’d have to quit the Patrol and you wouldn’t. And secondly, if you must know the truth, I’ve never been asked.”

Ben looked thoughtfully at the copper-haired Irish-Indian girl. All of a sudden she seemed to have changed in his eyes. He shook his head and turned back to the road monitors.

“I just don’t think that a patrol trooper has any business getting married and trying to keep a marriage happy and make a home for a family thirty days out of every three hundred sixty, with an occasional weekend home if you’re lucky enough to draw your hometown for a terminal point. This might help the population rate but it sure doesn’t do anything for the institution of matrimony.”

“I know some troopers that are married,” Kelly said.

“But there aren’t very many,” Ben countered. “Comes the time they pull me off the cars and stick me behind a desk somewhere, then I’ll think about it.”

“You might be too old by then,” Kelly murmured.

Ben grinned. “You sound as though you’re worried about it,” he said.

“No,” Kelly replied softly, “no, I’m not worried about it. Just thinking.” She averted her eyes and looked out into the night again. “I wonder what NorCon would do with a husband-wife team?” she murmured, almost to herself.

Ben looked sharply at her and frowned. “Why, they’d probably split them up,” he said.

* * *

“Split what up?” Clay inquired, standing in the door of the cab.

“Split up all troopers named Clay Ferguson,” Kelly said disgustedly, “and use them for firewood—especially the heads. They say that hardwood burns long and leaves a fine ash. And that’s what you’ve been for years.”

She sat erect in the jump seat and looked sourly at the young trooper.

Clay shuddered at the pun and squeezed by the girl to get to his seat. “I’ll take it now, pop,” he said. “Go get your geriatrics treatment.”

Ben got out of his seat with a snort. “I’ll ‘pop’ you, skinhead,” he snapped. “You may be eight years younger than I am but you only have one third the virility and one tenth the brains. And eight years from now you’ll still be in deficit spending on both counts.”

“Careful, venerable lord of my destiny,” Clay admonished with a grin, “remember how I spent my vacation and remember how you spent yours before you go making unsubstantiated statements about my virility.”

Kelly stood up. “If you two will excuse me, I’ll go back to the dispensary and take a good jolt of male hormones and then we can come back and finish this man-to-man talk in good locker room company.”

“Don’t you dare,” Ben cried. “I wouldn’t let you tamper with one single, tiny one of your feminine traits, princess. I like you just the way you are.”

Kelly looked at him with a wide-eyed, cherubic smile. “You really mean that, Ben?”

The older trooper flushed briefly and then turned quickly into the galley. “I’m going to try for some shut-eye. Wake me at two, Clay, if nothing else breaks.” He turned to Kelly who was still smiling at him. “And watch out for that lascivious young goat.”

“It’s all just talk, talk, talk,” she said scornfully. “You go to bed, Ben. I’m going to try something new in psychiatric annals. I’m going to try and psychoanalyze a dummy.” She sat back down on the jump seat.

At 2400 hours it was Vincennes Check with the density reports, all down in the past hour. The patrol was settling into what looked like a quiet night routine. Kelly chatted with Ferguson for another half hour and then rose again. “I think I’ll try to get some sleep,” she said. “I’ll put on a fresh pot of coffee for you two before I turn in.”

She rattled around in the galley for some time. “Whatcha cooking?” Clay called out. “Making coffee,” Kelly replied.

“It take all that time to make coffee?” Clay queried.

“No,” she said. “I’m also getting a few things ready so we can have a fast breakfast in case we have to eat on the run. I’m just about through now.”

A couple of minutes later she stuck her head into the cab. “Coffee’s done. Want some?”

Clay nodded. “Please, princess.”

She poured him a cup and set it in the rack beside his seat.

“Thanks,” Clay said. “Good night, Hiawatha.”

“Good night, Babe,” she replied.

“You mean ‘Paul Bunyon,’ don’t you?” Clay asked. “‘Babe’ was his blue ox.”

“I know what I said,” Kelly retorted and strolled back to the dispensary. As she passed through the crew cubby, she glanced at Ben sleeping on the bunk recently vacated by Ferguson. She paused and carefully and gently pulled a blanket up over his sleeping form. She smiled down at the trooper and then went softly to her compartment.

In the cab, Clay sipped at his coffee and kept watchful eyes on the video monitors. Beulah was back on auto drive and Clay had dropped her speed to a slow fifty as the traffic thinned.

At 0200 hours he left the cab long enough to go back and shake Ben awake and was himself re-awakened at 0400 to take back control. He let Ben sleep an extra hour before routing him out of the bunk again at 0700. The thin, gray light of the winter morning was just taking hold when Ben came back into the cab. Clay had pulled Beulah off to the service strip and was stopped while he finished transcribing his scribbled notes from the 0700 Washington Criminal Control broadcast.

Ben ran his hand sleepily over his close-cropped head. “Anything exciting?” he asked with a yawn. Clay shook his head. “Same old thing. ‘All cars exercise special vigilance over illegal crossovers. Keep all lanes within legal speed limits.’ Same old noise.”

“Anything new on our hit-runner?”

“Nope.”

“Good morning, knights of the open road,” Kelly said from the galley door. “Obviously you both went to sleep after I left and allowed our helpless citizens to slaughter each other.”

“How do you figure that one?” Ben laughed.

“Oh, it’s very simple,” she replied. “I managed to get in a full seven hours of sleep. When you sleep, I sleep. I slept. Ergo, you did likewise.”

“Nope,” Clay said, “for once we had a really quiet night. Let’s hope the day is of like disposition.”

Kelly began laying out the breakfast things. “You guys want eggs this morning?”

“You gonna cook again today?” Clay inquired.

“Only breakfast,” Kelly said. “You have the honors for the rest of the day. The diner is now open and we’re taking orders.”

“I’ll have mine over easy,” Ben said. “Make mine sunny-up,” Clay called.

Kelly began breaking eggs into the pan, muttering to herself. “Over easy, sunny-up, I like ’em scrambled. Next tour I take I’m going to get on a team where everyone likes scrambled eggs.”

A few minutes later, Beulah’s crew sat down to breakfast. Ben had just dipped into his egg yolk when the radio blared. “Attention all cars. Special attention Cars 207, 56 and 82.”

“Just once,” Ben said, “just once, I want to sit down to a meal and get it all down my gullet before that radio gives me indigestion.” He laid down his fork and reached for the message pad.

The radio broadcast continued. “A late model, white over green Travelaire, containing two men and believed to be the subjects wanted in earlier broadcast on murder, robbery and hit-run murder, was involved in a service station robbery and murder at Vandalia, Illinois, at approximately 0710 this date. NorCon Criminal Division believes this subject car escaped filter check and left NAT 26-West sometime during the night.

“Owner of this stolen vehicle states it had only half tanks of fuel at the time it was taken. This would indicate wanted subjects stopped for fuel. It is further believed they were recognized by the station attendant from video bulletins sent out by this department last date and that he was shot and killed to prevent giving alarm.

“The shots alerted residents of the area and the subject car was last seen headed south. This vehicle may attempt to regain access to NAT 26-West or it may take another thruway. All units are warned once again to approach this vehicle with extreme caution and only with the assistance of another unit where possible. Acknowledge. Washington Criminal Control out.”

Ben looked at the chrono. “They hit Vandalia at 0710, eh. Even in the yellow they couldn’t get this far for another half hour. Let’s finish breakfast. It may be a long time until lunch.”

The crew returned to their meal. While Kelly was cleaning up after breakfast, Clay ran the quick morning engine room check. In the cab, Ben opened the arms rack and brought out two machine pistols and belts. He checked them for loads and laid one on Clay’s control seat. He strapped the other around his waist. Then he flipped up a cover in the front panel of the cab. It exposed the breech mechanisms of a pair of twin-mounted 25 mm auto-cannon. The ammunition loads were full. Satisfied, Ben shut the inspection port and climbed into his seat. Clay came forward, saw the machine pistol on his seat and strapped it on without a word. He settled himself in his seat. “Engine room check is all green. Let’s go rabbit hunting.”

Car 56 moved slowly out into the police lane. Both troopers had their individual sets of video monitors on in front of their seats and were watching them intently. In the growing light of day, a white-topped car was going to be easy to spot.

* * *

It had all the earmarks of being another wintry, overcast day. The outside temperature at 0800 was right on the twenty-nine-degree mark and the threat of more snow remained in the air. The 0800 density reports from St. Louis Control were below the 14,000 mark in all lanes in the one-hundred-mile block west of the city. That was to be expected. They listened to the eastbound densities peaking at twenty-six thousand vehicles in the same block, all heading into the metropolis and their jobs. The 0800, 1200 and 1600 hours density reports also carried the weather forecasts for a five-hundred-mile radius from the broadcasting control point. Decreasing temperatures with light to moderate snow was in the works for Car 56 for the first couple of hundred miles west of St. Louis, turning to almost blizzard conditions in central Kansas. Extra units had already been put into service on all thruways through the Midwest and snow-burners were waging a losing battle from Wichita west to the Rockies around Alamosa, Colorado.

Outside the temperature was below freezing; inside the patrol car it was a comfortable sixty-eight degrees. Kelly had cleaned the galley and taken her place on the jump seat between the two troopers. With all three of them in the cab, Ben cut from the intercom to commercial broadcast to catch the early morning newscasts and some pleasant music. The patrol vehicle glided along at a leisurely sixty miles an hour. An hour out of St. Louis, a big liquid cargo carrier was stopped on the inner edge of the green lane against the divider to the police lane. The trucker had dropped both warning barriers and lights a half mile back. Ben brought Beulah to a halt across the divider from the stopped carrier. “Dropped a track pin,” the driver called out to the officers.

Ben backed Beulah across the divider behind the stalled carrier to give them protection while they tried to assist the stalled vehicle.

Donning work helmets to maintain contact with the patrol car, and its remote radio system, the two troopers dismounted and went to see what needed fixing. Kelly drifted back to the dispensary and stretched out on one of the hospital bunks and picked up a new novel.

Beulah’s well-equipped machine shop stock room produced a matching pin and it was merely a matter of lifting the stalled carrier and driving it into place in the track assembly. Ben brought the patrol car alongside the carrier and unshipped the crane. Twenty minutes later, Clay and the carrier driver had the new part installed and the tanker was on his way once again.

Clay climbed into the cab and surveyed his grease-stained uniform coveralls and filthy hands. “Your nose is smudged, too, dearie,” Martin observed.

Clay grinned, “I’m going to shower and change clothes. Try and see if you can drive this thing until I get back without increasing the pedestrian fatality rate.” He ducked back into the crew cubby and stripped his coveralls.

Bored with her book, Kelly wandered back to the cab and took Clay’s vacant control seat. The snow had started falling again and in the mid-morning light it tended to soften the harsh, utilitarian landscape of the broad thruway stretching ahead to infinity and spreading out in a mile of speeding traffic on either hand.

“Attention all cars on NAT 26-West and East,” Washington Criminal Control radio blared. “Special attention Cars 56 and 82. Suspect vehicle, white over green Travelaire reported re-entered NAT 26-West on St. Louis interchange 179. St. Louis Control reports communications difficulty in delayed report. Vehicle now believed . . .”

“Car 56, Car 56,” St. Louis Control broke in. “Our pigeon is in your zone. Commercial carrier reports near miss sideswipe three minutes ago in blue lane approximately three miles west of mile Marker 957.

“Repeating. Car 56, suspect car—”

Ben glanced at the radiodometer. It read 969, then clicked to 970.

“This is Five Six, St. Louis,” he broke in, “acknowledged. Our position is mile marker 970 . . .”

Kelly had been glued to the video monitors since the first of the bulletin. Suddenly she screamed and banged Ben on the shoulder. “There they are. There they are,” she cried, pointing at the blue lane monitor.

Martin took one look at the white-topped car cutting through traffic in the blue lane and slammed Beulah into high. The safety cocoons slammed shut almost on the first notes of the bull horn. Trapped in the shower, Clay was locked into the stall dripping wet as the water automatically shut off with the movement of the cocoon.

* * *

“I have them in sight,” Ben reported, as the patrol car lifted on its air pad and leaped forward. “They’re in the blue five miles ahead of me and cutting over to the yellow. I estimate their speed at two twenty-five. I am in pursuit.”

Traffic gave way as Car 56 hurtled the divider into the blue.

The radio continued to snap orders.

“Cars 112, 206, 76 and 93 establish roadblocks at mile marker crossover 1032. Car 82 divert all blue and yellow to green and white.”

Eight Two was one hundred fifty miles ahead but at three-hundred-mile-an-hour speeds, 82’s team was very much a part of the operation. This would clear the two high-speed lanes if the suspect car hadn’t been caught sooner.

“Cars 414, 227 and 290 in NAT-26-East, move into the yellow to cover in case our pigeon decides to fly the median.” The controller continued to move cars into covering positions in the area on all crossovers and turnoffs. The sweating dispatcher looked at his lighted map board and mentally cursed the lack of enough units to cover every exit. State and local authorities already had been notified in the event the fugitives left the thruways and tried to escape on a state freeway.

In Car 56, Ben kept the patrol car roaring down the blue lane through the speeding westbound traffic. The standard emergency signal was doing a partial job of clearing the path, but at those speeds, driver reaction times weren’t always fast enough. Ahead, the fleeing suspect car brushed against a light sedan, sending it careening and rocking across the lane. The driver fought for control as it swerved and screeched on its tilting frame. He brought it to a halt amid a haze of blue smoke from burning brakes and bent metal. The white over green Travelaire never slowed, fighting its way out of the blue into the ultra-high yellow and lighter traffic. Ben kept Beulah in bulldog pursuit.

The sideswipe ahead had sent other cars veering in panic and a cluster inadvertently bunched up in the path of the roaring patrol car. Like a flock of hawk-frightened chickens, they tried to scatter as they saw and heard the massive police vehicle bearing down on them. But like chickens, they couldn’t decide which way to run. It was a matter of five or six seconds before they parted enough to let the patrol car through. Ben had no choice but to cut the throttle and punch once on the retrojets to brake the hurtling patrol car. The momentary drops in speed unlocked the safety cocoons and in an instant, Clay had leaped from the shower stall and sped to the cab. Hearing, rather than seeing his partner, Martin snapped over his shoulder, “Unrack the rifles. That’s the car.” Clay reached for the gun rack at the rear of the cab.

Kelly took one look at the young trooper and jumped for the doorway to the galley. A second later she was back. Without a word, she handed the nude Ferguson a dangling pair of uniform coveralls. Clay gasped, dropped the rifles and grabbed the coveralls from her hand and clutched them to his figure. His face was beet-red. Still without speaking, Kelly turned and ran back to her dispensary to be ready for the next acceleration.

Clay was into the coveralls and in his seat almost at the instant Martin whipped the patrol car through the hole in the blue traffic and shoved her into high once more.

There was no question about the fact that the occupants of the fugitive car knew they were being pursued. They shot through the crossover into the yellow lane and now were hurtling down the thruway close to the four-hundred-mile-an-hour mark.

Martin had Beulah riding just under three hundred to make the crossover, still ten miles behind the suspect car and following on video monitor. The air still crackled with commands as St. Louis and Washington Control maneuvered other cars into position as the pursuit went westward past other units blocking exit routes.

Clay read aloud the radiodometer numerals as they clicked off a mile every nine seconds. Car 56 roared into the yellow and the instant Ben had it straightened out, he slammed all finger throttles to full power. Beulah snapped forward and even at three hundred miles an hour, the sudden acceleration pasted the car’s crew against the backs of their cushioned seats. The patrol car shot forward at more than five hundred miles an hour.

The image of the Travelaire grew on the video monitor and then the two troopers had it in actual sight, a white, racing dot on the broad avenue of the thruway six miles ahead.

Clay triggered the controls for the forward bow cannon and a panel box flashed to “ready fire” signal.

“Negative,” Martin ordered. “We’re coming up on the roadblock. You might miss and hit one of our cars.”

“Car 56 to Control,” the senior trooper called. “Watch out at the roadblock. He’s doing at least five hundred in the yellow and he’ll never be able to stop.”

Two hundred miles east, the St. Louis controller made a snap decision. “Abandon roadblock. Roadblock cars start west. Maintain two hundred until subject comes into monitor view. Car 56, continue speed estimates of subject car. Maybe we can box him in.”

At the roadblock forty-five miles ahead of the speeding fugitives and their relentless pursuer, the four patrol cars pivoted and spread out across the roadway some five hundred feet apart. They lunged forward and lifted up to air-cushion jet drive at just over two hundred miles an hour. Eight pairs of eyes were fixed on video monitors set for the ten-mile block to the rear of the four vehicles.

Beulah’s indicated ground speed now edged towards the five hundred fifty mark, close to the maximum speeds the vehicles could attain.

The gap continued to close, but more slowly. “He’s firing hotter,” Ben called out. “Estimating five thirty on subject vehicle.”

Now Car 56 was about three miles astern and still the gap closed. The fugitive car flashed past the site of the abandoned roadblock and fifteen seconds later all four patrol cars racing ahead of the Travelaire broke into almost simultaneous reports of “Here he comes.”

A second later, Clay Ferguson yelled out, “There he goes. He’s boondocking, he’s boondocking.”

“He has you spotted,” Martin broke in. “He’s heading for the median. Cut, cut, cut. Get out in there ahead of him.”

The driver of the fugitive car had seen the bulk of the four big patrol cruisers outlined against the slight rise in the thruway almost at the instant he flashed onto their screens ten miles behind them. He broke speed, rocked wildly from side to side, fighting for control and then cut diagonally to the left, heading for the outer edge of the thruway and the unpaved, half-mile-wide strip of landscaped earth that separated the east and westbound segments of NAT-26.

The white and green car was still riding on its airpad when it hit the low, rounded curbing at the edge of the thruway. It hurtled into the air and sailed for a hundred feet across the gently-sloping snow-covered grass, came smashing down in a thick hedgerow of bushes—and kept going.

Car 56 slowed and headed for the curbing. “Watch it, kids,” Ben snapped over the intercom, “we may be buying a plot in a second.”

Still traveling more than five hundred miles an hour, the huge patrol car hit the curbing and bounced into the air like a rocket boosted elephant. It tilted and smashed its nose in a slanting blow into the snow-covered ground. The sound of smashing and breaking equipment mingled with the roar of the thundering jets, tracks and air drives as the car fought its way back to level travel. It surged forward and smashed through the hedgerow and plunged down the sloping snowbank after the fleeing car.

“Clay,” Ben called in a strained voice, “take ‘er.”

Ferguson’s fingers were already in position. “You all right, Ben?” he asked anxiously.

“Think I dislocated a neck vertebra,” Ben replied. “I can’t move my head. Go get ’em, kid.”

“Try not to move your head at all, Ben,” Kelly called from her cocoon in the dispensary. “I’ll be there the minute we slow down.”

A half mile ahead, the fugitive car plowed along the bottom of the gentle draw in a cloud of snow, trying to fight its way up the opposite slope and onto the eastbound thruway.

But the Travelaire was never designed for driving on anything but a modern superhighway. Car 56 slammed through the snow and down to the bottom of the draw. A quarter of a mile ahead of the fugitives, the first of the four roadblock units came plowing over the rise.

The car’s speed dropped quickly to under a hundred and the cocoons were again retracted. Ben slumped forward in his seat and caught himself. He eased back with a gasp of pain, his head held rigidly straight. Almost the instant he started to straighten up, Kelly flung herself through the cab door. She clasped his forehead and held his head against the back of the control seat.

Suddenly, the fugitive car spun sideways, bogged in the wet snow and muddy ground beneath and stopped. Clay bore down on it and was about two hundred yards away when the canopy of the other vehicle popped open and a sheet of automatic weapons fire raked the patrol car. Only the low angle of the sedan and the nearness of the bulky patrol car saved the troopers. Explosive bullets smashed into the patrol car canopy and sent shards of plastiglass showering down on the trio.

An instant later, the bow cannon of the first of the cut-off patrol units opened fire. An ugly, yellow-red blossom of smoke and fire erupted from the front of the Travelaire and it burst into flames. A second later, the figure of a man staggered out of the burning car, clothes and hair aflame. He took four plunging steps and then fell face down in the snow. The car burned and crackled and a thick funereal pyre of oily, black smoke billowed into the gray sky. It was snowing heavily now, and before the troopers could dismount and plow to the fallen man, a thin layer of snow covered his burned body.

* * *

An hour later, Car 56 was again on NAT 26-West, this time heading for Wichita barracks and needed repairs. In the dispensary, Ben Martin was stretched out on a hospital bunk with a traction brace around his neck and a copper-haired medical-surgical patrolwoman fussing over him.

In the cab, Clay peered through the now almost-blinding blizzard that whirled and skirled thick snow across the thruway. Traffic densities were virtually zero despite the efforts of the dragonlike snow-burners trying to keep the roadways clear. The young trooper shivered despite the heavy jacket over his coveralls. Wind whistled through the shell holes in Beulah’s canopy and snow sifted and drifted against the back bulkhead.

The cab communications system had been smashed by the gunfire and Clay wore his work helmet both for communications and warmth.

The door to the galley cracked open and Kelly stuck her head in. “How much farther, Clay?” she asked.

“We should be in the barracks in about twenty minutes,” the shivering trooper replied.

“I’ll fix you a cup of hot coffee,” Kelly said. “You look like you need it.”

Over the helmet intercom Clay heard her shoving things around in the galley. “My heavens, but this place is a mess,” she exclaimed. “I can’t even find the coffee bin. That steeplechase driving has got to stop.” She paused.

“Clay,” she called out, “Have you been drinking in here? It smells like a brewery.”

Clay raised mournful eyes to the shattered canopy above him. “My cooking wine,” he sighed.

Thunder and Roses by Theodore Sturgeon

Thunder and Roses

by Theodore Sturgeon

Preface by David Drake




Because I lived through the 1950s, I find the concept of Fifties Nostalgia hard to fathom. It was a terrifying time for me, and I don't think I was that unusual.

People—perfectly ordinary people in Middle America—actively expected nuclear war to break out. I knew families in Clinton, Iowa, with bomb shelters in the back yard. We had air raid drills, huddling in the elementary school basement, and we were taught to duck and cover if we saw the flash of a nuclear weapon. Mass circulation magazines—Collier's, Popular Science, The Saturday Evening Post—ran stories on fallout and nuclear holocaust. On the Beach and Alas, Babylon were New York Times bestsellers.

If you were a kid who read SF, the feeling of dread was even more acute. It wasn't formless for us, you see: there were hundreds of stories to describe nuclear war and its aftermath of lingering death, deformity, and savagery in vivid detail. "Thunder and Roses," which I read in The Astounding Science Fiction Anthology when I was thirteen, is one of the earlier stories of the type. It's possibly the best, because Theodore Sturgeon at his peak was one of the best writers of SF ever.

For those of you who haven't read "Thunder and Roses" before: Welcome to the fifties, my friends.

 

 

When Pete Mawser learned about the show, he turned away from the GHQ bulletin board, touched his long chin, and determined to shave, in spite of the fact that the show would be video, and he would see it in his barracks. He had an hour and a half. It felt good to have a purpose again—even the small matter of shaving before eight o’clock. Eight o’clock Tuesday, just the way it used to be. Everyone used to say, Wednesday morning, “How about the way Starr sang The Breeze and I last night?”

That was a while ago, before the attack, before all those people were dead, before the country was dead. Starr Anthim—an institution, like Crosby, like Duse, like Jenny Lind, like the Statue of Liberty. (Liberty had been one of the first to get it, her bronze beauty volatilized, radio-activated, and even now being carried about in vagrant winds, spreading over the earth . . . )

Pete Mawser grunted and forced his thoughts away from the drifting, poisonous fragments of a blasted liberty. Hate was first. Hate was ubiquitous, like the increasing blue glow in the air at night, like the tension that hung over the base.

Gunfire crackled sporadically far to the right, swept nearer. Pete stepped out to the street and made for a parked truck. There was a Wac sitting on the short running-board.

At the corner a stocky figure backed into the intersection. The man carried a tommy-gun in his arms, and he was swinging it to and fro with the gentle, wavering motion of a weather-vane. He staggered toward them, his gun-muzzle hunting. Someone fired from a building and the man swiveled and blasted wildly at the sound.

“He’s—blind,” said Pete Mawser, and added, “he ought to be,” looking at the tattered face.

A siren keened. An armored jeep slewed into the street. The full-throated roar of a brace of .50-caliber machine-guns put a swift and shocking end to the incident.

“Poor crazy kid,” Pete said softly. “That’s the fourth I’ve seen today.” He looked down at the Wac. She was smiling. “Hey!”

“Hello, Sarge.” She must have identified him before, because now she did not raise her eyes nor her voice. “What happened?”

“You know what happened. Some kid got tired of having nothing to fight and nowhere to run to. What’s the matter with you?”

“No,” she said. “I don’t mean that.” At last she looked up at him. “I mean all of this. I can’t seem to remember.”

“You—well, it’s not easy to forget. We got hit. We got hit everywhere at once. All the big cities are gone. We got it from both sides. We got too much. The air is becoming radioactive. We’ll all—” He checked himself. She didn’t know. She’d forgotten. There was nowhere to escape to, and she’d escaped inside herself, right here. Why tell her about it? Why tell her that everyone was going to die? Why tell her that other, shameful thing: that we hadn’t struck back?

But she wasn’t listening. She was still looking at him. Her eyes were not quite straight. One held his, but the other was slightly shifted and seemed to be looking at his temple. She was smiling again. When his voice trailed off she didn’t prompt him. Slowly, he moved away. She did not turn her head, but kept looking up at where he had been, smiling a little. He turned away, wanting to run, walking fast.

How long could a guy hold out? When you were in the army they tried to make you be like everybody else. What did you do when everybody else was cracking up?

He blanked out the mental picture of himself as the last one left sane. He’d followed that one through before. It always led to the conclusion that it would be better to be one of the first. He wasn’t ready for that yet. Then he blanked that out, too. Every time he said to himself that he wasn’t ready for that yet, something within him asked “Why not?” and he never seemed to have an answer ready.

How long could a guy hold out?

He climbed the steps of the QM Central and went inside. There was nobody at the reception switchboard. It didn’t matter. Messages were carried by jeep, or on motor-cycles. The Base Command was not insisting that anybody stick to a sitting job these days. Ten desk-men could crack up for every one on a jeep, or on the soul-sweat squads. Pete made up his mind to put in a little stretch on a squad tomorrow. Do him good. He just hoped that this time the adjutant wouldn’t burst into tears in the middle of the parade ground. You could keep your mind on the manual of arms just fine until something like that happened.

He bumped into Sonny Weisefreund in the barracks corridor. The Tech’s round young face was as cheerful as ever. He was naked and glowing, and had a towel thrown over his shoulder.

“Hi, Sonny. Is there plenty of hot water?”

“Why not?” grinned Sonny. Pete grinned back, wondering if anybody could say anything about anything at all without one of these reminders. Of course, there was hot water. The QM barracks had hot water for three hundred men. There were three dozen left. Men dead, men gone to the hills, men locked up so they wouldn’t—

“Starr Anthim’s doing a show tonight.”

“Yeah. Tuesday night. Not funny, Pete. Don’t you know there’s a war—”

“No kidding,” Pete said swiftly. “She’s here—right here on the base.”

Sonny’s face was joyful. “Gee.” He pulled the towel off his shoulder and tied it around his waist. “Starr Anthim here! Where are they going to put on the show?”

“HQ, I imagine. Video only. You know about public gatherings.”

“Yeah. And a good thing, too,” said Sonny. “Somebody’d be sure to crack up. I wouldn’t want her to see anything like that. How’d she happen to come here, Pete?”

“Drifted in on the last gasp of a busted-up Navy helicopter.”

“Yeah, but why?”

“Search me. Get your head out of that gift-horse’s mouth.”

He went into the washroom, smiling and glad that he still could. He undressed and put his neatly folded clothes down on a bench. There were a soap-wrapper and an empty tooth-paste tube lying near the wall. He picked them up and put them in the catchall, took the mop that leaned against the partition and mopped the floor where Sonny had splashed after shaving. Someone had to keep things straight. He might have worried if it were anyone else but Sonny. But Sonny wasn’t cracking up. Sonny always had been like that. Look there. Left his razor out again.

Pete started his shower, meticulously adjusting the valves until the pressure and temperature exactly suited him. He did nothing carelessly these days. There was so much to feel, and taste, and see now. The impact of water on his skin, the smell of soap, the consciousness of light and heat, the very pressure of standing on the soles of his feet . . . he wondered vaguely how the slow increase of radioactivity in the air, as the nitrogen transmuted to Carbon Fourteen, would affect him if he kept carefully healthy in every way. What happens first? Blindness? Headaches? Perhaps a loss of appetite or slow fatigue?

Why not look it up?

On the other hand, why bother? Only a very small percentage of the men would die of radioactive poisoning. There were too many other things that killed more quickly, which was probably just as well. That razor, for example. It lay gleaming in a sunbeam, curved and clean in the yellow light. Sonny’s father and grandfather had used it, or so he said, and it was his pride and joy.

Pete turned his back on it, and soaped under his arms, concentrating on the tiny kisses of bursting bubbles. In the midst of a recurrence of disgust at himself for thinking so often of death, a staggering truth struck him. He did not think of such things because he was morbid, after all! It was the very familiarity of things that brought death-thoughts. It was either “I shall never do this again” or “This is one of the last times I shall do this.” You might devote yourself completely to doing things in different ways, he thought madly. You might crawl across the floor this time, and next time walk across on your hands. You might skip dinner tonight, and have a snack at two in the morning instead, and eat grass for breakfast.

But you had to breathe. Your heart had to beat. You’d sweat and you’d shiver, the same as always. You couldn’t get away from that. When those things happened, they would remind you. Your heart wouldn’t beat out its wunklunk, wunklunk any more. It would go one-less, one-less until it yelled and yammered in your ears and you had to make it stop.

Terrific polish on that razor.

And your breath would go on, same as before. You could sidle through this door, back through the next one and the one after, and figure out a totally new way to go through the one after that, but your breath would keep on sliding in and out of your nostrils like a razor going through whiskers, making a sound like a razor being stropped.

Sonny came in. Pete soaped his hair. Sonny picked up the razor and stood looking at it. Pete watched him, soap ran into his eyes, he swore, and Sonny jumped.

“What are you looking at, Sonny? Didn’t you ever see it before?”

“Oh, sure. Sure. I just was—” He shut the razor, opened it, flashed light from its blade, shut it again. “I’m tired of using this, Pete. I’m going to get rid of it. Want it?”

Want it? In his foot-locker, maybe. Under his pillow. “Thanks, no, Sonny. Couldn’t use it.”

“I like safety razors,” Sonny mumbled. “Electrics, even better. What are we going to do with it?”

“Throw it in the—no.” Pete pictured the razor turning end over end in the air, half open, gleaming in the maw of the catchall. “Throw it out the—” No. Curving out into the long grass. He might want it. He might crawl around in the moonlight looking for it. He might find it.

“I guess maybe I’ll break it up.”

“No,” Pete said. “The pieces—” Sharp little pieces. Hollow-ground fragments. “I’ll think of something. Wait’ll I get dressed.”

He washed briskly, toweled, while Sonny stood looking at the razor. It was a blade now, and if it were broken it would be shards and glittering splinters, still razor sharp. If it were ground dull with an emery wheel, somebody could find it and put another edge on it because it was so obviously a razor, a fine steel razor, one that would slice so—

“I know. The laboratory. We’ll get rid of it,” Pete said confidently.

He stepped into his clothes, and together they went to the laboratory wing. It was very quiet there. Their voices echoed.

“One of the ovens,” said Pete, reaching for the razor.

“Bake-ovens? You’re crazy!”

Pete chuckled, “You don’t know this place, do you? Like everything else on the base, there was a lot more went on here than most people knew about. They kept calling it the bakeshop. Well, it was research headquarters for new high-nutrient flours. But there’s lots else here. We tested utensils and designed vegetable-peelers and all sorts of things like that. There’s an electric furnace in there that—” He pushed open a door.

They crossed a long, quiet, cluttered room to the thermal equipment. “We can do everything here from annealing glass, through glazing ceramics, to finding the melting point of frying pans.” He clicked a switch tentatively. A pilot light glowed. He swung open a small, heavy door and set the razor inside. “Kiss it goodbye. In twenty minutes it’ll be a puddle.”

“I want to see that,” said Sonny. “Can I look around until it’s cooked?”

“Why not?”

They walked through the laboratories. Beautifully equipped they were, and too quiet. Once they passed a major who was bent over a complex electronic hook-up on one of the benches. He was watching a little amber light flicker, and he did not return their salute. They tip-toed past him, feeling awed at his absorption, envying it. They saw the models of the automatic kneaders, the vitaminizers, the remote signal thermostats and timers and controls.

“What’s in there?”

“I dunno. I’m over the edge of my territory. I don’t think there’s anybody left for this section. They were mostly mechanical and electronic theoreticians. Hey!”

Sonny followed the pointing hand. “What?”

“That wall-section. It’s loose, or—well, what do you know!”

He pushed at the section of wall which was very slightly out of line. There was a dark space beyond.

“What’s in there?”

“Nothing, or some semi-private hush-hush job. These guys used to get away with murder.”

Sonny said, with an uncharacteristic flash of irony, “Isn’t that the Army theoretician’s business?”

Cautiously they peered in, then entered.

“Wh—hey! The door!”

It swung swiftly and quietly shut. The soft click of the latch was accompanied by a blaze of light.

The room was small and windowless. It contained machinery—a “trickle” charger, a bank of storage batteries, an electric-powered dynamo, two small self-starting gas-driven light plants and a diesel complete with sealed compressed-air starting cylinders. In the corner was a relay rack with its panel-bolts spot-welded. Protruding from it was a red-topped lever.

They looked at the equipment wordlessly for a time and then Sonny said, “Somebody wanted to make awful sure he had power for something.”

“Now, I wonder what—” Pete walked over to the relay rack. He looked at the lever without touching it. It was wired up; behind the handle, on the wire, was a folded tag. He opened it cautiously. “To be used only on specific orders of the Commanding Officer.”

“Give it a yank and see what happens.”

Something clicked behind them. They whirled. “What was that?”

“Seemed to come from that rig beside the door.”

They approached it cautiously. There was a spring-loaded solenoid attached to a bar which was hinged to drop across the inside of the secret door, where it would fit into steel gudgeons on the panel. It clicked again.

“A Geiger counter,” said Pete disgustedly.

“Now why,” mused Sonny, “would they design a door to stay locked unless the general radioactivity went beyond a certain point? That’s what it is. See the relays? And the overload switch there? And this?”

“It has a manual lock, too,” Pete pointed out. The counter clicked again. “Let’s get out of here. I got one of those things built into my head these days.”

The door opened easily. They went out, closing it behind them. The keyhole was cleverly concealed in the crack between two boards.

They were silent as they made their way back to the QM labs. The small thrill of violation was gone.

Back at the furnace, Pete glanced at the temperature dial, then kicked the latch control. The pilot winked out, and then the door swung open. They blinked and started back from the raging heat within. They bent and peered. The razor was gone. A pool of brilliance lay on the floor of the compartment.

“Ain’t much left. Most of it oxidized away,” Pete grunted.

They stood together for a time with their faces lit by the small shimmering ruin. Later, as they walked back to the barracks, Sonny broke his long silence with a sigh. “I’m glad we did that, Pete. I’m awful glad we did that.”

At a quarter to eight they were waiting before the combination console in the barracks. All hands except Pete and Sonny and a wiry-haired, thick-set corporal named Bonze had elected to see the show on the big screen in the mess-hall. The reception was better there, of course, but, as Bonze put it, “You don’t get close enough in a big place like that.”

“I hope she’s the same,” said Sonny, half to himself.

Why should she be? thought Pete morosely as he turned on the set and watched the screen begin to glow. There were many more of the golden speckles that had killed reception for the past two weeks . . . Why should anything be the same, ever again?

He fought a sudden temptation to kick the set to pieces. It, and Starr Anthim, were part of something that was dead. The country was dead, a once real country—prosperous, sprawling, laughing, grabbing, growing, and changing, mostly healthy, leprous in spots with poverty and injustice, but systemically healthy enough to overcome any ill. He wondered how the murderers would like it. They were welcome to it, now. Nowhere to go. No one to fight. That was true for every soul on earth now.

“You hope she’s the same,” he muttered.

“The show, I mean,” said Sonny mildly. “I’d like to just sit here and have it like—like—”

Oh, thought Pete mistily. Oh—that. Somewhere to go, that’s what it is, for a few minutes . . . “I know,” he said, all the harshness gone from his voice.

Noise receded from the audio as the carrier swept in. The light on the screen swirled and steadied into a diamond pattern. Pete adjusted the focus, chromic balance and intensity. “Turn out the lights, Bonze. I don’t want to see anything but Starr Anthim.”

It was the same, at first. Starr Anthim had never used the usual fanfares, fade-ins, color and clamor of her contemporaries. A black screen, then click! a blaze of gold. It was all there, in focus; tremendously intense, it did not change. Rather, the eye changed to take it in. She never moved for seconds after she came on; she was there, a portrait, a still face and a white throat. Her eyes were open and sleeping. Her face was alive and still.

Then, in the eyes which seemed green but were blue flecked with gold, an awareness seemed to gather, and they came awake. Only then was it noticeable that her lips were parted. Something in the eyes made the lips be seen, though nothing moved yet. Not until she bent her head slowly, so that some of the gold flecks seemed captured in the golden brows. The eyes were not, then, looking out at an audience. They were looking at me, and at me, and at ME.

“Hello—you,” she said. She was a dream, with a kid sister’s slightly irregular teeth.

Bonze shuddered. The cot on which he lay began to squeak rapidly. Sonny shifted in annoyance. Pete reached out in the dark and caught the leg of the cot. The squeaking subsided.

“May I sing a song?” Starr asked. There was music, very faint. “It’s an old one, and one of the best. It’s an easy song, a deep song, one that comes from the part of men and women that is mankind—the part that has in it no greed, no hate, no fear. This song is about joyousness and strength. It’s—my favorite. Is it yours?”

The music swelled. Pete recognized the first two notes of the introduction and swore quietly. This was wrong. This song was not for—this song was part of—

Sonny rat raptly. Bonze lay still.

Starr Anthim began to sing. Her voice was deep and powerful, but soft, with the merest touch of vibrato at the ends of the phrases. The song flowed from her, without noticeable effort, seeming to come from her face, her long hair, her wide-set eyes. Her voice, like her face, was shadowed and clean, round, blue and green but mostly gold.


When you gave me your heart, you gave me the world,
You gave me the night and the day,
And thunder, and roses, and sweet green grass,
The sea, and soft wet clay.

I drank the dawn from a golden cup,
From a silver one, the dark,
The steed I rode was the wild west wind,
My song was the brook and the lark.

 

The music spiraled, caroled, slid into a somber cry of muted hungry sixths and ninths; rose, blared, and cut, leaving her voice full and alone:


With thunder I smote the evil of earth,
With roses I won the right,
With the sea I washed, and with clay I built,
And the world was a place of light!

 

The last note left a face perfectly composed again, and there was no movement in it; it was sleeping and vital while the music curved off and away to the places where music rests when it is not heard.

Starr smiled.

“It’s so easy,” she said. “So simple. All that is fresh and clean and strong about mankind is in that song, and I think that’s all that need concern us about mankind.” She leaned forward. “Don’t you see?”

The smile faded and was replaced with a gentle wonder. A tiny furrow appeared between her brows; she drew back quickly. “I can’t seem to talk to you tonight,” she said, her voice small. “You hate something.”

Hate was shaped like a monstrous mushroom. Hate was the random speckling of a video plate.

“What has happened to us,” said Starr abruptly, impersonally, “is simple too. It doesn’t matter who did it—do you understand that? It doesn’t matter. We were attacked. We were struck from the east and from the west. Most of the bombs were atomic—there were blast-bombs and there were dust-bombs. We were hit by about five hundred and thirty bombs altogether, and it has killed us.”

She waited.

Sonny’s fist smacked into his palm. Bonze lay with his eyes open, open, quiet. Pete’s jaws hurt.

“We have more bombs than both of them put together. We have them. We are not going to use them. Wait!” She raised her hands suddenly, as if she could see into each man’s face. They sank back, tense.

“So saturated is the atmosphere with Carbon Fourteen that all of us in this hemisphere are going to die. Don’t be afraid to say it. Don’t be afraid to think it. It is a truth, and it must be faced. As the transmutation effect spreads from the ruins of our cities, the air will become increasingly radioactive, and then we must die. In months, in a year or so, the effect will be strong overseas. Most of the people there will die too. None will escape completely. A worse thing will come to them than anything they have given us, because there will be a wave of horror and madness which is impossible to us. We are merely going to die. They will live and burn and sicken, and the children that will be born to them—” She shook her head, and her lower lip grew full. She visibly pulled herself together.

“Five hundred and thirty bombs . . . I don’t think either of our attackers knew just how strong the other was. There has been so much secrecy.” Her voice was sad. She shrugged slightly. “They have killed us, and they have ruined themselves. As for us—we are not blameless, either. Neither are we helpless to do anything—yet. But what we must do is hard. We must die—without striking back.”

She gazed briefly at each man in turn, from the screen. “We must not strike back. Mankind is about to go through a hell of his own making. We can be vengeful—or merciful, if you like—and let go with the hundreds of bombs we have. That would sterilize the planet so that not a microbe, not a blade of grass could escape, and nothing new could grow. We would reduce the earth to a bald thing, dead and deadly.

“No—it just won’t do. We can’t do it.

“Remember the song? That is humanity. That’s in all humans. A disease made other humans our enemies for a time, but as the generations march past, enemies become friends and friends enemies. The enmity of those who have killed us is such a tiny, temporary thing in the long sweep of history!”

Her voice deepened. “Let us die with the knowledge that we have done the one noble thing left to us. The spark of humanity can still live and grow on this planet. It will be blown and drenched, shaken and all but extinguished, but it will live if that song is a true one. It will live if we are human enough to discount the fact that the spark is in the custody of our temporary enemy. Some—a few—of his children will live to merge with the new humanity that will gradually emerge from the jungles and the wilderness. Perhaps there will be ten thousand years of beastliness; perhaps man will be able to rebuild while he still has his ruins.”

She raised her head, her voice tolling. “And even if this is the end of humankind, we dare not take away the chances some other life-form might have to succeed where we failed. If we retaliate, there will not be a dog, a deer, an ape, a bird or fish or lizard to carry the evolutionary torch. In the name of justice, if we must condemn and destroy ourselves, let us not condemn all other life along with us! Mankind is heavy enough with sins. If we must destroy, let us stop with destroying ourselves!”

There was a shimmering flicker of music. It seemed to stir her hair like a breath of wind. She smiled.

“That’s all,” she whispered. And to each man listening she said, “Good night . . .”

The screen went black. As the carrier cut off (there was no announcement) the ubiquitous speckles began to swarm across it.

Pete rose and switched on the lights. Bonze and Sonny were quite still. It must have been minutes later when Sonny sat up straight, shaking himself like a puppy. Something besides the silence seemed to tear with the movement.

He said, softly, “You’re not allowed to fight anything, or to run away, or to live, and now you can’t even hate any more, because Starr says no.”

There was bitterness in the sound of it, and a bitter smell to the air.

Pete Mawser sniffed once, which had nothing to do with the smell. He sniffed again. “What’s that smell, Son?”

Sonny tested it. “I don’t— Something familiar. Vanilla—no . . . No.”

“Almonds. Bitter—Bonze!”

Bonze lay still with his eyes open, grinning. His jaw muscles were knotted, and they could see almost all his teeth. He was soaking wet.

“Bonze!”

“It was just when she came on and said ‘Hello—you,’ remember?” whispered Pete. “Oh, the poor kid. That’s why he wanted to catch the show here instead of in the mess-hall.”

“Went out looking at her,” said Sonny through pale lips. “I—can’t say I blame him much. Wonder where he got the stuff.”

“Never mind that!” Pete’s voice was harsh. “Let’s get out of here.”

They left to call the ambulance. Bonze lay watching the console with his dead eyes and his smell of bitter almonds.

* * *

Pete did not realize where he was going, or exactly why, until he found himself on the dark street near GHQ and the communications shack, reflecting that it might be nice to be able to hear Starr, and see her, whenever he felt like it. Maybe there weren’t any recordings; yet her musical background was recorded, and the signal corps might have recorded the show.

He stood uncertainly outside the GHQ building. There was a cluster of men outside the main entrance. Pete smiled briefly. Rain, nor snow, nor sleet, nor gloom of night could stay the stage-door Johnnie.

He went down the side street and up the delivery ramp in the back. Two doors along the platform was the rear exit of the communications section.

There was a light on in the communications shack. He had his hand out to the screen door when he noticed someone standing in the shadows beside it. The light played daintily on the golden margins of a head and face.

He stopped. “S—Starr Anthim!”

“Hello, soldier. Sergeant.”

He blushed like an adolescent. “I—” His voice left him. He swallowed, reached up to whip off his hat. He had no hat. “I saw the show,” he said. He felt clumsy. It was dark, and yet he was very conscious of the fact that his dress-shoes were indifferently shined.

She moved toward him into the light, and she was so beautiful that he had to close his eyes. “What’s your name?”

“Mawser. Pete Mawser.”

“Like the show?”

Not looking at her, he said stubbornly, “No.”

“Oh?”

“I mean—I liked it some. The song.”

“I—think I see.”

“I wondered if I could maybe get a recording.”

“I think so,” she said. “What kind of reproducer have you got?”

“Audiovid.”

“A disc. Yes; we dubbed off a few. Wait, I’ll get you one.”

She went inside, moving slowly. Pete watched her, spellbound. She was a silhouette, crowned and haloed; and then she was a framed picture, vivid and golden. He waited, watching the light hungrily. She returned with a large envelope, called good night to someone inside, and came out on the platform.

“Here you are, Pete Mawser.”

“Thanks very—” he mumbled. He wet his lips. “It was very good of you.”

“Not really. The more it circulates, the better.” She laughed suddenly. “That isn’t meant quite as it sounds. I’m not exactly looking for new publicity these days.”

The stubbornness came back. “I don’t know if you’d get it, if you put on that show in normal times.”

Her eyebrows went up. “Well!” she smiled. “I seem to have made quite an impression.”

“I’m sorry,” he said warmly. “I shouldn’t have taken that tack. Everything I think and say these days is exaggerated.”

“I know what you mean.” She looked around. “How is it here?”

“It’s okay. I used to be bothered by the secrecy, and being buried miles away from civilization.” He chuckled bitterly. “Turned out to be lucky after all.”

“You sound like the first chapter of One World or None.”

He looked up quickly. “What do you use for a reading list—the Government’s own Index Expurgatorius?”

She laughed. “Come now, it isn’t as bad as all that. The book was never banned. It was just—”

“Unfashionable,” he filled in.

“Yes, more’s the pity. If people had paid more attention to it in the ‘forties, perhaps this wouldn’t have happened.”

He followed her gaze to the dimly pulsating sky. “How long are you going to be here?”

“Until—as long as—I’m not leaving.”

“You’re not?”

“I’m finished,” she said simply. “I’ve covered all the ground I can. I’ve been everywhere that . . . anyone knows about.”

“With this show?”

She nodded. “With this particular message.”

He was quiet, thinking. She turned to the door, and he put out his hand, not touching her. “Please—”

“What is it?”

“I’d like to—I mean, if you don’t mind, I don’t often have a chance to talk to—maybe you’d like to walk around a little before you turn in.”

“Thanks, no, Sergeant. I’m tired.” She did sound tired. “I’ll see you around.”

He stared at her, a sudden fierce light in his brain. “I know where it is. It’s got a red-topped lever and a tag referring to orders of the commanding officer. It’s really camouflaged.”

She was quiet so long that he thought she had not heard him. Then, “I’ll take that walk.”

They went down the ramp together and turned toward the dark parade ground.

“How did you know?” she asked quietly.

“Not too tough. “This ‘message’ of yours; the fact that you’ve been all over the country with it; most of all, the fact that somebody finds it necessary to persuade us not to strike back. Who are you working for?” he asked bluntly.

Surprisingly, she laughed.

“What’s that for?”

“A moment ago you were blushing and shuffling your feet.”

His voice was rough. “I wasn’t talking to a human being. I was talking to a thousand songs I’ve heard, and a hundred thousand blonde pictures I’ve seen pinned up. You’d better tell me what this is all about.”

She stopped. “Let’s go up and see the colonel.”

He took her elbow. “No. I’m just a sergeant, and he’s high brass, and that doesn’t make any difference at all now. You’re a human being, and so am I, and I’m supposed to respect your rights as such. I don’t. You’d better tell me about it.”

“All right,” she said, with a tired acquiescence that frightened something inside him. “You seem to have guessed right, though. It’s true. There are master firing keys for the launching sites. We have located and dismantled all but two. It’s very likely that one of the two was vaporized. The other one is—lost.”

“Lost?”

“I don’t have to tell you about the secrecy,” she said. “You know how it developed between nation and nation. You must know that it existed between State and Union, between department and department, office and office. There were only three or four men who knew where all the keys were. Three of them were in the Pentagon when it went up. That was the third blast-bomb, you know. If there was another, it could only have been Senator Vanercook, and he died three weeks ago without talking.”

“An automatic radio key, hm?”

“That’s right. Sergeant, must we walk? I’m so tired.”

“I’m sorry,” he said impulsively. They crossed to the reviewing stand and sat on the lonely benches. “Launching racks all over, all hidden, and all armed?”

“Most of them are armed. There’s a timing mechanism in them that will disarm them in a year or so. But in the meantime, they are armed—and aimed.”

“Aimed where?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“I think I see. What’s the optimum number again?”

“About six hundred and forty; a few more or less. At least five hundred and thirty have been thrown so far. We don’t know exactly.”

“Who are we?” he asked furiously.

“Who? Who?” She laughed weakly. “I could say, ‘The Government,’ perhaps. If the President dies, the Vice-President takes over, and then the Secretary of State, and so on and on. How far can you go? Pete Mawser, don’t you realize yet what’s happened?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“How many people do you think are left in this country?”

“I don’t know. Just a few million, I guess.”

“How many are here?”

“About nine hundred.”

“Then, as far as I know, this is the largest city left.”

He leaped to his feet. “No!” The syllable roared away from him, hurled itself against the dark, empty buildings, came back to him in a series of lower-case echoes: nononono . . . no-no.

Starr began to speak rapidly, quietly. “They’re scattered all over the fields and the roads. They sit in the sun and die. They run in packs, they tear at each other. They pray and starve and kill themselves and die in the fires. The fires—everywhere, if anything stands, it’s burning. Summer, and the leaves all down in the Berkshires, and the blue grass burnt brown; you can see the grass dying from the air, the death going out wider and wider from the bald-spots. Thunder and roses . . . I saw roses, new ones, creeping from the smashed pots of a greenhouse. Brown petals, alive and sick, and the thorns turned back on themselves, growing into the stems, killing. Feldman died tonight.”

He let her be quiet for a time. Then:

“Who is Feldman?”

“My pilot.” She was talking hollowly into her hands. “He’s been dying for weeks. He’s been on his nerve-ends. I don’t think he had any blood left. He buzzed your GHQ and made for the landing strip. He came in with the motor dead, free rotors, giro. Smashed the landing gear. He was dead, too. He killed a man in Chicago so he could steal gas. The man didn’t want the gas. There was a dead girl by the pump. He didn’t want us to go near. I’m not going anywhere. I’m going to stay here. I’m tired.”

At last she cried.

Pete left her alone, and walked out to the center of the parade ground, looking back at the faint huddled glimmer on the bleachers. His mind flickered over the show that evening, and the way she had sung before the merciless transmitter. “Hello, you.” “If we must destroy, let us stop with destroying ourselves!”

The dimming spark of humankind . . . what could it mean to her? How could it mean so much?

Thunder and roses.” Twisted, sick, non-survival roses, killing themselves with their own thorns.

And the world was a place of light!” Blue light, flickering in the contaminated air.

The enemy. The red-topped lever. Bonze. “They pray and starve and kill themselves and die in the fires.”

What creatures were these, these corrupted, violent, murdering humans? What right had they to another chance? What was in them that was good?

Starr was good. Starr was crying. Only a human being could cry like that. Starr was a human being.

Had humanity anything of Starr Anthim in it?

Starr was a human being.

He looked down through the darkness for his hands. No planet, no universe, is greater to a man than his own ego, his own observing self. These hands were the hands of all history, and like the hands of all men, they could by their small acts make human history or end it. Whether this power of hands was that of a billion hands, or whether it came to a focus in these two—this was suddenly unimportant to the eternities which now enfolded him.

He put humanity’s hands deep in his pockets and walked slowly back to the bleachers.

“Starr.”

She responded with a sleepy-child, interrogative whimper.

“They’ll get their chance, Starr. I won’t touch the key.”

She sat straight. She rose, and came to him, smiling. He could see her smile, because, very faintly in the air, her teeth fluoresced. She put her hands on his shoulders. “Pete.”

He held her very close for a moment. Her knees buckled then, and he had to carry her.

There was no one in the Officers’ Club, which was the nearest building. He stumbled in, moved clawing along the wall until he found a switch. The light hurt him. He carried her to a settee and put her down gently. She did not move. One side of her face was as pale as milk.

He stood looking stupidly at it, wiped it on the sides of his trousers, looking dully at Starr. There was blood on her shirt.

A doctor . . . but there was no doctor. Not since Anders had hanged himself. “Get somebody,” he muttered. “Do something.”

He dropped to his knees and gently unbuttoned her shirt. Between the sturdy unfeminine GI bra and the top of her slacks, there was blood on her side. He whipped out a clean handkerchief and began to wipe it away. There was no wound, no puncture. But abruptly there was blood again. He blotted it carefully. And again there was blood.

It was like trying to dry a piece of ice with a towel.

He ran to the water cooler, wrung out the bloody handkerchief and ran back to her. He bathed her face carefully, the pale right side, the flushed left side. The handkerchief reddened again, this time with cosmetics, and then her face was pale all over, with great blue shadows under the eyes. While he watched, blood appeared on her left cheek.

“There must be somebody—” He fled to the door.

“Pete!”

Running, turning at the sound of her voice, he hit the doorpost stunningly, caromed off, flailed for his balance, and then was back at her side. “Starr! Hang on, now! I’ll get a doctor as quick as—”

Her hand strayed over her left cheek. “You found out. Nobody else knew, but Feldman. It got hard to cover properly.” Her hand went up to her hair.

“Starr, I’ll get a—”

“Pete, darling, promise me something?”

“Why, sure; certainly, Starr.”

“Don’t disturb my hair. It isn’t—all mine, you see.” She sounded like a seven-year-old, playing a game. “It all came out on this side. I don’t want you to see me that way.”

He was on his knees beside her again. “What is it? What happened to you?” he asked hoarsely.

“Philadelphia,” she murmured. “Right at the beginning. The mushroom went up a half-mile away. The studio caved in. I came to the next day. I didn’t know I was burned, then. It didn’t show. My left side. It doesn’t matter, Pete. It doesn’t hurt at all, now.”

He sprang to his feet again. “I’m going for a doctor.”

“Don’t go away. Please don’t go away and leave me. Please don’t.” There were tears in her eyes. “Wait just a little while. Not very long, Pete.”

He sank to his knees again. She gathered both his hands in hers and held them tightly. She smiled happily. “You’re good, Pete. You’re so good.”

(She couldn’t hear the blood in his ears, the roar of the whirlpool of hate and fear and anguish that spun inside of him.)

She talked to him in a low voice, and then in whispers. Sometimes he hated himself because he couldn’t quite follow her. She talked about school, and her first audition. “I was so scared that I got a vibrato in my voice. I’d never had one before. I always let myself get a little scared when I sing now. It’s easy.” There was something about a window-box when she was four years old. “Two real live tulips and a pitcher-plant. I used to be sorry for the flies.”

There was a long period of silence after that, during which his muscles throbbed with cramp and stiffness, and gradually became numb. He must have dozed; he awoke with a violent start, feeling her fingers on his face. She was propped up on one elbow. She said clearly, “I just wanted to tell you, darling. Let me go first, and get everything ready for you. It’s going to be wonderful. I’ll fix you a special tossed salad. I’ll make you a steamed chocolate pudding and keep it hot for you.”

Too muddled to understand what she was saying, he smiled and pressed her back on the settee. She took his hands again.

The next time he awoke it was broad daylight, and she was dead.

Sonny Weisefreund was sitting on his cot when he got back to the barracks. He handed over the recording he had picked up from the parade-ground on the way back. “Dew on it. Dry it off. Good boy,” he croaked, and fell face downward on the cot Bonze had used.

Sonny stared at him. “Pete! Where you been? What happened? Are you all right?”

Pete shifted a little and grunted. Sonny shrugged and took the audiovid disc out of its wet envelope. Moisture would not harm it particularly, though it could not be played while wet. It was made of a fine spiral of plastic, insulated between laminations. Electrostatic pickups above and below the turntable would fluctuate with changes in the dielectric constant which had been impressed by the recording, and these changes were amplified for the scanners. The audio was a conventional hill-and-dale needle. Sonny began to wipe it down carefully.

* * *

Pete fought upward out of a vast, green-lit place full of flickering cold fires. Starr was calling him. Something was punching him, too. He fought it weakly, trying to hear what she was saying. But someone else was jabbering too loud for him to hear.

He opened his eyes. Sonny was shaking him, his round face pink with excitement. The Audiovid was running. Starr was talking. Sonny got up impatiently and turned down the volume. “Pete! Pete! Wake up, will you? I got to tell you something. Listen to me! Wake up, will yuh?”

“Huh?”

“That’s better. Now listen. I’ve just been listening to Starr Anthim—”

“She’s dead,” said Pete.

Sonny didn’t hear. He went on, explosively, “I’ve figured it out. Starr was sent out here, and all over, to beg someone not to fire any more atom bombs. If the government was sure they wouldn’t strike back, they wouldn’t’ve taken the trouble. Somewhere, Pete, there’s some way to launch bombs at those murdering cowards—and I’ve got a pret-ty shrewd idea of how to do it.”

Pete strained groggily toward the faint sound of Starr’s voice. Sonny talked on. “Now, s’posing there was a master radio key—an automatic code device something like the alarm signal they have on ships, that rings a bell on any ship within radio range when the operator sends four long dashes. Suppose there’s an automatic code machine to launch bombs, with repeaters, maybe, buried all over the country. What would it be? Just a little lever to pull; that’s all. How would the thing be hidden? In the middle of a lot of other equipment, that’s where; in some place where you’d expect to find crazy-looking secret stuff. Like an experiment station. Like right here. You beginning to get the idea?”

“Shut up, I can’t hear her.”

“The hell with her! You can listen to her some other time. You didn’t hear a thing I said!”

“She’s dead.”

“Yeah. Well, I figure I’ll pull that handle. What can I lose? It’ll give those murderin’—what?

“She’s dead.”

“Dead? Starr Anthim?” His young face twisted, Sonny sank down to the cot. “You’re half asleep. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“She’s dead,” Pete said hoarsely. “She got burned by one of the first bombs. I was with her when she—she— Shut up now and get out of here and let me listen!” he bellowed hoarsely.

Sonny stood up slowly. “They killed her, too. They killed her! That does it. That just fixes it up.” His face was white. He went out.

Pete got up. His legs weren’t working right. He almost fell. He brought up against the console with a crash, his outflung arm sending the pickup skittering across the record. He put it on again and turned up the volume, then lay down to listen.

His head was all mixed up. Sonny talked too much. Bomb launchers, automatic code machines—

“You gave me your heart,” sand Starr. “You gave me your heart. You gave me your heart. You . . .”

Pete heaved himself up again and moved the pickup arm. Anger, not at himself, but at Sonny for causing him to cut the disc that way, welled up.

Starr was talking, stupidly, her face going through the same expression over and over again. “Struck from the east and from the struck from the east and from the . . .”

He got up again wearily and moved the pickup.

“You gave me your heart you gave me . . .”

Pete made an agonized sound that was not a word at all, bent, lifted, and sent the console crashing over. In the bludgeoning silence, he said, “I did, too.”

Then, “Sonny.” He waited.

“Sonny!”

His eyes went wide then, and he cursed and bolted for the corridor.

The panel was closed when he reached it. He kicked at it. It flew open, discovering darkness.

“Hey!” bellowed Sonny. “Shut it! You turned off the lights!”

Pete shut it behind them. The lights blazed.

“Pete! What’s the matter?”

“Nothing’s the matter, Son,” croaked Pete.

“What are you looking at?” said Sonny uneasily.

“I’m sorry,” said Pete as gently as he could. “I just wanted to find something out, is all. Did you tell anyone else about this?” He pointed to the lever.

“Why, no. I only just figured it out while you were sleeping, just now.”

Pete looked around carefully, while Sonny shifted his weight. Pete moved toward a tool-rack. “Something you haven’t noticed yet, Sonny,” he said softly, and pointed. “Up there, on the wall behind you. High up. See?”

Sonny turned. In one fluid movement Pete plucked off a fourteen-inch box wrench and hit Sonny with it as hard as he could.

Afterward he went to work systematically on the power supplies. He pulled the plugs on the gas-engines and cracked their cylinders with a maul. He knocked off the tubing of the diesel starters—the tanks let go explosively—and he cut all the cables with bolt-cutters. Then he broke up the relay rack and its lever. When he was quite finished, he put away his tools and bent and stroked Sonny’s tousled hair.

He went out and closed the partition carefully. It certainly was a wonderful piece of camouflage. He sat down heavily on a workbench nearby.

“You’ll have your chance,” he said into the far future. “And, by Heaven, you’d better make good.”

After that he just waited.

 

 

 

Afterword by Eric Flint




When editors put together an anthology like this one, sooner or later they have to deal with what may be the thorniest problem of all:

Which story do you end with?

In this case, the decision . . . almost made itself. Not quite, I suppose. But in the course of the discussions the three of us had on the subject, "Thunder and Roses"came to the forefront with a certain kind of inevitability. Some of that, no doubt, is due to the factor that Dave discusses in his preface: all three of us were children of the Fifties, and we were shaped to some degree, one way or another, by that ever-looming fear of nuclear obliteration. 

But there's more to it than that. "Thunder and Roses"is a horror story, but it's not just a horror story. It's also a story of transcendent courage, and, in the grimmest possible way, a very inspiring story.

I stated in my preface to the first story in the anthology, Arthur Clarke's "Rescue Party,"that since I was a boy of thirteen I associated that story, perhaps more than any other, with the inspiring nature of science fiction, which has always been to me its single most important characteristic. 

If it has a contender, though—perhaps even a superior—it's this story by Sturgeon. I knew that even as a boy, although I rarely let myself think about it.


Inspiration, like courage, comes in different forms. There's the sort of courage that Achilles exemplifies, which is inseparable from fame and glory and played out in front of a vast audience. And then there's what I think of as cellar courage—a quiet refusal to yield that goes unrecognized and is noted, if at all, only by the executioner. The courage of nameless heroes who die in the darkness.

I've never liked Achilles—and I wouldn't trust him any farther than I could throw him. Give me cellar courage. If the human race continues to survive, it will ultimately be due to that kind of heroism. Heroism which has none of the trappings of heroes, and is therefore all the more reliable.

We began this anthology with inspiration on a galactic scale, and we end it with a man sitting on a bench waiting to die. But not before he made the right decision, after wrestling with it like a quiet Titan. 

It seems . . . a very good way to end. A cycle, if you will. The logic of the first story depends, in the end, on the logic of the last. Without the one, you will never reach the other. The road to the stars begins in a cellar. Or, as the poet William Butler Yeats put it:

Those masterful images because complete
Grew in pure mind but out of what began?
I must lie down where all the ladders start
In the foul rag and bone shop of the heart.

 

THE END

Trigger Tide by Wyman Guin

Trigger Tide

by Wyman Guin



Preface by David Drake

 

I first read "Trigger Tide" when I was fourteen. I didn't understand it, but I almost understood it. The work stood on its own as an action/adventure story, but it held an assumption about how the world, the universe, worked that I couldn't quite grasp.

I've reread the story a number of times since then, including its original appearance the October 1950 Astounding (with Guin using the pseudonym Norman Menasco). Often reading a story in its original context will bring it into a different focus. That was true of "Trigger Tide," but I still don't think I quite understand it.

Neither have I ever gotten "Trigger Tide" out of my mind. That's why it's here.

 

 

 

That first day and night I lay perfectly still. I was often conscious but there was no thought of moving. I breathed shallowly.

In midmorning of the second day I began to feel the ants and flies that swarmed in the cake of mud, blood and festering flesh I was wearing for clothes. Then, through the morning mists of its tiny sixth planet that giant white sun slammed down on me.

I had been able to see something of the surroundings before they began working me over. After they had taken the hood off my head and while they were stripping away my clothes and harness of power equipment, the first orbit moon—the little fast, pale green one—shot up out of the blue-black sea. I had been able to tell in its light that we were on a tide shelf, probably the third.

Now burnt, lashed and clubbed I lay face down in the quick growing weeds of the hot tide shelf. The weeds were beginning to crawl against my face in the breathless air and dimly I realized a moon must be rising.

It had been the predawn of the tenth day of period thirty-six when the two of them stepped out of an aircar on Quartz Street and the girl I was walking home to the Great Island Hotel turned me over to them. If it was true that I had been lying here that day and night and this was the next midmorning, and if this was the third shelf, there would soon be a tide washing over me.

That tide was not easy to calculate. That it could be figured out is a tribute to the way they drill information into you before you leave The Central on an assignment. But the most thorough textbook knowledge of a planet’s conditions is thin stuff when you are actually there and have to know them better than the natives. I tried the calculation all over again with that great sun frying my skull and got the same answer.

In about an hour the big fifth orbit moon and the sun would be overhead. The equally big third orbit moon would be slightly behind. Together they would lift the sea onto the third shelf all through this latitude.

The kind of day it was these tides would come up smoothly and steadily. Through the buzzing of flies I could not hear the sea. That did not mean it was not a hundred feet away lapping rapidly higher on the third sea wall.

I lay perfectly still except for my shallow breathing and waited for the sea.

When the water came over me in a shall rush I strangled. Quickly, I refused to move. The water rushed over me again and again softening the clotted mud that had kept me from oozing to death. Finally when the surf receded it was still about me and I had to try moving.

I got to my knees and set to work with my right hand to get some vision. With the sea now washing higher about me I finally got the clot from my right eye and achieved a blurred view of daylight.

You have to have at least some luck. When you run out of it altogether you are dead. The fourth sea wall was about fifty yards away and looked as though a normal man could make it quite easily. How I made it was another story. I could barely use my legs and the left arm was useless. All the time I was reopening my wounds on the quartzcar formations of the sea wall.

That quartzcar is not like the familiar coral that forms some of the islands of Earth. It is made up from quartz particles that are suspended in the ocean water. It is a concretion in an intricate lattice which small crustacea pile up in regular patterns. The animals build their quartzcar islands from the quartz dust that rises in tidal rhythms off the floor of the shallow planetary sea. Consequently the islands come in layers with tide shelves that correspond to the height of various lunar tides.

The only land on that planet is the countless archipelagoes of quartzcar. On the sea walls or when you dig it up it presents a fine rasplike face that opened my wounds and left me bleeding and gasping with pain when I reached the top.

That afternoon I was not unconscious. I slept. It was dark when I awakened. Then slowly, magnificently it was light again as the fifth orbit moon rose over the sea, a great ball of electric blue. Only a short time later the little chartreuse first moon came rocketing up to catch and finally, a shade to the south, to pass the larger body on its own quick trip to the zenith.

Back at The Central the “white haired boys,” the psychostatisticians, can tell you all about why people get into wars. If they had not been right about every assignment they had plotted for me, I would never have lived to get beat up on this one. Sometimes their anthropoquations give very complex answers. Sometimes, as in the case of these people, the answer is simple. It was so simple in this case that it read like Twentieth Century newspaper propaganda. But lying there looking out into the glorious sky I didn’t believe in wars. There never had been any. There never would be any. Surely they would close The Central and I could stay there forever watching the great moons roll across the galaxy.

I reawakened with a sharpened sense of urgency. I got to my feet. There was going to be a war if I didn’t get on with the assignment. The fine part about this job was everyone wanted it “hush.” The ideal performance for a Central Operator is, of course, to hit a planet, get the business over with and get out without anyone ever guessing you were doing anything but buying curios. Generally those you’re up against try to throw you into public light—a bad light. These boys wanted it hush much worse than I did. It gave me a certain advantage tactically. I will not say the mess I had got myself into was part of my plan. But they were going to scramble at the sight of their mayhem walking back into the city.

I had to skirt half the city to reach my contact and a safe place to heal. To make it before morning I had to take advantage of every moment of moonlight.

After about half my journey I had a long wait in the dark before the fourth orbit moon came up and I was able to move ahead. I was skirting the city very close through the fern tree forest but, except for an occasional house and couples necking in aircars idling low over the fronds, I had little to worry about.

Toward morning the only light was the second brief flight of the tiny first moon and the going was much slower. But at least while it was up alone the vegetation did not move about so much. I finished the last lap to my Contact staggering and dangerously in broad daylight.

* * *

He didn’t say anything when he opened the door of his cottage. He didn’t show surprise or hesitate too long either. He led me in carefully and put me down on a bed.

Part of the time he was working on me I slept and part of the time I was wide awake gasping. It would have been just about as bad as when they worked me over except that he used some drugs and I knew he was trying to put me together instead of take me apart.

Then at last I slept undisturbed—that day and the next night. When I awoke he was still there staring down at me with no expression on his face.

It was the first time I had tried to form words with my mashed mouth. I finally got out, “How did you recognize me? You’d only seen me normal once.”

I got two shocks in rapid succession. He said, “I’m awfully sorry about your eye.”

It flashed over me that this man had gone sour as an Operator. No Central Operator is ever sorry for anything. Certainly no one ever says so when you’ve had “bad luck.”

I got the second shock and pulled myself up from the bed. I searched the blurred room till I made out a mirror and went to it without his help. It was only then I realized they had put out one of my eyes.

I don’t know whether it was just fury and determination to heal fast or whether he was right that there is some mysterious influence on that planet that accelerates healing. It took me only about three weeks to get back to the point where I felt I was in shape to tackle them again. The bones in my arm knitted very well and it was surprising how fast the burns healed.

He knew a lot about that planet, this Operator. He couldn’t stop asking questions about it. What made the vegetation move when a moon was up? Why did the animal life, including men, slow its activity at the same time? The only question it seemed he hadn’t asked was why he, an Operator for The Central, had adopted one of the major habits of the planet he had been assigned to. He wouldn’t move while there was a conjunction of moons at zenith. Instead he criticized me for exercising my scarred legs while a moon was up. You’d think it would have reminded him that being inactive at such times was only a planetary habit.

It was impossible to question him along a consistent vein. He would start talking about their organization and end wondering about the possible influences on human behavior of subtle rhythms in gravity. He would open a conjecture about the daily habits of their Leader and it would end a theory on the psychology of island cultures. His long expressionless horseface would turn to me and he would conclude with something like, “You know, Herman Melville was right about the sea. It is not a vista but a background. People living on it experience mostly in a foreground.”

Every Operator for The Central has at times to think profoundly about such things and be equipped better than average to do so. You can’t deal effectively with the variegated human cultures now scattered far out into the galaxy without being neatly sensitive to the psychological influences of landscape, flora, climate, ancestry and planetary neighbors.

But at present I had a much blunter assignment. I had to reach a carefully protected man I had seen only in photographs. I had to reach him in the shortest possible time and kill him. Now, the worse luck of all, my only Contact had “taken root.”

It happened every day of course. Psychostatistically it was inevitable. A fine Operator hit a planet where he began to take an emotional interest. He adopted quite seriously one or more of the major habits of the natives. This man had reached the next stage where his emotional interest in his new-found “home” dominated his finely drilled ties to The Central. In his case it had taken only a standard month and a half. In fact it had not been visible a month ago when the pilot of my tiny space shuttle dropped me off in the dark at his cottage. I finally realized the only thing I could get from him now was a rehearsal of the story he had told me that night before I walked alone into the strange city.

But I delayed asking him to retell his story. An odd thing happened. It happened just as I was about to ask him to go into town and buy me a set of the local power equipment. We were on our usual morning walk through the fern woods. Naturally he had refused to exercise until the passing of the second orbit moon. That had irritated me. I was on the verge of spitting out that I was wasting time and would be on my way as soon as he could run into town and buy me the local harness.

There in the middle of the path lay my own power equipment—the harness they had stripped off with my clothes down on the tide shelf three weeks before. If they had only left this harness on me, I would have been able to antigrav my way over the fourth sea wall instead of frictioning my way up on peeling flesh. I knew the harness and helmet on sight. I picked it up and I was certain. The hair at the back of my neck stirred.

I didn’t say anything and he was still enough of an Operator not to ask. We both knew it was no accident.

Back at the cottage I spent the rest of the day and most of the night checking that harness of power equipment. There was absolutely nothing wrong with it that I could find. The radio, sending and receiving, was in perfect order both on inspection and when I check-called to my ship waiting on the second orbit moon. The arms, both the microsplosive for killing single targets and the heavy 0.5 Kg. demolition pistol were as they had been when on my person. The antigravity mechanism and its neatly built-in turbojet, part by part, under X-ray and on the fine balance he used for assaying quartzcar specimens, was an unblemished complexity. Again, when the equipment’s own X-ray was turned on its tiny “field-isolated” radioactive pile, no flaw could be seen. Naturally that was something of which I couldn’t be sure. Something that I couldn’t detect with these instruments might have been done to that tiny power pile at the subatomic level. The X-ray diffraction patterns were O.K. but—why did they want me to have my own harness? What reason outside the harness?

I had reduced to a simple question about its nuclear fission pile that highly multiple question, “Has this power equipment been tampered with?” I would have to gamble for the rest of the answer and it was worth the gamble. An Operator’s power equipment is the best in the galaxy. From what I had seen of the equipment worn on this planet it was definitely second rate.

It was nearly morning but he was still sitting in a corner, his long melancholy face buried in the local books on quartzcar. One of them was titled in the native language, “The Planetary Evolution of Quartzcar.” Well, it was not considered desertion to lose all interest in his assignment and all ties with The Central. It was just an occupational disease.

“You know,” he said, suddenly standing up and walking to the greenish darkness of the window, “there are several piezoelectric substances.”

“Yes,” I answered. I was busy putting the intricate crystal plates back into the atomic fission pile.

“Quartz, of course, is one of them.”

“Yes.”

“You know how a piezoelectric substance behaves?”

I was annoyed. The job of slipping the countless delicate crystal plates back into the pile was exacting. “Well,” I said without bothering to cover sarcasm, “why don’t you tell me all about it. I got through physics on a fluke.”

By the galaxy, he took me seriously. He stood there staring out at the fern forest and talked earnestly about electroelastic crystals like I was a first-year physics student.

“These substances convert electrical to mechanical energy and vice versa. You know how the old-fashioned phonograph pickup worked?”

I didn’t pay any attention to him.

“The needle was activated by grooved impressions in a record by previous sounds. In the pickup device this needle pressed against a piezoelectric substance. Its mechanical movement against the crystal set up corresponding electrical discharges from it to the speaker.” I was silent working on the pile. I decided that if he said, “You know” again I would get up and poke him. “You know,” he continued, “every island on this planet is constructed from quartz—a piezoelectric substance.”

I didn’t get up and poke him. I continued to stare at the harness but I stopped working on it. He went right on without turning. “These constructions of quartz are subjected to rhythmic mechanical stress when the lunar tides pile up against them.”

He was a capable man or he would not have been an Operator in the first place. That a man “took root” on some planet and became absolutely untrustworthy as an Operator did not mean he was not still a brilliant and sincere man. This one was obviously trying to solve a serious problem and doing well at it. I looked up with a new respect and he turned from the window.

He couldn’t help smiling and I had to admit he had slipped one over on me. He said, “You see, it could be that these quartzcar islands generate an electric field as the tides press on them. The strange blind movement of some of the vegetative forms could be a response stimulated by that electric field. The cessation of animal movement could be a safeguarding adaptation preventing disease which might develop when strenuous activity is pursued in the presence of such fields.”

I couldn’t help grinning. I had been blindly driving ahead because the assignment was urgent and I had missed all this.

“I realize,” he continued, “that I have taken root but I think it is important that I was trying to solve the defeat of our first operation when I first took up the question of quartzcar.”

“You know,” I interrupted, “they treated me just as they treated your group—just as you described it to me that first night. They left me absolutely alone—no interference at all. I knew I was asking for it when I overplayed my hand. But I had to do something to get action. Up to then it was like working in a vacuum. You wouldn’t have guessed there was a Party. There was no sign of them. It was only by boring in with the full intention of killing the Leader if I wasn’t stopped that I finally forced them to show.”

“Yes, that’s how it was with us,” he agreed. “Not one of the six of us met any interference until in a period of thirty seconds in various parts of the city two crashed from heights as though the antigravs had suddenly failed, two were blown to bits and one just simply died while walking through the rotunda of the Government Building where he was supposed to create a divergence in ten seconds.

“But why did they spare me? Was it because taking a shower was so innocent? If they could so neatly blow the whole plot wide open just at the moment it was climaxing they must have realized my part in it. They must have known I was innocently occupied taking a shower only because it was not my moment to be in action.

“Within seventy seconds their Leader would have been dead. Instead five of us were dead. It took me a long time to figure out that that was not due to a lot of concerted planning on their part. They had known it was going to happen at a certain time with no help from them. They knew when we were going into action and knew therefore that we would fail due to some calculable force. It wasn’t necessary for them to interfere if we didn’t plan to act before a certain time.”

I nodded. “And I got what was coming to me because I went into action before they could calculate my defeat. Well, then the quicker I try again the better. I’m going in this morning.” He almost volunteered to go with me.

* * *

Back in the city my mutilated face created attention. When I antigraved onto the sixth floor balconade of the Great Island Hotel people at nearby tables of the open-air restaurant turned to stare and turned quickly away. The table I had hoped for was unoccupied. I took it facing away from most of them so I could see the entertainment stage. Beyond the stage, as it was viewed from this point, were the antigrav tubes of the hotel. They were transparent and in them people rose to the upper floors or descended to the street without need of harness such as I was wearing.

The waiter came and took my order for a drink. He didn’t recognize me, yet he and I had had a joke once about that drink.

My watch said it should be only a few minutes before she would be on the stage singing quiet little songs. It was on this stage that their Leader had first seen her. His only overt human quality was an interest in tall lanky women. He liked them at least eight inches taller than himself. This one he had promptly moved from the artists’ and actors’ quarters of the city to a penthouse atop the Great Island Hotel.

Presently the string trio she used for a background came out and lounged about the potted trees on the stage. They warmed up with a few dolorous little melodies. Beyond the stage the antigrav tubes were crowded. In one of them a tragic waterfall of humanity descended to the street level. In the other people drifted upward. Occasionally a person or couple in more casual ascent hesitated as they passed the restaurant and decided to come in for a drink.

The string trio started another number and she walked gracefully out onto the informal stage. She smiled on her audience with a possessive warmth that was half her popularity. Then she began singing in a husky, unmusical but dramatic voice. She was a beautiful girl all right but my attention was suddenly diverted.

I recognized the short scrawny one immediately—the big man when he spoke. “Say, I never thought we’d see you again. Mind if we sit down?” He waited politely.

I motioned to the chairs. “Say,” he chuckled, closer to my face, “we sure did a beautiful job on you, didn’t we?”

“Yes,” I agreed, “I owe you both a great deal.”

He had a big hearty laugh. “Well,” he gasped between guffaws, “no hard feelings, I hope.”

“I’m very objective. I understand it was all in a day’s work.”

“Sure,” he said solemnly. “Let us buy you a drink.” The waiter had come up.

I shrugged at my glass. “I’ll have the same. There’s no strychnine in it.”

That set him off again. “Say,” he burbled, “you’re a card. You know when I first took a shine to you?”

I declared I couldn’t imagine when it might have been.

“When I broke your arm. You really took it like a man. Didn’t he take it well, Shorty?”

The little man wasn’t saying anything. He was making his good-humored grin do as his contribution.

“Well, here’s to your health.” The big man raised his glass the minute the waiter set it down.

I drank with them and we sat in silence listening to her song until he called the waiter over for another round.

“Yes, sir,” he exclaimed when it had arrived. “I sure never expected to see you again.”

“Oh, you knew I got off the tide shelf. That’s why you planted my power harness so I’d find it.” That took the humor out of his eyes.

“I don’t get you,” he said in a level voice. The little guy had stopped grinning.

I explained about finding my power harness on our path in the fern forest.

“I think,” he said with finality, “some animal dragged it up there. We left it on the tide shelf.” There was ice in his eyes.

“That could be,” I said, knowing it could not be.

“Waiter,” he called, “bring us another drink.”

Well, they had me and they weren’t letting me go. I was going to have to sit quietly in the public restaurant of the Great Island Hotel and get drunk without making a scene.

It was getting on to noon and there was a big moon hitting its zenith. Activity in the restaurant was beginning to slow and there were fewer people in the antigrav tubes. She was singing her last number backing off stage with the trio.

I looked at the big man and his scrawny companion. There was one good solid reason why they had suddenly showed up and why they were gluing themselves to me. The Leader was up above in his Great Island Hotel penthouse waiting to spend the luncheon with his long lanky beauty.

How long would the siesta last? I wasn’t very far into that thought when I came up with a start and my hand stopped in the act of putting down my glass. They both glanced at me.

All five moons were going to be overhead at noon. They would lift the sea onto the fourth tide shelf. That was the biggest tide and it was rare. I calculated the last time it had happened was over a standard month and a half ago. If my sudden guess was right, the healthiest place for a Central Operator at that time would be in the shower.

“What’s the matter,” the big man asked in a monotone. “You worried about something? You afraid you’re stuck in bad company? Don’t worry. We just want to have a couple more drinks with you and then we have to leave . . . in a hurry.”

“Thanks. I’ll sit the next one out. I want to have a little talk with that singer.” I stood up and he grabbed my arm, the one he hadn’t had any practice breaking.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” He tightened down on the arm. But my advantage was the secrecy they needed.

“You wouldn’t want a scene, would you?” I shook my arm loose. People were beginning to take notice and he sat quietly glaring at me.

I beat it through the stage door and back to her dressing room. I stepped in without knocking. She looked up startled from where she stood buckling a belt to her lounging shorts. She didn’t recognize me and she didn’t like me.

“Get out of here.”

“You remember me,” I soothed. “Three weeks ago you and I were regular pals. One night you went so far as to introduce me to a couple of special friends of yours in an aircar down there on the street.”

She was genuinely horrified and began backing away. I walked toward her. “You thought they were going to kill me, didn’t you?”

She nodded dumbly. Then, “For the Leader—” and automatically remembering another Party slogan, “for Planetary Security.”

“You didn’t know they were just going to torture me?”

She shook her head piteously almost imploringly—a little provincial girl caught in something bigger and uglier than she had dreamed.

“And leaving me alive to come back and ask you questions? Admitting the pleasure they took in how badly I would suffer when I regained consciousness how could they afford to take the chance of leaving me alive?”

“Because you will die anyway.” There was an abrupt personal fright on her face. She raised her hands with the palms outthrust as though pushing the sight of me away.

I thought I saw something move at the open window and changed my position in the room backing from her. She was almost wailing, “You will die now . . . the tide . . . it’s almost—”

One thing they weren’t taking chances with was that I might radio her answer off the planet.

The scrawny devil popped up from where he had been antigraving at the window and the microsplosive he put in her chest made her dead throat shriek as the long beautiful legs crumpled to the floor. I blew his head off while her glaring face sank before me. His body spun but antigraved where it was till I got to the window to haul it in.

From somewhere above the big guy fired at me as I yanked the body in and took the harness. I peeled out of my own power equipment and threw it in a corner and got out of the room. In a washroom down the hall I adjusted the little guy’s harness to fit me. As I stepped out into the hall again there was a shattering explosion from her dressing room. I had got rid of that harness one hundred twenty seconds soon enough.

There was one spot the big hoodlum wouldn’t be looking for me. I went right back to my table in the restaurant. There was, of course, no activity or conversation between the few who had stayed at their tables during the high tide. People sat in silence and seemingly asleep waiting for the moons to pass. I knew from experience that in that condition they would resist hearing my voice. I kept it low and held the radio pickup of the harness close to my lips.

After some hunting around due to unfamiliar controls I made contact with my ship on the second moon. I told them where and when to pick me up. “Now,” I said, “in case I don’t make it get this down: Piezoelectric islands generate field in response to lunar tides. At highest tide this vibrates the field generating crystals of the fission pile in Operator’s harness. Under interfering frequencies radioactives jar to critical mass and explode. Local harnesses do not react.”

I was just leaving the table preparing to antigrav outside the building to where that penthouse hung in the mists fifty floors up when I saw my Contact racing toward me.

“I’ve come to help . . . I guess I still—”

“Get out of your harness. Throw it over the edge of the balcony.”

He didn’t ask questions. He hurried to the edge unfastening the harness. But from up in the mist they opened fire on him and he never took the harness off. He refastened it and antigraved swiftly up into the mist firing ahead of him with the heavy 0.5 Kg. demolition pistol set for proximity explosions.

That was quick thinking. Up there they might be antigraving alongside the building or they might be firing from windows and the unconfined proximity explosion was more likely to get both.

I followed him as fast as I could with the weaker harness I was wearing. I pulled out farther from the building to back his fire. We had both dropped the infrared viewers out of our helmets but in that mist they weren’t much good. The mob above was having the same trouble and we were moving targets, hopeless for proximity fire. Our guns laid a sheet of flame high up on the building.

I believe he was hit but not killed on the way up. He seemed to stagger in his swerving ascent. But immediately their vantage came into view—a balcony surrounding the penthouse. Our fire had driven them back a few feet and he antigraved like a streak up over the edge.

There was a blinding flash and I reached the roof garden to find the mob of them dead in the explosion that had disintegrated him. One whole wall of the penthouse had been blown in. I leaped through this wreckage. The big man—the man I owed so much—was getting to his feet. Apparently he and two others with him had been guarding the door beyond. He looked surprised when he saw me. He must have thought till now it had been I who blew up out in the garden.

I slammed a target-set 0.5 Kg. demolition shell into them. It also blew the door apart. Across the room beyond their surprised Leader was sinking into the antigrav tube. He fired quickly and wildly and I fired a microsplosive from my left hand.

I thought I saw the shot get him but I dashed to the antigrav tube to make sure. Past shocked tenants who had rushed into the tube to escape the explosion-wracked upper floors his headless body lolled its way. The body, unmistakable in the distinctive white uniform he always wore, drifted down the tube stirring as it went a swelling murmur.

The psychostatisticians back at The Central get my vote as the “white haired boys.” This was the first time in two hundred standard years that their anthropoquations had described one man and his lieutenant as the “cause” of a war movement. Generally the picture they turn up as “casualty” in a war is spiny with factors and it takes an army of Operators to cover all the angles. This time they had come out a little shamefacedly and said, “It looks like old-fashioned newspaper thinking but for once it’s a fact. Get that one man and there will be no war.”

As I leaned over the “down” antigrav in the Great Island Hotel his body drifted to oblivion. The murmur rising from the viewers had horror in it. But there was also an unmistakable note of relief. Finally, from far below, someone asked, “Did they get the rest of them?”

 

 

 

 

 

A Pail of Air by Fritz Leiber

A Pail of Air

by Fritz Leiber

Preface by Eric Flint




My reaction when I first read this story, somewhere around the age of fifteen, was perhaps bizarre. "A Pail of Air"is a story about survival in the face of desperate circumstances, and there are no ifs, ands or buts about it.

There is no atmosphere . . . bitter cold . . . only way you can breathe is to dig up a pail of liquid oxygen and heat it . . . 

Yup, that's desperate.  

Still, I had pretty much the same reaction I had to L. Sprague de Camp's "A Gun for Dinosaur," a story which appears later in this anthology and about which I make some remarks in an afterword. Desperate circumstances . . . impossible odds . . . almost alone . . . 

Oh, how cool. 

Like I said, a bizarre reaction. I didn't even have the excuse of being a stupid adolescent. I wasn't stupid. Already by the age of fourteen I could rip off the great suave mantras regarding adventure, with a curled lip I'd learned from studying David Niven in the movies.


Adventure. Ah, yes. That's someone else having a very rough go of it very far away. 

Adventure. Yes. My idea of adventure is carrying a pint of bitters from one smoked-filled room to the next.  

Granted, I didn't really have any idea what "bitters" were. (A few years later I found out, and the decline of the British empire was no longer a mystery to me.) But I understood the gist of the wisecrack well enough—and fully subscribed to the sentiment.

I still do. And now, from the vantage point of my mid-fifties wisdom and sagacity, I can look back on the reaction of that callow youngster and realize that he was . . . well, completely correct.

This is just one hell of a cool story. If you look at it the right way, as much fun as one of Leiber's famous Fahfrd and the Grey Mouser tales.

Okay. You have to squint.

 

 

 

Pa had sent me out to get an extra pail of air. I’d just about scooped it full and most of the warmth had leaked from my fingers when I saw the thing.

You know, at first I thought it was a young lady. Yes, a beautiful young lady’s face all glowing in the dark and looking at me from the fifth floor of the opposite apartment, which hereabouts is the floor just above the white blanket of frozen air. I’d never seen a live young lady before, except in the old magazines—Sis is just a kid and Ma is pretty sick and miserable—and it gave me such a start that I dropped the pail. Who wouldn’t, knowing everyone on Earth was dead except Pa and Ma and Sis and you?

Even at that, I don’t suppose I should have been surprised. We all see things now and then. Ma has some pretty bad ones, to judge from the way she bugs her eyes at nothing and just screams and screams and huddles back against the blankets hanging around the Nest. Pa says it is natural we should react like that sometimes.

When I’d recovered the pail and could look again at the opposite apartment, I got an idea of what Ma might be feeling at those times, for I saw it wasn’t a young lady at all but simply a light—a tiny light that moved stealthily from window to window, just as if one of the cruel little stars had come down out of the airless sky to investigate why the Earth had gone away from the Sun, and maybe to hunt down something to torment or terrify, now that the Earth didn’t have the Sun’s protection.

I tell you, the thought of it gave me the creeps. I just stood there shaking, and almost froze my feet and did frost my helmet so solid on the inside that I couldn’t have seen the light even if it had come out of one of the windows to get me. Then I had the wit to go back inside.

Pretty soon I was feeling my familiar way through the thirty or so blankets and rugs Pa has got hung around to slow down the escape of air from the Nest, and I wasn’t quite so scared. I began to hear the tick-ticking of the clocks in the Nest and knew I was getting back into air, because there’s no sound outside in the vacuum, of course. But my mind was still crawly and uneasy as I pushed through the last blankets—Pa’s got them faced with aluminum foil to hold in the heat—and came into the Nest.

* * *

Let me tell you about the Nest. It’s low and snug, just room for the four of us and our things. The floor is covered with thick woolly rugs. Three of the sides are blankets, and the blankets roofing it touch Pa’s head. He tells me it’s inside a much bigger room, but I’ve never seen the real walls or ceiling.

Against one of the blankets is a big set of shelves, with tools and books and other stuff, and on top of it a whole row of clocks. Pa’s very fussy about keeping them wound. He says we must never forget time, and without a sun or moon, that would be easy to do.

The fourth wall has blankets all over except around the fireplace, in which there is a fire that must never go out. It keeps us from freezing and does a lot more besides. One of us must always watch it. Some of the clocks are alarm and we can use them to remind us. In the early days there was only Ma to take turns with Pa—I think of that when she gets difficult—but now there’s me to help, and Sis too.

It’s Pa who is the chief guardian of the fire, though. I always think of him that way: a tall man sitting cross-legged, frowning anxiously at the fire, his lined face golden in its light, and every so often carefully placing on it a piece of coal from the big heap beside it. Pa tells me there used to be guardians of the fire sometimes in the very old days—vestal virgins, he calls them—although there was unfrozen air all around then and you didn’t really need one.

He was sitting just that way now, though he got up quick to take the pail from me and bawl me out for loitering—he’d spotted my frozen helmet right off. That roused Ma and she joined in picking on me. She’s always trying to get the load off her feelings, Pa explains. Sis let off a couple of silly squeals too.

Pa handled the pail of air in a twist of cloth. Now that it was inside the Nest, you could really feel its coldness. It just seemed to suck the heat out of everything. Even the flames cringed away from it as Pa put it down close by the fire.

Yet it’s that glimmery white stuff in the pail that keeps us alive. It slowly melts and vanishes and refreshes the Nest and feeds the fire. The blankets keep it from escaping too fast. Pa’d like to seal the whole place, but he can’t—building’s too earthquake-twisted, and besides he has to leave the chimney open for smoke.

Pa says air is tiny molecules that fly away like a flash if there isn’t something to stop them. We have to watch sharp not to let the air run low. Pa always keeps a big reserve supply of it in buckets behind the first blankets, along with extra coal and cans of food and other things, such as pails of snow to melt for water. We have to go way down to the bottom floor for that stuff, which is a mean trip, and get it through a door to outside.

You see, when the Earth got cold, all the water in the air froze first and made a blanket ten feet thick or so everywhere, and then down on top of that dropped the crystals of frozen air, making another white blanket sixty or seventy feet thick maybe.

Of course, all the parts of the air didn’t freeze and snow down at the same time.

First to drop out was the carbon dioxide—when you’re shoveling for water, you have to make sure you don’t go too high and get any of that stuff mixed in, for it would put you to sleep, maybe for good, and make the fire go out. Next there’s the nitrogen, which doesn’t count one way or the other, though it’s the biggest part of the blanket. On top of that and easy to get at, which is lucky for us, there’s the oxygen that keeps us alive. Pa says we live better than kings ever did, breathing pure oxygen, but we’re used to it and don’t notice. Finally, at the very top, there’s a slick of liquid helium, which is funny stuff. All of these gases in neat separate layers. Like a pussy caffay, Pa laughingly says, whatever that is.

* * *

I was busting to tell them all about what I’d seen, and so as soon as I’d ducked out of my helmet and while I was still climbing out of my suit, I cut loose. Right away Ma got nervous and began making eyes at the entry-slit in the blankets and wringing her hands together—the hand where she’d lost three fingers from frostbite inside the good one, as usual. I could tell that Pa was annoyed at me scaring her and wanted to explain it all away quickly, yet could see I wasn’t fooling.

“And you watched this light for some time, son?” he asked when I finished.

I hadn’t said anything about first thinking it was a young lady’s face. Somehow that part embarrassed me.

“Long enough for it to pass five windows and go to the next floor.”

“And it didn’t look like stray electricity or crawling liquid or starlight focused by a growing crystal, or anything like that?”

He wasn’t just making up those ideas. Odd things happen in a world that’s about as cold as can be, and just when you think matter would be frozen dead, it takes on a strange new life. A slimy stuff comes crawling toward the Nest, just like an animal snuffing for heat—that’s the liquid helium. And once, when I was little, a bolt of lightning—not even Pa could figure where it came from—hit the nearby steeple and crawled up and down it for weeks, until the glow finally died.

“Not like anything I ever saw,” I told him.

He stood for a moment frowning. Then, “I’ll go out with you, and you show it to me,” he said.

Ma raised a howl at the idea of being left alone, and Sis joined in, too, but Pa quieted them. We started climbing into our outside clothes—mine had been warming by the fire. Pa made them. They have plastic headpieces that were once big double-duty transparent food cans, but they keep heat and air in and can replace the air for a little while, long enough for our trips for water and coal and food and so on.

Ma started moaning again, “I’ve always known there was something outside there, waiting to get us. I’ve felt it for years—something that’s part of the cold and hates all warmth and wants to destroy the Nest. It’s been watching us all this time, and now it’s coming after us. It’ll get you and then come for me. Don’t go, Harry!”

Pa had everything on but his helmet. He knelt by the fireplace and reached in and shook the long metal rod that goes up the chimney and knocks off the ice that keeps trying to clog it. Once a week he goes up on the roof to check if it’s working all right. That’s our worst trip and Pa won’t let me make it alone.

“Sis,” Pa said quietly, “come watch the fire. Keep an eye on the air, too. If it gets low or doesn’t seem to be boiling fast enough, fetch another bucket from behind the blanket. But mind your hands. Use the cloth to pick up the bucket.”

Sis quit helping Ma be frightened and came over and did as she was told. Ma quieted down pretty suddenly, though her eyes were still kind of wild as she watched Pa fix on his helmet tight and pick up a pail and the two of us go out.

* * *

Pa led the way and I took hold of his belt. It’s a funny thing, I’m not afraid to go by myself, but when Pa’s along I always want to hold on to him. Habit, I guess, and then there’s no denying that this time I was a bit scared.

You see, it’s this way. We know that everything is dead out there. Pa heard the last radio voices fade away years ago, and had seen some of the last folks die who weren’t as lucky or well-protected as us. So we knew that if there was something groping around out there, it couldn’t be anything human or friendly.

Besides that, there’s a feeling that comes with it always being night, cold night. Pa says there used to be some of that feeling even in the old days, but then every morning the Sun would come and chase it away. I have to take his word for that, not ever remembering the Sun as being anything more than a big star. You see, I hadn’t been born when the dark star snatched us away from the Sun, and by now it’s dragged us out beyond the orbit of the planet Pluto, Pa says, and taking us farther out all the time.

I found myself wondering whether there mightn’t be something on the dark star that wanted us, and if that was why it had captured the Earth. Just then we came to the end of the corridor and I followed Pa out on the balcony.

I don’t know what the city looked like in the old days, but now it’s beautiful. The starlight lets you see pretty well—there’s quite a bit of light in those steady points speckling the blackness above. (Pa says the stars used to twinkle once, but that was because there was air.) We are on a hill and the shimmery plain drops away from us and then flattens out, cut up into neat squares by the troughs that used to be streets. I sometimes make my mashed potatoes look like it, before I pour on the gravy.

Some taller buildings push up out of the feathery plain, topped by rounded caps of air crystals, like the fur hood Ma wears, only whiter. On those buildings you can see the darker squares of windows, underlined by white dashes of air crystals. Some of them are on a slant, for many of the buildings are pretty badly twisted by the quakes and all the rest that happened when the dark star captured the Earth.

Here and there a few icicles hang, water icicles from the first days of the cold, other icicles of frozen air that melted on the roofs and dripped and froze again. Sometimes one of those icicles will catch the light of a star and send it to you so brightly you think the star has swooped into the city. That was one of the things Pa had been thinking of when I told him about the light, but I had thought of it myself first and known it wasn’t so.

He touched his helmet to mine so we could talk easier and he asked me to point out the windows to him. But there wasn’t any light moving around inside them now, or anywhere else. To my surprise, Pa didn’t bawl me out and tell me I’d been seeing things. He looked all around quite a while after filling his pail, and just as we were going inside he whipped around without warning, as if to take some peeping thing off guard.

I could feel it, too. The old peace was gone. There was something lurking out there, watching, waiting, getting ready.

Inside, he said to me, touching helmets, “If you see something like that again, son, don’t tell the others. Your Ma’s sort of nervous these days and we owe her all the feeling of safety we can give her. Once—it was when your sister was born—I was ready to give up and die, but your Mother kept me trying. Another time she kept the fire going a whole week all by herself when I was sick. Nursed me and took care of the two of you, too.

“You know that game we sometimes play, sitting in a square in the Nest, tossing a ball around? Courage is like a ball, son. A person can hold it only so long, and then he’s got to toss it to someone else. When it’s tossed your way, you’ve got to catch it and hold it tight—and hope there’ll be someone else to toss it to when you get tired of being brave.”

His talking to me that way made me feel grown-up and good. But it didn’t wipe away the thing outside from the back of my mind—or the fact that Pa took it seriously.

* * *

It’s hard to hide your feelings about such a thing. When we got back in the Nest and took off our outside clothes, Pa laughed about it all and told them it was nothing and kidded me for having such an imagination, but his words fell flat. He didn’t convince Ma and Sis any more than he did me. It looked for a minute like we were all fumbling the courage-ball. Something had to be done, and almost before I knew what I was going to say, I heard myself asking Pa to tell us about the old days, and how it all happened.

He sometimes doesn’t mind telling that story, and Sis and I sure like to listen to it, and he got my idea. So we were all settled around the fire in a wink, and Ma pushed up some cans to thaw for supper, and Pa began. Before he did, though, I noticed him casually get a hammer from the shelf and lay it down beside him.

It was the same old story as always—I think I could recite the main thread of it in my sleep—though Pa always puts in a new detail or two and keeps improving it in spots.

He told us how the Earth had been swinging around the Sun ever so steady and warm, and the people on it fixing to make money and wars and have a good time and get power and treat each other right or wrong, when without warning there comes charging out of space this dead star, this burned out sun, and upsets everything.

You know, I find it hard to believe in the way those people felt, any more than I can believe in the swarming number of them. Imagine people getting ready for the horrible sort of war they were cooking up. Wanting it even, or at least wishing it were over so as to end their nervousness. As if all folks didn’t have to hang together and pool every bit of warmth just to keep alive. And how can they have hoped to end danger, any more than we can hope to end the cold?

Sometimes I think Pa exaggerates and makes things out too black. He’s cross with us once in a while and was probably cross with all those folks. Still, some of the things I read in the old magazines sound pretty wild. He may be right.

* * *

The dark star, as Pa went on telling it, rushed in pretty fast and there wasn’t much time to get ready. At the beginning they tried to keep it a secret from most people, but then the truth came out, what with the earthquakes and floods—imagine, oceans of unfrozen water!—and people seeing stars blotted out by something on a clear night. First off they thought it would hit the Sun, and then they thought it would hit the Earth. There was even the start of a rush to get to a place called China, because people thought the star would hit on the other side. But then they found it wasn’t going to hit either side, but was going to come very close to the Earth.

Most of the other planets were on the other side of the Sun and didn’t get involved. The Sun and the newcomer fought over the Earth for a little while—pulling it this way and that, like two dogs growling over a bone, Pa described it this time—and then the newcomer won and carried us off. The Sun got a consolation prize, though. At the last minute he managed to hold on to the Moon.

That was the time of the monster earthquakes and floods, twenty times worse than anything before. It was also the time of the Big Jerk, as Pa calls it, when all Earth got yanked suddenly, just as Pa has done to me once or twice, grabbing me by the collar to do it, when I’ve been sitting too far from the fire.

You see, the dark star was going through space faster than the Sun, and in the opposite direction, and it had to wrench the world considerably in order to take it away.

The Big Jerk didn’t last long. It was over as soon as the Earth was settled down in its new orbit around the dark star. But it was pretty terrible while it lasted. Pa says that all sorts of cliffs and buildings toppled, oceans slopped over, swamps and sandy deserts gave great sliding surges that buried nearby lands. Earth was almost jerked out of its atmosphere blanket and the air got so thin in spots that people keeled over and fainted—though of course, at the same time, they were getting knocked down by the Big Jerk and maybe their bones broke or skulls cracked.

We’ve often asked Pa how people acted during that time, whether they were scared or brave or crazy or stunned, or all four, but he’s sort of leery of the subject, and he was again tonight. He says he was mostly too busy to notice.

You see, Pa and some scientist friends of his had figured out part of what was going to happen—they’d known we’d get captured and our air would freeze—and they’d been working like mad to fix up a place with airtight walls and doors, and insulation against the cold, and big supplies of food and fuel and water and bottled air. But the place got smashed in the last earthquakes and all Pa’s friends were killed then and in the Big Jerk. So he had to start over and throw the Nest together quick without any advantages, just using any stuff he could lay his hands on.

I guess he’s telling pretty much the truth when he says he didn’t have any time to keep an eye on how other folks behaved, either then or in the Big Freeze that followed—followed very quick, you know, both because the dark star was pulling us away very fast and because Earth’s rotation had been slowed in the tug-of-war, so that the nights were ten old nights long.

Still, I’ve got an idea of some of the things that happened from the frozen folk I’ve seen, a few of them in other rooms in our building, others clustered around the furnaces in the basements where we go for coal.

In one of the rooms, an old man sits stiff in a chair, with an arm and a leg in splints. In another, a man and a woman are huddled together in a bed with heaps of covers over them. You can just see their heads peeking out, close together. And in another a beautiful young lady is sitting with a pile of wraps huddled around her, looking hopefully toward the door, as if waiting for someone who never came back with warmth and food. They’re all still and stiff as statues, of course, but just like life.

Pa showed them to me once in quick winks of his flashlight, when he still had a fair supply of batteries and could afford to waste a little light. They scared me pretty bad and made my heart pound, especially the young lady.

* * *

Now, with Pa telling his story for the umpteenth time to take our minds off another scare, I got to thinking of the frozen folk again. All of a sudden I got an idea that scared me worse than anything yet. You see, I’d just remembered the face I’d thought I’d seen in the window. I’d forgotten about that on account of trying to hide it from the others.

What, I asked myself, if the frozen folk were coming to life? What if they were like the liquid helium that got a new lease on life and started crawling toward the heat just when you thought its molecules ought to freeze solid forever? Or like the electricity that moves endlessly when it’s just about as cold as that? What if the ever-growing cold, with the temperature creeping down the last few degrees to the last zero, had mysteriously wakened the frozen folk to life—not warm-blooded life, but something icy and horrible?

That was a worse idea than the one about something coming down from the dark star to get us.

Or maybe, I thought, both ideas might be true. Something coming down from the dark star and making the frozen folk move, using them to do its work. That would fit with both things I’d seen—the beautiful young lady and the moving, starlike light.

The frozen folk with minds from the dark star behind their unwinking eyes, creeping, crawling, snuffing their way, following the heat to the Nest.

I tell you, that thought gave me a very bad turn and I wanted very badly to tell the others my fears, but I remembered what Pa had said and clenched my teeth and didn’t speak.

We were all sitting very still. Even the fire was burning silently. There was just the sound of Pa’s voice and the clocks.

And then, from beyond the blankets, I thought I heard a tiny noise. My skin tightened all over me.

Pa was telling about the early years in the Nest and had come to the place where he philosophizes.

“So I asked myself then,” he said, “what’s the use of going on? What’s the use of dragging it out for a few years? Why prolong a doomed existence of hard work and cold and loneliness? The human race is done. The Earth is done. Why not give up, I asked myself—and all of a sudden I got the answer.”

Again I heard the noise, louder this time, a kind of uncertain, shuffling tread, coming closer. I couldn’t breathe.

“Life’s always been a business of working hard and fighting the cold,” Pa was saying. “The earth’s always been a lonely place, millions of miles from the next planet. And no matter how long the human race might have lived, the end would have come some night. Those things don’t matter. What matters is that life is good. It has a lovely texture, like some rich cloth or fur, or the petals of flowers—you’ve seen pictures of those, but I can’t describe how they feel—or the fire’s glow. It makes everything else worth while. And that’s as true for the last man as the first.”

And still the steps kept shuffling closer. It seemed to me that the inmost blanket trembled and bulged a little. Just as if they were burned into my imagination, I kept seeing those peering, frozen eyes.

“So right then and there,” Pa went on, and now I could tell that he heard the steps, too, and was talking loud so we maybe wouldn’t hear them, “right then and there I told myself that I was going on as if we had all eternity ahead of us. I’d have children and teach them all I could. I’d get them to read books. I’d plan for the future, try to enlarge and seal the Nest. I’d do what I could to keep everything beautiful and growing. I’d keep alive my feeling of wonder even at the cold and the dark and the distant stars.”

But then the blanket actually did move and lift. And there was a bright light somewhere behind it. Pa’s voice stopped and his eyes turned to the widening slit and his hand went out until it touched and gripped the handle of the hammer beside him.

* * *

In through the blanket stepped the beautiful young lady. She stood there looking at us the strangest way, and she carried something bright and unwinking in her hand. And two other faces peered over her shoulders—men’s faces, white and staring.

Well, my heart couldn’t have been stopped for more than four or five beats before I realized she was wearing a suit and helmet like Pa’s homemade ones, only fancier, and that the men were, too—and that the frozen folk certainly wouldn’t be wearing those. Also, I noticed that the bright thing in her hand was just a kind of flashlight.

The silence kept on while I swallowed hard a couple of times, and after that there was all sorts of jabbering and commotion.

They were simply people, you see. We hadn’t been the only ones to survive; we’d just thought so, for natural enough reasons. These three people had survived, and quite a few others with them. And when we found out how they’d survived, Pa let out the biggest whoop of joy.

They were from Los Alamos and they were getting their heat and power from atomic energy. Just using the uranium and plutonium intended for bombs, they had enough to go on for thousands of years. They had a regular little airtight city, with airlocks and all. They even generated electric light and grew plants and animals by it. (At this Pa let out a second whoop, waking Ma from her faint.)

But if we were flabbergasted at them, they were double-flabbergasted at us.

One of the men kept saying, “But it’s impossible, I tell you. You can’t maintain an air supply without hermetic sealing. It’s simply impossible.”

That was after he had got his helmet off and was using our air. Meanwhile, the young lady kept looking around at us as if we were saints, and telling us we’d done something amazing, and suddenly she broke down and cried.

They’d been scouting around for survivors, but they never expected to find any in a place like this. They had rocket ships at Los Alamos and plenty of chemical fuels. As for liquid oxygen, all you had to do was go out and shovel the air blanket at the top level. So after they’d got things going smoothly at Los Alamos, which had taken years, they’d decided to make some trips to likely places where there might be other survivors. No good trying long-distance radio signals, of course, since there was no atmosphere to carry them around the curve of the Earth.

Well, they’d found other colonies at Argonne and Brookhaven and way around the world at Harwell and Tanna Tuva. And now they’d been giving our city a look, not really expecting to find anything. But they had an instrument that noticed the faintest heat waves and it had told them there was something warm down here, so they’d landed to investigate. Of course we hadn’t heard them land, since there was no air to carry the sound, and they’d had to investigate around quite a while before finding us. Their instruments had given them a wrong steer and they’d wasted some time in the building across the street.

* * *

By now, all five adults were talking like sixty. Pa was demonstrating to the men how he worked the fire and got rid of the ice in the chimney and all that. Ma had perked up wonderfully and was showing the young lady her cooking and sewing stuff, and even asking about how the women dressed at Los Alamos. The strangers marveled at everything and praised it to the skies. I could tell from the way they wrinkled their noses that they found the Nest a bit smelly, but they never mentioned that at all and just asked bushels of questions.

In fact, there was so much talking and excitement that Pa forgot about things, and it wasn’t until they were all getting groggy that he looked and found the air had all boiled away in the pail. He got another bucket of air quick from behind the blankets. Of course that started them all laughing and jabbering again. The newcomers even got a little drunk. They weren’t used to so much oxygen.

Funny thing, though—I didn’t do much talking at all and Sis hung on to Ma all the time and hid her face when anybody looked at her. I felt pretty uncomfortable and disturbed myself, even about the young lady. Glimpsing her outside there, I’d had all sorts of mushy thoughts, but now I was just embarrassed and scared of her, even though she tried to be nice as anything to me.

I sort of wished they’d all quit crowding the Nest and let us be alone and get our feelings straightened out.

And when the newcomers began to talk about our all going to Los Alamos, as if that were taken for granted, I could see that something of the same feeling struck Pa and Ma, too. Pa got very silent all of a sudden and Ma kept telling the young lady, “But I wouldn’t know how to act there and I haven’t any clothes.”

The strangers were puzzled like anything at first, but then they got the idea. As Pa kept saying, “It just doesn’t seem right to let this fire go out.”

* * *

Well, the strangers are gone, but they’re coming back. It hasn’t been decided yet just what will happen. Maybe the Nest will be kept up as what one of the strangers called a “survival school.” Or maybe we will join the pioneers who are going to try to establish a new colony at the uranium mines at Great Slave Lake or in the Congo.

Of course, now that the strangers are gone, I’ve been thinking a lot about Los Alamos and those other tremendous colonies. I have a hankering to see them for myself.

You ask me, Pa wants to see them, too. He’s been getting pretty thoughtful, watching Ma and Sis perk up.

“It’s different, now that we know others are alive,” he explains to me. “Your mother doesn’t feel so hopeless any more. Neither do I, for that matter, not having to carry the whole responsibility for keeping the human race going, so to speak. It scares a person.”

I looked around at the blanket walls and the fire and the pails of air boiling away and Ma and Sis sleeping in the warmth and the flickering light.

“It’s not going to be easy to leave the Nest,” I said, wanting to cry, kind of. “It’s so small and there’s just the four of us. I get scared at the idea of big places and a lot of strangers.”

He nodded and put another piece of coal on the fire. Then he looked at the little pile and grinned suddenly and put a couple of handfuls on, just as if it was one of our birthdays or Christmas.

“You’ll quickly get over that feeling, son,” he said. “The trouble with the world was that it kept getting smaller and smaller, till it ended with just the Nest. Now it’ll be good to have a real huge world again, the way it was in the beginning.”

I guess he’s right. You think the beautiful young lady will wait for me till I grow up? I’ll be twenty in only ten years.

 

 

 

 

The Only Thing We Learn by C. M. Kornbluth

The Only Thing We Learn

by C. M. Kornbluth



Preface by David Drake:



"What experience and history teach is this: that peoples and governments have never learned anything from history." 



—Hegel



I first read "The Only Thing We Learn" when I was thirteen. I'd never heard of Hegel, nor was I familiar with the quote that Kornbluth paraphrased for his title. The story still stunned and horrified me.

In the comic books the villain was always bad, the hero was always good—GI and Nazi, lawmen and rustlers, and so on down the line: fixed dichotomies of Good and Evil. "The Only Thing We Learn" said, showed, explicitly that the definition of "good guys" and "bad guys" depended on your frame of reference.

When I was thirteen I had no more appreciation of literary technique than I did of German philosophers. (I still don't have an appreciation of German philosophers.) You don't have to understand technique for it to affect you, though. Only a flawless craftsman like Cyril Kornbluth, arguably the best short story writer in the SF field, would've been able to pack so much in so brief a compass. The story's terse, elliptical form drove home a message that would've been softened if not suffocated by a wordier presentation.

 

 

 

The professor, though he did not know the actor’s phrase for it, was counting the house—peering through a spyhole in the door through which he would in a moment appear before the class. He was pleased with what he saw. Tier after tier of young people, ready with notebooks and styli, chattering tentatively, glancing at the door against which his nose was flattened, waiting for the pleasant interlude known as “Archaeo-Literature 203” to begin.

The professor stepped back, smoothed his tunic, crooked four books in his left elbow and made his entrance. Four swift strides brought him to the lectern and, for the thousandth-odd time, he impassively swept the lecture hall with his gaze. Then he gave a wry little smile. Inside, for the thousandth-odd time, he was nagged by the irritable little thought that the lectern really ought to be a foot or so higher.

The irritation did not show. He was out to win the audience, and he did. A dead silence, the supreme tribute, gratified him. Imperceptibly, the lights of the lecture hall began to dim and the light on the lectern to brighten.

He spoke.

“Young gentlemen of the Empire, I ought to warn you that this and the succeeding lectures will be most subversive.”

There was a little rustle of incomprehension from the audience—but by then the lectern light was strong enough to show the twinkling smile about his eyes that belied his stern mouth, and agreeable chuckles sounded in the gathering darkness of the tiered seats. Glow-lights grew bright gradually at the students’ tables, and they adjusted their notebooks in the narrow ribbons of illumination. He waited for the small commotion to subside.

“Subversive—” He gave them a link to cling to. “Subversive because I shall make every effort to tell both sides of our ancient beginnings with every resource of archaeology and with every clue my diligence has discovered in our epic literature.

“There were two sides, you know—difficult though it may be to believe that if we judge by the Old Epic alone—such epics as the noble and tempestuous Chant of Remd, the remaining fragments of Krall’s Voyage, or the gory and rather out-of-date Battle for the Ten Suns.” He paused while styli scribbled across the notebook pages.

“The Middle Epic is marked, however, by what I might call the rediscovered ethos.” From his voice, every student knew that that phrase, surer than death and taxes, would appear on an examination paper. The styli scribbled. “By this I mean an awakening of fellow-feeling with the Home Suns People, which had once been filial loyalty to them when our ancestors were few and pioneers, but which turned into contempt when their numbers grew.

“The Middle Epic writers did not despise the Home Suns People, as did the bards of the Old Epic. Perhaps this was because they did not have to—since their long war against the Home Suns was drawing to a victorious close.

“Of the New Epic I shall have little to say. It was a literary fad, a pose, and a silly one. Written within historic times, the some two score pseudo-epics now moulder in their cylinders, where they belong. Our ripening civilization could not with integrity work in the epic form, and the artistic failures produced so indicate. Our genius turned to the lyric and to the unabashedly romantic novel.

“So much, for the moment, of literature. What contribution, you must wonder, have archaeological studies to make in an investigation of the wars from which our ancestry emerged?

“Archaeology offers—one—a check in historical matter in the epics—confirming or denying. Two—it provides evidence glossed over in the epics—for artistic or patriotic reasons. Three—it provides evidence which has been lost, owing to the fragmentary nature of some of the early epics.”

All this he fired at them crisply, enjoying himself. Let them not think him a dreamy litterateur, nor, worse, a flat precisionist, but let them be always a little off-balance before him, never knowing what came next, and often wondering, in class and out. The styli paused after heading Three.

“We shall examine first, by our archaeo-literary technique, the second book of the Chant of Remd. As the selected youth of the Empire, you know much about it, of course—much that is false, some that is true and a great deal that is irrelevant. You know that Book One hurls us into the middle of things, aboard ship with Algan and his great captain, Remd, on their way from the triumph over a Home Suns stronghold, the planet Telse. We watch Remd on his diversionary action that splits the Ten Suns Fleet into two halves. But before we see the destruction of those halves by the Horde of Algan, we are told in Book Two of the battle for Telse.”

He opened one of his books on the lectern, swept the amphitheater again and read sonorously.


“Then battle broke
And high the blinding blast
Sight-searing leaped
While folk in fear below
Cowered in caverns
From the wrath of Remd—

 

“Or, in less sumptuous language, one fission bomb—or a stick of time-on-target bombs—was dropped. An unprepared and disorganized populace did not take the standard measure of dispersing, but huddled foolishly to await Algan’s gunfighters and the death they brought.

“One of the things you believe because you have seen them in notes to elementary-school editions of Remd is that Telse was the fourth planet of the star, Sol. Archaeology denies it by establishing that the fourth planet—actually called Marse, by the way—was in those days weather-roofed at least, and possibly atmosphere-roofed as well. As potential warriors, you know that one does not waste fissionable material on a roof, and there is no mention of chemical explosives being used to crack the roof. Marse, therefore, was not the locale of Remd, Book Two.

“Which planet was? The answer to that has been established by X-radar, differential decay analyses, video-coring and every other resource of those scientists still quaintly called ‘diggers.’ We know and can prove that Telse was the third planet of Sol. So much for the opening of the attack. Let us jump to Canto Three, the Storming of the Dynastic Palace.


“Imperial purple wore they
Fresh from the feast
Grossly gorged
They sought to slay—

 

“And so on. Now, as I warned you, Remd is of the Old Epic, and makes no pretense at fairness. The unorganized huddling of Telse’s population was read as cowardice instead of poor A.R.P. The same is true of the Third Canto. Video-cores show on the site of the palace a hecatomb of dead in once-purple livery, but also shows impartially that they were not particularly gorged and that digestion of their last meals had been well advanced. They didn’t give such a bad accounting of themselves, either. I hesitate to guess, but perhaps they accounted for one of our ancestors apiece and were simply outnumbered. The study is not complete.

“That much we know.” The professor saw they were tiring of the terse scientist and shifted gears. “But if the veil of time were rent that shrouds the years between us and the Home Suns People, how much more would we learn? Would we despise the Home Suns People as our frontiersman ancestors did, or would we cry: ‘This is our spiritual home—this world of rank and order, this world of formal verse and exquisitely patterned arts’?”

If the veil of time were rent—?

We can try to rend it . . .

* * *

Wing Commander Arris heard the clear jangle of the radar net alarm as he was dreaming about a fish. Struggling out of his too-deep, too-soft bed, he stepped into a purple singlet, buckled on his Sam Browne belt with its holstered .45 automatic and tried to read the radar screen. Whatever had set it off was either too small or too distant to register on the five-inch C.R.T.

He rang for his aide, and checked his appearance in a wall-mirror while waiting. His space tan was beginning to fade, he saw, and made a mental note to get it renewed at the parlor. He stepped into the corridor as Evan, his aide, trotted up—younger, browner, thinner, but the same officer type that made the Service what it was, Arris thought with satisfaction.

Evan gave him a bone-cracking salute, which he returned. They set off for the elevator that whisked them down to a large, chilly, dark underground room where faces were greenly lit by radar screens and the lights of plotting tables. Somebody yelled “Attention!” and the tecks snapped. He gave them “At ease” and took the brisk salute of the senior teck, who reported to him in flat, machine-gun delivery:

“Object-becoming-visible-on-primary-screen-sir.”

He studied the sixty-inch disk for several seconds before he spotted the intercepted particle. It was coming in fast from zenith, growing while he watched.

“Assuming it’s now traveling at maximum, how long will it be before it’s within striking range?” he asked the teck.

“Seven hours, sir.”

“The interceptors at Idlewild alerted?”

“Yessir.”

Arris turned on a phone that connected with Interception. The boy at Interception knew the face that appeared on its screen, and was already capped with a crash helmet.

“Go ahead and take him, Efrid,” said the wing commander.

“Yessir!” and a punctilious salute, the boy’s pleasure plain at being known by name and a great deal more at being on the way to a fight that might be first-class.

Arris cut him off before the boy could detect a smile that was forming on his face. He turned from the pale lumar glow of the sixty-incher to enjoy it. Those kids—when every meteor was an invading dreadnaught, when every ragged scouting ship from the rebels was an armada!

He watched Efrid’s squadron soar off the screen and then he retreated to a darker corner. This was his post until the meteor or scout or whatever it was got taken care of. Evan joined him, and they silently studied the smooth, disciplined functioning of the plot room, Arris with satisfaction and Evan doubtless with the same. The aide broke silence, asking:

“Do you suppose it’s a Frontier ship, sir?” He caught the wing commander’s look and hastily corrected himself: “I mean rebel ship, sir, of course.”

“Then you should have said so. Is that what the junior officers generally call those scoundrels?”

Evan conscientiously cast his mind back over the last few junior messes and reported unhappily: “I’m afraid we do, sir. We seem to have got into the habit.”

“I shall write a memorandum about it. How do you account for that very peculiar habit?”

“Well, sir, they do have something like a fleet, and they did take over the Regulus Cluster, didn’t they?”

What had got into this incredible fellow, Arris wondered in amazement. Why, the thing was self-evident! They had a few ships—accounts differed as to how many—and they had, doubtless by raw sedition, taken over some systems temporarily.

He turned from his aide, who sensibly became interested in a screen and left with a murmured excuse to study it very closely.

The brigands had certainly knocked together some ramshackle league or other, but— The wing commander wondered briefly if it could last, shut the horrid thought from his head, and set himself to composing mentally a stiff memorandum that would be posted in the junior officer’s mess and put an end to this absurd talk.

His eyes wandered to the sixty-incher, where he saw the interceptor squadron climbing nicely toward the particle—which, he noticed, had become three particles. A low crooning distracted him. Was one of the tecks singing at work? It couldn’t be!

It wasn’t. An unsteady shape wandered up in the darkness, murmuring a song and exhaling alcohol. He recognized the Chief Archivist, Glen.

“This is service country, mister,” he told Glen.

“Hullo, Arris,” the round little civilian said, peering at him. “I come down here regularly—regularly against regulations—to wear off my regular irregularities with the wine bottle. That’s all right, isn’t it?”

He was drunk and argumentative. Arris felt hemmed in. Glen couldn’t be talked into leaving without loss of dignity to the wing commander, and he couldn’t be chucked out because he was writing a biography of the chamberlain and could, for the time being, have any head in the palace for the asking. Arris sat down unhappily, and Glen plumped down beside him.

The little man asked him.

“Is that a fleet from the Frontier League?” He pointed to the big screen. Arris didn’t look at his face, but felt that Glen was grinning maliciously.

“I know of no organization called the Frontier League,” Arris said. “If you are referring to the brigands who have recently been operating in Galactic East, you could at least call them by their proper names.” Really, he thought—civilians!

“So sorry. But the brigands should have the Regulus Cluster by now, shouldn’t they?” he asked, insinuatingly.

This was serious—a grave breach of security. Arris turned to the little man.

“Mister, I have no authority to command you,” he said measuredly. “Furthermore, I understand you are enjoying a temporary eminence in the non-service world which would make it very difficult for me to—ah—tangle with you. I shall therefore refer only to your altruism. How did you find out about the Regulus Cluster?”

“Eloquent!” murmured the little man, smiling happily. “I got it from Rome.”

Arris searched his memory. “You mean Squadron Commander Romo broke security? I can’t believe it!”

“No, commander. I mean Rome—a place—a time—a civilization. I got it also from Babylon, Assyria, the Mogul Raj—every one of them. You don’t understand me, of course.”

“I understand that you’re trifling with Service security and that you’re a fat little, malevolent, worthless drone and scribbler!”

“Oh, commander!” protested the archivist. “I’m not so little!” He wandered away, chuckling.

Arris wished he had the shooting of him, and tried to explore the chain of secrecy for a weak link. He was tired and bored by this harping on the Fron—on the brigands.

His aide tentatively approached him. “Interceptors in striking range, sir,” he murmured.

“Thank you,” said the wing commander, genuinely grateful to be back in the clean, etched-line world of the Service and out of that blurred, water-color, civilian land where long-dead Syrians apparently retailed classified matter to nasty little drunken warts who had no business with it. Arris confronted the sixty-incher. The particle that had become three particles was now—he counted—eighteen particles. Big ones. Getting bigger.

He did not allow himself emotion, but turned to the plot on the interceptor squadron.

“Set up Lunar relay,” he ordered.

“Yessir.”

Half the plot room crew bustled silently and efficiently about the delicate job of applied relativistic physics that was ‘lunar relay.’ He knew that the palace power plant could take it for a few minutes, and he wanted to see. If he could not believe radar pips, he might believe a video screen.

On the great, green circle, the eighteen—now twenty-four—particles neared the thirty-six smaller particles that were interceptors, led by the eager young Efrid.

“Testing Lunar relay, sir,” said the chief teck.

The wing commander turned to a twelve-inch screen. Unobtrusively, behind him, tecks jockeyed for position. The picture on the screen was something to see. The chief let mercury fill a thick-walled, ceramic tank. There was a sputtering and contact was made.

“Well done,” said Arris. “Perfect seeing.”

He saw, upper left, a globe of ships—what ships! Some were Service jobs, with extra turrets plastered on them wherever there was room. Some were orthodox freighters, with the same porcupine-bristle of weapons. Some were obviously home-made crates, hideously ugly—and as heavily armed as the others.

Next to him, Arris heard his aide murmur, “It’s all wrong, sir. They haven’t got any pick-up boats. They haven’t got any hospital ships. What happens when one of them gets shot up?”

“Just what ought to happen, Evan,” snapped the wing commander. “They float in space until they desiccate in their suits. Or if they get grappled inboard with a boat hook, they don’t get any medical care. As I told you, they’re brigands, without decency even to care for their own.” He enlarged on the theme. “Their morale must be insignificant compared with our men’s. When the Service goes into action, every rating and teck knows he’ll be cared for if he’s hurt. Why, if we didn’t have pick-up boats and hospital ships the men wouldn’t—” He almost finished it with “fight,” but thought, and lamely ended—”wouldn’t like it.”

* * *

Evan nodded, wonderingly, and crowded his chief a little as he craned his neck for a look at the screen.

“Get the hell away from here!” said the wing commander in a restrained yell, and Evan got.

The interceptor squadron swam into the field—a sleek, deadly needle of vessels in perfect alignment, with its little cloud of pick-ups trailing, and farther astern a white hospital ship with the ancient red cross.

The contact was immediate and shocking. One of the rebel ships lumbered into the path of the interceptors, spraying fire from what seemed to be as many points as a man has pores. The Service ships promptly riddled it and it should have drifted away—but it didn’t. It kept on fighting. It rammed an interceptor with a crunch that must have killed every man before the first bulwark, but aft of the bulwark the ship kept fighting.

It took a torpedo portside and its plumbing drifted through space in a tangle. Still the starboard side kept squirting fire. Isolated weapon blisters fought on while they were obviously cut off from the rest of the ship. It was a pounded tangle of wreckage, and it had destroyed two interceptors, crippled two more, and kept fighting.

Finally, it drifted away, under feeble jets of power. Two more of the fantastic rebel fleet wandered into action, but the wing commander’s horrified eyes were on the first pile of scrap. It was going somewhere

The ship neared the thin-skinned, unarmored, gleaming hospital vessel, rammed it amidships, square in one of the red crosses, and then blew itself up, apparently with everything left in its powder magazine, taking the hospital ship with it.

The sickened wing commander would never have recognized what he had seen as it was told in a later version, thus:


“The crushing course they took
And nobly knew
Their death undaunted
By heroic blast
The hospital’s host
They dragged to doom
Hail! Men without mercy
From the far frontier!”

 

Lunar relay flickered out as overloaded fuses flashed into vapor. Arris distractedly paced back to the dark corner and sank into a chair.

“I’m sorry,” said the voice of Glen next to him, sounding quite sincere. “No doubt it was quite a shock to you.”

“Not to you?” asked Arris bitterly.

“Not to me.”

“Then how did they do it?” the wing commander asked the civilian in a low, desperate whisper. “They don’t even wear .45’s. Intelligence says their enlisted men have hit their officers and got away with it. They elect ship captains! Glen, what does it all mean?”

“It means,” said the fat little man with a timbre of doom in his voice, “that they’ve returned. They always have. They always will. You see, commander, there is always somewhere a wealthy, powerful city, or nation, or world. In it are those whose blood is not right for a wealthy, powerful place. They must seek danger and overcome it. So they go out—on the marshes, in the desert, on the tundra, the planets, or the stars. Being strong, they grow stronger by fighting the tundra, the planets or the stars. They—they change. They sing new songs. They know new heroes. And then, one day, they return to their old home.

“They return to the wealthy, powerful city, or nation or world. They fight its guardians as they fought the tundra, the planets or the stars—a way that strikes terror to the heart. Then they sack the city, nation or world and sing great, ringing sagas of their deeds. They always have. Doubtless they always will.”

“But what shall we do?”

“We shall cower, I suppose, beneath the bombs they drop on us, and we shall die, some bravely, some not, defending the palace within a very few hours. But you will have your revenge.”

“How?” asked the wing commander, with haunted eyes.

The fat little man giggled and whispered in the officer’s ear. Arris irritably shrugged it off as a bad joke. He didn’t believe it. As he died, drilled through the chest a few hours later by one of Algan’s gunfighters, he believed it even less.

* * *

The professor’s lecture was drawing to a close. There was time for only one more joke to send his students away happy. He was about to spring it when a messenger handed him two slips of paper. He raged inwardly at his ruined exit and poisonously read from them:

“I have been asked to make two announcements. One, a bulletin from General Sleg’s force. He reports that the so-called Outland Insurrection is being brought under control and that there is no cause for alarm. Two, the gentlemen who are members of the S.O.T.C. will please report to the armory at 1375 hours—whatever that may mean—for blaster inspection. The class is dismissed.”

Petulantly, he swept from the lectern and through the door.

 

 

 

 

 

Turning Point by Poul Anderson

Turning Point

by Poul Anderson



Preface by Eric Flint



Poul Anderson had a career that lasted as long as Robert Heinlein's, and overlapped it a great deal, allowing for a ten-year difference when they got started. The parallels are rather striking:

Heinlein's first story was published in 1939, Anderson's in 1948. ("Life-Line" and "Genius," respectively.) Within a very short time, especially by the standards of the day, they were both published novelists. Heinlein's first novels, Methusaleh's Children and Beyond This Horizon,came out in 1941 and 1942—although the first, initially, only as a magazine serial. Anderson's first novels, Vault of the Ages and Brain Wave, came out just as quickly in his career—1952 and 1954.

Their careers continued to parallel each other. Both men worked just as easily in short form and long form, publishing novels and short fiction constantly in the decades that followed. By the time they died, they'd each produced a massive body of work. Both of them also created their own vast future histories, in which a multitude of stories and novels fit like tiles in a mozaic. In the case of Heinlein, his famous "Future History"; in the case of Anderson, the "Technic History," which encompassed his many Nicholas Van Rijn and Dominic Flandry stories.

Robert Heinlein died in 1988, after an immensely successful career that lasted half a century. He was still writing until the end—his last novel, To Sail Beyond the Sunset, came out in 1987. Poul Anderson died in 2001, after an immensely successful career that lasted half a century. He was still writing until the end—his last two original novels, Genesis and Mother of Kings, came out in 2000 and 2001.
Both men won a multitude of awards:

Both received the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America's Grand Master Award: Heinlein in 1975, the first year the award was given; Anderson in 1998. Both are in the Science Fiction Hall of Fame. Robert Heinlein won a Hugo award four times; Anderson, seven times. Heinlein never won a Nebula award, although he was nominated four times; Anderson did win an award, three times.

And yet . . .

Somehow people never look at them quite the same way. For all the great respect that Anderson had all his life, and continues to have since his death, he never occupied the central stature than Heinlein did. No one ever thought of Anderson as "the dean of science fiction."

Why? Well, I can only give you my opinion. Anderson was one of those very rare people who do what they do supremely well, and do so in every aspect of their craft. But they never do any one thing better than anyone else. To give an example, Anderson wrote many fine novels, to be sure. None of them ever had the impact of Heinlein's Starship Troopers or Stranger in a Strange Land.

Since I was a teenager, though, I've always had a clear picture in my head of where Poul Anderson fits in my own pantheon of great science fiction writers.

He's my Joe DiMaggio, who never did anything in baseball better than anyone else, but always did everything superbly well.

And here he is again, coming to the plate . . .

 

 

 

Please, mister, could I have a cracker for my oontatherium?”

Not exactly the words you would expect at an instant when history changes course and the universe can never again be what it was. The die is cast; In this sign conquer; It is not fit that you should sit here any longer; We hold these truths to be self-evident; The Italian navigator has landed in the New World; Dear God, the thing works!—no man with any imagination can recall those, or others like them, and not have a coldness run along his spine. But as for what little Mierna first said to us, on that island half a thousand light-years from home . . .

The star is catalogued AGC 4256836, a K2 dwarf in Cassiopeia. Our ship was making a standard preliminary survey of that region, and had come upon mystery enough—how easily Earthsiders forget that every planet is a complete world!—but nothing extraordinary in this fantastic cosmos. The Traders had noted places that seemed worth further investigation; so had the Federals; the lists were not quite identical.

After a year, vessel and men were equally jaded. We needed a set-down, to spend a few weeks refitting and recuperating before the long swing homeward. There is an art to finding such a spot. You visit whatever nearby suns look suitable. If you come on a planet whose gross physical characteristics are terrestroid, you check the biological details—very, very carefully, but since the operation is largely automated it goes pretty fast—and make contact with the autochthones, if any. Primitives are preferred. That’s not because of military danger, as some think. The Federals insist that the natives have no objection to strangers camping on their land, while the Traders don’t see how anyone, civilized or not, that hasn’t discovered atomic energy can be a menace. It’s only that primitives are less apt to ask complicated questions and otherwise make a nuisance of themselves. Spacemen rejoice that worlds with machine civilizations are rare.

Well, Joril looked ideal. The second planet of that sun, with more water than Earth, it offered a mild climate everywhere. The biochemistry was so like our own that we could eat native foods, and there didn’t seem to be any germs that UX-2 couldn’t handle. Seas, forests, meadows made us feel right at home, yet the countless differences from Earth lent a fairyland glamour. The indigenes were savages, that is, they depended on hunting, fishing, and gathering for their whole food supply. So we assumed there were thousands of little cultures and picked the one that appeared most advanced: not that aerial observation indicated much difference.

Those people lived in neat, exquisitely decorated villages along the western seaboard of the largest continent, with woods and hills behind them. Contact went smoothly. Our semanticians had a good deal of trouble with the language, but the villagers started picking up English right away. Their hospitality was lavish whenever we called on them, but they stayed out of our camp except for the conducted tours we gave and other such invitations. With one vast, happy sigh, we settled down.

But from the first there were certain disturbing symptoms. Granted they had humanlike throats and palates, we hadn’t expected the autochthones to speak flawless English within a couple of weeks. Every one of them. Obviously they could have learned still faster if we’d taught them systematically. We followed the usual practice and christened the planet “Joril” after what we thought was the local word for “earth”—and then found that “Joril” meant “Earth,” capitalized, and the people had an excellent heliocentric astronomy. Though they were too polite to press themselves on us, they weren’t merely accepting us as something inexplicable; curiosity was afire in them, and given half a chance they did ask the most complicated questions.

Once the initial rush of establishing ourselves was over and we had time to think, it became plain that we’d stumbled on something worth much further study. First we needed to check on some other areas and make sure this Dannicar culture wasn’t a freak. After all, the Neolithic Mayas had been good astronomers; the ferro-agricultural Greeks had developed a high and sophisticated philosophy. Looking over the maps we’d made from orbit, Captain Barlow chose a large island about 700 kilometers due west. A gravboat was outfitted and five men went aboard.

Pilot: Jacques Lejeune. Engineer: me. Federal militechnic representative: Commander Ernest Baldinger, Space Force of the Solar Peace Authority. Federal civil government representative: Walter Vaughan. Trader agent: Don Haraszthy. He and Vaughan were the principals, but the rest of us were skilled in the multiple jobs of planetography. You have to be, on a foreign world months from home or help.

We made the aerial crossing soon after sunrise, so we’d have a full eighteen hours of daylight. I remember how beautiful the ocean looked below us, like one great bowl of metal, silver where the sun struck, cobalt and green copper beyond. Then the island came over the world’s edge, darkly forested, crimson-splashed by stands of gigantic red blossoms. Lejeune picked out an open spot in the woods, about two kilometers from a village that stood on a wide bay, and landed us with a whoop and a holler. He’s a fireball pilot.

“Well—” Haraszthy rose to his sheer two meters and stretched till his joints cracked. He was burly to match that height, and his hook-nosed face carried the marks of old battles. Most Traders are tough, pragmatic extroverts; they have to be, just as Federal civils have to be the opposite. It makes for conflict, though. “Let’s hike.”

“Not so fast,” Vaughan said: a thin young man with an intense gaze. “That tribe has never seen or heard of our kind. If they noticed us land, they may be in a panic.”

“So we go jolly them out of it,” Haraszthy shrugged.

“Our whole party? Are you serious?” Commander Baldinger asked. He reflected a bit. “Yes, I suppose you are. But I’m responsible now. Lejeune and Cathcart, stand by here. We others will proceed to the village.”

“Just like that?” Vaughan protested.

“You know a better way?” Haraszthy answered.

“As a matter of fact—” But nobody listened. The government operates on some elaborate theories, and Vaughan was still too new in Survey to understand how often theory has to give way. We were impatient to go outside, and I regretted not being sent along to town. Of course, someone had to stay, ready to pull out our emissaries if serious trouble developed.

We emerged into long grass and a breeze that smelled of nothing so much as cinnamon. Trees rustled overhead, against a deep blue sky; the reddish sunlight spilled across purple wildflowers and bronze-colored insect wings. I drew a savoring breath before going around with Lejeune to make sure our landing gear was properly set. We were all lightly clad; Baldinger carried a blast rifle and Haraszthy a radiocom big enough to contact Dannicar, but both seemed ludicrously inappropriate.

“I envy the Jorillians,” I remarked.

“In a way,” Lejeune said. “Though perhaps their environment is too good. What stimulus have they to advance further?”

“Why should they want to?”

“They don’t, consciously, my old. But every intelligent race is descended from animals that once had a hard struggle to survive, so hard they were forced to evolve brains. There is an instinct for adventure, even in the gentlest herbivorous beings, and sooner or later it must find expression—”

“Holy jumping Judas!”

Haraszthy’s yell brought Lejeune and me bounding back to that side of the ship. For a moment my reason wobbled. Then I decided the sight wasn’t really so strange . . . here.

A girl was emerging from the woods. She was about the equivalent of a Terrestrial five-year-old, I estimated. Less than a meter tall (the Jorillians average more short and slender than we), she had the big head of her species to make her look still more elfin. Long blondish hair, round ears, delicate features that were quite humanoid except for the high forehead and huge violet eyes added to the charm. Her brown-skinned body was clad only in a white loincloth. One four-fingered hand waved cheerily at us. The other carried a leash. And at the opposite end of that leash was a grasshopper the size of a hippopotamus.

No, not a grasshopper, I saw as she danced toward us. The head looked similar, but the four walking legs were short and stout, the several others mere boneless appendages. The gaudy hide was skin, not chitin. I saw that the creature breathed with lungs, too. Nonetheless it was a startling monster; and it drooled.

“Insular genus,” Vaughan said. “Undoubtedly harmless, or she wouldn’t— But a child, coming so casually—!”

Baldinger grinned and lowered his rifle. “What the hell,” he said, “to a kid everything’s equally wonderful. This is a break for our side. She’ll give us a good recommendation to her elders.”

The little girl (damn it, I will call her that) walked to within a meter of Haraszthy, turned those big eyes up and up till they met his piratical face, and trilled with an irresistible smile:

“Please, mister, could I have a cracker for my oontatherium?”

* * *

I don’t quite remember the next few minutes. They were confused. Eventually we found ourselves, the whole five, walking down a sun-speckled woodland path. The girl skipped beside us, chattering like a xylophone. The monster lumbered behind, chewing messily on what we had given it. When the light struck those compound eyes I thought of a jewel chest.

“My name is Mierna,” the girl said, “and my father makes things out of wood, I don’t know what that’s called in English, please tell me, oh, carpentry, thank you, you’re a nice man. My father thinks a lot. My mother makes songs. They are very pretty songs. She sent me out to get some sweet grass for a borning couch, because her assistant wife is going to born a baby soon, but when I saw you come down just the way Pengwil told, I knew I should say hello instead and take you to Taori. That’s our village. We have twenty-five houses. And sheds and a Thinking Hall that’s bigger than the one in Riru. Pengwil said crackers are awful tasty. Could I have one too?”

Haraszthy obliged in a numb fashion. Vaughan shook himself and fairly snapped, “How do you know our language?”

“Why, everybody does in Taori. Since Pengwil came and taught us. That was three days ago. We’ve been hoping and hoping you would come. They’ll be so jealous in Riru! But we’ll let them visit if they ask us nicely.”

“Pengwil . . . a Dannicarian name, all right,” Baldinger muttered. “But they never heard of this island till I showed them our map. And they couldn’t cross the ocean in those dugouts of theirs! It’s against the prevailing winds, and square sails—”

“Oh, Pengwil’s boat can sail right into the wind,” Mierna laughed. “I saw him myself, he took everybody for rides, and now my father’s making a boat like that too, only better.”

“Why did Pengwil come here?” Vaughan asked.

“To see what there was. He’s from a place called Folat. They have such funny names in Dannicar, and they dress funny too, don’t they, mister?”

“Folat . . . yes, I remember, a community a ways north of our camp,” Baldinger said.

“But savages don’t strike off into an unknown ocean for, for curiosity,” I stammered.

“These do,” Haraszthy grunted. I could almost see the relays clicking in his blocky head. There were tremendous commercial possibilities here, foods and textiles and especially the dazzling artwork. In exchange—

“No!” Vaughan exclaimed. “I know what you’re thinking, Trader Haraszthy, and you are not going to bring machines here.”

The big man bridled. “Says who?”

“Says me, by virtue of the authority vested in me. And I’m sure the Council will confirm my decision.” In that soft air Vaughan was sweating. “We don’t dare!”

“What’s a Council?” Mierna asked. A shade of trouble crossed her face. She edged close to the bulk of her animal.

In spite of everything, I had to pat her head and murmur, “Nothing you need worry about, sweetheart.” To get her mind, and my own, off vague fears: “Why do you call this fellow an oontatherium? That can’t be his real name.”

“Oh, no.” She forgot her worries at once. “He’s a yao and his real name is, well, it means Big-Feet-Buggy-Eyes-Top-Man-Underneath-And-Over. That’s what I named him. He’s mine and he’s lovely.” She tugged at an antenna. The monster actually purred. “But Pengwil told us about something called an oont you have at your home, that’s hairy and scary and carries things and drools like a yao, so I thought that would be a nice English name. Isn’t it?”

“Very,” I said weakly.

“What is this oont business?” Vaughan demanded.

Haraszthy ran a hand through his hair. “Well,” he said, “you know I like Kipling, and I read some of his poems to some natives one night at a party. The one about the oont, the camel, yeah, I guess that must have been among ’em. They sure enjoyed Kipling.”

“And had the poem letter-perfect after one hearing, and passed it unchanged up and down the coast, and now it’s crossed the sea and taken hold,” Vaughan choked.

“Who explained that therium is a root meaning ‘mammal’?” I asked. Nobody knew, but doubtless one of our naturalists had casually mentioned it. So five-year-old Mierna had gotten the term from a wandering sailor and applied it with absolute correctness: never mind feelers and insectoidal eyes, the yao was a true mammal.

After a while we emerged in a cleared strip fronting on the bay. Against its glitter stood the village, peak-roofed houses of wood and thatch, a different style from Dannicar’s but every bit as pleasant and well-kept. Outrigger canoes were drawn up on the beach, where fishnets hung to dry. Anchored some way beyond was another boat. The curved, gaily painted hull, twin steering oars, mat sails and leather tackle were like nothing on our poor overmechanized Earth; but she was sloop-rigged, and evidently a deep keel made it impossible to run her ashore.

“I thought so,” Baldinger said in an uneven voice. “Pengwil went ahead and invented tacking. That’s an efficient design. He could cross the water in a week or less.”

“He invented navigation too,” Lejeune pointed out.

The villagers, who had not seen us descend, now dropped their occupations—cooking, cleaning, weaving, potting, the numberless jobs of the primitive—to come on the run. All were dressed as simply as Mierna. Despite large heads, which were not grotesquely big, odd hands and ears, slightly different body proportions, the women were good to look on: too good, after a year’s celibacy. The beardless, long-haired men were likewise handsome, and both sexes were graceful as cats.

They didn’t shout or crowd. Only one exuberant horn sounded, down on the beach. Mierna ran to a grizzled male, seized him by the hand, and tugged him forward. “This is my father,” she crowed. “Isn’t he wonderful? And he thinks a lot. The name he’s using right now, that’s Sarato. I liked his last name better.”

“One wearies of the same word,” Sarato laughed. “Welcome, Earthfolk. You do us great . . . lula . . . pardon, I lack the term. You raise us high by this visit.” His handshake—Pengwil must have told him about that custom—was hard, and his eyes met ours respectfully but unawed.

The Dannicarian communities turned what little government they needed over to specialists, chosen on the basis of some tests we hadn’t yet comprehended. But these people didn’t seem to draw even that much class distinction. We were introduced to everybody by occupation: hunter, fisher, musician, prophet (I think that is what nonalo means), and so on. There was the same absence of taboo here as we had noticed in Dannicar, but an equally elaborate code of manners—which they realized we could not be expected to observe.

Pengwil, a strongly built youth in the tunic of his own culture, greeted us. It was no coincidence that he’d arrived at the same spot as we. Taori lay almost exactly west of his home area, and had the best anchorage on these shores. He was bursting with desire to show off his boat. I obliged him, swimming out and climbing aboard. “A fine job,” I said with entire honesty. “I have a suggestion, though. For sailing along coasts, you don’t need a fixed keel.” I described a centerboard. “Then you can ground her.”

“Yes, Sarato thought of that after he had seen my work. He has started one of such pattern already. He wants to do away with the steering oars also, and have a flat piece of wood turn at the back end. Is that right?”

“Yes,” I said after a strangled moment.

“It seemed so to me.” Pengwil smiled. “The push of water can be split in two parts like the push of air. Your Mister Ishihara told me about splitting and rejoining forces. That was what gave me the idea for a boat like this.”

We swam back and put our clothes on again. The village was abustle, preparing a feast for us. Pengwil joined them. I stayed behind, walking the beach, too restless to sit. Staring out across the waters and breathing an ocean smell that was almost like Earth’s, I thought strange thoughts. They were broken off by Mierna. She skipped toward me, dragging a small wagon.

“Hello, Mister Cathcart!” she cried. “I have to gather seaweed for flavor. Do you want to help me?”

“Sure,” I said.

She made a face. “I’m glad to be here. Father and Kuaya and a lot of the others, they’re asking Mister Lejeune about ma-the-matics. I’m not old enough to like functions. I’d like to hear Mister Haraszthy tell about Earth, but he’s talking alone in a house with his friends. Will you tell me about Earth? Can I go there someday?”

I mumbled something. She began to bundle leafy strands that had washed ashore. “I didn’t used to like this job,” she said. “I had to go back and forth so many times. They wouldn’t let me use my oontatherium because he gets buckety when his feet are wet. I told them I could make him shoes, but they said no. Now it’s fun anyway, with this, this, what do you call it?”

“A wagon. You haven’t had such a thing before?”

“No, never, just drags with runners. Pengwil told us about wheels. He saw the Earthfolk use them. Carpenter Huanna started putting wheels on the drags right away. We only have a few so far.”

I looked at the device, carved in wood and bone, a frieze of processional figures around the sides. The wheels weren’t simply attached to axles. With permission, I took the cover off one and saw a ring of hard-shelled spherical nuts. As far as I knew, nobody had explained ball bearings to Pengwil.

“I’ve been thinking and thinking,” Mierna said. “If we made a great big wagon, then an oontatherium could pull it, couldn’t he? Only we have to have a good way for tying the oontatherium on, so he doesn’t get hurt and you can guide him. I’ve thinked . . . thought of a real nice way.” She stooped and drew lines in the sand. The harness ought to work.

With a full load, we went back among the houses. I lost myself in admiration of the carved pillars and panels. Sarato emerged from Lejeune’s discussion of group theory (the natives had already developed that, so the talk was a mere comparison of approaches) to show me his obsidian-edged tools. He said the coast dwellers traded inland for the material, and spoke of getting steel from us. Or might we be so incredibly kind as to explain how metal was taken from the earth?

The banquet, music, dances, pantomimes, conversation, all was as gorgeous as expected, or more so. I trust the happy-pills we humans took kept us from making too grim an impression. But we disappointed our hosts by declining an offer to spend the night. They guided us back by torch-glow, singing the whole distance, on a twelve-tone scale with some of the damnedest harmony I have ever come across. Mierna was at the tail of the parade. She stood a long time in the coppery light of the single great moon, waving to us.

* * *

Baldinger set out glasses and a bottle of Irish. “Okay,” he said. “Those pills have worn off by now, but we need an equivalent.”

“Hoo, yes!” Haraszthy grabbed the bottle.

“I wonder what their wine will be like, when they invent that?” Lejeune mused.

“Be still!” Vaughan said. “They aren’t going to.”

We stared at him. He sat shivering with tension, under the cold fluoroluminance in that bleak little cabin.

“What the devil do you mean?” Haraszthy demanded at last. “If they can make wine half as well as they do everything else, it’ll go for ten credits a liter on Earth.”

“Don’t you understand?” Vaughan cried. “We can’t deal with them. We have to get off this planet and— Oh, God, why did we have to find the damned thing?” He groped for a glass.

“Well,” I sighed, “we always knew, those of us who bothered to think about the question, that someday we were bound to meet a race like this. Man . . . what is man that Thou art mindful of him?”

“This is probably an older star than Sol,” Baldinger nodded. “Less massive, so it stays longer on the main sequence.”

“There needn’t be much difference in planetary age,” I said. “A million years, half a million, whatever the figure is, hell, that doesn’t mean a thing in astronomy or geology. In the development of an intelligent race, though—”

“But they’re savages!” Haraszthy protested.

“Most of the races we’ve found are,” I reminded him. “Man was too, for most of his existence. Civilization is a freak. It doesn’t come natural. Started on Earth, I’m told, because the Middle East dried out as the glaciers receded and something had to be done for a living when the game got scarce. And scientific, machine civilization, that’s a still more unusual accident. Why should the Jorillians have gone beyond an Upper Paleolithic technology? They never needed to.”

“Why do they have the brains they do, if they’re in the stone age?” Haraszthy argued.

“Why did we, in our own stone age?” I countered. “It wasn’t necessary for survival. Java man, Peking man, and the low-browed rest, they’d been doing all right. But evidently evolution, intraspecies competition, sexual selection . . . whatever increases intelligence in the first place continues to force it upward, if some new factor like machinery doesn’t interfere. A bright Jorillian has more prestige, rises higher in life, gets more mates and children, and so it goes. But this is an easy environment, at least in the present geological epoch. The natives don’t even seem to have wars, which would stimulate technology. Thus far they’ve had little occasion to use those tremendous minds for anything but art, philosophy, and social experimentation.”

“What is their average IQ?” Lejeune whispered.

“Meaningless,” Vaughan said dully. “Beyond 180 or so, the scale breaks down. How can you measure an intelligence so much greater than your own?”

There was a stillness. I heard the forest sough in the night around us.

“Yes,” Baldinger ruminated, “I always realized that our betters must exist. Didn’t expect we’d run into them in my own lifetime, however. Not in this microscopic sliver of the galaxy that we’ve explored. And . . . well, I always imagined the Elders having machines, science, space travel.”

“They will,” I said.

“If we go away—” Lejeune began.

“Too late,” I said. “We’ve already given them this shiny new toy, science. If we abandon them, they’ll come looking for us in a couple of hundred years. At most.”

Haraszthy’s fist crashed on the table. “Why leave?” he roared. “What the hell are you scared of? I doubt the population of this whole planet is ten million. There are fifteen billion humans in the Solar System and the colonies! So a Jorillian can outthink me. So what? Plenty of guys can do that already, and it don’t bother me as long as we can do business.”

Baldinger shook his head. His face might have been cast in iron. “Matters aren’t that simple. The question is what race is going to dominate this arm of the galaxy.”

“Is it so horrible if the Jorillians do?” Lejeune asked softly.

“Perhaps not. They seem pretty decent. But—” Baldinger straightened in his chair. “I’m not going to be anybody’s domestic animal. I want my planet to decide her own destiny.”

That was the unalterable fact. We sat weighing it for a long and wordless time.

The hypothetical superbeings had always seemed comfortably far off. We hadn’t encountered them, or they us. Therefore they couldn’t live anywhere near. Therefore they probably never would interfere in the affairs of this remote galactic fringe where we dwell. But a planet only months distant from Earth; a species whose average member was a genius and whose geniuses were not understandable by us: bursting from their world, swarming through space, vigorous, eager, jumping in a decade to accomplishments that would take us a century—if we ever succeeded—how could they help but destroy our painfully built civilization? We’d scrap it ourselves, as the primitives of our old days had scrapped their own rich cultures in the overwhelming face of Western society. Our sons would laugh at our shoddy triumphs, go forth to join the high Jorillian adventure, and come back spirit-broken by failure, to build some feeble imitation of an alien way of life and fester in their hopelessness. And so would every other thinking species, unless the Jorillians were merciful enough to leave them alone.

Which the Jorillians probably would be. But who wants that kind of mercy?

I looked upon horror. Only Vaughan had the courage to voice the thing:

“There are planets under technological blockade, you know. Cultures too dangerous to allow modern weapons, let alone spaceships. Joril can be interdicted.”

“They’ll invent the stuff for themselves, now they’ve gotten the idea,” Baldinger said.

Vaughan’s mouth twitched downward. “Not if the only two regions that have seen us are destroyed.”

“Good God!” Haraszthy leaped to his feet.

“Sit down!” Baldinger rapped.

Haraszthy spoke an obscenity. His face was ablaze. The rest of us sat in a chill sweat.

“You’ve called me unscrupulous,” the Trader snarled. “Take that suggestion back to the hell it came from, Vaughan, or I’ll kick our your brains.”

I thought of nuclear fire vomiting skyward, and a wisp of gas that had been Mierna, and said, “No.”

“The alternative,” Vaughan said, staring at the bulkhead across from him, “is to do nothing until the sterilization of the entire planet has become necessary.”

Lejeune shook his head in anguish. “Wrong, wrong, wrong. There can be too great a price for survival.”

“But for our children’s survival? Their liberty? Their pride and—”

“What sort of pride can they take in themselves, once they know the truth?” Haraszthy interrupted. He reached down, grabbed Vaughan’s shirt front, and hauled the man up by sheer strength. His broken features glared three centimeters from the Federal’s. “I’ll tell you what we’re going to do,” he said. “We’re going to trade, and teach, and xenologize, and fraternize, the same as with any other people whose salt we’ve eaten. And take our chances like men!”

“Let him go,” Baldinger commanded. Haraszthy knotted a fist. “If you strike him, I’ll brig you and prefer charges at home. Let him go, I said!”

Haraszthy opened his grasp. Vaughan tumbled to the deck. Haraszthy sat down, buried his head in his hands, and struggled not to sob.

Baldinger refilled our glasses. “Well, gentlemen,” he said, “it looks like an impasse. We’re damned if we do and damned if we don’t, and I lay odds no Jorillian talks in such tired clichés.”

“They could give us so much,” Lejeune pleaded.

“Give!” Vaughan climbed erect and stood trembling before us. “That’s p-p-precisely the trouble. They’d give it! If they could, even. It wouldn’t be ours. We probably couldn’t understand their work, or use it, or . . . It wouldn’t be ours, I say!”

Haraszthy stiffened. He sat like stone for an entire minute before he raised his face and whooped aloud.

“Why not?”

* * *

Blessed be whiskey. I actually slept a few hours before dawn. But the light, stealing in through the ports, woke me then and I couldn’t get back to sleep. At last I rose, took the drop-shaft down, and went outside.

The land lay still. Stars were paling, but the east held as yet only a rush of ruddiness. Through the cool air I heard the first bird-flutings from the dark forest mass around me. I kicked off my shoes and went barefoot in wet grass.

Somehow it was not surprising that Mierna should come at that moment, leading her oontatherium. She let go the leash and ran to me. “Hi, Mister Cathcart! I hoped a lot somebody would be up. I haven’t had any breakfast.”

“We’ll have to see about that.” I swung her in the air till she squealed. “And then maybe like a little flyaround in this boat. Would you like that?”

“Oooh!” Her eyes grew round. I set her down. She needed a while longer before she dared ask, “Clear to Earth?”

“No, not that far, I’m afraid. Earth is quite a ways off.”

“Maybe someday? Please?”

“Someday, I’m quite sure, my dear. And not so terribly long until then, either.”

“I’m going to Earth, I’m going to Earth, I’m going to Earth.” She hugged the oontatherium. “Will you miss me awfully, Big-Feet-Buggy-Eyes-Top-Man-Underneath-And-Over? Don’t drool so sad. Maybe you can come too. Can he, Mister Cathcart? He’s a very nice oontatherium, honest he is, and he does so love crackers.”

“Well, perhaps, perhaps not,” I said. “But you’ll go, if you wish. I promise you. Anybody on this whole planet who wants to will go to Earth.”

As most of them will. I’m certain our idea will be accepted by the Council. The only possible one. If you can’t lick ’em . . . get ’em to jine you. 

I rumpled Mierna’s hair. In a way, sweetheart, what a dirty trick to play on you! Take you straight from the wilderness to a huge and complicated civilization. Dazzle you with all the tricks and gadgets and ideas we have, not because we’re better but simply because we’ve been at it a little longer than you. Scatter your ten million among our fifteen billion. Of course you’ll fall for it. You can’t help yourselves. When you realize what’s happening, you won’t be able to stop, you’ll be hooked. I don’t think you’ll even be able to resent it.

You’ll be assimilated, Mierna. You’ll become an Earth girl. Naturally, you’ll grow up to be one of our leaders. You’ll contribute tremendous things to our civilization, and be rewarded accordingly. But the whole point is, it will be our civilization. Mine . . . and yours.

I wonder if you’ll ever miss the forest, though, and the little houses by the bay, and the boats and songs and old, old stories, yes, and your darling oontatherium. I know the empty planet will miss you, Mierna. So will I. 

“Come on,” I said. “Let’s go build us that breakfast.”

 

 

Omnilingual by H. Beam Piper

Omnilingual

by H. Beam Piper

Preface by Eric Flint

I’ve always had a mixed reaction to H. Beam Piper’s writings. On the one hand, he was a superb story-teller and over the decades I’ve enjoyed any number of his works. On the other hand, the underlying attitude in many of his writings often leaves me grinding my teeth. I was so infuriated by Uller Uprising as a teenager that I threw it in the garbage can when I was about halfway through, and Space Viking still leaves a foul taste in my mouth four decades after I read it. For all of Piper’s modern reputation as a “libertarian,” the fact is that he was often prone to apologizing for authority, especially when that authority was being brutal. Uller Uprising, modeled on the Indian Mutiny of 1857, is an apologia for the greed and misrule of the British East India Company more extreme than even its own partisans advanced at the time. And Space Viking? Once you strip away the (admittedly impressive) story-telling razzle-dazzle, the novel is nothing but a romanticization of thuggery.

Look, sorry. My own ancestry, on my father’s side, is Norwegian. That fact has never blinded me to the truth about my Viking progenitors. Yes, they were very courageous, capable and resourceful. Big deal. So was the Waffen SS. The truth? My Viking forefathers were a bunch of murderers, rapists, arsonists and thieves. So let us puh-leese not adulate them in science fiction after the fact.

Grumble.

That said . . .

Piper, like most good story-tellers, was a man of many parts. And there are other stories of his which I’ve enjoyed for decades. Two of them, in particular, had a big impact on me as a teenager. The first was his novel Four-Day Planet—which is still my favorite among his many novels. The other . . .

Was this one.

 

 

 

Martha Dane paused, looking up at the purple-tinged copper sky. The wind had shifted since noon, while she had been inside, and the dust storm that was sweeping the high deserts to the east was now blowing out over Syrtis. The sun, magnified by the haze, was a gorgeous magenta ball, as large as the sun of Terra, at which she could look directly. Tonight, some of that dust would come sifting down from the upper atmosphere to add another film to what had been burying the city for the last fifty thousand years.

The red loess lay over everything, covering the streets and the open spaces of park and plaza, hiding the small houses that had been crushed and pressed flat under it and the rubble that had come down from the tall buildings when roofs had caved in and walls had toppled outward. Here where she stood, the ancient streets were a hundred to a hundred and fifty feet below the surface; the breach they had made in the wall of the building behind her had opened into the sixth story. She could look down on the cluster of prefabricated huts and sheds, on the brush-grown flat that had been the waterfront when this place had been a seaport on the ocean that was now Syrtis Depression; already, the bright metal was thinly coated with red dust. She thought, again, of what clearing this city would mean, in terms of time and labor, of people and supplies and equipment brought across fifty million miles of space. They’d have to use machinery; there was no other way it could be done. Bulldozers and power shovels and draglines; they were fast, but they were rough and indiscriminate. She remembered the digs around Harappa and Mohenjo-Daro, in the Indus Valley, and the careful, patient native laborers—the painstaking foremen, the pickmen and spademen, the long files of basketmen carrying away the earth. Slow and primitive as the civilization whose ruins they were uncovering, yes, but she could count on the fingers of one hand the times one of her pickmen had damaged a valuable object in the ground. If it hadn’t been for the underpaid and uncomplaining native laborer, archaeology would still be back where Wincklemann had found it. But on Mars there was no native labor; the last Martian had died five hundred centuries ago.

Something started banging like a machine gun, four or five hundred yards to her left. A solenoid jackhammer; Tony Lattimer must have decided which building he wanted to break into next. She became conscious, then, of the awkward weight of her equipment, and began redistributing it, shifting the straps of her oxy-tank pack, slinging the camera from one shoulder and the board and drafting tools from the other, gathering the notebooks and sketchbooks under her left arm. She started walking down the road, over hillocks of buried rubble, around snags of wall jutting up out of the loess, past buildings still standing, some of them already breached and explored, and across the brush-grown flat to the huts.

* * *

There were ten people in the main office room of Hut One when she entered. As soon as she had disposed of her oxygen equipment, she lit a cigarette, her first since noon, then looked from one to another of them. Old Selim von Ohlmhorst, the Turco-German, one of her two fellow archaeologists, sitting at the end of the long table against the farther wall, smoking his big curved pipe and going through a looseleaf notebook. The girl ordnance officer, Sachiko Koremitsu, between two droplights at the other end of the table, her head bent over her work. Colonel Hubert Penrose, the Space Force CO, and Captain Field, the intelligence officer, listening to the report of one of the airdyne pilots, returned from his afternoon survey flight. A couple of girl lieutenants from Signals, going over the script of the evening telecast, to be transmitted to the Cyrano, on orbit five thousand miles off planet and relayed from thence to Terra via Lunar. Sid Chamberlain, the Trans-Space News Service man, was with them. Like Selim and herself, he was a civilian; he was advertising the fact with a white shirt and a sleeveless blue sweater. And Major Lindemann, the engineer officer, and one of his assistants, arguing over some plans on a drafting board. She hoped, drawing a pint of hot water to wash her hands and sponge off her face, that they were doing something about the pipeline.

She started to carry the notebooks and sketchbooks over to where Selim von Ohlmhorst was sitting, and then, as she always did, she turned aside and stopped to watch Sachiko. The Japanese girl was restoring what had been a book, fifty thousand years ago; her eyes were masked by a binocular loup, the black headband invisible against her glossy black hair, and she was picking delicately at the crumbled page with a hair-fine wire set in a handle of copper tubing. Finally, loosening a particle as tiny as a snowflake, she grasped it with tweezers, placed it on the sheet of transparent plastic on which she was reconstructing the page, and set it with a mist of fixative from a little spraygun. It was a sheer joy to watch her; every movement was as graceful and precise as though done to music after being rehearsed a hundred times.

“Hello, Martha. It isn’t cocktail-time yet, is it?” The girl at the table spoke without raising her head, almost without moving her lips, as though she were afraid that the slightest breath would disturb the flaky stuff in front of her.

“No, it’s only fifteen-thirty. I finished my work, over there. I didn’t find any more books, if that’s good news for you.”

Sachiko took off the loup and leaned back in her chair, her palms cupped over her eyes.

“No, I like doing this. I call it micro-jigsaw puzzles. This book, here, really is a mess. Selim found it lying open, with some heavy stuff on top of it; the pages were simply crushed. She hesitated briefly. “If only it would mean something, after I did it.”

There could be a faintly critical overtone to that. As she replied, Martha realized that she was being defensive.

“It will, some day. Look how long it took to read Egyptian hieroglyphics, even after they had the Rosetta Stone.”

Sachiko smiled. “Yes, I know. But they did have the Rosetta Stone.”

“And we don’t. There is no Rosetta Stone, not anywhere on Mars. A whole race, a whole species, died while the first Crô-Magnon cave-artist was daubing pictures of reindeer and bison, and across fifty thousand years and fifty million miles there was no bridge of understanding.

“We’ll find one. There must be something, somewhere, that will give us the meaning of a few words, and we’ll use them to pry meaning out of more words, and so on. We may not live to learn this language, but we’ll make a start, and some day somebody will.”

Sachiko took her hands from her eyes, being careful not to look toward the unshaded lights, and smiled again. This time Martha was sure that it was not the Japanese smile of politeness, but the universally human smile of friendship.

“I hope so, Martha; really I do. It would be wonderful for you to be the first to do it, and it would be wonderful for all of us to be able to read what these people wrote. It would really bring this dead city to life again.” The smile faded slowly. “But it seems so hopeless.”

“You haven’t found any more pictures?”

Sachiko shook her head. Not that it would have meant much if she had. They had found hundreds of pictures with captions; they had never been able to establish a positive relationship between any pictured object and any printed word. Neither of them said anything more, and after a moment Sachiko replaced the loup and bent her head forward over the book.

* * *

Selim von Ohlmhorst looked up from his notebook, taking his pipe out of his mouth.

“Everything finished, over there?” he asked, releasing a puff of smoke.

“Such as it was.” She laid the notebooks and sketches on the table. “Captain Gicquel’s started airsealing the building from the fifth floor down, with an entrance on the sixth; he’ll start putting in oxygen generators as soon as that’s done. I have everything cleared up where he’ll be working.”

Colonel Penrose looked up quickly, as though making a mental note to attend to something later. Then he returned his attention to the pilot, who was pointing something out on a map.

Von Ohlmhorst nodded. “There wasn’t much to it, at that,” he agreed. “Do you know which building Tony has decided to enter next?”

“The tall one with the conical thing like a candle extinguisher on top, I think. I heard him drilling for the blasting shots over that way.”

“Well, I hope it turns out to be one that was occupied up to the end.”

The last one hadn’t. It had been stripped of its contents and fittings, a piece of this and a bit of that, haphazardly, apparently over a long period of time, until it had been almost gutted. For centuries, as it had died, this city had been consuming itself by a process of auto-cannibalism. She said something to that effect.

“Yes. We always find that—except, of course, at places like Pompeii. Have you seen any of the other Roman cities in Italy?” he asked. “Minturnae, for instance? First the inhabitants tore down this to repair that, and then, after they had vacated the city, other people came along and tore down what was left, and burned the stones for lime, or crushed them to mend roads, till there was nothing left but the foundation traces. That’s where we are fortunate; this is one of the places where the Martian race perished, and there were no barbarians to come later and destroy what they had left.” He puffed slowly at his pipe. “Some of these days, Martha, we are going to break into one of these buildings and find that it was one in which the last of these people died. Then we will learn the story of the end of this civilization.”

And if we learn to read their language, we’ll learn the whole story, not just the obituary. She hesitated, not putting the thought into words. “We’ll find that, sometime, Selim,” she said, then looked at her watch. “I’m going to get some more work done on my lists, before dinner.”

For an instant, the old man’s face stiffened in disapproval; he started to say something, thought better of it, and put his pipe back into his mouth. The brief wrinkling around his mouth and the twitch of his white mustache had been enough, however; she knew what he was thinking. She was wasting time and effort, he believed; time and effort belonging not to herself but to the expedition. He could be right, too, she realized. But he had to be wrong; there had to be a way to do it. She turned from him silently and went to her own packing-case seat, at the middle of the table.

* * *

Photographs, and photostats of restored pages of books, and transcripts of inscriptions, were piled in front of her, and the notebooks in which she was compiling her lists. She sat down, lighting a fresh cigarette, and reached over to a stack of unexamined material, taking off the top sheet. It was a photostat of what looked like the title page and contents of some sort of a periodical. She remembered it; she had found it herself, two days before, in a closet in the basement of the building she had just finished examining.

She sat for a moment, looking at it. It was readable, in the sense that she had set up a purely arbitrary but consistently pronounceable system of phonetic values for the letters. The long vertical symbols were vowels. There were only ten of them; not too many, allowing separate characters for long and short sounds. There were twenty of the short horizontal letters, which meant that sounds like –ng or –ch or –sh were single letters. The odds were millions to one against her system being anything like the original sound of the language, but she had listed several thousand Martian words, and she could pronounce all of them.

And that was as far as it went. She could pronounce between three and four thousand Martian words, and she couldn’t assign a meaning to one of them. Selim von Ohlmhorst believed that she never would. So did Tony Lattimer, and he was a great deal less reticent about saying so. So, she was sure, did Sachiko Koremitsu. There were times, now and then, when she began to be afraid that they were right.

The letters on the page in front of her began squirming and dancing, slender vowels with fat little consonants. They did that, now, every night in her dreams. And there were other dreams, in which she read them as easily as English; waking, she would try desperately and vainly to remember. She blinked, and looked away from the photostated page; when she looked back, the letters were behaving themselves again. There were three words at the top of the page, over-and-underlined, which seemed to be the Martian method of capitalization. Mastharnorvod Tadavas Sornhulva. She pronounced them mentally, leafing through her notebooks to see if she had encountered them before, and in what contexts. All three were listed. In addition, masthar was a fairly common word, and so was norvod, and so was nor, but –vod was a suffix and nothing but a suffix. Davas, was a word, too, and ta- was a common prefix; sorn and hulva were both common words. This language, she had long ago decided, must be something like German; when the Martians had needed a new word, they had just pasted a couple of existing words together. It would probably turn out to be a grammatical horror. Well, they had published magazines, and one of them had been called Mastharnorvod Tadavas Sornhulva. She wondered if it had been something like the Quarterly Archaeology Review, or something more on the order of Sexy Stories.

A smaller line, under the title, was plainly the issue number and date; enough things had been found numbered in series to enable her to identify the numerals and determine that a decimal system of numeration had been used. This was the one thousand and seven hundred and fifty-fourth issue, for Doma, 14837; then Doma must be the name of one of the Martian months. The word had turned up several times before. She found herself puffing furiously on her cigarette as she leafed through notebooks and piles of already examined material.

* * *

Sachiko was speaking to somebody, and a chair scraped at the end of the table. She raised her head, to see a big man with red hair and a red face, in Space Force green, with the single star of a major on his shoulder, sitting down. Ivan Fitzgerald, the medic. He was lifting weights from a book similar to the one the girl ordnance officer was restoring.

“Haven’t had time, lately,” he was saying, in reply to Sachiko’s question. “The Finchley girl’s still down with whatever it is she has, and it’s something I haven’t been able to diagnose yet. And I’ve been checking on bacteria cultures, and in what spare time I have, I’ve been dissecting specimens for Bill Chandler. Bill’s finally found a mammal. Looks like a lizard, and it’s only four inches long, but it’s a real warm-blooded, gamogenetic, placental, viviparous mammal. Burrows, and seems to live on what pass for insects here.”

“Is there enough oxygen for anything like that?” Sachiko was asking.

“Seems to be, close to the ground.” Fitzgerald got the headband of his loup adjusted, and pulled it down over his eyes. “He found this thing in a ravine down on the sea bottom— Ha, this page seems to be intact; now, if I can get it out all in one piece—”

He went on talking inaudibly to himself, lifting the page a little at a time and sliding one of the transparent plastic sheets under it, working with minute delicacy. Not the delicacy of the Japanese girl’s small hands, moving like the paws of a cat washing her face, but like a steam-hammer cracking a peanut. Field archaeology requires a certain delicacy of touch, too, but Martha watched the pair of them with envious admiration. Then she turned back to her own work, finishing the table of contents.

The next page was the beginning of the first article listed; many of the words were unfamiliar. She had the impression that this must be some kind of scientific or technical journal; that could be because such publications made up the bulk of her own periodical reading. She doubted it if were fiction; the paragraphs had a solid, factual look.

At length, Ivan Fitzgerald gave a short, explosive grunt.

“Ha! Got it!”

She looked up. He had detached the page and was cementing another plastic sheet onto it.

“Any pictures?” she asked.

“None on this side. Wait a moment.” He turned the sheet. “None on this side, either.” He sprayed another sheet of plastic to sandwich the page, then picked up his pipe and relighted it.

“I get fun out of this, and it’s good practice for my hands, so don’t think I’m complaining,” he said, “but, Martha, do you honestly think anybody’s ever going to get anything out of this?”

Sachiko held up a scrap of the silicone plastic the Martians had used for paper with her tweezers. It was almost an inch square.

“Look; three whole words on this piece,” she crowed. “Ivan, you took the easy book.”

Fitzgerald wasn’t being sidetracked. “This stuff’s absolutely meaningless,” he continued. “It had a meaning fifty thousand years ago, when it was written, but it has none at all now.”

She shook her head. “Meaning isn’t something that evaporates with time,” she argued. “It has just as much meaning now as it ever had. We just haven’t learned how to decipher it.”

“That seems like a pretty pointless distinction,” Selim von Ohlmhorst joined the conversation. “There no longer exists a means of deciphering it.”

“We’ll find one.” She was speaking, she realized, more in self-encouragement than in controversy.

“How? From pictures and captions? We’ve found captioned pictures, and what have they given us? A caption is intended to explain the picture, not the picture to explain the caption. Suppose some alien to our culture found a picture of a man with a white beard and mustache sawing a billet from a log. He would think the caption meant, ‘Man Sawing Wood.’ How would he know that it was really ‘Wilhelm II in Exile at Doorn?'”

Sachiko had taken off her loup and was lighting a cigarette.

“I can think of pictures intended to explain their captions,” she said. “These picture language-books, the sort we use in the Service—little line drawings, with a word or phrase under them.”

“Well, of course, if we found something like that,” von Ohlmhorst began.

* * *

“Michael Ventris found something like that, back in the Fifties,” Hubert Penrose’s voice broke in from directly behind her.

She turned her head. The colonel was standing by the archaeologists’ table; Captain Field and the airdyne pilot had gone out.

“He found a lot of Greek inventories of military stores,” Penrose continued. “They were in Cretan Linear B script, and at the head of each list was a little picture, a sword or a helmet or a cooking tripod or a chariot wheel. That’s what gave him the key to the script.”

“Colonel’s getting to be quite an archaeologist,” Fitzgerald commented. “We’re all learning each others’ specialties, on this expedition.”

“I heard about that long before this expedition was even contemplated.” Penrose was tapping a cigarette on his gold case. “I heard about that back before the Thirty Days’ War, at Intelligence School, when I was a lieutenant. As a feat of cryptanalysis, not an archaeological discovery.”

“Yes, cryptanalysis,” von Ohlmhorst pounced. “The reading of a known language in an unknown form of writing. Ventris’ lists were in the known language, Greek. Neither he nor anybody else ever read a word of the Cretan language until the finding of the Greek-Cretan bilingual in 1963, because only with a bilingual text, one language already known, can an unknown ancient language be learned. And what hope, I ask you, have we of finding anything like that here? Martha, you’ve been working on these Martian texts ever since we landed here—for the last six months. Tell me, have you found a single word to which you can positively assign a meaning?”

“Yes, I think I have one.” She was trying hard not to sound too exultant. “Doma. It’s the name of one of the months of the Martian calendar.”

“Where did you find that?” von Ohlmhorst asked. “And how did you establish—?”

“Here.” She picked up the photostat and handed it along the table to him. “I’d call this the title page of a magazine.”

He was silent for a moment, looking at it. “Yes. I would say so, too. Have you any of the rest of it?”

“I’m working on the first page of the first article, listed there. Wait till I see; yes, here’s all I found, together, here.” She told him where she had gotten it. “I just gathered it up, at the time, and gave it to Geoffrey and Rosita to photostat; this is the first I’ve really examined it.”

The old man got to his feet, brushing tobacco ashes from the front of his jacket, and came to where she was sitting, laying the title page on the table and leafing quickly through the stack of photostats.

“Yes, and here is the second article, on page eight, and here’s the next one.” He finished the pile of photostats. “A couple of pages missing at the end of the last article. This is remarkable; surprising that a thing like a magazine would have survived so long.”

“Well, this silicone stuff the Martians used for paper is pretty durable,” Hubert Penrose said. “There doesn’t seem to have been any water or any other fluid in it originally, so it wouldn’t dry out with time.”

“Oh, it’s not remarkable that the material would have survived. We’ve found a good many books and papers in excellent condition. But only a really vital culture, an organized culture, will publish magazines, and this civilization had been dying for hundreds of years before the end. It might have been a thousand years before the time they died out completely that such activities as publishing ended.”

“Well, look where I found it; in a closet in a cellar. Tossed in there and forgotten, and then ignored when they were stripping the building. Things like that happen.”

Penrose had picked up the title page and was looking at it.

“I don’t think there’s any doubt about this being a magazine, at all.” He looked again at the title, his lips moving silently. “Mastharnorvod Tadavas Sornhulva. Wonder what it means. But you’re right about the date—Doma seems to be the name of a month. Yes, you have a word, Dr. Dane.”

Sid Chamberlain, seeing that something unusual was going on, had come over from the table at which he was working. After examining the title page and some of the inside pages, he began whispering into the stenophone he had taken from his belt.

“Don’t try to blow this up to anything big, Sid,” she cautioned. “All we have is the name of a month, and Lord only knows how long it’ll be till we even find out which month it was.”

“Well, it’s a start, isn’t it?” Penrose argued. “Grotefend only had the word for ‘king’ when he started reading Persian cuneiform.”

“But I don’t have the word for month; just the name of a month. Everybody knew the names of the Persian kings, long before Grotefend.”

“That’s not the story,” Chamberlain said. “What the public back on Terra will be interested in is finding out that the Martians published magazines, just like we do. Something familiar; make the Martians seem more real. More human.”

* * *

Three men had come in, and were removing their masks and helmets and oxy-tanks, and peeling out of their quilted coveralls. Two were Space Force lieutenants; the third was a youngish civilian with close-cropped blond hair, in a checked woolen shirt. Tony Lattimer and his helpers.

“Don’t tell me Martha finally got something out of that stuff?” he asked, approaching the table. He might have been commenting on the antics of the village half-wit, from his tone.

“Yes; the name of one of the Martian months.” Hubert Penrose went on to explain, showing the photostat.

Tony Lattimer took it, glanced at it, and dropped it on the table.

“Sounds plausible, of course, but just an assumption. That word may not be the name of a month, at all—could mean ‘published’ or ‘authorized’ or ‘copyrighted’ or anything like that. Fact is, I don’t think it’s more than a wild guess that that thing’s anything like a periodical.” He dismissed the subject and turned to Penrose. “I picked out the next building to enter; that tall one with the conical thing on top. It ought to be in pretty good shape inside; the conical top wouldn’t allow dust to accumulate, and from the outside nothing seems to be caved in or crushed. Ground level’s higher than the other one, about the seventh floor. I found a good place and drilled for the shots; tomorrow I’ll blast a hole in it, and if you can spare some people to help, we can start exploring it right away.”

“Yes, of course, Dr. Lattimer. I can spare about a dozen, and I suppose you can find a few civilian volunteers,” Penrose told him. “What will you need in the way of equipment?”

“Oh, about six demolition-packets; they can all be shot together. And the usual thing in the way of lights, and breaking and digging tools, and climbing equipment in case we run into broken or doubtful stairways. We’ll divide into two parties. Nothing ought to be entered for the first time without a qualified archaeologist along. Three parties, if Martha can tear herself away from this catalogue of systematized incomprehensibilities she’s making long enough to do some real work.”

She felt her chest tighten and her face become stiff. She was pressing her lips together to lock in a furious retort when Hubert Penrose answered for her.

“Dr. Dane’s been doing as much work, and as important work, as you have,” he said brusquely. “More important work, I’d be inclined to say.”

Von Ohlmhorst was visibly distressed; he glanced once toward Sid Chamberlain, then looked hastily away from him. Afraid of a story of dissension among archaeologists getting out.

“Working out a system of pronunciation by which the Martian language could be transliterated was a most important contribution,” he said. “And Martha did that almost unassisted.”

“Unassisted by Dr. Lattimer, anyway,” Penrose added. “Captain Field and Lieutenant Koremitsu did some work, and I helped out a little, but nine-tenths of it she did herself.”

“Purely arbitrary,” Lattimer disdained. “Why, we don’t even know that the Martians could make the same kind of vocal sounds we do.”

“Oh, yes, we do,” Ivan Fitzgerald contradicted, safe on his own ground. “I haven’t seen any actual Martian skulls—these people seem to have been very tidy about disposing of their dead—but from statues and busts and pictures I’ve seen, I’d say that their vocal organs were identical with our own.”

“Well, grant that. And grant that it’s going to be impressive to rattle off the names of Martian notables whose statues we find, and that if we’re ever able to attribute any place-names, they’ll sound a lot better than this horse-doctors’ Latin the old astronomers splashed all over the map of Mars,” Lattimer said. “What I object to is her wasting time on this stuff, of which nobody will ever be able to read a word if she fiddles around with those lists till there’s another hundred feet of loess on this city, when there’s so much real work to be done and we’re shorthanded as we are.”

That was the first time that had come out in just so many words. She was glad Lattimer had said it and not Selim von Ohlmhorst.

“What you mean,” she retorted, “is that it doesn’t have the publicity value that digging up statues has.”

For an instant, she could see that the shot had scored. Then Lattimer, with a side glance at Chamberlain, answered:

“What I mean is that you’re trying to find something that any archaeologist, yourself included, should know doesn’t exist. I don’t object to your gambling your professional reputation and making a laughing stock of yourself; what I object to is that the blunders of one archaeologist discredit the whole subject in the eyes of the public.”

That seemed to be what worried Lattimer most. She was framing a reply when the communication-outlet whistled shrilly, and then squawked: “Cocktail time! One hour to dinner; cocktails in the library, Hut Four!”

* * *

The library, which was also lounge, recreation room, and general gathering-place, was already crowded; most of the crowd was at the long table topped with sheets of glasslike plastic that had been wall panels out of one of the ruined buildings. She poured herself what passed, here, for a martini, and carried it over to where Selim von Ohlmhorst was sitting alone.

For a while, they talked about the building they had just finished exploring, then drifted into reminiscences of their work on Terra—von Ohlmhorst’s in Asia Minor, with the Hittite Empire, and hers in Pakistan, excavating the cities of the Harappa Civilization. They finished their drinks—the ingredients were plentiful; alcohol and flavoring extracts synthesized from Martian vegetation—and von Ohlmhorst took the two glasses to the table for refills.

“You know, Martha,” he said, when he returned, “Tony was right about one thing. You are gambling your professional standing and reputation. It’s against all archaeological experience that a language so completely dead as this one could be deciphered. There was a continuity between all the other ancient languages—by knowing Greek, Champollion learned to read Egyptian; by knowing Egyptian, Hittite was learned. That’s why you and your colleagues have never been able to translate the Harappa hieroglyphics; no such continuity exists there. If you insist that this utterly dead language can be read, your reputation will suffer for it.”

“I heard Colonel Penrose say, once, that an officer who’s afraid to risk his military reputation seldom makes much of a reputation. It’s the same with us. If we really want to find things out, we have to risk making mistakes. And I’m a lot more interested in finding things out than I am in my reputation.”

She glanced across the room, to where Tony Lattimer was sitting with Gloria Standish, talking earnestly, while Gloria sipped one of the counterfeit martinis and listened. Gloria was the leading contender for the title of Miss Mars, 1996, if you like big bosomy blondes, but Tony would have been just as attentive to her if she’d looked like the Wicked Witch in “The Wizard of Oz,” because Gloria was the Pan-Federation Telecast System commentator with the expedition.

“I know you are,” the old Turco-German was saying. “That’s why, when they asked me to name another archaeologist for this expedition, I named you.”

He hadn’t named Tony Lattimer; Lattimer had been pushed onto the expedition by his university. There’d been a lot of high-level string-pulling to that; she wished she knew the whole story. She’d managed to keep clear of universities and university politics; all her digs had been sponsored by non-academic foundations or art museums.

“You have an excellent standing; much better than my own, at your age. That’s why it disturbs me to see you jeopardizing it by this insistence that the Martian language can be translated. I can’t, really, see how you can hope to succeed.”

She shrugged and drank some more of her cocktail, then lit another cigarette. It was getting tiresome to try to verbalize something she only felt.

“Neither do I, now, but I will. Maybe I’ll find something like the picture-books Sachiko was talking about. A child’s primer, maybe; surely they had things like that. And if I don’t, I’ll find something else. We’ve only been here six months. I can wait the rest of my life, if I have to, but I’ll do it sometime.”

“I can’t wait so long,” von Ohlmhorst said. “The rest of my life will only be a few years, and when the Schiaparelli orbits in, I’ll be going back to Terra on the Cyrano.”

“I wish you wouldn’t. This is a whole new world of archaeology. Literally.”

“Yes.” He finished the cocktail and looked at his pipe as though wondering whether to re-light it so soon before dinner, then put it in his pocket. “A whole new world—but I’ve grown old, and it isn’t for me. I’ve spent my life studying the Hittites. I can speak the Hittite language, though maybe King Muwatallis wouldn’t be able to understand my modern Turkish accent. But the things I’d have to learn, here—chemistry, physics, engineering, how to run analytic tests on steel girders and beryllo-silver alloys and plastics and silicones. I’m more at home with a civilization that rode in chariots and fought with swords and was just learning how to work iron. Mars is for young people. This expedition is a cadre of leadership—not only the Space Force people, who’ll be the commanders of the main expedition, but us scientists, too. And I’m just an old cavalry general who can’t learn to command tanks and aircraft. You’ll have time to learn about Mars. I won’t.”

His reputation as the dean of Hittitologists was solid and secure, too, she added mentally. Then she felt ashamed of the thought. He wasn’t to be classed with Tony Lattimer.

“All I came for was to get the work started,” he was continuing. “The Federation Government felt that an old hand should do that. Well, it’s started, now; you and Tony and whoever comes out on the Schiaparelli must carry it on. You said it, yourself; you have a whole new world. This is only one city, of the last Martian civilization. Behind this, you have the Late Upland Culture, and the Canal Builders, and all the civilizations and races and empires before them, clear back to the Martian Stone Age.” He hesitated for a moment. “You have no idea what all you have to learn, Martha. This isn’t the time to start specializing too narrowly.”

* * *

They all got out of the truck and stretched their legs and looked up the road to the tall building with the queer conical cap askew on its top. The four little figures that had been busy against its wall climbed into the jeep and started back slowly, the smallest of them, Sachiko Koremitsu, paying out an electric cable behind. When it pulled up beside the truck, they climbed out; Sachiko attached the free end of the cable to a nuclear-electric battery. At once, dirty gray smoke and orange dust puffed out from the wall of the building, and, a second later, the multiple explosion banged.

She and Tony Lattimer and Major Lindemann climbed onto the truck, leaving the jeep standing by the road. When they reached the building, a satisfyingly wide breach had been blown in the wall. Lattimer had placed his shots between two of the windows; they were both blown out along with the wall between, and lay unbroken on the ground. Martha remembered the first building they had entered. A Space Force officer had picked up a stone and thrown it at one of the windows, thinking that would be all they’d need to do. It had bounced back. He had drawn his pistol—they’d all carried guns, then, on the principle that what they didn’t know about Mars might easily hurt them—and fired four shots. The bullets had ricocheted, screaming thinly; there were four coppery smears of jacket-metal on the window, and a little surface spalling. Somebody tried a rifle; the 4000-f.s. bullet had cracked the glasslike pane without penetrating. An oxyacetylene torch had taken an hour to cut the window out; the lab crew, aboard the ship, were still trying to find out just what the stuff was.

Tony Lattimer had gone forward and was sweeping his flashlight back and forth, swearing petulantly, his voice harshened and amplified by his helmet-speaker.

“I thought I was blasting into a hallway; this lets us into a room. Careful; there’s about a two-foot drop to the floor, and a lot of rubble from the blast just inside.”

He stepped down through the breach; the others began dragging equipment out of the trucks—shovels and picks and crowbars and sledges, portable floodlights, cameras, sketching materials, an extension ladder, even Alpinists’ ropes and crampons and pickaxes. Hubert Penrose was shouldering something that looked like a surrealist machine gun but which was really a nuclear-electric jack-hammer. Martha selected one of the spike-shod mountaineer’s ice axes, with which she could dig or chop or poke or pry or help herself over rough footing.

The windows, grimed and crusted with fifty millennia of dust, filtered in a dim twilight; even the breach in the wall, in the morning shade, lighted only a small patch of floor. Somebody snapped on a floodlight, aiming it at the ceiling. The big room was empty and bare; dust lay thick on the floor and reddened the once-white walls. It could have been a large office, but there was nothing left in it to indicate its use.

“This one’s been stripped up to the seventh floor!” Lattimer exclaimed. “Street level’ll be cleaned out, completely.”

“Do for living quarters and shops, then,” Lindemann said. “Added to the others, this’ll take care of everybody on the Schiaparelli.”

“Seems to have been a lot of electric or electronic apparatus over along this wall,” one of the Space Force officers commented. “Ten or twelve electric outlets.” He brushed the dusty wall with his glove, then scraped on the floor with his foot. “I can see where things were pried loose.”

* * *

The door, one of the double sliding things the Martians had used, was closed. Selim von Ohlmhorst tried it, but it was stuck fast. The metal latch-parts had frozen together, molecule bonding itself to molecule, since the door had last been closed. Hubert Penrose came over with the jack-hammer, fitting a spear-point chisel into place. He set the chisel in the joint between the doors, braced the hammer against his hip, and squeezed the trigger-switch. The hammer banged briefly like the weapon it resembled, and the doors popped a few inches apart, then stuck. Enough dust had worked into the recesses into which it was supposed to slide to block it on both sides.

That was old stuff; they ran into that every time they had to force a door, and they were prepared for it. Somebody went outside and brought in a power-jack and finally one of the doors inched back to the door jamb. That was enough to get the lights and equipment through; they all passed from the room to the hallway beyond. About half the other doors were open; each had a number and a single word, Darfhulva, over it.

One of the civilian volunteers, a woman professor of natural ecology from Penn State University, was looking up and down the hall.

“You know,” she said, “I feel at home here. I think this was a college of some sort, and these were classrooms. That word, up there; that was the subject taught, or the department. And those electronic devices, all where the class would face them; audio-visual teaching aids.”

“A twenty-five-story university?” Lattimer scoffed. “Why, a building like this would handle thirty thousand students.”

“Maybe there were that many. This was a big city, in its prime,” Martha said, moved chiefly by a desire to oppose Lattimer.

“Yes, but think of the snafu in the halls, every time they changed classes. It’d take half an hour to get everybody back and forth from one floor to another.” He turned to von Ohlmhorst. “I’m going up above this floor. This place has been looted clean up to here, but there’s a chance there may be something above,” he said.

“I’ll stay on this floor, at present,” the Turco-German replied. “There will be much coming and going, and dragging things in and out. We should get this completely examined and recorded first. Then Major Lindemann’s people can do their worst, here.”

“Well, if nobody else wants it, I’ll take the downstairs,” Martha said.

“I’ll go along with you,” Hubert Penrose told her. “If the lower floors have no archaeological value, we’ll turn them into living quarters. I like this building; it’ll give everybody room to keep out from under everybody else’s feet.” He looked down the hall. “We ought to find escalators at the middle.”

* * *

The hallway, too, was thick underfoot with dust. Most of the open rooms were empty, but a few contained furniture, including small seat-desks. The original proponent of the university theory pointed these out as just what might be found in classrooms. There were escalators, up and down, on either side of the hall, and more on the intersecting passage to the right.

“That’s how they handled the students, between classes,” Martha commented. “And I’ll bet there are more ahead, there.”

They came to a stop where the hallway ended at a great square central hall. There were elevators, there, on two of the sides, and four escalators, still usable as stairways. But it was the walls, and the paintings on them, that brought them up short and staring.

They were clouded with dirt—she was trying to imagine what they must have looked like originally, and at the same time estimating the labor that would be involved in cleaning them—but they were still distinguishable, as was the word, Darfhulva, in golden letters above each of the four sides. It was a moment before she realized, from the murals, that she had at last found a meaningful Martian word. They were a vast historical panorama, clockwise around the room. A group of skin-clad savages squatting around a fire. Hunters with bows and spears, carrying the carcass of an animal slightly like a pig. Nomads riding long-legged, graceful mounts like hornless deer. Peasants sowing and reaping; mud-walled hut villages, and cities; processions of priests and warriors; battles with swords and bows, and with cannon and muskets; galleys, and ships with sails, and ships without visible means of propulsion, and aircraft. Changing costumes and weapons and machines and styles of architecture. A richly fertile landscape, gradually merging into barren deserts and bushlands—the time of the great planet-wide drought. The Canal Builders—men with machines recognizable as steam-shovels and derricks, digging and quarrying and driving across the empty plains with aqueducts. More cities—seaports on the shrinking oceans; dwindling, half-deserted cities; an abandoned city, with four tiny humanoid figures and a thing like a combat-car in the middle of a brush-grown plaza, they and their vehicle dwarfed by the huge lifeless buildings around them. She had not the least doubt; Darfhulva was History.

“Wonderful!” von Ohlmhorst was saying. “The entire history of this race. Why, if the painter depicted appropriate costumes and weapons and machines for each period, and got the architecture right, we can break the history of this planet into eras and periods and civilizations.”

“You can assume they’re authentic. The faculty of this university would insist on authenticity in the Darfhulva—History—Department,” she said.

“Yes! Darfhulva—History! And your magazine was a journal of Sornhulva!” Penrose exclaimed. “You have a word, Martha!” It took her an instant to realize that he had called her by her first name, and not Dr. Dane. She wasn’t sure if that weren’t a bigger triumph than learning a word of the Martian language. Or a more auspicious start. “Alone, I suppose that hulva means something like science or knowledge, or study; combined, it would be equivalent to our ‘ology. And darf would mean something like past, or old times, or human events, or chronicles.”

“That gives you three words, Martha!” Sachiko jubilated. “You did it.”

“Let’s don’t go too fast,” Lattimer said, for once not derisively. “I’ll admit that darfhulva is the Martian word for history as a subject of study; I’ll admit that hulva is the general word and darf modifies it and tells us which subject is meant. But as for assigning specific meanings, we can’t do that because we don’t know just how the Martians thought, scientifically or otherwise.”

He stopped short, startled by the blue-white light that blazed as Sid Chamberlain’s Kliegettes went on. When the whirring of the camera stopped, it was Chamberlain who was speaking:

“This is the biggest thing yet; the whole history of Mars, stone age to the end, all on four walls. I’m taking this with the fast shutter, but we’ll telecast it in slow motion, from the beginning to the end. Tony, I want you to do the voice for it—running commentary, interpretation of each scene as it’s shown. Would you do that?”

Would he do that! Martha thought. If he had a tail, he’d be wagging it at the very thought.

“Well, there ought to be more murals on the other floors,” she said. “Who wants to come downstairs with us?”

Sachiko did; immediately, Ivan Fitzgerald volunteered. Sid decided to go upstairs with Tony Lattimer, and Gloria Standish decided to go upstairs, too. Most of the party would remain on the seventh floor, to help Selim von Ohlmhorst get it finished. After poking tentatively at the escalator with the spike of her ice axe, Martha led the way downward.

* * *

The sixth floor was Darfhulva, too; military and technological history, from the character of the murals. They looked around the central hall, and went down to the fifth; it was like the floors above except that the big quadrangle was stacked with dusty furniture and boxes. Ivan Fitzgerald, who was carrying the floodlight, swung it slowly around. Here the murals were of heroic-sized Martians, so human in appearance as to seem members of her own race, each holding some object—a book, or a testtube, or some bit of scientific apparatus, and behind them were scenes of laboratories and factories, flame and smoke, lightning-flashes. The word at the top of each of the four walls was one with which she was already familiar—Sornhulva.

“Hey, Martha; there’s that word,” Ivan Fitzgerald exclaimed. “The one in the title of your magazine.” He looked at the paintings. “Chemistry, or physics.”

“Both,” Hubert Penrose considered. “I don’t think the Martians made any sharp distinction between them. See, the old fellow with the scraggly whiskers must be the inventor of the spectroscope; he has one in his hands, and he has a rainbow behind him. And the woman in the blue smock, beside him, worked in organic chemistry; see the diagrams of long-chain molecules behind her. What word would convey the idea of chemistry and physics taken as one subject?”

Sornhulva,” Sachiko suggested. “If hulva‘s something like science, sorn must mean matter, or substance, or physical object. You were right, all along, Martha. A civilization like this would certainly leave something like this, that would be self-explanatory.”

“This’ll wipe a little more of that superior grin off Tony Lattimer’s face,” Fitzgerald was saying, as they went down the motionless escalator to the floor below. “Tony wants to be a big shot. When you want to be a big shot, you can’t bear the possibility of anybody else being a bigger big shot, and whoever makes a start on reading this language will be the biggest big shot archaeology ever saw.”

That was true. She hadn’t thought of it, in that way, before, and now she tried not to think about it. She didn’t want to be a big shot. She wanted to be able to read the Martian language, and find things out about the Martians.

Two escalators down, they came out on a mezzanine around a wide central hall on the street level, the floor forty feet below them and the ceiling thirty feet above. Their lights picked out object after object below—a huge group of sculptured figures in the middle; some kind of a motor vehicle jacked up on trestles for repairs; things that looked like machine-guns and auto-cannon; long tables, tops littered with a dust-covered miscellany; machinery; boxes and crates and containers.

* * *

They made their way down and walked among the clutter, missing a hundred things for every one they saw, until they found an escalator to the basement. There were three basements, one under another, until at last they stood at the bottom of the last escalator, on a bare concrete floor, swinging the portable floodlight over stacks of boxes and barrels and drums, and heaps of powdery dust. The boxes were plastic—nobody had ever found anything made of wood in the city—and the barrels and drums were of metal or glass or some glasslike substance. They were outwardly intact. The powdery heaps might have been anything organic, or anything containing fluid. Down here, where wind and dust could not reach, evaporation had been the only force of destruction after the minute life that caused putrefaction had vanished.

They found refrigeration rooms, too, and using Martha’s ice axe and the pistollike vibratool Sachiko carried on her belt, they pounded and pried one open, to find desiccated piles of what had been vegetables, and leathery chunks of meat. Samples of that stuff, rocketed up to the ship, would give a reliable estimate, by radio-carbon dating, of how long ago this building had been occupied. The refrigeration unit, radically different from anything their own culture had produced, had been electrically powered. Sachiko and Penrose, poking into it, found the switches still on; the machine had only ceased to function when the power-source, whatever that had been, had failed.

The middle basement had also been used, at least toward the end, for storage; it was cut in half by a partition pierced by but one door. They took half an hour to force this, and were on the point of sending above for heavy equipment when it yielded enough for them to squeeze through. Fitzgerald, in the lead with the light, stopped short, looked around, and then gave a groan that came through his helmet-speaker like a foghorn.

“Oh, no! No!

“What’s the matter, Ivan?” Sachiko, entering behind him, asked anxiously.

He stepped aside. “Look at it, Sachi! Are we going to have to do all that?”

Martha crowded through behind her friend and looked around, then stood motionless, dizzy with excitement. Books. Case on case of books, half an acre of cases, fifteen feet to the ceiling. Fitzgerald, and Penrose, who had pushed in behind her, were talking in rapid excitement; she only heard the sound of their voices, not their words. This must be the main stacks of the university library—the entire literature of the vanished race of Mars. In the center, down an aisle between the cases, she could see the hollow square of the librarians’ desk, and stairs and a dumb-waiter to the floor above.

She realized that she was walking forward, with the others, toward this. Sachiko was saying: “I’m the lightest; let me go first.” She must be talking about the spidery metal stairs.

“I’d say they were safe,” Penrose answered. “The trouble we’ve had with doors around here shows that the metal hasn’t deteriorated.”

In the end, the Japanese girl led the way, more catlike than ever in her caution. The stairs were quite sound, in spite of their fragile appearance, and they all followed her. The floor above was a duplicate of the room they had entered, and seemed to contain about as many books. Rather than waste time forcing the door here, they returned to the middle basement and came up by the escalator down which they had originally descended.

The upper basement contained kitchens—electric stoves, some with pots and pans still on them—and a big room that must have been, originally, the students’ dining room, though when last used it had been a workshop. As they expected, the library reading room was on the street-level floor, directly above the stacks. It seemed to have been converted into a sort of common living room for the building’s last occupants. An adjoining auditorium had been made into a chemical works; there were vats and distillation apparatus, and a metal fractionating tower that extended through a hole knocked in the ceiling seventy feet above. A good deal of plastic furniture of the sort they had been finding everywhere in the city was stacked about, some of it broken up, apparently for reprocessing. The other rooms on the street floor seemed also to have been devoted to manufacturing and repair work; a considerable industry, along a number of lines, must have been carried on here for a long time after the university had ceased to function as such.

On the second floor, they found a museum; many of the exhibits remained, tantalizingly half-visible in grimed glass cases. There had been administrative offices there, too. The doors of most of them were closed, and they did not waste time trying to force them, but those that were open had been turned into living quarters. They made notes, and rough floor-plans, to guide them in future more thorough examination; it was almost noon before they had worked their way back to the seventh floor.

Selim von Ohlmhorst was in a room on the north side of the building, sketching the position of things before examining them and collecting them for removal. He had the floor checkerboarded with a grid of chalked lines, each numbered.

“We have everything on this floor photographed,” he said. “I have three gangs—all the floodlights I have—sketching and making measurements. At the rate we’re going, with time out for lunch, we’ll be finished by the middle of the afternoon.”

“You’ve been working fast. Evidently you aren’t being high-church about a ‘qualified archaeologist’ entering rooms first,” Penrose commented.

“Ach, childishness!” the old man exclaimed impatiently. “These officers of yours aren’t fools. All of them have been to Intelligence School and Criminal Investigation School. Some of the most careful amateur archaeologists I ever knew were retired soldiers or policemen. But there isn’t much work to be done. Most of the rooms are either empty or like this one—a few bits of furniture and broken trash and scraps of paper. Did you find anything down on the lower floors?”

“Well, yes,” Penrose said, a hint of mirth in his voice. “What would you say, Martha?”

She started to tell Selim. The others, unable to restrain their excitement, broke in with interruptions. Von Ohlmhorst was staring in incredulous amazement.

“But this floor was looted almost clean, and the buildings we’ve entered before were all looted from the street level up,” he said, at length.

“The people who looted this one lived here,” Penrose replied. “They had electric power to the last; we found refrigerators full of food, and stoves with the dinner still on them. They must have used the elevators to haul things down from the upper floor. The whole first floor was converted into workshops and laboratories. I think that this place must have been something like a monastery in the Dark Ages in Europe, or what such a monastery would have been like if the Dark Ages had followed the fall of a highly developed scientific civilization. For one thing, we found a lot of machine guns and light auto-cannon on the street level, and all the doors were barricaded. The people here were trying to keep a civilization running after the rest of the planet had gone back to barbarism; I suppose they’d have to fight off raids by the barbarians now and then.”

“You’re not going to insist on making this building into expedition quarters, I hope, colonel?” von Ohlmhorst asked anxiously.

“Oh, no! This place is an archaeological treasure-house. More than that; from what I saw, our technicians can learn a lot, here. But you’d better get this floor cleaned up as soon as you can, though. I’ll have the subsurface part, from the sixth floor down, airsealed. Then we’ll put in oxygen generators and power units, and get a couple of elevators into service. For the floors above, we can use temporary airsealing floor by floor, and portable equipment; when we have things atmosphered and lighted and heated, you and Martha and Tony Lattimer can go to work systematically and in comfort, and I’ll give you all the help I can spare from the other work. This is one of the biggest things we’ve found yet.”

Tony Lattimer and his companions came down to the seventh floor a little later.

“I don’t get this, at all,” he began, as soon as he joined them. “This building wasn’t stripped the way the others were. Always, the procedure seems to have been to strip from the bottom up, but they seem to have stripped the top floors first, here. All but the very top. I found out what that conical thing is, by the way. It’s a wind-rotor, and under it there’s an electric generator. This building generated its own power.”

“What sort of condition are the generators in?” Penrose asked.

“Well, everything’s full of dust that blew in under the rotor, of course, but it looks to be in pretty good shape. Hey, I’ll bet that’s it! They had power, so they used the elevators to haul stuff down. That’s just what they did. Some of the floors above here don’t seem to have been touched, though.” He paused momentarily; back of his oxy-mask, he seemed to be grinning. “I don’t know that I ought to mention this in front of Martha, but two floors above we hit a room—it must have been the reference library for one of the departments—that had close to five hundred books in it.”

The noise that interrupted him, like the squeaking of a Brobdingnagian parrot, was only Ivan Fitzgerald laughing through his helmet-speaker.

* * *

Lunch at the huts was a hasty meal, with a gabble of full-mouthed and excited talking. Hubert Penrose and his chief subordinates snatched their food in a huddled consultation at one end of the table; in the afternoon, work was suspended on everything else and the fifty-odd men and women of the expedition concentrated their efforts on the University. By the middle of the afternoon, the seventh floor had been completely examined, photographed and sketched, and the murals in the square central hall covered with protective tarpaulins, and Laurent Gicquel and his airsealing crew had moved in and were at work. It had been decided to seal the central hall at the entrances. It took the French-Canadian engineer most of the afternoon to find all the ventilation-ducts and plug them. An elevator shaft on the north side was found reaching clear to the twenty-fifth floor; this would give access to the top of the building; another shaft, from the center, would take care of the floors below. Nobody seemed willing to trust the ancient elevators, themselves; it was the next evening before a couple of cars and the necessary machinery could be fabricated in the machine shops aboard the ship and sent down by landing-rocket. By that time, the airsealing was finished, the nuclear-electric energy-converters were in place, and the oxygen generators set up.

Martha was in the lower basement, an hour or so before lunch the day after, when a couple of Space Force officers came out of the elevator, bringing extra lights with them. She was still using oxygen-equipment; it was a moment before she realized that the newcomers had no masks, and that one of them was smoking. She took off her own helmet-speaker, throat-mike and mask and unslung her tank-pack, breathing cautiously. The air was chilly, and musty-acrid with the odor of antiquity—the first Martian odor she had smelled—but when she lit a cigarette, the lighter flamed clear and steady and the tobacco caught and burned evenly.

The archaeologists, many of the other civilian scientists, a few of the Space Force officers and the two news-correspondents, Sid Chamberlain and Gloria Standish, moved in that evening, setting up cots in vacant rooms. They installed electric stoves and a refrigerator in the old Library Reading Room, and put in a bar and lunch counter. For a few days, the place was full of noise and activity, then, gradually, the Space Force people and all but a few of the civilians returned to their own work. There was still the business of airsealing the more habitable of the buildings already explored, and fitting them up in readiness for the arrival, in a year and a half, of the five hundred members of the main expedition. There was work to be done enlarging the landing field for the ship’s rocket craft, and building new chemical-fuel tanks.

There was the work of getting the city’s ancient reservoirs cleared of silt before the next spring thaw brought more water down the underground aqueducts everybody called canals in mistranslation of Schiaparelli’s Italian word, though this was proving considerably easier than anticipated. The ancient Canal-Builders must have anticipated a time when their descendants would no longer be capable of maintenance work, and had prepared against it. By the day after the University had been made completely habitable, the actual work there was being done by Selim, Tony Lattimer and herself, with half a dozen Space Force officers, mostly girls, and four or five civilians, helping.

* * *

They worked up from the bottom, dividing the floor-surfaces into numbered squares, measuring and listing and sketching and photographing. They packaged samples of organic matter and sent them up to the ship for Carbon-14 dating and analysis; they opened cans and jars and bottles, and found that everything fluid in them had evaporated, through the porosity of glass and metal and plastic if there were no other way. Wherever they looked, they found evidence of activity suddenly suspended and never resumed. A vise with a bar of metal in it, half cut through and the hacksaw beside it. Pots and pans with hardened remains of food in them; a leathery cut of meat on a table, with the knife ready at hand. Toilet articles on washstands; unmade beds, the bedding ready to crumble at a touch but still retaining the impress of the sleeper’s body; papers and writing materials on desks, as though the writer had gotten up, meaning to return and finish in a fifty-thousand-year-ago moment.

It worried her. Irrationally, she began to feel that the Martians had never left this place; that they were still around her, watching disapprovingly every time she picked up something they had laid down. They haunted her dreams, now, instead of their enigmatic writing. At first, everybody who had moved into the University had taken a separate room, happy to escape the crowding and lack of privacy of the huts. After a few nights, she was glad when Gloria Standish moved in with her, and accepted the newswoman’s excuse that she felt lonely without somebody to talk to before falling asleep. Sachiko Koremitsu joined them the next evening, and before going to bed, the girl officer cleaned and oiled her pistol, remarking that she was afraid some rust may have gotten into it.

The others felt it, too. Selim von Ohlmhorst developed the habit of turning quickly and looking behind him, as though trying to surprise somebody or something that was stalking him. Tony Lattimer, having a drink at the bar that had been improvised from the librarian’s desk in the Reading Room, set down his glass and swore.

“You know what this place is? It’s an archaeological Marie Celeste!” he declared. “It was occupied right up to the end—we’ve all seen the shifts these people used to keep a civilization going here—but what was the end? What happened to them? Where did they go?”

“You didn’t expect them to be waiting out front, with a red carpet and a big banner, Welcome Terrans, did you, Tony?” Gloria Standish asked.

“No, of course not; they’ve all been dead for fifty thousand years. But if they were the last of the Martians, why haven’t we found their bones, at least? Who buried them, after they were dead?” He looked at the glass, a bubble-thin goblet, found, with hundreds of others like it, in a closet above, as though debating with himself whether to have another drink. Then he voted in the affirmative and reached for the cocktail pitcher. “And every door on the old ground level is either barred or barricaded from the inside. How did they get out? And why did they leave?”

* * *

The next day, at lunch, Sachiko Koremitsu had the answer to the second question. Four or five electrical engineers had come down by rocket from the ship, and she had been spending the morning with them, in oxy-masks, at the top of the building.

“Tony, I thought you said those generators were in good shape,” she began, catching sight of Lattimer. “They aren’t. They’re in the most unholy mess I ever saw. What happened, up there, was that the supports of the wind-rotor gave way, and weight snapped the main shaft, and smashed everything under it.”

“Well, after fifty thousand years, you can expect something like that,” Lattimer retorted. “When an archaeologist says something’s in good shape, he doesn’t necessarily mean it’ll start as soon as you shove a switch it.”

“You didn’t notice that it happened when the power was on, did you,” one of the engineers asked, nettled at Lattimer’s tone. “Well, it was. Everything’s burned out or shorted or fused together; I saw one busbar eight inches across melted clean in two. It’s a pity we didn’t find things in good shape, even archaeologically speaking. I saw a lot of interesting things, things in advance of what we’re using now. But it’ll take a couple of years to get everything sorted out and figure what it looked like originally.”

“Did it look as though anybody’d made an attempt to fix it?” Martha asked.

Sachiko shook her head. “They must have taken one look at it and given up. I don’t believe there would have been any possible way to repair anything.”

“Well, that explains why they left. They needed electricity for lighting, and heating, and all their industrial equipment was electrical. They had a good life, here, with power; without it, this place wouldn’t have been habitable.”

“Then why did they barricade everything from the inside, and how did they get out?” Lattimer wanted to know.

“To keep other people from breaking in and looting. Last man out probably barred the last door and slid down a rope from upstairs,” von Ohlmhorst suggested. “This Houdini-trick doesn’t worry me too much. We’ll find out eventually.”

“Yes, about the time Martha starts reading Martian,” Lattimer scoffed.

“That may be just when we’ll find out,” von Ohlmhorst replied seriously. “It wouldn’t surprise me if they left something in writing when they evacuated this place.”

“Are you really beginning to treat this pipe dream of hers as a serious possibility, Selim?” Lattimer demanded. “I know, it would be a wonderful thing, but wonderful things don’t happen just because they’re wonderful. Only because they’re possible, and this isn’t. Let me quote that distinguished Hittitologist, Johannes Friedrich: ‘Nothing can be translated out of nothing.’ Or that later but not less distinguished Hittitologist, Selim von Ohlmhorst: ‘Where are you going to get your bilingual?'”

“Friedrich lived to see the Hittite language deciphered and read,” von Ohlmhorst reminded him.

“Yes, when they found Hittite-Assyrian bilinguals.” Lattimer measured a spoonful of coffee-powder into his cup and added hot water. “Martha, you ought to know, better than anybody, how little chance you have. You’ve been working for years in the Indus Valley; how many words of Harappa have you or anybody else ever been able to read?”

“We never found a university, with a half-million-volume library, at Harappa or Mohenjo-Daro.”

“And, the first day we entered this building, we established meanings for several words,” Selim von Ohlmhorst added.

“And you’ve never found another meaningful word since,” Lattimer added. “And you’re only sure of general meaning, not specific meaning of word-elements, and you have a dozen different interpretations for each word.”

“We made a start,” von Ohlmhorst maintained. “We have Grotefend’s word for ‘king.’ But I’m going to be able to read some of those books, over there, if it takes me the rest of my life here. It probably will, anyhow.”

“You mean you’ve changed your mind about going home on the Cyrano?” Martha asked. “You’ll stay on here?”

The old man nodded. “I can’t leave this. There’s too much to discover. The old dog will have to learn a lot of new tricks, but this is where my work will be, from now on.”

Lattimer was shocked. “You’re nuts!” he cried. “You mean you’re going to throw away everything you’ve accomplished in Hittitology and start all over again here on Mars? Martha, if you’ve talked him into this crazy decision, you’re a criminal!”

“Nobody talked me into anything,” von Ohlmhorst said roughly. “And as for throwing away what I’ve accomplished in Hittitology, I don’t know what the devil you’re talking about. Everything I know about the Hittite Empire is published and available to anybody. Hittitology’s like Egyptology; it’s stopped being research and archaeology and become scholarship and history. And I’m not a scholar or a historian; I’m a pick-and-shovel field archaeologist—a highly skilled and specialized grave-robber and junk-picker—and there’s more pick-and shovel work on this planet than I could do in a hundred lifetimes. This is something new; I was a fool to think I could turn my back on it and go back to scribbling footnotes about Hittite kings.”

“You could have anything you wanted, in Hittitology. There are a dozen universities that’d sooner have you than a winning football team. But no! You have to be the top man in Martiology, too. You can’t leave that for anybody else—” Lattimer shoved his chair back and got to his feet, leaving the table with an oath that was almost a sob of exasperation.

Maybe his feelings were too much for him. Maybe he realized, as Martha did, what he had betrayed. She sat, avoiding the eyes of the others, looking at the ceiling, as embarrassed as though Lattimer had flung something dirty on the table in front of them. Tony Lattimer had, desperately, wanted Selim to go home on the Cyrano. Martiology was a new field; if Selim entered it, he would bring with him the reputation he had already built in Hittitology, automatically stepping into the leading role that Lattimer had coveted for himself. Ivan Fitzgerald’s words echoed back to her—when you want to be a big shot, you can’t bear the possibility of anybody else being a bigger big shot. His derision of her own efforts became comprehensible, too. It wasn’t that he was convinced that she would never learn to read the Martian language. He had been afraid that she would.

* * *

Ivan Fitzgerald finally isolated the germ that had caused the Finchley girl’s undiagnosed illness. Shortly afterward, the malady turned into a mild fever, from which she recovered. Nobody else seemed to have caught it. Fitzgerald was still trying to find out how the germ had been transmitted.

They found a globe of Mars, made when the city had been a seaport. They located the city, and learned that its name had been Kukan—or something with a similar vowel-consonant ratio. Immediately, Sid Chamberlain and Gloria Standish began giving their telecasts a Kukan dateline, and Hubert Penrose used the name in his official reports. They also found a Martian calendar; the year had been divided into ten more or less equal months, and one of them had been Doma. Another month was Nor, and that was a part of the name of the scientific journal Martha had found.

Bill Chandler, the zoologist, had been going deeper and deeper into the old sea bottom of Syrtis. Four hundred miles from Kukan, and at fifteen thousand feet lower altitude, he shot a bird. At least, it was a something with wings and what were almost but not quite feathers, though it was more reptilian than avian in general characteristics. He and Ivan Fitzgerald skinned and mounted it, and then dissected the carcass almost tissue by tissue. About seven-eights of its body capacity was lungs; it certainly breathed air containing at least half enough oxygen to support human life, or five times as much as the air around Kukan.

That took the center of interest away from archaeology, and started a new burst of activity. All the expedition’s aircraft—four jetticopters and three wingless airdyne reconnaissance fighters—were thrown into intensified exploration of the lower sea bottoms, and the bio-science boys and girls were wild with excitement and making new discoveries on each flight.

The University was left to Selim and Martha and Tony Lattimer, the latter keeping to himself while she and the old Turco-German worked together. The civilian specialists in other fields, and the Space Force people who had been holding tape lines and making sketches and snapping camera, were all flying to lower Syrtis to find out how much oxygen there was and what kind of life it supported.

Sometimes Sachiko dropped in; most of the time she was busy helping Ivan Fitzgerald dissect specimens. They had four or five species of what might loosely be called birds, and something that could easily be classed as a reptile, and a carnivorous mammal the size of a cat with birdlike claws, and a herbivore almost identical with the piglike thing in the big Darfhulva mural, and another like a gazelle with a single horn in the middle of its forehead.

The high point came when one party, at thirty thousand feet below the level of Kukan, found breathable air. One of them had a mild attack of sorroche and had to be flown back for treatment in a hurry, but the others showed no ill effects.

The daily newscasts from Terra showed a corresponding shift in interest at home. The discovery of the University had focused attention on the dead past of Mars; now the public was interested in Mars as a possible home for humanity. It was Tony Lattimer who brought archaeology back into the activities of the expedition and the news at home.

Martha and Selim were working in the museum on the second floor, scrubbing the grime from the glass cases, noting contents, and grease-penciling numbers; Lattimer and a couple of Space Force officers were going through what had been the administrative offices on the other side. It was one of these, a young second lieutenant, who came hurrying in from the mezzanine, almost bursting with excitement.

“Hey, Martha! Dr. von Ohlmhorst!” he was shouting. “Where are you? Tony’s found the Martians!”

Selim dropped his rag back in the bucket; she laid her clipboard on top of the case beside her.

“Where?” they asked together.

“Over on the north side.” The lieutenant took hold of himself and spoke more deliberately. “Little room, back of one of the old faculty offices—conference room. It was locked from the inside, and we had to burn it down with a torch. That’s where they are. Eighteen of them, around a long table—”

Gloria Standish, who had dropped in for lunch, was on the mezzanine, fairly screaming into a radio-phone extension:

” . . . Dozen and a half of them! Well, of course they’re dead. What a question! They look like skeletons covered with leather. No, I do not know what they died of. Well, forget it; I don’t care if Bill Chandler’s found a three-headed hippopotamus. Sid, don’t you get it? We’ve found the Martians!

She slammed the phone back on its hook, rushing away ahead of them.

* * *

Martha remembered the closed door; on the first survey, they hadn’t attempted opening it. Now it was burned away at both sides and lay, still hot along the edges, on the floor of the big office room in front. A floodlight was on in the room inside, and Lattimer was going around looking at things while a Space Force officer stood by the door. The center of the room was filled by a long table; in armchairs around it sat the eighteen men and women who had occupied the room for the last fifty millennia. There were bottles and glasses on the table in front of them, and, had she seen them in a dimmer light, she would have thought that they were merely dozing over their drinks. One had a knee hooked over his chair-arm and was curled in foetus-like sleep. Another had fallen forward onto the table, arms extended, the emerald set of a ring twinkling dully on one finger. Skeletons covered with leather, Gloria Standish had called them, and so they were—faces like skulls, arms and legs like sticks, the flesh shrunken onto the bones under it.

“Isn’t this something!” Lattimer was exulting. “Mass suicide, that’s what it was. Notice what’s in the corners?”

Braziers, made of perforated two-gallon-odd metal cans, the white walls smudged with smoke above them. Von Ohlmhorst had noticed them at once, and was poking into one of them with his flashlight.

“Yes; charcoal. I noticed a quantity of it around a couple of hand-forges in the shop on the first floor. That’s why you had so much trouble breaking in; they’d sealed the room on the inside.” He straightened and went around the room, until he found a ventilator, and peered into it. “Stuffed with rags. They must have been all that were left, here. Their power was gone, and they were old and tired, and all around them their world was dying. So they just came in here and lit the charcoal, and sat drinking together till they all fell asleep. Well, we know what became of them, now, anyhow.”

Sid and Gloria made the most of it. The Terran public wanted to hear about Martians, and if live Martians couldn’t be found, a room full of dead ones was the next best thing. Maybe an even better thing; it had been only sixty-odd years since the Orson Welles invasion-scare. Tony Lattimer, the discoverer, was beginning to cash in on his attentions to Gloria and his ingratiation with Sid; he was always either making voice-and-image talks for telecast or listening to the news from the home planet. Without question, he had become, overnight, the most widely known archaeologist in history.

“Not that I’m interested in all this, for myself,” he disclaimed, after listening to the telecast from Terra two days after his discovery. “But this is going to be a big thing for Martian archaeology. Bring it to the public attention; dramatize it. Selim, can you remember when Lord Carnarvon and Howard Carter found the tomb of Tutankhamen?”

“In 1923? I was two years old, then,” von Ohlmhorst chuckled. “I really don’t know how much that publicity ever did for Egyptology. Oh, the museums did devote more space to Egyptian exhibits, and after a museum department head gets a few extra showcases, you know how hard it is to make him give them up. And, for a while, it was easier to get financial support for new excavations. But I don’t know how much good all this public excitement really does, in the long run.”

“Well, I think one of us should go back on the Cyrano, when the Schiaparelli orbits in,” Lattimer said. “I’d hoped it would be you; your voice would carry the most weight. But I think it’s important that one of us go back, to present the story of our work, and what we have accomplished and what we hope to accomplish, to the public and to the universities and the learned societies, and to the Federation Government. There will be a great deal of work that will have to be done. We must not allow the other scientific fields and the so-called practical interests to monopolize public and academic support. So, I believe I shall go back at least for a while, and see what I can do—”

Lectures. The organization of a Society of Martian Archaeology, with Anthony Lattimer, Ph.D., the logical candidate for the chair. Degrees, honors; the deference of the learned, and the adulation of the lay public. Positions, with impressive titles and salaries. Sweet are the uses of publicity.

She crushed out her cigarette and got to her feet. “Well, I still have the final lists of what we found in Halvhulva—Biology—department to check over. I’m starting on Sornhulva tomorrow, and I want that stuff in shape for expert evaluation.”

That was the sort of thing Tony Lattimer wanted to get away from, the detail-work and the drudgery. Let the infantry do the slogging through the mud; the brass-hats got the medals.

* * *

She was halfway through the fifth floor, a week later, and was having midday lunch in the reading room on the first floor when Hubert Penrose came over and sat down beside her, asking her what she was doing. She told him.

“I wonder if you could find me a couple of men, for an hour or so,” she added. “I’m stopped by a couple of jammed doors at the central hall. Lecture room and library, if the layout of that floor’s anything like the ones below it.”

“Yes. I’m a pretty fair door-buster, myself.” He looked around the room. “There’s Jeff Miles; he isn’t doing much of anything. And we’ll put Sid Chamberlain to work, for a change, too. The four of us ought to get your doors open.” He called to Chamberlain, who was carrying his tray over to the dish washer. “Oh, Sid; you doing anything for the next hour or so?”

“I was going up to the fourth floor, to see what Tony’s doing.”

“Forget it. Tony’s bagged his season limit of Martians. I’m going to help Martha bust in a couple of doors; we’ll probably find a whole cemetery full of Martians.”

Chamberlain shrugged. “Why not. A jammed door can have anything back of it, and I know what Tony’s doing—just routine stuff.”

Jeff Miles, the Space Force captain, came over, accompanied by one of the lab-crew from the ship who had come down on the rocket the day before.

“This ought to be up your alley, Mort,” he was saying to his companion. “Chemistry and physics department. Want to come along?”

The lab man, Mort Tranter, was willing. Seeing the sights was what he’d come down from the ship for. She finished her coffee and cigarette, and they went out into the hall together, gathered equipment and rode the elevator to the fifth floor.

The lecture hall door was the nearest; they attacked it first. With proper equipment and help, it was no problem and in ten minutes they had it open wide enough to squeeze through with the floodlights. The room inside was quite empty, and, like most of the rooms behind closed doors, comparatively free from dust. The students, it appeared, had sat with their backs to the door, facing a low platform, but their seats and the lecturer’s table and equipment had been removed. The two side walls bore inscriptions: on the right, a pattern of concentric circles which she recognized as a diagram of atomic structure, and on the left a complicated table of numbers and words, in two columns. Tranter was pointing at the diagram on the right.

“They got as far as the Bohr atom, anyhow,” he said. “Well, not quite. They knew about electron shells, but they have the nucleus pictured as a solid mass. No indication of proton-and-neutron structure. I’ll bet, when you come to translate their scientific books, you’ll find that they taught that the atom was the ultimate and indivisible particle. That explains why you people never found any evidence that the Martians used nuclear energy.”

“That’s a uranium atom,” Captain Miles mentioned.

“It is?” Sid Chamberlain asked, excitedly. “Then they did know about atomic energy. Just because we haven’t found any pictures of A-bomb mushrooms doesn’t mean—”

She turned to look at the other wall. Sid’s signal reactions were getting away from him again; uranium meant nuclear power to him, and the two words were interchangeable. As she studied the arrangement of the numbers and words, she could hear Tranter saying:

“Nuts, Sid. We knew about uranium a long time before anybody found out what could be done with it. Uranium was discovered on Terra in 1789, by Klaproth.”

There was something familiar about the table on the left wall. She tried to remember what she had been taught in school about physics, and what she had picked up by accident afterward. The second column was a continuation of the first: there were forty-six items in each, each item numbered consecutively—

“Probably used uranium because it’s the largest of the natural atoms,” Penrose was saying. “The fact that there’s nothing beyond it there shows that they hadn’t created any of the transuranics. A student could go to that thing and point out the outer electron of any of the ninety-two elements.”

* * *

Ninety-two! That was it; there were ninety-two items in the table on the left wall! Hydrogen was Number One, she knew; One, Sarfaldsorn. Helium was Two; that was Tirfaldsorn. She couldn’t remember which element came next, but in Martian it was Sarfalddavas. Sorn must mean matter, or substance, then. And davas; she was trying to think of what it could be. She turned quickly to the others, catching hold of Hubert Penrose’s arm with one hand and waving her clipboard with the other.

“Look at this thing, over here,” she was clamoring excitedly. “Tell me what you think it is. Could it be a table of the elements?”

They all turned to look. Mort Tranter stared at it for a moment.

“Could be. If I only knew what those squiggles meant—”

That was right; he’d spent his time aboard the ship.

“If you could read the numbers, would that help?” she asked, beginning to set down the Arabic digits and their Martian equivalents. “It’s decimal system, the same as we use.”

“Sure. If that’s a table of elements, all I’d need would be the numbers. Thanks,” he added as she tore off the sheet and gave it to him.

Penrose knew the numbers, and was ahead of him. “Ninety-two items, numbered consecutively. The first number would be the atomic number. Then a single word, the name of the element. Then the atomic weight—”

She began reading off the names of the elements. “I know hydrogen and helium; what’s tirfalddavas, the third one?”

“Lithium,” Tranter said. “The atomic weights aren’t run out past the decimal point. Hydrogen’s one plus, if that double-hook dingus is a plus sign; Helium’s four-plus, that’s right. And lithium’s given as seven, that isn’t right. It’s six-point-nine-four-oh. Or is that thing a Martian minus sign?”

“Of course! Look! A plus sign is a hook, to hang things together; a minus sign is a knife, to cut something off from something—see, the little loop is the handle and the long pointed loop is the blade. Stylized, of course, but that’s what it is. And the fourth element, kiradavas; what’s that?”

“Beryllium. Atomic weight given as nine-and-a-hook; actually it’s nine-point-oh-two.”

Sid Chamberlain had been disgruntled because he couldn’t get a story about the Martians having developed atomic energy. It took him a few minutes to understand the newest development, but finally it dawned on him.

“Hey! You’re reading that!” he cried. “You’re reading Martian!”

“That’s right,” Penrose told him. “Just reading it right off. I don’t get the two items after the atomic weight, though. They look like months of the Martian calendar. What ought they to be, Mort?”

Tranter hesitated. “Well, the next information after the atomic weight ought to be the period and group numbers. But those are words.”

“What would the numbers be for the first one, hydrogen?”

“Period One, Group One. One electron shell, one electron in the outer shell,” Tranter told her. “Helium’s period one, too, but it has the outer—only—electron shell full, so it’s in the group of inert elements.”

Trav, Trav. Trav‘s the first month of the year. And helium’s Trav, Yenth; Yenth is the eighth month.”

“The inert elements could be called Group Eight, yes. And the third element, lithium, is Period Two, Group One. That check?”

“It certainly does. Sanv, Trav; Sanv‘s the second month. What’s the first element in Period Three?”

“Sodium, Number Eleven.”

“That’s right; it’s Krav, Trav. Why, the names of the months are simply numbers, one to ten, spelled out.”

Doma‘s the fifth month. That was your first Martian word, Martha,” Penrose told her. “The word for five. And if davas is the word for metal, and sornhulva is chemistry and/or physics, I’ll bet Tadavas Sornhulva is literally translated as : ‘Of-Metal Matter-Knowledge.’ Metallurgy, in other words. I wonder what Mastharnorvod means.” It surprised her that, after so long and with so much happening in the meantime, he could remember that. “Something like ‘Journal,’ or ‘Review,’ or maybe ‘Quarterly.'”

“We’ll work that out, too,” she said confidently. After this, nothing seemed impossible. “Maybe we can find—” Then she stopped short. “You said ‘Quarterly.’ I think it was ‘Monthly,’ instead. It was dated for a specific month, the fifth one. And if nor is ten, Mastharnorvod could be ‘Year-Tenth.’ And I’ll bet we’ll find that masthar is the word for year.” She looked at the table on the wall again. “Well, let’s get all these words down, with translations for as many as we can.”

“Let’s take a break for a minute,” Penrose suggested, getting out his cigarettes. “And then, let’s do this in comfort. Jeff, suppose you and Sid go across the hall and see what you find in the other room in the way of a desk or something like that, and a few chairs. There’ll be a lot of work to do on this.”

Sid Chamberlain had been squirming as though he were afflicted with ants, trying to contain himself. Now he let go with an excited jabber.

“This is really it! The it, not just it-of-the-week, like finding the reservoirs or those statues or this building, or even the animals and the dead Martians! Wait till Selim and Tony see this! Wait till Tony sees it; I want to see his face! And when I get this on telecast, all Terra’s going to go nuts about it!” He turned to Captain Miles. “Jeff, suppose you take a look at that other door, while I find somebody to send to tell Selim and Tony. And Gloria; wait till she sees this—”

“Take it easy, Sid,” Martha cautioned. “You’d better let me have a look at your script, before you go too far overboard on the telecast. This is just a beginning; it’ll take years and years before we’re able to read any of those books downstairs.”

“It’ll go faster than you think, Martha,” Hubert Penrose told her. “We’ll all work on it, and we’ll teleprint material to Terra, and people there will work on it. We’ll send them everything we can . . . everything we work out, and copies of books, and copies of your word-lists—”

And there would be other tables—astronomical tables, tables in physics and mechanics, for instance—in which words and numbers were equivalent. The library stacks, below, would be full of them. Transliterate them into Roman alphabet spellings and Arabic numerals, and somewhere, somebody would spot each numerical significance, as Hubert Penrose and Mort Tranter and she had done with the table of elements. And pick out all the chemistry textbooks in the Library; new words would take on meaning from contexts in which the names of elements appeared. She’d have to start studying chemistry and physics, herself—

* * *

Sachiko Koremitsu peeped in through the door, then stepped inside.

“Is there anything I can do—?” she began. “What’s happened? Something important?”

“Important?” Sid Chamberlain exploded. “Look at that, Sachi! We’re reading it! Martha’s found out how to read Martian!” He grabbed Captain Miles by the arm. “Come on, Jeff; let’s go. I want to call the others—” He was still babbling as he hurried from the room.

Sachi looked at the inscription. “Is it true?” she asked, and then, before Martha could more than begin to explain, flung her arms around her. “Oh, it really is! You are reading it! I’m so happy!”

She had to start explaining again when Selim von Ohlmhorst entered. This time, she was able to finish.

“But, Martha, can you be really sure? You know, by now, that learning to read this language is as important to me as it is to you, but how can you be so sure that those words really mean things like hydrogen and helium and boron and oxygen? How do you know that their table of elements was anything like ours?”

Tranter and Penrose and Sachiko all looked at him in amazement.

“That isn’t just the Martian table of elements; that’s the table of elements. It’s the only one there is,” Mort Tranter almost exploded. “Look, hydrogen has one proton and one electron. If it had more of either, it wouldn’t be hydrogen, it’d be something else. And the same with all the rest of the elements. And hydrogen on Mars is the same as hydrogen on Terra, or on Alpha Centauri, or in the next galaxy—”

“You just set up those numbers, in that order, and any first-year chemistry student could tell you what elements they represented,” Penrose said. “Could if he expected to make a passing grade, that is.”

The old man shook his head slowly, smiling. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t make a passing grade. I didn’t know, or at least didn’t realize, that. One of the things I’m going to place an order for, to be brought on the Schiaparelli, will be a set of primers in chemistry and physics, of the sort intended for a bright child of ten or twelve. It seems that a Martiologist has to learn a lot of things the Hittites and the Assyrians never heard about.”

Tony Lattimer, coming in, caught the last part of the explanation. He looked quickly at the walls and, having found out just what had happened, advanced and caught Martha by the hand.

“You really did it, Martha! You found your bilingual! I never believed that it would be possible; let me congratulate you!”

He probably expected that to erase all the jibes and sneers of the past. If he did, he could have it that way. His friendship would mean as little to her as his derision—except that his friends had to watch their backs and his knife. But he was going home on the Cyrano, to be a big-shot. Or had this changed his mind for him again?

“This is something we can show the world, to justify any expenditure of time and money on Martian archaeological work. When I get back to Terra, I’ll see that you’re given full credit for this achievement—”

On Terra, her back and his knife would be out of her watchfulness.

“We won’t need to wait that long,” Hubert Penrose told him dryly. “I’m sending off an official report, tomorrow; you can be sure Dr. Dane will be given full credit, not only for this but for her previous work, which made it possible to exploit this discovery.”

“And you might add, work done in spite of the doubts and discouragements of her colleagues,” Selim von Ohlmhorst said. “To which I am ashamed to have to confess my own share.”

“You said we had to find a bilingual,” she said. “You were right, too.”

“This is better than a bilingual, Martha,” Hubert Penrose said. “Physical science expresses universal facts; necessarily it is a universal language. Heretofore archaeologists have dealt only with pre-scientific cultures.”

The Gentle Earth by Christopher Anvil (full text)

The Gentle Earth
by Christopher Anvil

Preface by Eric Flint

It was hard to pick a specific Christopher Anvil story for this anthology. His most famous single story is "Pandora's Planet," which first appeared in the September 1956 issue of Astounding magazine; his best-known series of stories, the multitude of Interstellar Patrol stories which appeared in Astounding throughout the '60s. We could have easily chosen from any of them.

But . . . well . . .

For starters, my innate frugality—ignore what my wife says—rebelled at the notion. With me serving as editor of the project, Baen Books has already reissued the entire "Pandora's Planet" sequence and is in the process of reissuing in three volumes all the stories Anvil wrote in his Colonization setting, which includes all the Interstellar Patrol stories. To include one of those in this anthology just seemed a little wasteful.

Beyond that, however, as it happens my first encounter with the writing of Christopher Anvil wasn't any of those stories anyway. I first ran into Anvil in one of those marvelous epistolary tales that he did so well, and which so few writers can handle properly. (For those of you who are literarily challenged, an "epistolary tale" is a story told in the form of correspondence; usually letters, but sometimes—Anvil was especially good at this—in the form of telegraph-like exchanges.)

So I thought of including that story. The problem then became . . .

I couldn't remember which story I'd first read as a teenager. It might have been "The Prisoner" . . . no, maybe it was "Trial by Silk" . . . on the other hand, it could have been "Bill For Delivery" . . . then again, it could have been "Revolt!" too . . .

Finally, I whined to Jim and Dave about my quandary. Jim pondered the matter for a bit, in his best Sagacious Publisher style. (He does that quite well. Of course, he also does Curmudgeon Editor quite well, too.)

"Let's go with 'The Gentle Earth,'" he said. "It's classic Anvil, it's a lot of fun—and it had one of those great Kelly Freas cover illustrations when it first came out in Astounding."

Bingo.

Tlasht Bade, Supreme Commander of Invasion Forces, drew thoughtfully on his slim cigar. “The scouts are all back?”

Sission Runckel, Chief of the Supreme Commander’s Staff, nodded. “They all got back safely, though one or two had difficulties with some of the lower life forms.”

“Is the climate all right?”

Runckel abstractedly reached in his tunic, and pulled out a thing like a short piece of tarred rope. As he trimmed it, he scowled. “There’s some discomfort, apparently because the air is too dry. But on the other hand, there’s plenty of oxygen near the planet’s surface, and the gravity’s about the same as it is back home. We can live there.”

Bade glanced across the room at a large blue, green, and brown globe, with irregular patches of white at top and bottom. “What are the white areas?”

“Apparently, chalk. One of our scouts landed there, but he’s in practically a state of shock. The brilliant reflectivity in the area blinded him, a huge white furry animal attacked him, and he barely got out alive. To cap it all, his ship’s insulation apparently broke down on the way back, and now he’s in the sick bay with a bad case of space-gripe. All we can get out of him is that he had severe prickling sensations in the feet when he stepped out onto the chalk dust. Probably a pile of little spiny shells.”

“Did he bring back a sample?”

“He claims he did. But there’s only water in his sample box. I imagine he was delirious. In any case, this part of the planet has little to interest us.”

Bade nodded. “What about the more populous regions?”

“Just as we thought. A huge web of interconnecting cities, manufacturing centers, and rural areas. Our mapping procedures have proved to be accurate.”

“That’s a relief. What about the natives?”

“Erect, land-dwelling, ill-tempered bipeds,” said Runckel. “They seem to have little or no planet-wide unity. Of course, we have large samplings of their communications media. When these are all analyzed, we’ll know a lot more.”

“What do they look like?”

“They’re pink or brown in color, quite tall, but not very broad or thick through the chest. A little fur here and there on their bodies. No webs on their hands or feet, and their feet are fantastically small. Otherwise, they look quite human.”

“Their technology?”

Runckel sucked in a deep breath and sat up straight. “Every bit as bad as we thought.” He picked up a little box with two stiff handles, squeezed the handles hard, and touched a glowing wire on the box to his piece of black rope. He puffed violently.

Bade turned up the air-conditioning. Billowing clouds of smoke drew away from Runckel in long streamers, so that he looked like an island looming through heavy mist. His brow was creased in a foreboding scowl.

“Technologically,” he said, “they are deadly. They’ve got fission and fusion, indirect molecular and atomic reaction control, and a long-reaching development of electron flow and pulsing devices. So far, they don’t seem to have anything based on deep rearrangement or keyed focusing. But who knows when they’ll stumble on that? And then what? Even now, properly warned and ready they could give us a terrible struggle.”
* * *

Runckel knocked a clinker off his length of rope and looked at Bade with the tentative, judging air of one who is not quite sure of another’s reliability. Then he said, loudly and with great firmness, “We have a lot to be thankful for. Another five or ten decades delay getting the watchships up through the cloud layer, and they’d have had us by the throat. We’ve got to smash them before they’re ready, or we’ll end up as their colony.”

Bade’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve always opposed this invasion on philosophical grounds. But it’s been argued and settled. I’m willing to go along with the majority opinion.” Bade rapped the ash off his slender cigar and looked Runckel directly in the eyes. “But if you want to open the whole argument up all over again—”

“No,” said Runckel, breathing out a heavy cloud of smoke. “But our micromapping and radiation analysis shows a terrific rate of progress. It’s hard to look at those figures and even breathe normally. They’re gaining on us like a shark after a minnow.”

“In that case,” said Bade, “let’s wake up and hold our lead. This business of attacking the suspect before he has a chance to commit a crime is no answer. What about all the other planets in the universe? How do we know what they might do some day?”

“This planet is right beside us!”

“Is murder honorable as long as you do it only to your neighbor? Your argument is self-defense. But you’re straining it.”

“Let it strain, then,” said Runckel angrily. “All I care about is that chart showing our comparative levels of development. Now we have the lead. I say, drag them out by their necks and let them submit, or we’ll thrust their heads underwater and have done with them. And anyone who says otherwise is a doubtful patriot!”

Bade’s teeth clamped, and he set his cigar carefully on a tray.

Runckel blinked, as if he only appreciated what he had said by its echo.

Bade’s glance moved over Runckel deliberately, as if stripping away the emblems and insignia. Then Bade opened the bottom drawer of his desk, and pulled out a pad of dun-colored official forms. As he straightened, his glance caught the motto printed large on the base of the big globe. The motto had been used so often in the struggle to decide the question of invasion that Bade seldom noticed it any more. But now he looked at it. The motto read:

Them Or Us

Bade stared at it for a long moment, looked up at the globe that represented the mighty planet, then down at the puny motto. He glanced at Runckel, who looked back dully but squarely. Bade glanced at the motto, shook his head in disgust, and said, “Go get me the latest reports.”

Runckel blinked. “Yes, sir,” he said, and hurried out.

Bade leaned forward, ignored the motto, and thoughtfully studied the globe.
* * *

Bade read the reports carefully. Most of them, he noted, contained a qualification. In the scientific reports, this generally appeared at the end:

” . . . Owing to the brief time available for these observations, the conclusions presented herein must be regarded as only provisional in character.”

In the reports of the scouts, this reservation was usually presented in bits and pieces:

” . . . And this thing, that looked like a tiny crab, had a pair of pincers on one end, and I didn’t have time to see if this was the end it got me with, or if it was the other end. But I got a jolt as if somebody squeezed a lighter and held the red-hot wire against my leg. Then I got dizzy and sick to my stomach. I don’t know for sure if this was what did it, or if there are many of them, but if there are, and if it did, I don’t see how a man could fight a war and not be stung to death when he wasn’t looking. But I wasn’t there long enough to be sure . . .”

Another report spoke of a “Crawling army of little six-legged things with a set of oversize jaws on one end, that came swarming through the shrubbery straight for the ship, went right up the side and set to work eating away the superplast binder around the viewport. With that gone, the ship would leak air like a fishnet. But when I tried to clear them away, they started in on me. I don’t know if this really proves anything, because Rufft landed not too far away, and he swears the place was like a paradise. Nevertheless, I have to report that I merely set my foot on the ground, and I almost got marooned and eaten up right on the spot.”

Bade was particularly uneasy over reports of a vague respiratory difficulty some of the scouts noticed in the region where the first landings were planned. Bade commented on it, and Runckel nodded.

“I know,” said Runckel. “The air’s too dry. But if we take time to try to provide for that, at the same time they may make some new advance that will more than nullify whatever we gain. And right now their communications media show a political situation that fits right in with our plans. We can’t hope for that to last forever.”

Bade listened as Runckel described a situation like that of a dozen hungry sharks swimming in a circle, each getting its jaws open for a snap at the next one’s tail. Then Runckel described his plan.

At the end, Bade said, “Yes, it may work out as you say. But listen, Runckel, isn’t this a little too much like one of those whirlpools in the Treacherous Islands? If everything works out, you go through in a flash. But one wrong guess, and you go around and around and around and around and you’re lucky if you get out with a whole skin.”

Runckel’s jaw set firmly. “This is the only way to get a clear-cut decision.”

Bade studied the far wall of the room for a moment. “I’m sorry I didn’t get a hand at these plans sooner.”

“Sir,” said Runckel, “You would have, if you hadn’t been so busy fighting the whole idea.” He hesitated, then asked, “Will you be coming to the staff review of plans?”

“Certainly,” said Bade.

“Good,” said Runckel. “You’ll see that we have it all worked to perfection.”
* * *

Bade went to the review of plans and listened as the details were gone over minutely. At the end, Runckel gave an overall summary:

“The Colony Planet,” he said, rapping a pointer on maps of four hemispheric views, “is only seventy-five percent water, so the land areas are immense. The chief land masses are largely dominated by two hostile power groups, which we may call East and West. At the fringes of influence of these power groups live a vast mass of people not firmly allied to either.

“The territory of this uncommitted group is well suited to our purposes. It contains many pleasant islands and comfortable seas. Unfortunately, analysis shows that the dangerous military power groups will unite against us if we seize this territory directly. To avoid this, we will act to stun and divide them at one stroke.”

Runckel rapped his pointer on a land area lettered “North America,” and said, “On this land mass is situated a politico-economic unit known as the U.S. The U.S. is the dominant power both in the Western Hemisphere and in the West power group. It is surrounded by wide seas that separate it from its allies.

“Our plan is simple and direct. We will attack and seize the central plain of the U.S. This will split it into helpless fragments, any one of which we may crush at will. The loss of the U.S. will, of course, destroy the power balance between East and West. The East will immediately seize the scraps of Western power and influence all over the globe.

“During this period of disorder, we will set up our key-tool factories and a light-duty forceway network. In rapid stages will then come ore-converters, staging plants, fabricators, heavy-duty forceway stations and self-operated production units. With these last we will produce energy-conversion units and storage piles by the million in a network to blanket the occupied area. The linkage produced will power our damper units to blot out missile attacks that may now begin in earnest.

“We will thus be solidly established on the planet itself. Our base will be secure against attack. We will now turn our energies to the destruction of the U.S.S.R. as a military power.” He reached out with his pointer to rap a new land mass.

“The U.S.S.R. is the dominant power of the East power group. This will by now be the only hostile power group remaining on the planet. It will be destroyed in stages.

“In Stage I we will confuse the U.S.S.R. by propaganda. We will profess friendship while we secretly multiply our productive facilities to the highest possible degree.

“In Stage II, we will seize and fortify the western and northern islands of Britain, Novaya Zemlya, and New Siberia. We will also seize and heavily fortify the Kamchatka Peninsula in the extreme eastern U.S.S.R. We will now demand that the U.S.S.R. lay down its arms and surrender.

“In the event of refusal, we will, from our fortified bases, destroy by missile attack all productive facilities and communication centers in the U.S.S.R. The resulting paralysis will bring down the East power group in ruins. The planet will now lay open before us.”

Runckel looked at each of his listeners in turn.

“Everything has been done to make this invasion a success. To crush out any possible miscalculation, we are moving with massive reserves close behind us. Certain glory and a mighty victory await us.

“Let us raise our heads in prayer, then join in the Oath of Battle.”
* * *

The first wave of the attack came down like an avalanche on the central U.S. Multiple transmitters went into action to throw local radar stations into confusion. Stull-gas missiles streaked from the landing ships to explode over nearby cities. Atmospheric flyers roared off to intercept possible enemy attacks. A stream of guns, tanks, and troop carriers rolled down the landing ways and fanned out to seize enemy power plants and communications centers.

The commander of the first wave reported: “Everything proceeding according to plan. Enemy resistance negligible.”

Runckel ordered the second wave down.

Bade, watching it on a number of giant viewscreens in the operations room of a ship coming down, had a peculiar feeling of numbness, such as might follow a deep cut before the pain is felt.

Runckel, his face intense, said: “Their position is hopeless. The main landing site is secure and the rest will come faster than the eye can see.” He turned to speak into one of a bank of microphones, then said, “Our glider missiles are circling over their capital.”

A loud-speaker high on the wall said, “Landing minus three. Take your stations, please.”

The angle of vision of one of the viewscreens tilted suddenly, to show a high, dome-topped building set in a city filled with rushing beetle shapes—obviously ground-cars of some type. Abruptly these cars all pulled to the sides of the streets.

“That,” said Runckel grimly, “means their capital is out of business.”

The picture on the viewscreen blurred suddenly, like the reflection from water ruffled by a breeze. There was a clang like a ten-ton hammer hitting a twenty-ton gong. Walls, floor, and ceiling of the room danced and vibrated. Two of the viewscreens went blank.

Bade felt a prickling sensation travel across his shoulders and down his back. He glanced sharply at Runckel.

Runckel’s expression looked startled but firm. He reached out and snapped orders into one of his microphones.

There was an intense, high-pitched ringing, then a clap like a nuclear cannon of six paces distance.

The wall loud-speaker said, “Landing minus two.”

An intense silence descended on the room. One by one, the viewscreens flickered on. Bade heard Runckel say, “The ship is totally damped. They haven’t anything that can get through it.”

There was a dull, low-pitched thud, a sense of being snapped like a whip, and the screens went blank. The wall loud-speaker dropped, and jerked to a stop, hanging by its cord.

Then the ship set down.
* * *

Runckel’s plan assumed that the swift-moving advance from the landing site would overrun a sizable territory during the first day. With this maneuvering space quickly gained, the landing site itself would be safe from enemy ground attack by dawn of the second day.

Now that they were down, however, Bade and Runckel looked at the operations room’s big viewscreen, and saw their vehicles standing still all over the landscape. The troops crowded about the rear of the vehicles to watch cursing drivers pull the motors up out of their housings and spread them out on the ground. Here and there a stern officer argued with grim-faced troops who stared stonily ahead as if they didn’t hear. Meanwhile, the tanks, trucks, and weapons carriers stood motionless.

Runckel, infuriated, had a cluster of microphones gripped in his hand, and was pronouncing death by strangling and decapitation on any officer who failed to get his unit in motion right away.

Bade studied the baffled expressions on the faces of the drivers, then glanced at the enemy ground-cars abandoned at the side of the road. He turned to see a tall officer with general’s insignia stagger through the doorway and grip Runckel by the arm. Bade recognized Rast, General Forces Commander.

“Sir,” said Rast, “it can’t be done.”

“It has to be done,” said Runckel grimly. “So far we’ve decoyed the enemy missiles to a false site. Before they spot us again, those troops have got to be spread out!”

“They won’t ride in the vehicles!”

“It’s that or get killed!”

“Sir,” said Rast, “you don’t understand. I came back here in a gun carrier. To start with, the driver jammed the speed lever all the way to the front shield, and nothing happened. He got up to see what was wrong. The carrier shot ahead with a flying leap, threw the driver into the back, and almost snapped our heads off. Then it coasted to a stop. We pulled ourselves together and turned around to get the cover off the motor box.

“Wham! The carrier took off, ripped the cover out of our hands, threw us against the rear shield and knocked us senseless. Then it rolled to a stop.

“That’s how we got here. Jump! Roll. Stop. Wait. Jump! Roll. Stop. Wait. On one of those jumps, the gun went out the back of the carrier, mount, bolts, and all. The driver swore he’d turn off the motor, and fangjaw take the planet and the whole invasion. We aren’t going to win a war with troops in that frame of mind.”

Runckel took a deep breath.

Bade said, “What about the enemy’s ground-cars? Will they run?”

Rast blinked. “I don’t know. Maybe—”

Bade snapped on a microphone lettered “Aerial Rec.” A little screen in a half-circle atop the microphone lit up to show an alert, harried-looking officer. Bade said, “You’ve noticed our vehicles are stopped?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Were the enemy’s ground-cars affected at the same time as ours?”

“No sir, they were still moving after ours were stuck.”

“Any motor trouble in Atmospheric Flyer Command?”

“None that I know of, sir.”

Bade glanced at Rast. “Try using the enemy ground-cars. Meanwhile, get the troops you can’t move back under cover of the ships’ dampers.”

Rast saluted, whirled, and went out at a staggering run.

Bade called Atmospheric Flyer Command, and Ground Forces Maintenance, and arranged for the captured enemy vehicles to be identified by a large yellow X painted across the top of the hood. Then he turned to Runckel and said, “We’re going to need all the support we can get. See if we can bring Landing Force 2 down late today instead of tomorrow.”

“I’ll try,” said Runckel.
* * *

It seemed to Bade that the events of the next twenty-four hours unrolled like the scenes of a nightmare.

Before the troops were all under cover, an enemy reconnaissance aircraft leaked in very high overhead. The detector screens of Atmospheric Flyer Command were promptly choked with enemy aircraft coming in low and fast from all directions.

These aircraft were of all types. Some heaved their bombs in under-hand, barreled over and streaked home for another load. Others were flying hives of anti-aircraft missiles. A third type were suicide bombers or winged missiles; these roared in head-on and blew up on arrival.

While the dampers labored and overheated, and Flyer Command struggled with enemy fighters and bombers overhead, a long-range reconnaissance flyer spotted a sizable convoy of enemy ground forces rushing up from the southwest.

Bade and Runckel concentrated first on living through the air attack. It soon developed that the enemy planes, though extremely fast, were not very maneuverable. The enemy’s missiles did not quite overload the dampers. The afternoon wore on in an explosive violence that was severe, but barely endurable. It began to seem that they might live through it.

Toward evening, however, a small enemy missile streaked in on the end of a wire and smashed the grid of an auxiliary damper unit. Before this unit could be repaired, a heavy missile came down near the same place, and overloaded the damper network. Another missile streaked in. One of the ships tilted, and fell headlong. The engines of this ship were ripped out of the circuit that powered the dampers. With the next enemy missile strike, another ship was heaved off its base. This ship housed a large proportion of Flyer Command’s detector screens.

Bade and Runckel looked at each other. Bade’s lips moved, and he heard himself say, “Prepare to evacuate.”

At this moment, the enemy attack let up.
* * *

It took an instant for Bade to realize what had happened. He canceled his evacuation order before it could be transmitted, then had the two thrown ships linked back into the power circuit. He turned around, and his glance fell on one of the viewscreens showing the shadowy plain outside. A brilliant flash lit the screen, and he saw dark low shapes rushing in toward the ships. Bade immediately gave orders to defend against ground attack, but not to pursue beyond range of the dampers.

A savage, half-lit struggle developed. The enemy, whose weapons failed to work in range of the dampers, attacked with bayonets, and used guns, shovels, and picks in the manner of clubs and battle axes. In a spasm of bloody violence they fought their way in among the ships, then, confused in the dimness, were thrown back with heavy losses. As night settled down, the enemy dug in to make a fortified ring close around the landing site.

The enemy missile attack failed to recover its former violence.

Bade gave silent thanks for the deliverance. As the comparative quiet continued, it seemed clear that the enemy high command was holding back to avoid hitting their own men dug in nearby.

It occurred to Bade that now might be a good time to get a little sleep. He turned to go to his cot, and there was a rush of yellow dots on Flyer Command’s pilot screen. As he stared wide-eyed, auxiliary screens flickered on and off to show a ghostly dish-shaped object that led his flyers on a wild chase all over the sky, then vanished at an estimated speed twenty times that the enemy planes were thought capable of doing.

Runckel said, “Landing Force 2 can get here at early dawn. That’s the best we can manage.”

Bade nodded dully.

The ground screens now lit in brilliant flashes as the enemy began firing monster rockets at practically point-blank range.

Night passed in a continuous bombardment.

At early dawn of the next day, Bade put in all his remaining missiles, and bomber and interceptor flyers. For a brief interval of time, the enemy bombardment was smothered.

Landing force 2 sat down beside Landing Force 1.

Bade ordered the Stull-gas missiles of Landing Force 2 exploded over the enemy ground troops. In the resulting confusion, the ground forces moved out and captured large numbers of enemy troops, weapons, and vehicles. The captured vehicles were marked and promptly put to use.

Bade spoke briefly with General Rast, commanding the ground forces.

“Now’s your chance,” said Bade. “Move fast and we can capture supplies and reinforcements flowing in, before they realize we’ve broken their ring.”

Under the protection of the flyers of Landing Force 2, Rast’s troops swung out onto the central plain of the North American continent.
* * *

The advance moved fast. Enemy troops and supply convoys were caught off guard on the road. When the enemy fought, his resistance was patchy and confused.

Bade, feeling drugged from lack of sleep, lay down on his cot for a nap. He awoke feeling fuzzy-brained and dull.

“They’re whipped,” said Runckel gleefully. “We’ve got back the time we lost yesterday. There’s no resistance to speak of. And we’ve just made a treaty with the East bloc.”

Bade sat up dizzily. “That’s wonderful,” he said. He glanced at the clock. “Why wasn’t I called sooner?”

“No need,” said Runckel. “It’s all just a matter of form. Landing Force 3 is coming down tonight. The war’s over.” Runckel’s face, as he said this, had a peculiar shine.

Bade frowned. “Isn’t the enemy making any reaction at all?”

“Nothing worth mentioning. We’re driving them ahead of us like a school of minnows.”

Bade got to his feet uneasily. “It can’t be this simple.” He stepped out into the operations room and detected unmistakable signs of holiday jubilation. Nearly everyone was grinning, and gawkers were standing in a thick ring before the screen showing the map room’s latest plot.

Bade said sharply, “Don’t these men have anything to do?” His voice carried across the room with the effect of a shark surfacing in the midst of a ladies’ swimming party. Several of the men at the map jumped. Others glanced around jerkily. There was a concerted bumping of elbows, and the ring of gawkers evaporated briskly in all directions. In every part of the room there was abruptly something approaching a businesslike atmosphere.

Bade looked around angrily and sat down at his desk. Then he saw the map. He squeezed his eyes shut, then looked again.

In the center of the map of North America was a big blot, as if a bottle of red ink had been thrown at it. Bade turned to Runckel and asked harshly, “Is that map correct?”

“Absolutely,” said Runckel, his face shining with satisfaction.

Bade looked back at the map and performed a series of rapid calculations. He glanced at the viewscreens, and saw that those which would normally show the advanced ground troops weren’t in use. This, he supposed, meant that the advance had outrun the technical crews.

Bade snapped on a microphone lettered “Supply, Ground.” In the half-circle atop the microphone appeared an officer in the last stage of sleepless exhaustion. The officer’s eyes twitched, and his skin had a drawn dull look. His head was slumped on his hand.

“Supply?” said Bade in alarm.

“Sorry,” mumbled the officer, “we can’t do it. We’re overstretched already. Try Flyer Command. Maybe they’ll parachute it to you.”

Bade switched off, and glanced at the map again. He turned to Runckel. “Listen, what are we using for transport?”

“The enemy ground-cars.”

“Fast, aren’t they?”

Runckel smiled cheerfully. “They are built for speed. Rast grabbed a whole fleet of them to start with, and they’ve worked fine ever since. A few wrecks, some bad cases of kinkfoot, but that’s all.”

“What the devil is ‘kinkfoot’?”

“Well, the enemy have tiny feet with little toes and no webs at all. Some of their ground-car controls are on the floor. There just isn’t much space so our men’s feet get cramped. It’s just a mild irritation.” Runckel smiled vaguely. “Nothing to worry about.”

Bade squinted hard at Runckel. “What’s Supply using for transport?”

“Steam trucks, of course.”

“Do they work all right, or do they jump?”

Runckel smiled dreamily. “They work fine.”

Bade snapped on the Supply microphone. The same weary officer appeared, his head in his hands, and mumbled, “Sorry. We’re overloaded. Try Flyer Command.”

Bade said angrily, “Wake up a minute.”

The man raised his head, blinked at Bade, then straightened as if hauled by the back of the collar.

“Sir?”

“What’s the overall supply picture?”

“Sir, it’s awful. Terrible.”

“What’s the matter?”

“The advance is so fast, and the units are all mixed up, and when we get to a place, they’ve already pulled out. Worse yet, the steam trucks—” He hesitated, as if afraid to go on.

“Speak up,” snapped Bade. “What’s wrong with the trucks? Is it the engines? Fuel? Running gear? What is it?”

“It’s . . . the water, sir.”

“The water?”

“Sir, there’s that constant loss of steam out the exhaust. At home, we just throw a few more buckets of water in the tank and go on. But here—”

“Oh,” said Bade, the situation dawning on him.

“But around here, sir,” said the officer, “they’ve had something called a ‘severe drought.’ The streams are dry.”

“Can you dig down?”

“Sir, at best there’s just muck. We know there’s water here somewhere, but meanwhile our trucks are stalled all over the country with the men dug down out of sight, and the natives standing around shaking their heads, and sure, there’s got to be water down there somewhere, but what do we use right now?”

Bade took a deep breath. “What about the enemy trucks? Can’t you use them?”

“If we’d started off with them, I suppose we could have. But Ground Forces has requisitioned most of them. Now we’re spread out in all directions with the front getting farther away all the time.”
* * *

Bade switched off and got in touch with Ground Forces, Maintenance. A spruce-looking major appeared. Bade paused a moment, then asked, “How’s your work-load, major? Are you behind schedule?”

The major looked shocked. “No, sir. Far from it. We’re away ahead of schedule.”

“Aren’t these enemy vehicles giving you any trouble? Any difficulties in repair?”

The major laughed. “Fangjaw, general, we don’t repair them! When they burn out, we throw them away. We pried up the hoods of some of them, pulled off the top two or three layers of machinery, and took a good look underneath. That was enough. There are hundreds of parts, all shapes and sizes. And dozens of different kinds of motors. Half of the parts are stuck so they won’t move when you try to get them out, and, to top it all, there isn’t enough room in there to squeeze in an extra grain of sand. So what’s the use? If something goes wrong with one of those things, we give it a shove off the road and forget it. There are plenty of others.”

“I see,” said Bade. “Do you send your repair crews out to shove the ground-cars off the road?”

“Oh, no, sir,” said the major looking startled. “Like the colonel says, ‘Let the Ground Forces do it.’ Sir, it doesn’t take any skill to do that. It’s just that that’s our policy: Don’t repair ’em. Throw ’em away.”

“What about our vehicles then? Have you found out what’s wrong?”

The major looked uncomfortable. “Well, the difficulty is that the vehicles work satisfactorily inside the ship, and for a little while outside. But then, after they’ve been out a while, a malfunction occurs in the mechanism. That’s what causes the trouble.” He looked at Bade hopefully. “Was there anything else, sir.”

“Yes,” said Bade dryly, “it’s the malfunction I’m interested in. What is it that goes wrong?”

The major looked unhappy. “Well, sir, we’ve had the motors apart and put back together I don’t know how many times, and the fact is, there’s nothing at all wrong with them. There’s nothing wrong, but they still won’t work. That’s not our department. We’ve handed the whole business over to the Testing Lab.”

“Then,” said Bade, “you actually don’t have any work to do?”

The major jumped. “Oh, no sir, I didn’t say that. We . . . we’re holding ourselves in readiness, sir, and we’ve got our shops in order, and some of the men are doing some very, ah, very important research on the . . . the structure of the enemy ground-car, and—”

“Fine,” said Bade. “Get your colonel on this line.” When the colonel appeared, Bade said, “Ground Forces Supply has its steam trucks out of service for lack of water. Get in touch with their H.Q., find out the location of the trucks, and get out there with the water. Find out where they can replenish in the future. Take care of this as fast as you can.”

The colonel worked his mouth in a way that suggested a weak valve struggling to hold back a large quantity of compressed air. Bade looked at him hard. The colonel’s mouth blew open, and “Yes, sir!” came out. The colonel looked startled.

Bade immediately switched back to Supply and said, “Ground Forces Maintenance is going to help you water your trucks. Why didn’t you get in touch with them yourselves? It’s the obvious thing.”

“Sir, we did, hours ago. They said water supply wasn’t in their department.”

Bade seemed to see the bursting of innumerable bubbles before his eyes. It dawned on him that he was bogged down in petty details while big events rushed on unheeded. He switched back to the colonel briefly and when he switched off the colonel was plainly vibrating with energy from head to toe. Then Bade looked forebodingly at the map and ordered Liaison to get General Rast for him.
* * *

This took a long time, which Bade spent trying to anticipate the possible enemy reaction if Supply broke down completely, and a retirement became necessary. By the time Rast appeared on the screen, Bade had thought it over carefully, and could see nothing but trouble ahead. There was a buzz, and Bade looked up to see a fuzzy picture of Rast.

Rast, as far as Bade could judge, had a look of victory and exhilaration. But the communicator’s reception was uncommonly bad, and Rast’s image had a tendency to flicker, fade, and slide up and down. Judging by the trend of the conversation, Bade decided reception must be worse yet at the other end.

Bade said, “Supply is in a mess. You’d better choose some sort of defensible perimeter and halt.”

Rast said, “Thank you. The enemy is in full flight.”

“Listen,” said Bade. “Supply is stopped. We can’t get supplies to you. Supply can’t catch up with you.”

“We’ll pursue them day and night,” said Rast.

“Listen to me,” said Bade. “Break off the pursuit! We can’t get supplies to you!”

Rast’s form slowly dimmed and expanded till it filled the screen, then burst, and reappeared as a brilliant image the size of a man’s thumb. His voice cut off, then came through as a crackle.

“Siss kissis sissis,” said the image, expanding again, “hisss siss kississ sissikississ.” This noise was accompanied by earnest gestures on the part of Rast, and a very determined facial expression. The image grew huge and dim, and burst, then started over again.

Bade spat out a word he had promised himself never to say again under any circumstances whatever. Then he sat helpless while the image, large and clear, leaned forward earnestly and pounded one huge fist into the other.

“Hiss! Siss! Fississ!”

“Listen,” said Bade, “I can’t make out a word you’re saying.” He leaned forward. “WE CAN’T GET SUPPLIES TO YOU!”

The image burst and started over, bright and small.

Bade sucked in a deep breath. He grabbed the Communications microphone. “Listen,” he snapped, “I’ve got General Rast on the screen here and I can’t hear anything but a crackle. The image constantly expands and contracts.”

“I know, sir,” said a gray-smocked technician with a despairing look. “I can see the monitor screen from here. It’s the best we can do, sir.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Bade could see Rast’s image growing huge and dim. “Hiss! Siss!” said Rast earnestly.

“What causes this?” roared Bade.

“Sir, all we can guess is some terrific electrical discharge between here and General Rast’s position. What such a discharge might be, I can’t imagine.”

Bade scowled, and looked at a thumb-sized Rast. Bade opened his mouth to roar out that there was no way to get supplies through. Rast’s image suddenly vibrated like a twanged string, then stopped expanding.

Rast’s voice came through clearly, “Will you repeat that, sir?”

“WE CAN’T SUPPLY YOU,” said Bade. “Halt your advance. Pick a good spot and HALT!”

Rast’s image was expanding again. “Siss hiss,” he said, and saluted. His image vanished.

Bade immediately snapped on the Communications microphone. “Do you have anyone down there who can read lips?” he demanded.

“Read lips? Sir, I—” The technician squinted suddenly, and swung off the screen. He was back in a moment, his face clear and hopeful. “Sir, we’ve got a man in the section that’s a fanatic on communications methods. The other men think he can read lips, and I’ve sent for him.”

“Good,” said Bade. “Set him to work on the record of that conversation with General Rast. Another thing—is there any way you can get a message though to Rast?”

The technician looked doubtful. “Well, sir . . . I don’t know—” His face cleared slightly. “We can try, sir.”

“Good,” said Bade. “Send ‘Supply situation bad. Strongly suggest you halt your advance and consolidate position.'” Bade’s glance fell on the latest plot from the map room. Glumly he asked himself how Rast or anyone else could hope to consolidate the balloon-like situation that was coming about.

“Sir,” asked the technician, “is that all?”

“Yes,” said Bade, “and let me know when you get through to Rast.”

“Yes, sir.”
* * *

Bade switched off, and turned to ask Runckel for the exact time Landing Force 3 would be down. Bade hesitated, then squinted hard at Runckel.

Runckel’s face had an unusually bright, animated look. He was glancing rapidly through a sheaf of reports, quickly scribbling comments on them, and tossing them to an excited-looking clerk, who rushed off to slap them on the desks of various exhilarated officers and clerks. These men eagerly transmitted them to their various sections. This procedure was normal, but the faces of the men all looked too excited. Their movements were jerky and fast.

Bade became aware of the sensation of watching a scene in a lunatic asylum.

The excited-looking clerk rushed to Runckel’s desk to snatch up a sheaf of reports, and Bade snapped, “Bring those here.”

The clerk jumped, rushed to Bade’s desk, halted with a jerky bounce and saluted snappily. He flopped the papers on the desk, whirled around and raced off toward the desks of the officers who usually got the reports Bade was now holding. The clerk stopped suddenly, looked at his empty hands, spun around, stared at Runckel’s desk, then at Bade’s. A look of enlightenment passed across his face. “Oh,” he said, with a foolish grin. He teetered back and forth on his heels, then rushed over to look at the latest plot from the map room.

Bade set his jaw and glanced at the reports Runckel had marked.

The top two or three reports were simple routine and had merely been initialed. The next report, however, was headed: “Testing Lab. Report on Cause of Vehicle Failure; Recommendations.”

Bade quickly glanced over several sheet of technical diagrams and figures, and turned to the summary. He read:

“In short, the breakdown of normal function, and the resultant slow violent pulsing action of the motor, is caused by the abnormally low conductivity of Surface Conduction Layer S-3. The pulser current, which would normally flow across this layer is blocked, and instead builds up on projection L-26. Eventually a sufficient charge accumulates, and arcs across air gap B. This throws a shock current through the exciter such as is normally experienced only during violent acceleration. The result is that the vehicle shoots ahead from a standing start, then rolls to a stop while the current again slowly accumulates. The root cause of this malfunction is the fantastically low moisture content of the atmosphere on this planet. It is this that causes the loss of conductivity across Layer S-3.

“Recommended measures to overcome this malfunction include:

a) Artificial humidification of the air entering the motor, by means of sprayer and fan.

b) Sealing of the motor unit.

c) Coating of surface condition layer S-3 with a top-sealed permanent conducting film.

“A) or b) probably can be carried out as soon as the requisite devices and materials are obtainable. This, however, may involve a considerable delay. C), on the other hand, will require a good deal of initial testing and experimentation, but may then be carried into effect very quickly, as the requisite tools and materials are already at hand. We will immediately carry out the initial measures for whichever plan you deem preferable.”

Bade looked the report over again carefully, then glanced at Runckel’s scrawled comment:

“Good work! Carry this out immediately! S.R.”

Bade glared. Carry what out immediately?

Bade glanced angrily at Runckel, then sat up in alarm. Runckel’s hands clenched the side of his desk. Runckel’s back was straight as a rod. His chest was inflated to huge dimensions, and he was slowly drawing in yet more air. His face bore a fixated, inward-turned look that might indicate either horror or ecstasy.

Bade shoved his chair back and glanced around for help.

His glance stopped at the map screen, where the huge overblown blot in the center of the continent had sprouted a long narrow pencil reaching out toward the west.

There was a quick low gonging sound, and the semicircular rim atop the Communications microphone lit up in red. Bade snapped the microphone on and a scared-looking technician said, “Sir, we’ve worked out what General Rast said.”

“What?” Bade demanded.

At Bade’s side, there was a harsh scraping noise. Bade whipped around.

Runckel lurched to his feet, his face tense, his eyes shut, his mouth half open and his hands clenched.

Runckel twisted. There was a gagging sound, then a harsh roar:

Ka

Ka

Ka

KACHOOOOO!!

Bade sat down in a hurry and grabbed the microphone marked, “Medical Corps.”
* * *

A crowd of young doctors and attendants swarmed around Runckel with pulse-beat snoopers, blood pressure gauges, little lights on long rubber tubes, and bottles and jars which they filled with fluid sucked out of the suffering Runckel with long hollow needles. They whacked Runckel, pinched him, and thumped him, then jumped for cover as he let out another blast.

“Sir,” said a young doctor wearing a “Medical-Officer-On-Duty” badge, “I’m afraid I shall have to quarantine this room and all its occupants. That includes you, sir.” He said this in a gentle but firm voice.

Bade glanced at the doorway. A continuous stream of clerks, officers, and messengers moved in and out on necessary business. Some of these officers, Bade noticed, were speaking in low angry tones to idiotically smiling members of the staff. As one of the angry officers slapped a sheaf of papers on a desk, the owner of the desk came slowly to his feet. His chest inflated to gigantic proportions, he let out a terrific blast, reeled back against a wall, and let out another.

The young medical officer spun around excitedly. “Epidemic!” he yelled. “Seal that door! Back, all of you!” His face had a faint glow as he turned to Bade. “We’ll have this under control in no time, sir.” He came up and plastered a red and yellow sticker over the joint where door and wall came together. He faced the room. “Everyone here is quarantined. It’s death to break that seal.”

From Bade’s desk came an insistent ringing, and the small voice of the communications technician pleaded, “Sir . . . please, sir . . . this is important!” On the map across the room the bloated red space now had two sizable dents driven into it, such as might be expected if the enemy were opening a counteroffensive. The thin pencil line reaching toward the west was wobbling uncertainly at its far end.

Bade became aware of a fuzzy quality in his own thinking, and struggled to fix his mind on the scene around him.

The young doctor and his assistants hustled Runckel toward the door. As Bade stared, the doctor and assistants went out the door without breaking the quarantine seal. The sticker was plastered over the joint on the hinge side of the door. The seal bent as the door opened, then straightened out unhurt as the door shut.

“Phew,” said Bade. He picked up the Communications microphone. “What did General Rast say?”

“Sir, he said, ‘I can’t reach the coast any faster than a day-and-a-half!'”

“The coast!”

“That’s what he said, sir.”

“Did you get that message to him?”

“Not yet, sir. We’re trying.”

Bade switched off and tried to think. His army was stretched out like a rubber balloon. His headquarters machinery was falling apart fast. An epidemic was loose among his men and plainly spreading fast. The base was still secure. But without sane men to man it, the enemy could be expected to walk in any time.

Bade’s eyes were watering. He blinked, and glanced around for some sane face in the sea of hysterically cheerful people. He spotted an alert-looking officer with his back against the wall and a chair leg in his hand. Bade called to him. The officer looked around.

Bade said, “Do you know when Landing Force 3 is coming down?”

“Sir, they’re coming down right now.”
* * *

Bade stayed conscious long enough to watch the beginning of the enemy’s counteroffensive, and also to see the start of the exploding sickness spread through the landing site. He grimly summarized the situation to the man he chose to take over command.

This man was the leader of Landing Force 3, a general by the name of Kottek. General Kottek was a fanatic, a man with a rough hypnotic voice and a direct unblinking stare. General Kottek’s favorite drink was pure water. Food was a matter of indifference to him. His only known amusements were regular physical exercise and the dissection of military problems. To hesitate to obey a command of General Kottek’s was unheard of. To bungle in the performance of it was as pleasant as to sit down in the open mouth of a shark. General Kottek’s officers were usually recognizable by their lean athletic appearance, and a tendency to jump at unexpected noises. General Kottek’s men were nearly always to be seen in a state of good order and high spirits.

As soon as Bade, aching and miserable, summarized the situation and ordered Kottek to take over, Kottek gave a sharp precise salute, turned, and immediately began snapping out orders.

Heavily armed troops swung out to guard the site. Military police forced wandering gangs of sick men back to their ships. The crews of Landing Force 3 divided up to bring the depleted crews of the other ships up to minimum standards. The ships’ damper units were turned to full power, and the outside power network and auxiliary damper units were disassembled and carried into the ships. Word came that a large enemy force had made an air-borne landing not far away. Kottek’s troops marched in good order back to their ships. The ships of all three landing forces took off. They set down together in the center of the largest mass of Rast’s encircled troops. The next day passed embarking these men under the protection of Kottek’s fresh troops and the ships’ dampers. Then the ships took off and repeated the process.

In this way, some sixty-five percent of the surrounded men were saved in the course of the week. Two more landing forces came down. General Rast and a small body of guards were found unconscious partway up an unbelievably high hill in the west. The situation at this point became hopelessly complicated by the exploding sickness.

This sickness, which none of the doctors were able to cure or even relieve, manifested itself in various forms. The usual form began by exhilarating the victim. In this state, the patient generally considered himself capable of doing anything, however foolhardy, and regardless of difficulties. This lasted until the second phase set in with violent contractions of the chest and a sudden out-rush of air from the lungs, accompanied by a blast like a gun going off. This second stage might or might not have complications such as digestive upset, headache, or shooting pains in the hands and feet. It ended when the third and last phase set in. In this phase the victim suffered from mental depression, considered himself a hopeless failure, and was as likely as not to try to end his life by suicide.

As a result of this suicidal impulse there were nightmarish scenes of soldiers disarming other soldiers, which brought the whole invasion force into a state of quaking uncertainty. At this critical point, and despite all precautions, General Kottek himself began to come down with the sickness. With him, the usual exhilaration took the form of a stream of violent and imperative orders.

Troops who should have retreated were ordered to fight to the death where they stood. Savage counter-attacks for worthless objectives were driven home “to the last drop of blood.” Because General Kottek ordered it, people obeyed without thought. The hysterical light in his eye was masked by the fanatical glitter that had been there to begin with. The general himself only realized what was wrong when his chest tightened up, his body tensed, and a racking concatenation of explosions burst from his chest. He immediately brought his body to the position of attention, and crushed out by sheer will a series of incipient tickling sensations way down in his throat. General Kottek handed the command over to General Runckel and reported himself to sick bay.

Runckel, by this time, had recovered enough from the third phase to be untied and allowed to walk around with only two guards. As he had not fully recovered his confidence, however, he immediately went to see Bade.
* * *

Bade’s illness took the form of nausea, cold hands and feet, and a sensation of severe pressure in the small of the back. Bade was lying on a cot when Runckel came in, followed by his two watchful guards.

Bade looked up and saw the two guards lean warily against the wall, their eyes narrowed as they watched Runckel. Runckel paused at the foot of Bade’s bed. “How do you feel?” Runckel asked.

“Except for yesterday and day before,” said Bade, “I never felt worse in my life. How do you feel?”

“All right most of the time.” He cleared his throat. “Kottek’s down with it now.”

“Did he know in time?”

“No, I’m afraid he’s left things in a mess.”

Bade shook his head. “Do we have a general officer who isn’t sick?”

“Not in the top brackets.”

“Who did Kottek hand over to?”

“Me.” Runckel looked a little embarrassed. “I’m not sure I can handle it yet.”

“Who’s in actual charge right now?”

“I’ve got the pieces of our own staff and the staff of Landing Force 2 working on it. Kottek’s staff is hopeless. Half of them are talking about sweeping the enemy off the planet in two days.”

Bade grunted. “What’s your idea?”

“Well,” said Runckel, “I still get . . . a little excited now and then. If you could possibly provide a sort of general supervision—”

Bade looked away weakly. “How’s Rast?”

“Tied to his bunk with half-a-dozen men sitting on him.”

“What about Vokk?”

“Tearing his lungs out every two or three minutes.”

“Sokkis, then?”

Runckel shook his head grimly. “I’m afraid they didn’t hear the gun go off in time. The doctors are still working on him, though.”

“Well . . . is Frotch all right?”

“Yes, thank heaven. But then he’s Flyer Command. And, worse yet, there’s nobody to put in his place.”

“All right, how about Sozzle?”

“Well,” said Runckel, “Sozzle may be a good propaganda man, but personally I wouldn’t trust him to command a platoon.”

“Yes,” said Bade, rolling over to try to ease the pain in his back, “I see your point.” He took a deep breath. “I’ll try to supervise the thing.” He swung gingerly to a sitting position.

Runckel watched him, then his face twisted. “This whole thing is all my fault,” he said. He choked. “I’m just no goo—”

The two guards sprang across the room, grabbed Runckel by the arms and rushed him out the door. Harsh grunts and solid thumping sounds came from the corridor outside. There was a heavy crash. Somebody said, “All right, get the general by the feet, and I’ll take him by the shoulders. Phew! Let’s go.”

Bade sat dizzily on the edge of the bed. For a moment, he had a mental image of Runckel before the invasion, leaning forward and saying impressively, “Certain glory and a mighty victory await us.”

Bade took several slow deep breaths. Then he got up carefully, found a towel, and cautiously went to wash.
* * *

It took Bade almost a week to disentangle the troops from the web of indefensible positions and hopeless last stands Kottek had committed them to in a day-and-a-half of peremptory orders. The enemy, meanwhile, took advantage of opportunity, using ground and air attacks, rockets, missiles and artillery in such profusion as to stun the mind. It was not until Bade’s men and officers had recovered from circulating attacks of the sickness, and another landing force had come down, that it was possible to temporarily resume the offensive. Another two weeks, and another sick landing force recovered, saw the invasion army in control of a substantial part of the central plain of the continent. Bade now had some spare moments to squint at certain reports that were piled up on his desk. Exasperatedly, he called a meeting of high officers.
* * *

Bade was standing with Runckel at a big map of the continent when their generals came in. Bade and Runckel each looked grim and intense. The generals looked uniformly dulled and worn down.

Bade took a last hard look at the map, then he and Runckel turned. Bade glanced at Veth, Landing Site Commander. “What’s your impression of the way things are going?”

Veth scowled. “Well, we’re still getting eight to ten sizable missile hits a day. Of course, there’s no predicting when they’ll come in. With the men working outside the ships, any single hit could vaporize large numbers of essential technical personnel. Until we get the underground shelters built, the only way around this is to have whole site damped out all the time.” He shook his head. “This takes a lot of energy.”

Bade nodded, and turned to Rast, Ground Forces Commander.

“So far,” said Rast frowning, “our situation on paper looks not too bad. Morale is satisfactory. Our weapons are superior. We have strong forces in a reasonably large central area, and in theory we can shift rapidly from one front to the other, and be superior anywhere. But in practice, the enemy has so many missiles, of all types and sizes, that we can’t take advantage of the position.

“Suppose, for instance, that I order XX and XXII Tank Armies from the eastern to the western front. They can’t go under their own power, because of fuel expenditure, the wear on their tracks, and the resulting delay for repairs. They can’t go by forceway network because there isn’t any built yet. The only way to send them is by the natives’ iron track roads. That would be fine, except that the iron track roads make beautiful targets for missile attacks. Thanks to the enemy, every bridge and junction either is, has been, or will be blown up and not once, either. The result is, we have to use slow filtration of troops from one front to the other, or we have to accept very heavy losses on route. In addition, we now know that the enemy has formidable natural defenses in the east and west, especially in the west. There’s a range of hills there that surpasses anything I’ve ever seen or heard of. Not only is the difficulty of the terrain an obstacle, but as our men go higher, movement finally becomes practically impossible. I know this from personal experience. The result of it is, the enemy need only guard the passes and he has a natural barrier behind which he can mass for attack at any chosen point.”

Bade frowned. “Don’t the hills have the same harmful effect on the enemy?”

“No sir, they don’t.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. But that and their missiles put us in a nasty spot.”

Bade absorbed this, then turned to General Frotch, head of Atmospheric Flyer Command.

Frotch said briskly, “Sir, so far as the enemy air forces are concerned, we have the situation under control. And various foreign long-range reconnaissance aircraft that have been filtering in from distant native countries, have also been successfully batted out of the sky. However, as far as . . . ah . . . missiles . . . are concerned, the situation is a little strained.”

Bade snapped, “Go on.”

“Well, sir,” said Frotch, “the enemy has missiles that can be fired at the fastest atmospheric flyers, that can be made to blow up near them, that can be guided to them, and even that can be made to chase and catch them.”

“What about our weapons?”

“They’re fine, on a percentage basis. But the enemy has a lot more missiles than we have pilots.”

“I see,” said Bade. “Well—” He turned to speak to the Director of Intelligence, but Frotch went on:

“Moreover, sir, we are having atmospheric troubles.”

“‘Atmospheric troubles’? What’s that?”

“For one thing, gigantic traveling electrical displays that disrupt plane-to-ground communications, and have to be avoided, or else the pilots either don’t come out, or else come out fit for nothing but a rest cure. Then there are mass movements of air traveling from one part of the planet to another. Like land breezes and sea breezes at home. But here the breezes can be pretty forceful. The effect is to put an unpredictable braking force on all our operations.”

Bade nodded slowly. “Well, we’ll have to make the best of it.” He turned to General Sozzle, who was Disseminator of Propaganda.

Sozzle cleared his throat. “I can make my report short and to the point. Our propaganda is getting us nowhere. For one thing, the enemy is apparently used to being ambushed daily by something called ‘advertising,’ which seems to consist of a series of subtle propaganda traps. By comparison our approach is so crude it throws them into hysterics.”

Bade glanced at the Director of Intelligence, who said dully, “Sir, it’s too early to say for certain how our work will eventually turn out. We’ve had some successes; but, so far, we’ve been handicapped by translation difficulties.”

Bade frowned. “For instance?”

“Take the single word, ‘snow,'” said the Intelligence Director. “You can’t imagine the snarl my translators get into over that word. It apparently means ‘white solid which falls in crystals from the sky.’ Figure that out.”

Bade squinted, then looked relieved. “Oh. It means, ‘dust.'”

“That’s the way the interpreters translated it. Now consider this sentence from a schoolbook. ‘When April comes, the dust all turns to water and flows into the ground to fill the streams.'”

“That doesn’t make any sense at all.”

“No. But that’s what happens if you accept ‘dust’ as the translation for ‘snow.’ There are other words such as ‘winter,’ ‘blizzard,’ ‘tornado.’ Ask a native for an explanation, and with a straight face he’ll give you a string of incomprehensible nonsense that will stand you on your ear. Not that it’s important in itself. But it seems to show something about the native psychology that I can’t quite figure out. You can fight your enemy best when you can understand him. Well, from this angle they’re completely incomprehensible.”

“Keep working on it,” said Bade, after a short silence. He turned to Runckel.

Runckel said, “The overall situation looks about the same from my point of view. Namely, the natives are driven back, but by no means defeated. What we have to remember is that we never expected to have them defeated at this stage. True, our time schedule has been set back somewhat, but this was due not to enemy action, but to purely accidental circumstances. That is, first the atmosphere was so deficient in moisture that our ground vehicles were temporarily out of order, and, second, we were disabled by an unexpected disease. But these troubles are over with. My point is that we can now begin the decisive phase of operations.”

“Good,” said Bade. “But to do that we have to firmly hold the ground we have. I want to know if we can do this. On the surface, perhaps, it looks like it. But there are signs here I don’t like. As the old saying goes, ‘A shark shows you his fin, not his teeth. Take warning from the fin; when you see the teeth it’s too late.'”

“Yes,” said Frotch, turning excitedly to Rast, “that’s the thought exactly. Now, will you mention it, or shall I?”

“Holy fangjaw,” growled Rast, “maybe it doesn’t really mean anything.”

“The Supreme Commander,” said Runckel angrily, “was trying to talk.”

Bade said, “What is it, Rast? Speak up.”

“Well—” Rast hesitated, glanced uneasily at Runckel, then thrust out his jaw, “Sir, it looks like the whole master plan of the invasion may have come unhinged.”

Runckel angrily started to speak.

Bade glanced at Runckel, took out a long slender cigar, and sat down on the edge of the table to watch Runckel. He lit the cigar and put down the lighter. As far as Bade was concerned, his face was expressionless. Things seemed to have an unnatural clarity, however, as he looked at Runckel and waited for him to speak.

Runckel looked at Bade, swallowed hard and said nothing.

Bade glanced at Rast.

Rast burst out, “Sir, for the last ten days or so, we’ve been wondering how long the enemy could keep up his missile attacks. Flyer Command has blasted factories vital to missile manufacture, and destroyed all their known stockpiles. Well, grant we didn’t get all their stockpiles. That’s logical enough. Grant that they had tremendous stocks stored away. Even grant that before we got here they made missiles all the time for the sheer love of making them. Maybe every man, woman, and child in the country had a missile, like a pet. Still, there’s got to be an end somewhere.”

Bade nodded soberly.

“Well, sir,” said Rast, “we get these missiles fired at us all the time, day after day after day, one missile after the other, like an army of men tramping past in an endless circle forever. It’s inconceivable that they’d use their missiles like this unless their supply is inexhaustible. Frotch gets hit with them, I get hit with them, Veth gets hit with them. For every job there’s a missile. We put our overall weapons superiority in one pan of the balance. They pour an endless heap of missiles in the other pan. Where do all these missiles come from?”

For an instant Rast was silent, then he went on. “At first we thought ‘Underground factories.’ Well, we did our best to find them and it was no use. And whenever we managed to spot moving missiles, they seemed to be coming from the coast.

“About this time, some of my officers were trying to convert a bunch of captives to our way of thinking. One of the officers noticed a peculiar thing. Whenever he clinched his argument by saying, ‘Moreover, you are alone in the world; you cannot defeat us alone,’ the captives would all look very serious. Most of them would be very still and attentive, but here and there among them, a few would choke, gag, make sputtering noises, and shake all over. The other soldiers would secretively kick these men, and jab them with their elbows until they were still and attentive. Now, however, the question arose, what did all this mean? The actions were described to Intelligence, who said they meant exactly what they seemed to mean, ‘suppressed mirth.’

“In other words, whenever we said, ‘You can’t win, you’re alone in the world,’ they wanted to burst out laughing. My officers now varied the technique. They would say, for instance, ‘The U.S.S.R. is our faithful ally.’ Our captives would sputter, gasp, and almost strangle to death. Put this together with their inexhaustible supply of missiles and the thing takes on a sinister look.”

“You think,” said Bade, “that the U.S.S.R. and other countries are shipping missiles to the U.S. by sea?”

General Frotch cleared his throat apologetically, “Sir, excuse me. I have something new to add to this. I’ve set submerger planes down along all three of their coasts. Not only are the ports alive with shipping. But some of our men swam into the harbors at night and hid, and either they’re the victims of mass-hypnosis or else those ships are unloading missiles like a fish unloads spawn.”

Bade looked at Runckel.

Runckel said dully, “In that case, we have the whole planet to fight. That was what we had to avoid at any cost.”

This comment produced a visible deterioration of morale. Before this attitude had a chance to set, Bade said forcefully and clearly, “I was never in favor of this attack. And this fortifies my original views. But from a strictly military point of view, I believe we can still win.”

He went to the map, and speaking to each of the generals in turn, he explained his plan.
* * *

In the three following days, each of the three remaining landing forces set down. The men of each landing force, as expected, became violently ill with the exploding sickness. With the usual course of the sickness known, it proved possible to care for this new horde of patients with nothing worse than extreme inconvenience for the invasion force as a whole.

The enemy, meanwhile, strengthened his grip around the occupied area, and at the same time cut troop movements within the area to a feeble trickle. Day after day, the enemy missiles fell in an increasingly heavy rain on the road and rail centers. During the height of this bombardment, Bade succeeded in gradually filtering all of Landing Force 3 back to the protection of the ships.

Rast now reported that the enemy attacks were mounting in force and violence, and requested permission to fall back and contract the defense perimeter.

Bade replied that help would soon come, and Rast must make only small local withdrawals.

Landing Forces 7, 8, and 9, cured of the exploding sickness, now took off. Immediately afterward, Landing Force 3 took off.

Landing Forces 3 and 7, under General Kottek, came down near the base of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, and struck south and west to rip up communications in the rear of the main enemy forces attacking General Rast.

Landing Force 8 split, its southern section seizing the western curve of Cuba to cut the shipping lanes to the Gulf of Mexico. Its northern sections seized Long Island, to block shipping entering the port of New York, and to subject shipping in the ports of Boston, Philadelphia, Baltimore and Washington to heavy attack from the air.

Landing Force 9 remained aloft until the enemy’s reaction to General Kottek’s thrust from the rear became evident. This reaction proved to be a quickly improvised simultaneous attack from north and south, to pinch off the flow of supplies from Kottek’s base to the point of his advance. Landing Force 9 now set down, broke the attack of the southern pincer, then struck southeastward to cut road and rail lines supplying the enemy’s northern armies. The overall situation now resembled two large, roughly concentric circles, each very thick in the north, and very thin in the south. A large part of the outer circle, representing the enemy’s forces, was now pressed between the inner circle and the inverted Y of Kottek’s attack from the north.

A large percentage of the enemy missile-launching sites were now overrun, and Rast for the first time found it possible to switch his troops from place to place without excessive losses. The enemy opened violent attacks in both east and west to relieve the pressure on their trapped armies in the north, and Rast fell back slowly, drawing forces from both these fronts and putting them into the northern battle.

The outcome hung in a treacherous balance until the enemy’s supplies gave out in the north. This powerful enemy force then collapsed, and Rast swung his weary troops to the south.
* * *

Three weeks after the offensive began, it ended with the fighting withdrawal of the enemy to the east and west. The enemy’s long eastern and southern coasts were now sealed against all but a comparative trickle of supplies from overseas. General Kottek held the upper peninsula of Michigan in a powerful grip. From it he dominated huge enemy industrial regions, and threatened the flank of potential enemy counter-attacks from north or east.

Within the main occupied region itself, the forceway network and key-tools factories were being set up.

Runckel was only expressing the thought of nearly the whole invasion army when he walked into the operations room, heaved a sigh of relief and said to Bade, “Well, thank heaven that’s over!”

Bade heard this and gave a noncommittal growl. He had felt this way himself some time before. During Runckel’s absence, however, certain reports had come to Bade’s desk and left him feeling like a man who goes down a flight of steps in the dark, steps off briskly, and finds there was one more step than he thought.

“Look at this,” said Bade. Runckel leaned over his shoulder, and together they looked at a report headed, “Enemy Equipment.” Bade passed over several pages of drawings and descriptions devoted to enemy knives, guns, grenades, helmets, canteens, mess equipment and digging tools, then paused at a section marked “Enemy clothing: 1) Normal enemy clothing consists of light two-piece underwear, an inner and an outer foot-covering, and either a light two-piece or light one-piece outer covering for the arms, chest, abdomen and legs. 2) However, capture of the enemy supply trains in the recent northern offensive uncovered the following fantastic variety: a) thick inner and outer hand coverings; b) heavy one-piece undergarment covering legs, arms and body; c) heavy upper outer garment; d) heavy lower outer garment; e) heavy inner foot covering; f) massive outer foot covering; g) additional heavy outer garment; h) extraordinarily heavy outer garment designed to cover entire body with exception of head, hand, and lower legs. In addition, large extra quantities of the heavy cover normally issued to the troops for sleeping purposes were also found. The purpose of all this clothing is difficult to understand. Insofar as the activity of a soldier encased in all these garments would be cut to a minimum, it can only be assumed that all these coverings represent body-shielding against some abnormal condition. The presence of poisonous chemicals in large quantities seems a likely possibility. Yet with the exception of the massive outer foot-covering, these garments are not impermeable.”

Bade looked at Runckel. “They do have war chemicals?”

“Of course,” said Runckel, frowning. “But we have protective measures, and our own war chemicals, if trouble starts.”

Bade nodded thoughtfully, slid the report aside, and picked up one headed, “Medical Report on Enemy Skin Condensation.”

Runckel shook his head. “I can never understand those. We’ve had a flood of reports like that from various sources. At most, I just initial them and send them back.”

“Well,” said Bade, “read the summary, at least.”

“I’ll try,” growled Runckel, and leaned over Bade’s shoulder to read:

“To summarize these astonishing facts, enemy captives have been observed to form, on the outer layer of their skin, a heavy beading of moisture. This effect is similar to that observed with laboratory devices maintained at depressed temperatures—that is, at reduced degrees of heat. The theory was, therefore, formed that the enemy’s skin is, similarly, maintained at a temperature lower than that of his surroundings. Complex temperature-determining apparatus were set up to test this theory. As a result, this theory was disproved, but an even more astonishing state of affairs was discovered: The enemy’s internal temperature varied very little, regardless of considerable experimental variation of the temperature of his environment.

“The only possible conclusion was that the enemy’s body contains some built-in mechanism that actually controls the degree of heat and maintains it at a constant level.

“Now, according to Poff’s widely accepted Principle, no complex bodily mechanism can long maintain itself in the absence of need or exercise. And what is the need for a bodily mechanism that has the function of holding body temperature constant despite wide external fluctuation? What is the need for a defense against something unless the something exists?

“We are forced to the conclusion that the degree of heat on this planet is subject to variations sufficiently severe as to endanger life. A new examination of what has hitherto been considered to be the enemy’s mythology indicates that, contrary to conditions on our own planet, this planet is subject to remarkable fluctuations of temperature, that alternately rise to a peak, then fall to an incredible low.

“According to this new theory, our invasion force arrived as the temperature was approaching its maximum. Since then, it has reached and passed its peak, and is now falling. All this has passed unnoticed by us, partly because the maximum here approached the ordinary condition on our home planet. The danger, of course, is that the minimum on this planet would prove insupportable to our form of life.”

This was followed by a qualifying phrase that further tests would have to be made, and the conclusions could not be considered final.

Bade looked at Runckel. Runckel snapped, “What do you do with a report like that? I’d tear it up, but why waste strength? It’s easier to throw them in the wastebasket and go on.”

“Wait a minute,” said Bade. “If this report just happens to be right, then where are we?”

“Frankly,” said Runckel, “I don’t know or care. ‘Skin condensation.’ These scientists should keep their minds on things that have some chance of being useful. It would help if they’d figure out how to cut down flareback on our subtron guns. Instead they talk about ‘skin condensation.'”

Bade wrote on the report, “This may turn out to be important. List on no more than two sheets of paper possible defenses against reduced degree of heat. Get it to me as soon as possible. Bade.”

Bade signaled to a clerk. “Snap a copy of this, send the original out, and bring me the copy.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now,” said Bade, “we have one more report.”

“Well, I have to admit,” said Runckel, “that I can’t see that either of these reports were of any value.”

“Well, read this one, then.”

Runckel shook his head in disgust, and leaned over. His eyes widened. This paper was headed, “For the Supreme Commander only. Special Report of General Kottek.”

The report began, “Sir: It is an officer’s duty to state, plainly and without delay, any matter that requires the immediate attention of his superior. I, therefore, must report to you the following unpleasant but incontrovertible facts;

“1) Since their arrival in this region, my troops have on three recent occasions displayed a strikingly low level of performance. Two simulated night attacks revealed feeble command and exaggerated sluggishness on the part of the troops. A defense exercise carried out at dawn to repulse a simulated amphibious landing was a complete failure; troops and officers alike displayed insufficient energy and initiative to drive the attack home.

“2) On other occasions, troops and officers have maintained a high, sometimes strikingly high, level of energy and activity.

“3) No explanation of this variability of performance has been forthcoming from the medical and technical personnel attached to my command. Neither have I any assurance that these fluctuations will not take place in the future.

“4) It is, therefore, my duty to inform you that I cannot assure the successful performance of my mission. Should the enemy attack with his usual energy during a period of low activity on the part of my troops, the caliber of my resistance will be that of wax against steel. This is no exaggeration, but plain fact.

“5) This situation requires the immediate attention of the highest military and technical authorities. What is in operation here may be a disease, an enemy nerve gas, or some natural factor unknown to us. Whatever its nature, the effect is highly dangerous.

“6) A mobile, flexible defense in these circumstances is impossible. A rigid linear defense is worthless. A defense by linked fortifications requires depth. I am, therefore, constructing a deep fortified system in the western section of the region under my control. This is no cure, but a means of minimizing disaster.

“7) Enemy missile activity since the defeat of their northern armies has been somewhat less that forty per cent of that expected.”

The report ended with Kottek’s distinctive jagged signature. Bade glanced around.

Runckel’s face was somber. “This is serious,” he said. “When Kottek yells for help, we’ve got trouble. We’ll have to put all our attention on this thing and get it out of the way as fast as we can.”

Bade nodded, and reached out to take a message from a clerk. He glanced at it and scowled. The message was from Atmospheric Flyer Command. It read:

“Warning! Tornado sighted and approaching main base!”

Runckel leaned over to read the message. “What’s this?” he said angrily. “‘Tornado’ is just a myth. Everybody knows that.”

Bade snapped on the microphone to Aerial Reconnaissance. “What’s this ‘tornado’ warning?” he demanded. “What’s a ‘tornado’?”

“Sir, a tornado is a whirling severe breeze of destructive character, conjoined with a dark cloud in the shape of a funnel, with the smaller end down.”

Runckel gave an inarticulate snarl.

Bade squinted. “This thing is dangerous?”

“Yes, sir. The natives dig holes in the ground, and jump in when one comes along. A tornado will smash houses and ground-cars to bits, sir.”

“Listen,” snarled Runckel, “it’s just air, isn’t it?”

Bade snapped on Landing Site Command. “Get all the men back in the ships,” he ordered. “Turn the dampers to full power.”

“Holy fangjaw!” Runckel burst out. “Air can’t hurt us. What’s bad about a breeze, anyway?” He seized the Aerial Reconnaissance microphone and snarled. “Stand up, you! What have you been drinking?”

Bade took Runckel by the arm. “Look there!”

On the nearest wall screen, a wide black cloud warped across the sky, and stretched down a long arc to the ground. The whole thing grew steadily larger as they watched.

Bade seized the Landing Site Command microphone. “Can we lift ships?”

“No, sir. Not without tearing the power and damper networks to pieces.”

“I see,” said Bade. He looked up.

The cloud overspread the sky. The screen fell dark. There was a heavy clang, a thundering crash, the ship trembled, tilted, heeled, and slowly, painfully, settled back upright as Bade hung onto the desk and Runckel dove for cover. The sky began to lighten. Bade gripped the microphone and asked what had happened. He listened blank-faced as, after a moment, the first estimates of the damage came in.

One of the thousand-foot-long ships had been tipped off its base. In falling, it struck another ship, which also fell, striking a third. The third ship struck a fourth, which fell unhindered and split up the side like a bean pod. The mouth of the tornado’s funnel then ran along the split, and the ship’s inside looked as if it had been cleaned out with a vacuum hose. A few stunned survivors and scattered bits of equipment were clinging here and there. That was all.

The enemy chose this moment to land his heaviest missile strike in weeks.

It took the rest of the day, all night, and all the following day to get the damage moderately well cleaned up. Then a belated report came in that Forceway Station 1 had been subjected to a bombardment of desks, chairs, communications equipment, and odd bolts and nuts that had riddled the installation from one end to the other and set completion date back four weeks.

An intensive search now located most of the missing equipment and personnel—strewn over forty miles of territory.

“It was,” said Runckel weakly, “only air, that’s all.”

“Yes,” said Bade grimly. He looked up from a scientific report on the tornado. “A whirlpool is only water. Whirling water. Apparently this planet has traveling whirlpools of air.”

Runckel groaned, then a sudden thought seemed to hit him. He reached into his wastebasket, fished around, and drew out a crumpled ball of paper. He smoothed it out, read for a while, then growled, “Scientific reports. Here’s some kind of report that came in right in the middle of a battle. According to this thing, the native name for the place where we’ve set down is ‘Cyclone Alley.’ Is there some importance in knowing a thing like that?”

Bade felt severe prickling sensations across his back and neck. “‘Cyclone,'” he said, “Where did I hear that before? Give me that paper.”

Runckel shrugged and tossed it over. Bade smoothed it out and read:

“In this prevalent fairy tale, the ‘cyclone’—corresponding to our ‘sea serpent,’ or ‘Ogre of the Deep’—makes recurrent visits to communities in certain regions, frightening the inhabitants terribly and committing all sorts of prankish violence. On some occasions, it carries its chosen victims aloft, to set them down again far away. The cyclone is a frightening giant, tall and dark, who approaches in a whirling dance.

“An interesting aspect is the contrast of this legend with the equally prevalent legend of Santa Claus. Cyclone comes from the south, Santa from the north. Cyclone is prankish, frightening. Santa is benign, friendly, and even brings gifts. Cyclone favors ‘springtime,’ but may come nearly any time except ‘winter.’ Cyclone is secular. Santa reflects some of the holy aura of the religious festival, ‘Christmas.’

“‘Christmas comes but once a year. When it comes, it brings good cheer.’ Though Cyclone visits but a few favored towns at a time, Santa visits at once all, everyone, even the lowliest dweller in his humble shack. The natives are immensely earnest about both of these legends. An amusing aspect is that our present main base is almost ideally located for visits by that local Ogre of the Sea, ‘Cyclone.’ We are, in fact, situated in a location known as ‘Cyclone Alley.’ Perhaps the Ogre will visit us.”

At the bottom of the page was a footnote: “‘Cyclone’ is but one name for this popular Ogre. Another common name is ‘Tornado.'”

Bade sat paralyzed for a moment staring at this paper. “Tornado Alley,” he muttered. He grabbed the Flyer Command microphone to demand how the tornado warning system was coming. Then, groggily, he set the paper aside and turned his attention to the problem of General Kottek’s special report. He looked up again as a nagging suspicion began to build up in him. He turned to Runckel. “How many of these ‘myths’ have we come across, anyway?”

Runckel looked as though a heavy burden were settling on him. He groped through his bulging wastebasket and fished out another crumpled ball of paper, then another. He located the one he wanted, smoothed it out, sucked in a deep breath, and read: “Cyclone, winter, spring, summer, hurricane, Easter bunny, autumn, blizzard, cold wave, Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, lightning, Santa Claus, typhoon, mental telepathy, earthquake, levitation, volcano—” He looked up. “You want the full report on each of these things? I’ve got most of them here somewhere.”

Bade looked warily at Runckel’s overstuffed wastebasket. “No,” he said. “But what about that report you’re reading from? Isn’t that an overall summary? Why didn’t I get a copy of that?”

Runckel looked it over and growled, “Try to train them to send their reports to the right place. Yes, it’s an overall summary. Here, want it?”

“Yes,” said Bade. He took the report, then stopped to wonder, where was that report he had asked for on “reduced degree of heat?” He reached for a microphone, then remembered General Kottek’s special report. Bade first sent word to Kottek that he approved what Kottek was doing, and that the problem was getting close attention. Then he read the crumpled overall summary Runckel had given him, and ended up feeling he had been on a trip through fairyland. His memories of the details evaporated even as he tried to mentally review the paper. “Hallowe’en,” he growled, “icebergs, typhoons—this planet must be a mass of mythology from one end to the other.” He picked up a microphone to call his Intelligence Service.

A messenger hurried across the room to hand him a slip of paper. The paper was from Atmosphere Flyer Command. It read:

“Warning! Tornado sighted approaching main base!”
* * *

This time, the tornado roared past slightly to the west of the base. It hit, instead Forceway Station 1, and scattered sections of it all over the countryside.

For good measure, the enemy fired in an impressive concentration of rockets and missiles. The attack did only slight harm to the base, but it finished off Forceway Station 1.

An incoherent report now came in from the occupied western end of Cuba, to the effect that a “hurricane” had just gone through.

Bade fished through Runckel’s wastebasket to find out exactly what a “hurricane” might be. He looked up at the end of this, pale and shaken, and sent out a strong force to put his Cuban garrison back on its feet.

Then he ordered Intelligence, and some of his technical and scientific departments to get together right away and break down the so-called “myths” into two groups: Harmful, and nonharmful. The nonharmful group was to be arranged in logical order, and each item accompanied by a brief, straightforward description.

As Bade sent out this order, General Kottek reported that, as a supplement to his fortified system, he was making sharp raids whenever conditions were favorable, in order to keep the enemy in his section off-balance. In one on these raids, his troops had captured an enemy document which had since been translated. The document was titled: “Characteristics of Unheatful-Blooded Animals.” Kottek enclosed a copy:

“Unheatful-blooded animals have no built-in system for maintaining their bodily rate of molecular activity. If the surrounding temperature falls, so does theirs. This lowers their physical activity. They cannot move or react as fast as normally. Heatful-blooded animals, properly clothed, are not subject to this handicap.

“In practical reality, this means that as unheatful conditions set in, the Invader should always be attacked during the most unheatful period possible. Night attacks have much to recommend them. So do attacks at dusk or dawn. In general, avoid taking the offensive during heatful periods such as early afternoon.

“Forecasts indicate that winter will be late this year, but severe when it comes. Remember, there is no year on record when temperatures have not dropped severely in the depths of winter. In such conditions, it is expected that the Invader will be killed in large numbers by—untranslatable—of the blood.

“Our job is to make sure they are kept worn down until winter comes. Our job then will be to make sure none of them live through the winter.”

Bade looked up feeling as if his digestive system were paralyzed. A messenger hurried across the room to hand him a thick report hastily put together by the Intelligence Service. It was titled:

“Harmful Myths and Definitions.”

Bade spent the first part of the night reading this spine-tingling document. The second part of the night he spent in nightmares.

Toward morning, Bade had one vivid and comparatively pleasant dream. A native wearing a simple cloth about his waist looked at Bade intently and asked, “Does the shark live in the air? Does a man breathe underwater? Who will eat grass when he can have meat?”

Bade woke up feeling vaguely relieved. This sensation was swept away when he reached the operating room and saw the expression on Runckel’s face. Runckel handed Bade a slip of paper:

“Hurricane Hannah approaching Long Island Base.”
* * *

Intercepted enemy radio and television broadcasts spoke of Hurricane Hannah as “the worst in thirty years.” As Bade and Runckel stood by helplessly, Hurricane Hannah methodically pounded Long Island Base to bits and pieces, then swept away the pieces. The hurricane moved on up the shoreline, treating every village and city along the way like a personal enemy. When Hurricane Hannah ended her career, and retired to sink ships further north, the Atlantic coast was a shambles from one end to the other.

Out of this shambles moved a powerful enemy force, which seized the bulk of what was left of Long Island Base. The remnant of survivors were trapped in the underground installations, and reported that the enemy was lowering a huge bomb down through the entrance.

In Cuba, the reinforced garrison was barely holding on.

A flood of recommendations now poured in on Bade:

1) Long Island Base needed a whole landing force to escape capture.

2) Cuba Base had to have at least another half landing force for reinforcements.

3) The Construction Corps required the ships of two full landing forces in order to power the forceway network. Otherwise, work on the key-tools factories would be delayed.

4) Landing Site Command would need the ships and dampers of three landing forces to barely protect the base if the power supply of two landing forces were diverted to the Construction Corps.

5) The present main base was now completed and should be put to efficient use at once.

6) The present main base was worthless, because Forceway Station 1 could not be repaired in time to link the base to the forceway network.

7) Every field commander except General Kottek urgently needed heavy reinforcements without delay.

8) Studies by the Staff showed the urgent need of building up the central reserve without delay, at the expense of the field commanders, if necessary.

Bade gave up Long Island Base, ordered Cuba Base to hold on with what it had, told the Landing Site Commander to select a suitable new main base near some southern forceway station free of tornadoes, and threw the rest of the recommendations into the wastebasket.

Runckel now came over with a rope smoldering stub jutting out of the corner of his mouth. “Listen,” he said to Bade, “we’re going to have a disciplinary problem on our hands. That Cuban garrison has been living on some kind of native paint-remover called ‘rum.’ The whole lot of them have a bad case of the staggering lurch from it; not even the hurricane sobered them up. Poff knew what was going on. But he and his staff covered it over. His troops are worthless. Molch and the reinforcements are doing all the fighting.”

Bade said, “Poff is still in command?”

“I put Molch in charge.”

“Good. We’ll have to court-martial Poff and his staff. Can Molch hold the base?”

“He said he could. If we’d get Poff off his neck.”

“Fine,” said Bade. “Once he gets things in order, ship the regular garrison to a temporary camp somewhere. We don’t want Molch’s troops infected.”

Runckel nodded. A clerk apologized and stepped past Runckel to hand Bade a message. It was from General Frotch, who reported that all his atmospheric flyers based on Long Island had been lost in Hurricane Hannah. Bade showed the message to Runckel, who shook his head wearily.

As Runckel strode away, another clerk put a scientific report on Bade’s desk. Bade read it through, got Frotch on the line, and arranged for a special mission by Flyer Command. Then he located his report on “Harmful Myths and Definitions.” Carefully, he read the definition of winter:

“To the best of our knowledge, ‘winter’ is a severe periodic disease of plants, the actual onset of which is preceded by the vegetation turning various colors. The tall vegetables known as ‘trees’ lose their foliage entirely, except for some few which are immune and are known as ‘evergreens.’ As the disease progresses, the juices of the plants are squeezed out and crystallize in white feathery forms known as ‘frost.’ Sufficient quantities of this squeezed-out dried juice is ‘snow.’ The mythology refers to ‘snow falling from the sky.’ A possible explanation of this is that the large trees also ‘snow,’ producing a fall of dried juice crystals. These crystals are clearly poisonous. ‘Frostbite,’ ‘chilblains,’ and even ‘freezing to death’ are mentioned in the enemy’s communication media. Even the atmosphere filled with the resulting vapor, is said to be ‘cold.’ Totally unexplainable is the common reference to children rolling up balls of this poisonous dried plant juice and hurling them at each other. This can only be presumed to be some sort of toughening exercise. More research on this problem is needed.”

Bade set this report down, reread the latest scientific report, then got up and slowly walked over to a big map of the globe. He gazed thoughtfully at various islands in the South Seas.
* * *

Late that day, the ships lifted and moved, to land again near Forceway Station 2. Power cables were run to the station across a sort of long narrow valley at the bottom of which ran a thin trickle of water. By early the morning of the next day, the forceway network was in operation. Men and materials flashed thousands of miles in a moment, and work on the key-tools factories accelerated sharply.

Bade immersed himself in intelligence summaries of the enemy communications media. An item that especially interested him was “Winter Late This Year.”

By now there were three viewpoints on “winter.” A diehard faction doggedly insisted that it was a myth, a mere quirk of the alien mentality. A large and very authoritative body of opinion held the plant juice theory, and bolstered its stand with reams of data sheets and statistics. A small, vociferous group asserted the heretical water crystal hypotheses, and ate alone at small tables for doing so.

General Frotch called Bade to say that the special Flyer Command mission was coming in to report.

General Kottek sent word that enemy attacks were becoming more daring, that his troops’ periods of inefficiency were more frequent, and that the vegetation in his district was turning color. He mentioned, for what it was worth, that troops within the fortifications seemed less affected than those outside. Troops far underground, however, seemed to be slowed down automatically, regardless of conditions on the surface, unless they were engaged in heavy physical labor.

Bade scowled and set off inquiries to his scientific section. Then he heard excited voices and looked up.

Four Flyer Command officers were coming slowly into the room, bright metal poles across their shoulders. Slung from the poles was a big plastic-wrapped bundle. The bundle was dripping steadily, and leaving a trail of droplets that led back out the door into the hall. The plastic was filmed over with a layer of tiny beads of moisture.

Runckel came slowly to his feet.

The officers, breathing heavily, set the big bundle on the floor near Bade’s desk.

“Here it is, sir.”

Bade’s glance was fastened on the object.

“Unwrap it.”

The officers bent over the bundle, and with clumsy fingers pulled back the plastic layer. The plastic stood up stiffly, and bent only with a hard pull. Underneath was something covered with several of the enemy’s thick dark sleeping covers. The officers rolled the bundle back and forth and unwound the covers. An edge of some milky substance came into view. The officers pulled back the covers and a milky, semitransparent block sat there, white vapor rolling out from it along the floor.

There was a concerted movement away from the block and the officers.

Bade said, “Was the whole place like that?”

“No, sir, but there was an awful lot of this stuff. And there was a compacted powdery kind of substance, too. We didn’t bring enough of it back and it all turned to water.”

“Did you wear the protective clothes we captured?”

“Yes, sir, but they had to be slit and zippered up the legs, because the enemy’s feet are so small. The arms were a poor fit and there had to be more material across the chest.”

“How did they work?”

“They were a great help, sir, as long as we kept moving. As soon as we slowed down, we started to stiffen up. The hand and foot gear was improvised and hard to work in, though.”

Bade looked thoughtfully at the smoldering block, then got up, stepped forward, and spread his hand close to the block. A numbness gradually dulled his hand and moved up his arm. Then Bade straightened up. He found he could move his hand only slowly and painfully. He motioned to Runckel. “I think this is what ‘cold’ is. Want to try it?” Runckel got up, held his hand to the block, then straightened, scowling.

Bade felt a tingling sensation and worked his hand cautiously as Runckel, his face intent, slowly spread and closed his fingers.

Bade thoughtfully congratulated the officers, then had the block carried off to the Testing Lab.

The report on defense against “reduced degree of heat” now came in. Bade read this carefully several times over. The most striking point, he noticed, was the heavy energy expenditure involved.

That afternoon, several ships took off, separated, and headed south.
* * *

The next few days saw the completion of the first key-tool factory, the receipt of reports from insect-bitten scouts in various regions far to the south, and a number of terse messages from General Kottek. Bade ordered plans drawn up for the immediate withdrawal of General Kottek’s army, and for the possible withdrawal by stages of other forces in the north. He ordered preparations made for the first completed factories to produce anti-reduced-degree-of-heat devices. He read a number of reports on the swiftly changing state of the planet’s atmosphere. Large quantities of rain were predicted.

Bade saw no reason to fear rain, and turned to a new problem: The enemy’s missiles had produced a superabundance of atomic debris in the atmosphere. Testing Lab was concerned over this, and suggested various ways to get rid of it. Bade approved the projects and turned to the immediate problem of withdrawing the bulk of General Kottek’s troops from their strong position without losing completely the advantages of it.

Bade was considering the idea of putting a forceway station somewhere in Kottek’s underground defenses, so that he could be reinforced or withdrawn at will. This would involve complicated production difficulties; but then Kottek had said the slowing-down was minimized under cover, and it might be worthwhile to hold an option on his position. While weighing the various intangibles and unpredictables, Bade received a report from General Rast. Rast was now noticing the same effect Kottek had reported.

Word came in that two more key-tools factories were now completed.

Intelligence reports of enemy atmospheric data showed an enormous “cold air mass moving down through Canada.”

General Frotch, personally supervising high-altitude tests, now somehow got involved in a rushing high-level air stream. Having the power of concentrating his attention completely upon whatever he was doing, Frotch got bound up in the work and never realized the speed of the air stream until he came down again—just behind the enemy lines.

When Bade heard of this, he immediately went over the list of officers, and found no one to replace Frotch. Bade studied the latest scientific reports and the disposition of his forces, then ordered an immediate switching of troops and aircraft through the forceway network toward the place where Frotch had vanished. A sharp thrust with local forces cut into the enemy defense system, was followed up by heavy reinforcements flowing through the forceway network, and developed an overpowering local superiority that swamped the enemy defenses.

Runckel studied the resulting dispositions and said grimly, “Heaven help us if they hit us hard in the right place just now.”

“Yes,” said Bade, “and heaven help us if we don’t get Frotch back.” He continued his rapid switching of forces, and ordered General Kottek to embark all his troops, and set down near the main base.

Flyer Command meanwhile began to show signs of headless disorientation, the ground commanders peremptorily ordering the air forces around as nothing more than close-support and flying artillery. The enemy behind-the-lines communications network continued to function.

Runckel now reported to Bade that no reply had been received from Kottek’s headquarters. Runckel was sending a ship to investigate.

Anguished complaints poured in from the technical divisions that their work was held up by the troops flooding the forceway network.

The map now showed Bade’s men driving forward in what looked like a full-scale battle to break the enemy’s whole defensive arrangements and thrust clear through to the sea. Reports came in that, with the enemy’s outer defense belt smashed, signs of unbelievable weakness were evident. The enemy seemed to have nothing but local reserves and only a few of them. The general commanding on the spot announced that he could end the war if given a free hand.

Bade now wondered, if the enemy’s reserves weren’t there, where were they? He repeated his original orders.

Runckel now came over with the look of a half-drowned swimmer and motioned Bade to look at the two nearest viewscreens.

One of the viewscreens showed a scene in shades of white. A layer of white covered the ground, towering ships were plastered on one side with white, obstacles were heaped over with white, the air was filled with horizontal streaks of white. Everything on the screen was white or turning white.

“Kottek’s base,” said Runckel dully.

The other screen gave a view of the long narrow valley just outside. This “valley” was now a rushing torrent of foaming water, sweeping along chunks of floating debris that bobbed a hand’s breadth under the power cables from the ships to Forceway Station 2.
* * *

The only good news that day and the next was the recapture of General Frotch. In the midst of crumbling disorder, Flyer Command returned to normal.

Bade sent off a specially-equipped mission to try and find out what had happened to General Kottek. Then he looked up to see General Rast walking wearily into the room. Rast conferred with Runckel in low dreary tones, then the two of them started over toward Bade.

Bade returned his attention to a chart showing the location of the key-tools factories and the forceway network.

A sort of groan announced the arrival of Rast and Runckel. Bade looked up. Rast saluted. Bade returned the salute. Rast said stiffly, “Sir, I have been defeated. My army no longer exists.”

Bade looked Rast over quickly, studying his expression and bearing.

“It’s a plain fact,” said Rast. “Sir, I should be relieved of command.”

“What’s happened?” said Bade. “I have no reports of any new enemy attack.”

“No,” said Rast, “there won’t be any formal report. The whole northern front is anaesthetized from one end to the other.”

“Snow?” said Bade.

“White death,” said Rast.

A messenger stepped past the two generals to hand Bade a report. It was from General Frotch:

“1) Aerial reconnaissance shows heavy enemy forces moving south on a wide front through the snow-covered region. No response or resistance has been noted on the part of our troops.

“2) Aerial reconnaissance shows light enemy forces moving in to ring General Kottek’s position. The enemy appears to be moving with extreme caution.

“3) It has so far proved impossible to get in touch with General Kottek.

“4) It must be reported that on several occasions our ground troops have, as individuals, attempted to seize from our flyer pilots and crews, their special protective anti-reduced-degree-of-heat garments. This problem is becoming serious.”

Bade looked up at Rast. “You’re Ground Forces Commander, not commander of a single front.”

“That’s so,” said Rast. “I should be. But all I command now is a kind of mob. I’ve tried to keep the troops in order, but they know one thing after another is going wrong. Naturally, they put the blame on their leaders.”

The room seemed to Bade to grow unnaturally light and clear. He said, “Have you had an actual case of mutiny, Rast?”

Rast stiffened. “No, sir. But it is possible for troops to be so laggardly and unwilling that the effect is the same. What I mean is that there is the steady growth of a cynical attitude everywhere. Not only in the troops but in the officers.”

Bade looked off at the far corner of the room for a moment. He glanced at Runckel. “What’s the state of the key-tools factories?”

“Almost all completed. But the northern ones are now in the reduced-degree-of-heat zone. Part of the forceway network is, too. Using the key-tools plants remaining, it might be possible to patch together some kind of a makeshift. But the reduced-degree-of-heat zone is still moving south.”

A pale clerk apologized, stepped around the generals and handed Bade two messages. The first was from Intelligence:

“Enemy propaganda broadcasts beamed at our troops announce General Kottek’s unconditional surrender with all his forces. We have no independent information on Kottek’s actual situation.”

The second message was from the commander of Number 1 Shock Infantry Division. This report boiled down to a miserable confession that the commanding officer found himself unable to prevent:

1) Fraternization with the enemy.

2) The use of various liquid narcotics that rendered troops unfit for duty.

3) The unauthorized wearing of red, white, and blue buttons lettered, “Vote Republican.”

4) An ugly game called “footbase,” in which the troops separated into two long lines armed with bats, to hammer, pound, beat, and kick, a ball called “the officer,” from one end of the field to the other.
* * *

Bade looked up at Rast. “How is it I only find out about this now?”

“Sir,” said Rast, “each of the officers was ashamed to report it his superior.”

Bade handed the report to Runckel, who read it through and looked up somberly. “If it’s hit the shock troops, the rest must have it worse.”

“Yet,” said Bade, “the troops fought well when we recaptured Frotch.”

“Yes,” said Rast, “but it’s the damned planet that’s driving them crazy. The natives are remarkable propagandists. And the men can plainly see that even when they win a victory, some freak like the exploding sickness, or some kind of atmospheric jugglery, is likely to take it right away from them. They’re in a bad mood and the only thing that might snap them out of it is decisive action. But if they go the other way we’re finished.”

“This,” said Bade, “is no time for you to resign.”

“Sir, it’s a mess, and I’m responsible. I have to make the offer to resign.”

“Well,” said Bade, “I don’t accept it. But we’ll have to try to straighten out this mess.” Bade pulled over several sheets of paper. On the first, he wrote:

“Official News Bureau: 1) Categorically deny the capture of General Kottek and his base. State that General Kottek is in full control of Base North, that the enemy has succeeded in infiltrating troops into the general region under cover of snow, but that he has been repulsed with heavy losses in all attacks on the base itself.

“2) State that the enemy announcement of victory in the area is a desperation measure, timed to coincide with their almost unopposed advance through the evacuated Northern Front.

“3) The larger part of the troops in the Northern Front were withdrawn prior to the attack and switched by forceway network to launch a heavy feinting attack against the enemy. State that the enemy, caught by surprise, appears to be rushing reserves from his northern armies to cover the areas threatened by the feint.

“4) Devoted troops who held the Northern Front to make the deception succeed have now been overrun by the enemy advance under cover of the snow. Their heroic sacrifice will not be forgotten.

“5) The enemy now faces the snow time alone. His usual preventive measures have been drastically slowed down. His intended decisive attack has failed of its object. The snow this year is unusually severe, and is already working heavy punishment on the enemy.

“6) Secret measures are now for the first time being brought into the open that will place our troops far beyond the reach of snow.”

On the second sheet of paper, Bade wrote:

“Director of Protocol: Prepare immediately: 1) Supreme Commander’s Citation for Extraordinary Bravery and Resourcefulness in Action: To be awarded General Kottek. 2) Supreme Commander’s Citation for Extraordinary Devotion to Duty: To be awarded singly, to each soldier on duty during the enemy attack on the entire Northern Front. 3) These awards are both to be mentioned promptly in the Daily Notices.”

Bade handed the papers to Runckel, “Send these out yourself.” As Runckel started off, Bade looked at Rast, then was interrupted by a messenger who stepped past Rast, and handed Bade two slips of paper. With an effort of will, Bade extended his hand and took the papers. He read:

“Sir: Exploration Team South 3 has located ideal island base. Full details follow. Frotch.”

“Sir: We have finally contacted General Kottek. He and his troops are dug into underground warrens of great complexity beneath his system of fortifications. Most of the ships above-ground are mere shells, all removable equipment having been stripped out and carried below for the comfort of the troops. Most of the ships’ engines have also been disassembled one at a time, carried below, and set up to run the dampers—which are likewise below ground—and the ‘heating units’ devised by Kottek’s technical personnel. His troops appear to be in good order and high spirits. Skath, Col., A.F.C., forwarded by Frotch.”
* * *

Bade sucked in a deep breath and gave silent thanks. Then he handed the two reports to Rast. Bade snapped on a microphone and got in touch with Frotch. “Listen, can you get pictures of Kottek and his men?”

Frotch held up a handful of pictures, spread like playing cards. “The men took them for souvenirs and gave me copies. You can have all you want.”

Bade immediately called his photoprint division and gave orders for the pictures to be duplicated by the thousands. The photoprint division slaved all night, and the excited troops had the pictures on their bulletin boards by the next morning.

The Official News Service meanwhile was dinning Bade’s propaganda into the troops’ ears at every opportunity. The appearance of the pictures now plainly caught the enemy propaganda out on a limb. Doubting one thing the enemy propaganda had said, the troops suddenly doubted all. A violent revulsion of feeling took place. Before anything else could happen, Bade ordered the troops embarked.

By this time, the apparently harmless rain had produced a severe flood, which repeatedly threatened the power cables supplying the forceway network. The troops had to use this network to get to the ships in time.

As Bade’s military engineers blasted out alternate channels for the rising water, and a fervent headquarters group prayed for a drought, the troops poured through the still-operative forceway stations and marched into the ships with joyful shouts.

The enemy joined the celebration with a mammoth missile attack.

The embarkation, together with the disassembling of vital parts of the accessible key-tools factories, took several days. During this time, the enemy continued his steady methodical advance well behind the front of the cold air mass. The enemy however, made no sudden thrust on the ground to take advantage of the embarkation. Bade pondered this sign of tiredness, then sent up a ship to radio a query home. When the answer came, Bade sent a message to the enemy government. The message began:

“Sirs: This scouting expedition has now completed its mission. We are now withdrawing to winter quarters, which may be: a) an unspecified distant location; b) California; c) Florida. If you are prepared to accept certain temporary armistice conditions, we will choose a). Otherwise, you will understand we must choose b) or c). If you are prepared to consider these armistice conditions, you are strongly urged to send a plenipotentiary without delay. This plenipotentiary should be prepared to consider both the temporary armistice and the matters of mutual benefit to us.”

Bade waited tensely for the reply. He had before him two papers, one of which read:

” . . . the enemy-held peninsula of Florida has thus been found to be heavily infested with heartworms—parasites which live inside the heart, slow circulation, and lower vital activity sharply. While the enemy appears to be immune to infestation, our troops plainly are not. The four scouts who returned here have at last, we believe, been cured—but they have not as yet recovered their strength. The state of things in nearby Cuba is not yet known for certain. Possibly, the troops’ enormous consumption of native ‘rum’ has interacted medicinally with our blood chemistry to retard infestation. If so, we have our choice of calamities. In any case, a landing in Florida would be ruinous.”

As for California, the other report concluded:

” . . . Statistical studies based on past experience lead us to believe that myth or no myth, immediately upon our landing in California, there will be a terrific earthquake.”

Bade had no desire to go to Florida or California. He fervently hoped the enemy would not guess this.

At length the reply came, Bade read through ominous references to the growing might of the United States of the World, then came to the operative sentence:

” . . . Our plenipotentiary will be authorized to treat only with regard to an armistice; he is authorized only to transmit other information to his government. He is not empowered to make any agreement whatever on matters other than an armistice.”

The plenipotentiary was a tall thin native, who constantly sponged water off his neck and forehead, and who looked at Bade as if he would like cram a nuclear missile down his throat. Getting an agreement was hard work. The plenipotentiary finally accepted Bade’s first condition—that General Kottek not be attacked for the duration of the armistice—but flatly refused the second condition allowing the continued occupation of western Cuba. After a lengthy verbal wrestling match, the plenipotentiary at last agreed to a temporary continuation of the western Cuban occupation, provided that the Gulf of Mexico blockade be lifted. Bade agreed to this and the plenipotentiary departed mopping his forehead.

Bade immediately lifted ships and headed south. His ships came down to seize sections of Sumatra, Java, and Borneo, with outposts on the Christmas and Cocoa islands and on small islands in the Indonesian archipelago.

Bade’s personal headquarters were on a pleasant little island conveniently located in the Sunda Strait between Java and Sumatra. The name of the island was Krakatoa.
* * *

Bade was under no illusion that the inhabitants of the islands welcomed his arrival. Fortunately, however, the armament of his troops outclassed anything in the vicinity, with the possible exception of a bristly-looking place called Singapore. Bade’s scouts, after studying Singapore carefully, concluded it was not mobile, and if they left it alone, it would leave them alone.

The enemy plenipotentiary now arrived in a large battleship, and was greeted in the islands with frenzied enthusiasm. Bade was too absorbed in reports of rapidly-improving morale, and highly-successful mass-swimming exercises to care about this welcome. Although an ominous document titled “War in the Islands: U.S.—Japan,” sat among the translated volumes of history at Bade’s elbow, and served as a constant reminder that this pleasant situation could not be expected to last forever, Bade intended to enjoy it while it did last.

Bade greeted the plenipotentiary in his pleasant headquarters on the leveled top of the tall picturesque cone-shaped hill that rose high above Krakatoa, then dropped off abruptly by the sea.

The plenipotentiary, on entering the headquarters, mopped his brow constantly, kept glancing furtively around, and was plainly ill at ease. The interpreters took their places, and the conversation opened.

“As you see,” said Bade, “we are comfortably settled here for the winter.”

The plenipotentiary looked around and gave a hollow laugh.

“We are,” added Bade, “perfectly prepared to return next . . . a . . . ‘summer’ . . . and take up where we left off.”

“By next summer,” said the plenipotentiary, “the United States will be a solid mass of guns from one coast to the other.”

Bade shrugged, and the plenipotentiary added grimly, “And missiles.”

Despite himself, Bade winced.

One of Bade’s clerks, carrying a message across the far end of the room, became distracted in his effort to be sure he heard everything. The clerk was busy watching Bade when he banged into the back of a tall filing case. The case tilted off-balance, then started to fall forward.

A second clerk sprang up to catch the side of the case. There was a low heavy rumble as all the drawers slid out.

The plenipotentiary sprang to his feet, and looked wildly around.

The filing case twisted out of the hands of the clerk and came down on the floor with a thundering crash.

The plenipotentiary snapped his eyes tightly shut, clenched his teeth, and stood perfectly still.

Bade and Runckel looked blankly at each other.

The plenipotentiary slowly opened his eyes, looked wonderingly around the room, jumped as the two clerks heaved the filing case upright, turned around to stare at the clerks and the case, turned back to look sharply at Bade, then clamped his jaw.

Bade, his own face as calm as he could make it, decided this might be as good a time as any to throw in a hard punch. He remarked, “You have two choices. You can make a mutually profitable agreement with us. Or you can force us to switch heavier forces and weapons to this planet and crush you. Which is it?”

“We,” said the plenipotentiary coldly, “have the resources of the whole planet at our disposal. You have to bring everything from a distance. Moreover, we have captured a good deal of your equipment, which we may duplicate—”

“Lesser weapons,” said Bade. “As if an enemy captured your rifles, duplicated them at great expense, and was then confronted with your nuclear bomb.”

“This is our planet,” said the plenipotentiary grimly, “and we will fight for it to the end.”

“We don’t want your planet.”
* * *

The plenipotentiary’s eyes widened. Then he burst into a string of invective that the translators couldn’t follow. When he had finished, he took a deep breath and recapitulated the main point, “If you don’t want it, what are you doing here?”

Bade said, “Your people are clearly warlike. After observing you for some time, a debate arose on our planet as to whether we should hit you or wait till you hit us. After a fierce debate, the first faction won.”

“Wait a minute. How could we hit you? You come from another planet, don’t you?”

“Yes, that’s true. But it’s also true that a baby shark is no great menace to anyone. Except that he will grow up into a big shark. That is how our first faction looked on earth.”

The plenipotentiary scowled. “In other words, you’ll kill the suspect before he has a chance to commit the crime. Then you justify it by saying the man would have committed a crime if he’d lived.”

“We didn’t intend to kill you—only to disarm you.”

“How does all this square with your telling us you’re just a scout party?”

“Are you under the impression,” said Bade, “that this is the main invasion force? Would we attack without a full reconnaissance first? Do you think we would merely make one sizable landing, on one continent? How could we hope to conquer in that way?”

The plenipotentiary frowned, sucked in a deep breath, and mopped his forehead. “What’s your offer?”

“Disarm yourselves voluntarily. All hostilities will end immediately.”

The plenipotentiary gave a harsh laugh.

Bade said, “What’s your answer?”

“What’s your real offer?”

“As I remarked,” said Bade, “there were two factions on our planet. One favored the attack, as self-preservation. The other faction opposed the attack, on moral and political grounds. The second faction at present holds that it is now impossible to remain aloof, as we had hoped to before the attack. One way or the other, we are now bound up with Earth. We either have to be enemies, or friends. As it happens, I am a member of the bloc that opposed the attack. The bloc that favored the attack has lost support owing to the results of our initial operations. Because of this political shift, I have practically a free hand at the moment.” Bade paused as the plenipotentiary turned his head slightly and leaned forward with an intent look.

Bade said, “Your country has suffered by far the most from our attack. Obviously, it should profit the most. We have a number of scientific advances to offer as bargaining counters. Our essential condition is that we retain some overt standing—some foothold—some way of knowing by direct observation that this planet—or any nation of it—won’t attack us.”

The plenipotentiary scowled. “Every nation on Earth is pretty closely allied as a result of your attack. We’re a world of united states—all practically one nation. And all the land on the globe belongs to one of us or the other. While there’s bound to be considerable regional rivalry even when we have peace, that’s all. Otherwise we’re united. As a result, there’s not going to be any peace as long as you’ve got your foot on land belonging to any of us. That includes Java, Sumatra, and even this . . . er . . . mountain we’re on now.” He looked around uneasily, and added, “We might let you have a little base, somewhere . . . maybe in Antarctica but I doubt it. We won’t want any foreign planet sticking its nose in our business.”

Bade said, “My proposal allows for that.”

“I don’t see how it could,” said the plenipotentiary. “What is it?”

Bade told him.

The plenipotentiary sat as if he had been hit over the head with a rock. Then he let out a mighty burst of laughter, banged his hand on his knee and said, “You’re serious?”

“Absolutely.”

The plenipotentiary sprang to his feet. “I’ll have to get in touch with my government. Who knows? Maybe— Who knows?” He strode out briskly.
* * *

About this time, a number of fast ships arrived from home. These ships were much in use during the next months. Delegations from both planets flew in both directions.

Runckel was highly uneasy. Incessantly he demanded, “Will it work? What if they flood our planet with a whole mob—”

“I have it on good authority,” said Bade, “that our planet is every bit as uncomfortable for them as theirs is for us. We almost lost one of their delegates straight down through the mud on the last visit. They have to use dozens of towels for handkerchiefs every day, and that trace of ammonia in the atmosphere doesn’t seem to agree with them. Some of them have even gotten fog-sick.”

“Why should they go along with the idea, then?”

“It fits in with their nature. Besides, where else are they going to get another one? As one of their senators put it, ‘Everything here on Earth is sewed up.’ There’s even a manifest destiny argument.”

“Well, the idea has attractions, but—”

“Listen,” said Bade, “I’m told not to prolong the war, because it’s too costly and dangerous; not to leave behind a reservoir of fury to discharge on us in the future; not to surrender; not, in the present circumstances, to expect them to surrender. I am told to somehow keep a watch on them and bind their interests to ours; and not to forget the tie must be more than just on paper, it’s got to be emotional as well as legal. On top of that, if possible, I’m supposed to open up commercial opportunities. Can you think of any other way?”

“Frankly, no,” said Runckel.

There was a grumbling sound underneath them, and the room shivered slightly.

“What was that?” said Runckel.

Bade looked around, frowning. “I don’t know.”

A clerk came across the room and handed Runckel a message and Bade another message. Runckel looked up, scowling. “The sea water here is beginning to have an irritating effect on our men’s skin.”

“Never mind,” said Bade, “their plenipotentiary is coming. We’ll know one way or the other shortly.”

Runckel looked worried, and began searching through his wastebasket.

The plenipotentiary came in grinning. “O.K.,” he said, “the Russians are a little burned up, and I don’t think Texas is any too happy, but nobody can think of a better way out. You’re in.”

He and Bade shook hands fervently. Photographers rushed in to snap pictures. Outside, Bade’s band was playing “The Star-Spangled Banner.”

“Another state,” said the plenipotentiary, grinning expansively. “How’s it feel to be a citizen?”

Runckel erupted from his wastebasket and bolted across the room.

“Krakatoa is a volcano!” he shouted. “And here’s what a volcano is!”

There was a faint but distinct rumble underfoot.

The room emptied fast.
* * *

On the way home, they were discussing things.

Bade was saying, “I don’t claim it’s perfect, but then our two planets are so mutually uncomfortable there’s bound to be little travel either way till we have a chance to get used to each other. Yet, we can go back and forth. Who has a better right than a citizen? And there’s a good chance of trade and mutual profit. There’s a good emotional tie.” He frowned. “There’s just one thing—”

“What’s that?” said Runckel.

Bade opened a translated book to a page he had turned down. He read silently. He looked up perplexedly.

“Runckel,” he said, “there are certain technicalities involved in being a citizen.”

Runckel tensed. “What do you mean?”

“Oh— Well, like this.” He looked back at the book for a moment.

“What is it?” demanded Runckel.

“Well,” said Bade, “what do you suppose ‘income tax’ is?”

Runckel looked relieved. He shrugged.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “It’s too fantastic. Probably it’s just a myth.”

The Wind from the Sun by Arthur C. Clarke (Full Text)

THE WIND FROM THE SUN

Arthur C. Clarke

Arthur C. Clarke is perhaps the most famous modern science-fiction writer in the world, seriously rivaled for that title only by the late Isaac Asimov and Robert A. Heinlein. Clarke is probably most widely known for his work on Stanley Kubrick’s film 2001: A Space Odyssey, but is also renowned as a novelist, short-story writer, and as a writer of nonfiction, usually on technological subjects such as spaceflight. He has won three Nebula Awards, three Hugo Awards, the British Science Fiction Award, the John W. Campbell Memorial Award, and a Grandmaster Nebula for Life Achievement. His best-known books include the novels Childhood’s End, The City and the Stars, The Deep Range, Rendezvous with Rama, A Fall of Moondust, 2001: A Space Odyssey, 2010: Odyssey Two, 2061: Odyssey Three, Songs of Distant Earth, and The Fountains of Paradise; and the collections The Nine Billion Names of God, Tales of Ten Worlds, and The Sentinel. He has also written many nonfiction books on scientific topics, the best known of which are probably Profiles of the Future and The Wind from the Sun, and is generally considered to be the man who first came up with the idea of the communications satellite. His most recent books are the novel 3001: The Final Odyssey, the nonfiction collection Greetings, Carbon-Based Bipeds: Collected Works 1944-1998, the fiction collection Collected Short Stories, and a novel written in collaboration with Stephen Baxter, The Light of Other Days. Most of Clarke’s best-known books will be coming back into print, appropriately enough, in 2001. Born in Somerset, England, Clarke now lives in Sri Lanka, and was recently knighted.

Here, in one of the best known of all Future Sports stories, he gives the ancient sport of sailboat racing a whole new dimension . . .

* * *

The enormous disc of sail strained at its rigging, already filled with the wind that blew between the worlds. In three minutes the race would begin, yet now John Merton felt more relaxed, more at peace, than at any time for the past year. Whatever happened when the Commodore gave the starting signal, whether Diana carried him to victory or defeat, he had achieved his ambition. After a lifetime spent designing ships for others, now he would sail his own.

“T minus two minutes,” said the cabin radio. “Please confirm your readiness.”

One by one, the other skippers answered. Merton recognized all the voices—some tense, some calm—for they were the voices of his friends and rivals. On the four inhabited worlds, there were scarcely twenty men who could sail a sun yacht; and they were all there, on the starting line or aboard the escort vessels, orbiting twenty-two thousand miles above the equator.

“Number One—Gossamer—ready to go.”

“Number Two—Santa Maria—all O.K.”

“Number Three—Sunbeam—O.K.”

“Number Four—Woomera—all systems GO.”

Merton smiled at that last echo from the early, primitive days of astronautics. But it had become part of the tradition of space; and there were times when a man needed to evoke the shades of those who had gone before him to the stars.

“Number Five—Lebedev—we’re ready.”

“Number Six—Arachne—O.K.”

Now it was his turn, at the end of the line; strange to think that the words he was speaking in this tiny cabin were being heard by at least five billion people.

“Number Seven—Diana—ready to start.”

“One through Seven acknowledged,” answered that impersonal voice from the judge’s launch. “Now T minus one minute.”

Merton scarcely heard it. For the last time, he was checking the tension in the rigging. The needles of all the dynamometers were steady; the immense sail was taut, its mirror surface sparkling and glittering gloriously in the sun.

To Merton, floating weightless at the periscope, it seemed to fill the sky. As well it might—for out there were fifty million square feet of sail, linked to his capsule by almost a hundred miles of rigging. All the canvas of all the tea clippers that had once raced like clouds across the China seas, sewn into one gigantic sheet, could not match the single sail that Diana had spread beneath the sun. Yet it was little more substantial than a soap bubble; that two square miles of aluminized plastic were only a few millionths of an inch thick.

“T minus ten seconds. All recording cameras ON.”

Something so huge, yet so frail, was hard for the mind to grasp. And it was harder still to realize that this fragile mirror could tow him free of Earth merely by the power of the sunlight it would trap.

“. . . five, four, three, two, one, CUT!”

Seven knife blades sliced through seven thin lines tethering the yachts to the mother ships that had assembled and serviced them. Until this moment, all had been circling Earth together in a rigidly held formation, but now the yachts would begin to disperse, like dandelion seeds drifting before the breeze. And the winner would be the one that first drifted past the Moon.

Aboard Diana, nothing seemed to be happening. But Merton knew better. Though his body could feel no thrust, the instrument board told him that he was now accelerating at almost one thousandth of a gravity. For a rocket, that figure would have been ludicrous—but this was the first time any solar yacht had ever attained it. Diana’s design was sound; the vast sail was living up to his calculations. At this rate, two circuits of the Earth would build up his speed to escape velocity, and then he could head out for the Moon, with the full force of the Sun behind him.

The full force of the Sun . . . He smiled wryly, remembering all his attempts to explain solar sailing to those lecture audiences back on Earth. That had been the only way he could raise money, in those early days. He might be Chief Designer of Cosmodyne Corporation, with a whole string of successful spaceships to his credit, but his firm had not been exactly enthusiastic about his hobby.

“Hold your hands out to the Sun,” he’d said. “What do you feel? Heat, of course. But there’s pressure as well—though you’ve never noticed it, because it’s so tiny. Over the area of your hands, it comes to only about a millionth of an ounce.

“But out in space, even a pressure as small as that can be important, for it’s acting all the time, hour after hour, day after day. Unlike rocket fuel, it’s free and unlimited. If we want to, we can use it. We can build sails to catch the radiation blowing from the Sun.”

At that point, he would pull out a few square yards of sail material and toss it toward the audience. The silvery film would coil and twist like smoke, then drift slowly to the ceiling in the hot-air currents.

“You can see how light it is,” he’d continue. “A square mile weighs only a ton, and can collect five pounds of radiation pressure. So it will start moving—and we can let it tow us along, if we attach rigging to it.

“Of course, its acceleration will be tiny—about a thousandth of a g. That doesn’t seem much, but let’s see what it means.

“It means that in the first second, we’ll move about a fifth of an inch. I suppose a healthy snail could do better than that. But after a minute, we’ve covered sixty feet, and will be doing just over a mile an hour. That’s not bad, for something driven by pure sunlight! After an hour, we’re forty miles from our starting point, and will be moving at eighty miles an hour. Please remember that in space there’s no friction; so once you start anything moving, it will keep going forever. You’ll be surprised when I tell you what our thousandth-of-a-g sailboat will be doing at the end of a day’s run: almost two thousand miles an hour! If it starts from orbit—as it has to, of course—it can reach escape velocity in a couple of days. And all without burning a single drop of fuel!”

Well, he’d convinced them, and in the end he’d even convinced Cosmodyne. Over the last twenty years, a new sport had come into being. It had been called the sport of billionaires, and that was true. But it was beginning to pay for itself in terms of publicity and TV coverage. The prestige of four continents and two worlds was riding on this race, and it had the biggest audience in history.

Diana had made a good start; time to take a look at the opposition. Moving very gently—though there were shock absorbers between the control capsule and the delicate rigging, he was determined to run no risks—Merton stationed himself at the periscope.

There they were, looking like strange silver flowers planted in the dark fields of space. The nearest, South America’s Santa Maria, was only fifty miles away; it bore a close resemblance to a boy’s kite, but a kite more than a mile on a side. Farther away, the University of Astrograd’s Lebedev looked like a Maltese cross; the sails that formed the four arms could apparently be tilted for steering purposes. In contrast, the Federation of Australasia’s Woomera was a simple parachute, four miles in circumference. General Spacecraft’s Arachne, as its name suggested, looked like a spiderweb, and had been built on the same principles, by robot shuttles spiraling out from a central point. Eurospace Corporation’s Gossamer was an identical design, on a slightly smaller scale. And the Republic of Mars’s Sunbeam was a flat ring, with a half-mile-wide hole in the center, spinning slowly, so that centrifugal force gave it stiffness. That was an old idea, but no one had ever made it work; and Merton was fairly sure that the colonials would be in trouble when they started to turn.

That would not be for another six hours, when the yachts had moved along the first quarter of their slow and stately twenty-four-hour orbit. Here at the beginning of the race, they were all heading directly away from the Sun—running, as it were, before the solar wind. One had to make the most of this lap, before the boats swung around to the other side of Earth and then started to head back into the Sun.

Time, Merton told himself, for the first check, while he had no navigational worries. With the periscope, he made a careful examination of the sail, concentrating on the points where the rigging was attached to it. The shroud lines—narrow bands of unsilvered plastic film—would have been completely invisible had they not been coated with fluorescent paint. Now they were taut lines of colored light, dwindling away for hundreds of yards toward that gigantic sail. Each had its own electric windlass, not much bigger than a game fisherman’s reel. The little windlasses were continually turning, playing lines in or out as the autopilot kept the sail trimmed at the correct angle to the Sun.

The play of sunlight on the great flexible mirror was beautiful to watch. The sail was undulating in slow, stately oscillations, sending multiple images of the Sun marching across it, until they faded away at its edges. Such leisurely vibrations were to be expected in this vast and flimsy structure. They were usually quite harmless, but Merton watched them carefully. Sometimes they could build up to the catastrophic undulations known as the “wriggles,” which could tear a sail to pieces.

When he was satisfied that everything was shipshape, he swept the periscope around the sky, rechecking the positions of his rivals. It was as he had hoped: the weeding-out process had begun as the less efficient boats fell astern. But the real test would come when they passed into the shadow of Earth. Then, maneuverability would count as much as speed.

It seemed a strange thing to do, what with the race having just started, but he thought it might be a good idea to get some sleep. The two-man crews on the other boats could take it in turns, but Merton had no one to relieve him. He must rely on his own physical resources, like that other solitary seaman, Joshua Slocum, in his tiny Spray. The American skipper had sailed Spray single-handed around the world; he could never have dreamed that, two centuries later, a man would be sailing single-handed from Earth to Moon—inspired, at least partly, by his example.

Merton snapped the elastic bands of the cabin seat around his waist and legs, then placed the electrodes of the sleep inducer on his forehead. He set the timer for three hours and relaxed. Very gently, hypnotically, the electronic pulses throbbed in the frontal lobes of his brain. Colored spirals of light expanded beneath his closed eyelids, widening outward to infinity. Then nothing . . .

The brazen clamor of the alarm dragged him back from his dreamless sleep. He was instantly awake, his eyes scanning the instrument panel. Only two hours had passed—but above the accelerometer, a red light was flashing. Thrust was falling; Diana was losing power.

Merton’s first thought was that something had happened to the sail; perhaps the anti-spin devices had failed, and the rigging had become twisted. Swiftly, he checked the meters that showed the tension of the shroud lines. Strange—on one side of the sail they were reading normally, but on the other the pull was dropping slowly, even as he watched.

In sudden understanding, Merton grabbed the periscope, switched to wide-angle vision, and started to scan the edge of the sail. Yes—there was the trouble, and it could have only one cause.

A huge, sharp-edged shadow had begun to slide across the gleaming silver of the sail. Darkness was falling upon Diana, as if a cloud had passed between her and the Sun. And in the dark, robbed of the rays that drove her, she would lose all thrust and drift helplessly through space.

But, of course, there were no clouds here, more than twenty thousand miles above the Earth. If there was a shadow, it must be made by man.

Merton grinned as he swung the periscope toward the Sun, switching in the filters that would allow him to look full into its blazing face without being blinded.

“Maneuver 4a,” he muttered to himself. “We’ll see who can play best at that game.”

It looked as if a giant planet was crossing the face of the Sun; a great black disc had bitten deep into its edge. Twenty miles astern, Gossamer was trying to arrange an artificial eclipse, specially for Diana’s benefit.

The maneuver was a perfectly legitimate one. Back in the days of ocean racing, skippers had often tried to rob each other of the wind. With any luck, you could leave your rival becalmed, with his sails collapsing around him—and be well ahead before he could undo the damage.

Merton had no intention of being caught so easily. There was plenty of time to take evasive action; things happened very slowly when you were running a solar sailboat. It would be at least twenty minutes before Gossamer could slide completely across the face of the Sun and leave him in darkness.

Diana’s tiny computer—the size of a matchbox, but the equivalent of a thousand human mathematicians—considered the problem for a full second and then flashed the answer. He’d have to open control panels three and four, until the sail had developed an extra twenty degrees of tilt; then the radiation pressure would blow him out of Gossamer’s dangerous shadow, back into the full blast of the Sun. It was a pity to interfere with the autopilot, which had been carefully programmed to give the fastest possible run—but that, after all, was why he was here. This was what made solar yachting a sport, rather than a battle between computers.

Out went control lines one and six, slowly undulating like sleepy snakes as they momentarily lost their tension. Two miles away, the triangular panels began to open lazily, spilling sunlight through the sail. Yet, for a long time, nothing seemed to happen. It was hard to grow accustomed to this slow-motion world, where it took minutes for the effects of any action to become visible to the eye. Then Merton saw that the sail was indeed tipping toward the Sun—and that Gossamer’s shadow was sliding harmlessly away, its cone of darkness lost in the deeper night of space.

Long before the shadow had vanished, and the disc of the Sun had cleared again, he reversed the tilt and brought Diana back on course. Her new momentum would carry her clear of the danger; no need to overdo it, and upset his calculations by sidestepping too far. That was another rule that was hard to learn: the very moment you had started something happening in space, it was already time to think about stopping it.

He reset the alarm, ready for the next natural or man-made emergency. Perhaps Gossamer, or one of the other contestants, would try the same trick again. Meanwhile, it was time to eat, though he did not feel particularly hungry. One used little physical energy in space, and it was easy to forget about food. Easy—and dangerous; for when an emergency arose, you might not have the reserves needed to deal with it.

He broke open the first of the meal packets, and inspected it without enthusiasm. The name on the label—SPACETASTIES—was enough to put him off. And he had grave doubts about the promise printed underneath: “Guaranteed crumbless.” It had been said that crumbs were a greater danger to space vehicles than meteorites; they could drift into the most unlikely places, causing short circuits, blocking vital jets, and getting into instruments that were supposed to be hermetically sealed.

Still, the liverwurst went down pleasantly enough; so did the chocolate and the pineapple puree. The plastic coffee bulb was warming on the electric heater when the outside world broke in upon his solitude, as the radio operator on the Commodore’s launch routed a call to him.

“Dr. Merton? If you can spare the time, Jeremy Blair would like a few words with you.” Blair was one of the more responsible news commentators, and Merton had been on his program many times. He could refuse to be interviewed, of course, but he liked Blair, and at the moment he could certainly not claim to be too busy. “I’ll take it,” he answered.

“Hello, Dr. Merton,” said the commentator immediately. “Glad you can spare a few minutes. And congratulations—you seem to be ahead of the field.”

“Too early in the game to be sure of that,” Merton answered cautiously.

“Tell me, Doctor, why did you decide to sail Diana by yourself? Just because it’s never been done before?”

“Well, isn’t that a good reason? But it wasn’t the only one, of course.” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “You know how critically the performance of a sun yacht depends on its mass. A second man, with all his supplies, would mean another five hundred pounds. That could easily be the difference between winning and losing.”

“And you’re quite certain that you can handle Diana alone?”

“Reasonably sure, thanks to the automatic controls I’ve designed. My main job is to supervise and make decisions.”

“But—two square miles of sail! It just doesn’t seem possible for one man to cope with all that.”

Merton laughed. “Why not? Those two square miles produce a maximum pull of just ten pounds. I can exert more force with my little finger.”

“Well, thank you, Doctor. And good luck. I’ll be calling you again.”

As the commentator signed off, Merton felt a little ashamed of himself. For his answer had been only part of the truth; and he was sure that Blair was shrewd enough to know it.

There was just one reason why he was here, alone in space. For almost forty years he had worked with teams of hundreds or even thousands of men, helping to design the most complex vehicles that the world had ever seen. For the last twenty years he had led one of those teams, and watched his creations go soaring to the stars. (Sometimes . . . There were failures, which he could never forget, even though the fault had not been his.) He was famous, with a successful career behind him. Yet he had never done anything by himself; always he had been one of an army.

This was his last chance to try for individual achievement, and he would share it with no one. There would be no more solar yachting for at least five years, as the period of the Quiet Sun ended and the cycle of bad weather began, with radiation storms bursting through the solar system. When it was safe again for these frail, unshielded craft to venture aloft, he would be too old. If, indeed, he was not too old already . . .

He dropped the empty food containers into the waste disposal and turned once more to the periscope. At first he could find only five of the other yachts; there was no sign of Woomera. It took him several minutes to locate her—a dim, star-eclipsing phantom, neatly caught in the shadow of Lebedev. He could imagine the frantic efforts the Australasians were making to extricate themselves, and wondered how they had fallen into the trap. It suggested that Lebedev was unusually maneuverable. She would bear watching, though she was too far away to menace Diana at the moment.

Now the Earth had almost vanished; it had waned to a narrow, brilliant bow of light that was moving steadily toward the Sun. Dimly outlined within that burning bow was the night side of the planet, with the phosphorescent gleams of great cities showing here and there through gaps in the clouds. The disc of darkness had already blanked out a huge section of the Milky Way. In a few minutes, it would start to encroach upon the Sun.

The light was fading; a purple, twilight hue—the glow of many sunsets, thousands of miles below—was falling across the sail as Diana slipped silently into the shadow of Earth. The Sun plummeted below that invisible horizon; within minutes, it was night.

Merton looked back along the orbit he had traced, now a quarter of the way around the world. One by one he saw the brilliant stars of the other yachts wink out, as they joined him in the brief night. It would be an hour before the Sun emerged from that enormous black shield, and through all that time they would be completely helpless, coasting without power.

He switched on the external spotlight, and started to search the now-darkened sail with its beam. Already the thousands of acres of film were beginning to wrinkle and become flaccid. The shroud lines were slackening, and must be wound in lest they become entangled. But all this was expected; everything was going as planned.

Fifty miles astern, Arachne and Santa Maria were not so lucky. Merton learned of their troubles when the radio burst into life on the emergency circuit.

“Number Two and Number Six, this is Control. You are on a collision course; your orbits will intersect in sixty-five minutes! Do you require assistance?”

There was a long pause while the two skippers digested this bad news. Merton wondered who was to blame. Perhaps one yacht had been trying to shadow the other, and had not completed the maneuver before they were both caught in darkness. Now there was nothing that either could do. They were slowly but inexorably converging, unable to change course by a fraction of a degree.

Yet—sixty-five minutes! That would just bring them out into sunlight again, as they emerged from the shadow of the Earth. They had a slim chance, if their sails could snatch enough power to avoid a crash. There must be some frantic calculations going on aboard Arachne and Santa Maria.

Arachne answered first. Her reply was just what Merton had expected.

“Number Six calling Control. We don’t need assistance, thank you. We’ll work this out for ourselves.”

I wonder, thought Merton; but at least it will be interesting to watch. The first real drama of the race was approaching, exactly above the line of midnight on the sleeping Earth.

For the next hour, Merton’s own sail kept him too busy to worry about Arachne and Santa Maria. It was hard to keep a good watch on those fifty million square feet of dim plastic out there in the darkness, illuminated only by his narrow spotlight and the rays of the still-distant Moon. From now on, for almost half his orbit around the Earth, he must keep the whole of this immense area edge-on to the Sun. During the next twelve or fourteen hours, the sail would be a useless encumbrance; for he would be heading into the Sun, and its rays could only drive him backward along his orbit. It was a pity that he could not furl the sail completely, until he was ready to use it again; but no one had yet found a practical way of doing this.

Far below, there was the first hint of dawn along the edge of the Earth. In ten minutes the Sun would emerge from its eclipse. The coasting yachts would come to life again as the blast of radiation struck their sails. That would be the moment of crisis for Arachne and Santa Maria—and, indeed, for all of them.

Merton swung the periscope until he found the two dark shadows drifting against the stars. They were very close together—perhaps less than three miles apart. They might, he decided, just be able to make it . . .

Dawn flashed like an explosion along the rim of Earth as the Sun rose out of the Pacific. The sail and shroud lines glowed a brief crimson, then gold, then blazed with the pure white light of day. The needles of the dynamometers began to lift from their zeros—but only just. Diana was still almost completely weightless, for with the sail pointing toward the Sun, her acceleration was now only a few millionths of a gravity.

But Arachne and Santa Maria were crowding on all the sail that they could manage, in their desperate attempt to keep apart. Now, while there was less than two miles between them, their glittering plastic clouds were unfurling and expanding with agonizing slowness as they felt the first delicate push of the Sun’s rays. Almost every TV screen on Earth would be mirroring this protracted drama; and even now, at this last minute, it was possible to tell what the outcome would be.

The two skippers were stubborn men. Either could have cut his sail and fallen back to give the other a chance, but neither would do so. Too much prestige, too many millions, too many reputations were at stake. And so, silently and softly as snowflakes falling on a winter night, Arachne and Santa Maria collided.

The square kite crawled almost imperceptibly into the circular spiderweb. The long ribbons of the shroud lines twisted and tangled together with dreamlike slowness. Even aboard Diana, Merton, busy with his own rigging, could scarcely tear his eyes away from this silent, long-drawn-out disaster.

For more than ten minutes the billowing, shining clouds continued to merge into one inextricable mass. Then the crew capsules tore loose and went their separate ways, missing each other by hundreds of yards. With a flare of rockets, the safety launches hurried to pick them up.

That leaves five of us, thought Merton. He felt sorry for the skippers who had so thoroughly eliminated each other, only a few hours after the start of the race, but they were young men and would have another chance.

Within minutes, the five had dropped to four. From the beginning, Merton had had doubts about the slowly rotating Sunbeam; now he saw them justified.

The Martian ship had failed to tack properly. Her spin had given her too much stability. Her great ring of a sail was turning to face the Sun, instead of being edge-on to it. She was being blown back along her course at almost her maximum acceleration.

That was about the most maddening thing that could happen to a skipper—even worse than a collision, for he could blame only himself. But no one would feel much sympathy for the frustrated colonials, as they dwindled slowly astern. They had made too many brash boasts before the race, and what had happened to them was poetic justice.

Yet it would not do to write off Sunbeam completely; with almost half a million miles still to go, she might yet pull ahead. Indeed, if there were a few more casualties, she might be the only one to complete the race. It had happened before.

The next twelve hours were uneventful, as the Earth waxed in the sky from new to full. There was little to do while the fleet drifted around the unpowered half of its orbit, but Merton did not find the time hanging heavily on his hands. He caught a few hours of sleep, ate two meals, wrote his log, and became involved in several more radio interviews. Sometimes, though rarely, he talked to the other skippers, exchanging greetings and friendly taunts. But most of the time he was content to float in weightless relaxation, beyond all the cares of Earth, happier than he had been for many years. He was—as far as any man could be in space—master of his own fate, sailing the ship upon which he had lavished so much skill, so much love, that it had become part of his very being.

The next casualty came when they were passing the line between Earth and Sun, and were just beginning the powered half of the orbit. Aboard Diana, Merton saw the great sail stiffen as it tilted to catch the rays that drove it. The acceleration began to climb up from the microgravities, though it would be hours yet before it would reach its maximum value.

It would never reach it for Gossamer. The moment when power came on again was always critical, and she failed to survive it.

Blair’s radio commentary, which Merton had left running at low volume, alerted him with the news: “Hello, Gossamer has the wriggles!” He hurried to the periscope, but at first could see nothing wrong with the great circular disc of Gossamer’s sail. It was difficult to study it because it was almost edge-on to him and so appeared as a thin ellipse; but presently he saw that it was twisting back and forth in slow, irresistible oscillations. Unless the crew could damp out these waves, by properly timed but gentle tugs on the shroud lines, the sail would tear itself to pieces.

They did their best, and after twenty minutes it seemed that they had succeeded. Then, somewhere near the center of the sail, the plastic film began to rip. It was slowly driven outward by the radiation pressure, like smoke coiling upward from a fire. Within a quarter of an hour, nothing was left but the delicate tracery of the radial spars that had supported the great web. Once again there was a flare of rockets, as a launch moved in to retrieve the Gossamer’s capsule and her dejected crew.

“Getting rather lonely up here, isn’t it?” said a conversational voice over the ship-to-ship radio.

“Not for you, Dimitri,” retorted Merton. “You’ve still got company back there at the end of the field. I’m the one who’s lonely, up here in front.” It was not an idle boast; by this time Diana was three hundred miles ahead of the next competitor, and her lead should increase still more rapidly in the hours to come.

Aboard Lebedev, Dimitri Markoff gave a good-natured chuckle. He did not sound, Merton thought, at all like a man who had resigned himself to defeat.

“Remember the legend of the tortoise and the hare,” answered the Russian. “A lot can happen in the next quarter-million miles.”

It happened much sooner than that, when they had completed their first orbit of Earth and were passing the starting line again—though thousands of miles higher, thanks to the extra energy the Sun’s rays had given them. Merton had taken careful sights on the other yachts and had fed the figures into the computer. The answer it gave for Woomera was so absurd that he immediately did a recheck.

There was no doubt of it—the Australasians were catching up at a completely fantastic rate. No solar yacht could possibly have such an acceleration, unless . . .

A swift look through the periscope gave the answer. Woomera’s rigging, pared back to the very minimum of mass, had given way. It was her sail alone, still maintaining its shape, that was racing up behind him like a handkerchief blown before the wind. Two hours later it fluttered past, less than twenty miles away; but long before that, the Australasians had joined the growing crowd aboard the Commodore’s launch.

So now it was a straight fight between Diana and Lebedev—for though the Martians had not given up, they were a thousand miles astern and no longer counted as a serious threat. For that matter, it was hard to see what Lebedev could do to overtake Diana’s lead; but all the way around the second lap, through eclipse again and the long, slow drift against the Sun, Merton felt a growing unease.

He knew the Russian pilots and designers. They had been trying to win this race for twenty years—and, after all, it was only fair that they should, for had not Pyotr Nikolaevich Lebedev been the first man to detect the pressure of sunlight, back to the very beginning of the twentieth century? But they had never succeeded.

And they would never stop trying. Dimitri was up to something—and it would be spectacular.

* * *

Aboard the official launch, a thousand miles behind the racing yachts, Commodore van Stratten looked at the radiogram with angry dismay. It had traveled more than a hundred million miles, from the chain of solar observatories swinging high above the blazing surface of the Sun, and it brought the worst possible news.

The Commodore—his title was purely honorary, of course; back on Earth he was Professor of Astrophysics at Harvard—had been half-expecting it. Never before had the race been arranged so late in the season. There had been many delays; they had gambled—and now, it seemed, they might all lose.

Deep beneath the surface of the Sun, enormous forces were gathering. At any moment the energies of a million hydrogen bombs might burst forth in the awesome explosion known as a solar flare. Climbing at millions of miles an hour, an invisible fireball many times the size of Earth would leap from the Sun and head out across space.

The cloud of electrified gas would probably miss the Earth completely. But if it did not, it would arrive in just over a day. Spaceships could protect themselves, with their shielding and their powerful magnetic screens; but the lightly built solar yachts, with their paper-thin walls, were defenseless against such a menace. The crews would have to be taken off, and the race abandoned.

John Merton knew nothing of this as he brought Diana around the Earth for the second time. If all went well, this would be the last circuit, both for him and for the Russians. They had spiraled upward by thousands of miles, gaining energy from the Sun’s rays. On this lap, they should escape from the Earth completely, and head outward on the long run to the Moon. It was a straight race now; Sunbeam’s crew had finally withdrawn exhausted, after battling valiantly with their spinning sail for more than a hundred thousand miles.

Merton did not feel tired; he had eaten and slept well, and Diana was behaving herself admirably. The autopilot, tensioning the rigging like a busy little spider, kept the great sail trimmed to the Sun more accurately than any human skipper could have. Though by this time the two square miles of plastic sheet must have been riddled by hundreds of micrometeorites, the pinhead-sized punctures had produced no falling off of thrust.

He had only two worries. The first was shroud line number eight, which could no longer be adjusted properly. Without any warning, the reel had jammed; even after all these years of astronautical engineering, bearings sometimes seized up in vacuum. He could neither lengthen nor shorten the line, and would have to navigate as best he could with the others. Luckily, the most difficult maneuvers were over; from now on, Diana would have the Sun behind her as she sailed straight down the solar wind. And as the old-time sailors had often said, it was easy to handle a boat when the wind was blowing over your shoulder.

His other worry was Lebedev, still dogging his heels three hundred miles astern. The Russian yacht had shown remarkable maneuverability, thanks to the four great panels that could be tilted around the central sail. Her flipovers as she rounded the Earth had been carried out with superb precision. But to gain maneuverability she must have sacrificed speed. You could not have it both ways; in the long, straight haul ahead, Merton should be able to hold his own. Yet he could not be certain of victory until, three or four days from now, Diana went flashing past the far side of the Moon.

And then, in the fiftieth hour of the race, just after the end of the second orbit around Earth, Markoff sprang his little surprise.

“Hello, John,” he said casually over the ship-to-ship circuit. “I’d like you to watch this. It should be interesting.”

Merton drew himself across to the periscope and turned up the magnification to the limit. There in the field of view, a most improbable sight against the background of the stars, was the glittering Maltese cross of Lebedev, very small but very clear. As he watched, the four arms of the cross slowly detached themselves from the central square, and went drifting away, with all their spars and rigging, into space.

Markoff had jettisoned all unnecessary mass, now that he was coming up to escape velocity and need no longer plod patiently around the Earth, gaining momentum on each circuit. From now on, Lebedev would be almost unsteerable—but that did not matter; all the tricky navigation lay behind her. It was as if an old-time yachtsman had deliberately thrown away his rudder and heavy keel, knowing that the rest of the race would be straight downwind over a calm sea.

“Congratulations, Dimitri,” Merton radioed. “It’s a neat trick. But it’s not good enough. You can’t catch up with me now.”

“I’ve not finished yet,” the Russian answered. “There’s an old winter’s tale in my country about a sleigh being chased by wolves. To save himself, the driver has to throw off the passengers one by one. Do you see the analogy?”

Merton did, all too well. On this final straight lap, Dimitri no longer needed his copilot. Lebedev could really be stripped down for action.

“Alexis won’t be very happy about this,” Merton replied. “Besides, it’s against the rules.”

“Alexis isn’t happy, but I’m the captain. He’ll just have to wait around for ten minutes until the Commodore picks him up. And the regulations say nothing about the size of the crew—you should know that.”

Merton did not answer; he was too busy doing some hurried calculations, based on what he knew of Lebedev’s design. By the time he had finished, he knew that the race was still in doubt. Lebedev would be catching up with him at just about the time he hoped to pass the Moon.

But the outcome of the race was already being decided, ninety-two million miles away.

* * *

On Solar Observatory Three, far inside the orbit of Mercury, the automatic instruments recorded the whole history of the flare. A hundred million square miles of the Sun’s surface exploded in such blue-white fury that, by comparison, the rest of the disc paled to a dull glow. Out of that seething inferno, twisting and turning like a living creature in the magnetic fields of its own creation, soared the electrified plasma of the great flare. Ahead of it, moving at the speed of light, went the warning flash of ultraviolet and X rays. That would reach Earth in eight minutes and was relatively harmless. Not so the charged atoms that were following behind at their leisurely four million miles an hour—and which, in just over a day, would engulf Diana, Lebedev, and their accompanying little fleet in a cloud of lethal radiation.

The Commodore left his decision to the last possible minute. Even when the jet of plasma had been tracked past the orbit of Venus, there was a chance that it might miss the Earth. But when it was less than four hours away, and had already been picked up by the Moon-based radar network, he knew that there was no hope. All solar sailing was over, for the next five or six years—until the Sun was quiet again.

A great sigh of disappointment swept across the solar system. Diana and Lebedev were halfway between Earth and Moon, running neck and neck—and now no one would ever know which was the better boat. The enthusiasts would argue the result for years; history would merely record: “Race canceled owing to solar storm.”

When John Merton received the order, he felt a bitterness he had not known since childhood. Across the years, sharp and clear, came the memory of his tenth birthday. He had been promised an exact scale model of the famous spaceship Morning Star, and for weeks had been planning how he would assemble it, where he would hang it in his bedroom. And then, at the last moment, his father had broken the news. “I’m sorry, John—it cost too much money. Maybe next year . . .”

Half a century and a successful lifetime later, he was a heartbroken boy again.

For a moment, he thought of disobeying the Commodore. Suppose he sailed on, ignoring the warning? Even if the race was abandoned, he could make crossing to the Moon that would stand in the record books for generations.

But that would be worse than stupidity; it would be suicide—and a very unpleasant form of suicide. He had seen men die of radiation poisoning, when the magnetic shielding of their ships had failed in deep space. No—nothing was worth that . . .

He felt as sorry for Dimitri Markoff as for himself. They had both deserved to win, and now victory would go to neither. No man could argue with the Sun in one of its rages, even though he might ride upon its beams to the edge of space.

Only fifty miles astern now, the Commodore’s launch was drawing alongside Lebedev, preparing to take off her skipper. There went the silver sail, as Dimitri—with feelings that he would share—cut the rigging. The tiny capsule would be taken back to Earth, perhaps to be used again; but a sail was spread for one voyage only.

Merton could press the jettison button now, and save his rescuers a few minutes of time. But he could not do it; he wanted to stay aboard to the very end, on the little boat that had been for so long a part of his dreams and his life. The great sail was spread now at right angles to the Sun, exerting its utmost thrust. Long ago, it had torn him clear of Earth, and Diana was still gaining speed.

Then, out of nowhere, beyond all doubt or hesitation, he knew what must be done. For the last time, he sat down before the computer that had navigated him halfway to the Moon.

When he had finished, he packed the log and his few personal belongings. Clumsily, for he was out of practice, and it was not an easy job to do by oneself, he climbed into the emergency survival suit. He was just sealing the helmet when the Commodore’s voice called over the radio.

“We’ll be alongside in five minutes, Captain. Please cut your sail, so we won’t foul it.”

John Merton, first and last skipper of the sun yacht Diana, hesitated a moment. He looked for the last time around the tiny cabin, with its shining instruments and its neatly arranged controls, now all locked in their final positions. Then he said into the microphone: “I’m abandoning ship. Take your time to pick me up. Diana can look after herself.”

There was no reply from the Commodore, and for that he was grateful. Professor van Stratten would have guessed what was happening—and would know that, in these final moments, he wished to be left alone.

He did not bother to exhaust the air lock, and the rush of escaping gas blew him gently out into space. The thrust he gave her then was his last gift to Diana. She dwindled away from him, sail glittering splendidly in the sunlight that would be hers for centuries to come. Two days from now she would flash past the Moon; but the Moon, like the Earth, could never catch her. Without his mass to slow her down, she would gain two thousand miles an hour in every day of sailing. In a month, she would be traveling faster than any ship that man had ever built.

As the Sun’s rays weakened with distance, so her acceleration would fall. But even at the orbit of Mars, she would be gaining a thousand miles an hour in every day. Long before then, she would be moving too swiftly for the Sun itself to hold her. Faster than a comet had ever streaked in from the stars, she would be heading out into the abyss.

The glare of rockets, only a few miles away, caught Merton’s eye. The launch was approaching to pick him up—at thousands of times the acceleration that Diana could ever attain. But its engines could burn for a few minutes only, before they exhausted their fuel—while Diana would still be gaining speed, driven outward by the Sun’s eternal fires, for ages yet to come.

“Good-bye, little ship,” said John Merton. “I wonder what eyes will see you next, how many thousand years from now?”

At last he felt at peace, as the blunt torpedo of the launch nosed up beside him. He would never win the race to the Moon; but his would be the first of all man’s ships to set sail on the long journey to the stars.

“Who Goes There?” (1938) by John Campbell

Here’s a really nice science fiction story for your amusement today.  Today is a major holiday in China. So I’m posting something nice.

Take a break and have a great day!

“Who Goes There?” (1938) – an iconic sci-fi story by John Campbell

by John Campbell

A scientific expedition in Antarctica discovers the remnants of an alien spaceship that had crashed there millions of years ago, and decides – unwisely – to melt the frozen remnants of one of the forms found nearby. When the alien being revives and reveals incredible shape-changing abilities and other stupendous powers, the race is on not only to save themselves but also and especially to save the whole human race from destruction.

First published in the August 1938 issue of Astounding Science Fiction, this 22,500-word novella — that became the basis of John Carpenter’s celebrated 1982 film The Thing — was written by the magazine’s recently-appointed editor, John Campbell [1], who had changed the name of the magazine that year and who piloted its evolution and that of the whole sci-fi genre to a more serious, thoughtful and literary basis.

Under his leadership Astounding became the leading science-fiction magazine in the late thirties, the forties and the early fifties, the golden age of science-fiction.

CHAPTER I

THE place stank. A queer, mingled stench that only the ice­-buried cabins of an Antarctic camp know, compounded of reeking human sweat, and the heavy, fish-oil stench of melted seal blubber. An overtone of liniment combated the musty smell of sweat­- and ­snow­-drenched furs. The acrid odor of burnt cooking fat, and the animal, not­-unpleasant smell of dogs, diluted by time, hung in the air. 
Lingering odors of machine oil contrasted sharply with the taint of harness dressing and leather. Yet somehow, through all that reek of human beings and their associates ­— dogs, machines and cooking —­ came another taint. It was a queer, neck-­ruffling thing, a faintest suggestion of an odor alien among the smells of industry and life. And it was a life­-smell. But it came from the thing that lay bound with cord and tarpaulin on the table, dripping slowly, methodically onto the heavy planks, dank and gaunt under the unshielded glare of the electric light. 
Blair, the little bald-­pated biologist of the expedition, twitched nervously at the wrappings, exposing clear, dark ice beneath and then pulling the tarpaulin back into place restlessly. His little birdlike motions of suppressed eagerness danced his shadow across the fringe of dingy gray underwear hanging from the low ceiling, the equatorial fringe of stiff, graying hair around his naked skull a comical halo about the shadow’s head. 
Commander Garry brushed aside the lax legs of a suit of underwear, and stepped toward the table. Slowly his eyes traced around the rings of men sardined into the Administration Building. His tall, stiff body straightened finally, and he nodded. “Thirty­-seven. All here.” His voice was low, yet carried the clear authority of the commander by nature, as well as by title. 
“You know the outline of the story back of that find of the Secondary Pole Expedition. I have been conferring with second-­in-­Command McReady, and Norris, as well as Blair and Dr. Copper. There is a difference of opinion, and because it involves the entire group, it is only just that the entire Expedition personnel act on it. 
“I am going to ask McReady to give you the details of the story, because each of you has been too busy with his own work to follow closely the endeavors of the others. McReady?” 
Moving from the smoke-­blued background, McReady was a figure from some forgotten myth, a looming, bronze statue that held life, and walked. Six­ feet­ four inches he stood as he halted beside the table, and, with a characteristic glance upward to assure himself of room under the lower ceiling beam, straightened. His rough, clashingly orange windproof jacket he still had on, yet on his huge frame it did not seem misplaced. Even here, four feet beneath the drift-wind that droned across the Antarctic waste above the ceiling, the cold of the frozen continent leaked in, and gave meaning to the harshness of the man. And he was bronze – his great red­-bronze beard, the heavy hair that matched it. The gnarled, corded hands gripping, relaxing, gripping relaxing on the table planks were bronze. Even the deep-­sunken eyes beneath heavy brows were bronzed. 
Age-­resisting endurance of the metal spoke in the cragged heavy outlines of his face, and the mellow tones of the heavy voice. “Norris and Blair agree on one thing, that animal we found was not-terrestrial in origin. Norris fears there may be danger in that; Blair says there is none.

“BUT I’ll go back to how, and why, we found it. To all that was known before we came here, it appeared that this point was exactly over the South Magnetic Pole of Earth. The compass does point straight down here, as you all know. The more delicate instruments of the physicists, instruments especially designed for this expedition and its study of the magnetic pole, detected a secondary effect, a secondary, less powerful magnetic influence about 80 miles southwest of here. 
“The Secondary Magnetic Expedition went out to investigate it. There is no need for details. We found it, but it was not the huge meteorite or magnetic mountain Norris had expected to find. Iron ore is magnetic, of course; iron more so ­— and certain special steels even more magnetic from the surface indications, the secondary pole we found was small, so small that the magnetic effect it had was preposterous. No magnetic material conceivable could have that effect. Soundings through the ice indicated it was within one hundred feet of the glacier surface. 
“I think you should know the structure of the place. There is a broad plateau, a level sweep that runs more than 150 miles due south from the Secondary station, Van Wall says. He didn’t have time or fuel to fly farther, but it was running smoothly due south then. Right there, where that buried thing was, there is an ice-drowned mountain ridge, a granite wall of unshakable strength that has damned back the ice creeping from the south. 
“And four hundred miles due south is the South Polar Plateau. You have asked me at various times why it gets warmer here when the wind rises, and most of you know. As a meteorologist I’d have staked my word that no wind could blow at ­-70 degrees ­— that no more than a 5­mile wind could blow at ­-50 ­— without causing warming due to friction with ground, snow and ice and the air itself. 
“We camped there on the lip of that ice-­drowned mountain range for twelve days. We dug out camp into the blue ice that formed the surface, and escaped most of it. But for twelve consecutive days the wind blew at 45 miles an hour. It went as high as 48, and fell to 41 at times. The temperature was ­-63 degrees. It rose to ­-60 and fell to ­-68. It was meteorologically impossible, and it went on uninterruptedly for twelve days and twelve nights. 
“Somewhere to the south, the frozen air of South Polar Plateau slides down from that 18,000­foot bowl, down a mountain pass, over a glacier, and starts north. There must be a funnelling mountain chain that directs it, and sweeps it away for four hundred miles to hit that bald plateau where we found the secondary pole, and 350 miles farther north reaches the Antarctic Ocean. 
“It’s been frozen there since Antarctica froze twenty million years ago. There never has been a thaw there. 
“Twenty million years ago Antarctica was beginning to freeze. We’ve investigated, thought and built speculations. What we believe happened was about like this. 
“Something came down out of space, a ship. We saw it there in the blue ice, a thing like a submarine without a conning tower or directive vanes. 280 feet long and 45 feet in diameter at its thickest. 
“Eh, Van Wall? Space? Yes, but I’ll explain that better later.” McReady’s steady voice went on. 
“It came down from space, driven and lifted by forces men haven’t discovered yet, and somehow ­ — perhaps something went wrong then ­— it tangled with Earth’s magnetic field. It came south here, out of control probably, circling the magnetic pole. That’s a savage country there, but when Antarctica was still freezing it must have been a thousand times more savage. There must have been blizzard snow, as well as drift, new snow falling as the continent glaciated. The swirl there 
must have been particularly bad, the wind hurling a solid blanket of white over the lip of that now­ buried mountain.

“THE SHIP struck solid granite head­-on, and cracked up. Not every one of the passengers in it was killed, but the ship must have been ruined, her driving mechanism locked. It tangled with Earth’s field, Norris believes. Nothing made by intelligent beings can tangle with the dead immensity of a planet’s natural forces and survive. 
“One of its passengers stepped out. The wind we saw there never fell below 41, and the temperature never rose above ­-60. Then ­— the wind must have been stronger. And there was drift falling in a solid sheet. The thing was lost completely in ten paces.” 
He paused for a moment, the deep, steady voice giving way to the drone of wind overhead, and the uneasy, malicious gurgling in the pipe of the galley stove. 
Drift ­— a drift­-wind was sweeping by overhead. Right now the snow picked up by the mumbling wind fled in level, blinding lines across the face of the buried camp. If a man stepped out of the tunnels that connected each of the camp buildings beneath the surface, he’d be lost in ten paces. Out there, the slim, black finger of the radio mast lifted 300 feet into the air, and at its peak was the clear night sky. A sky of thin, whining wind rushing steadily from beyond to another beyond under the licking, curling mantle of the aurora. And off north, the horizon flamed with queer, angry colors of the midnight twilight. That was spring 300 feet above Antarctica. 
At the surface —­ it was white death. Death of a needle-­fingered cold driven before the wind, sucking heat from any warm thing. Cold —­ and white mist of endless, everlasting drift, the fine, fine particles of licking snow that obscured all things. 
Kinner, the little, scar-faced cook, winced. Five days ago he had stepped out to the surface to reach a cache of frozen beef. He had reached it, started back —­ and the drift-­wind leapt out of the south. Cold, white death that streamed across the ground blinded him in twenty seconds. He stumbled on wildly in circles. It was half an hour before rope-­guided men from below found him in the impenetrable murk. 
It was easy for man —­ or thing ­— to get lost in ten paces. 
“And the drift-­wind then was probably more impenetrable than we know.” McReady’s voice snapped Kinner’s mind back. Back to welcome, dank warmth of the Ad Building. “The passenger of the ship wasn’t prepared either, it appears. It froze within ten feet of the ship. 
“We dug down to find the ship, and our tunnel happened to find the frozen —­animal. Barclay’s ice­-ax struck its skull. 
“When we saw what it was, Barclay went back to the tractor, started the fire up and when the steam pressure built, sent a call for Blair and Dr. Copper. Barclay himself was sick then. Stayed sick for three days, as a matter of fact. 
“When Blair and Copper came, we cut out the animal in a block of ice, as you see, wrapped it and loaded it on the tractor for return here. We wanted to get into that ship. 
“We reached the side and found the metal was something we didn’t know. Our beryllium-­bronze, non­-magnetic tools wouldn’t touch it. Barclay had some tool­-steel on the tractor, and that wouldn’t scratch it either. We made reasonable tests —­ even tried some acid from the batteries with no results. 
“They must have had a passivating process to make magnesium metal resist acid that way, and the alloy must have been at least 95 per cent magnesium. But we had no way of guessing that, so when we spotted the barely opened locked door, we cut around it. There was clear, hard ice inside the lock, where we couldn’t reach it. Through the little crack we could look in and see that only metal and tools were in there, so we decided to loosen the ice with a bomb.

“WE HAD decanite bombs and thermite. Thermite is the ice ­softener; decanite might have shattered valuable things, where the thermite’s heat would just loosen the ice. Dr. Copper, Norris and I placed a 25­pound thermite bomb, wired it, and took the connector up the tunnel to the surface, where Blair had the steam tractor waiting. A hundred yards the other side of that granite wall we set off the thermite bomb. 
“The magnesium metal of the ship caught, of course. The glow of the bomb flared and died, then it began to flare again. We ran back to the tractor, and gradually the glare built up. From where we were we could see the whole ice-field illuminated from beneath with an unbearable light; the ship’s shadow was a great, dark cone reaching off toward the north, where the twilight was just about gone. For a moment it lasted, and we counted three other shadow ­things that might have been other —­ passengers ­ frozen there. Then the ice was crashing down and against the ship. 
“That’s why I told you about that place. The wind sweeping down from the Pole was at our backs. Steam and hydrogen flame were torn away in white ice-fog; the flaming heat under the ice there was yanked away toward the Antarctic Ocean before it touched us. Otherwise we wouldn’t have come back, even with the shelter of that granite ridge that stopped the light. 
“Somehow in the blinding inferno we could see great hunched things, black bulks glowing, even so. They shed even the furious incandescence of the magnesium for a time. Those must have been the engines, we knew. Secrets going in blazing glory —­ secrets that might have given Man the planets. Mysterious things that could lift and hurl that ship and had soaked in the force of the Earth’s magnetic field. I saw Norris’ mouth move, and ducked. I couldn’t hear him. 
“Insulation — something ­— gave way. All Earth’s field they’d soaked up twenty million years before broke loose. The aurora in the sky above licked down, and the whole plateau there was bathed in cold fire that blanketed vision. The ice-­ax in my hand got red hot, and hissed on the ice. Metal buttons on my clothes burned into me. And a flash of electric blue seared upward from beyond the granite wall. 
“Then the walls of ice crashed down on it. For an instant it squealed the way dry­ ice does when it’s pressed between metal. 
“We were blind and groping in the dark for hours while our eyes recovered. We found every coil within a mile was fused rubbish, the dynamo and every radio set, the earphones and speakers. If we hadn’t had the steam tractor, we wouldn’t have gotten over to the Secondary Camp. 
“Van Wall flew in from Big Magnet at sun­up, as you know. We came home as soon as possible. That is the history of ­— that.” McReady’s great bronze beard gestured toward the thing on the table.

CHAPTER II

BLAIR stirred uneasily, his little bony fingers wriggling under the harsh light. Little brown freckles on his knuckles slid back and forth as the tendons under the skin twitched. He pulled aside a bit of the tarpaulin and looked impatiently at the dark icebound thing inside. 
McReady’s big body straightened somewhat. He’d ridden the rocking, jarring steam tractor forty miles that day, pushing on to Big Magnet here. Even his calm will had been pressed by the anxiety to mix again with humans. It was lone and quiet out there in Secondary Camp, where a wolf­-wind howled down from the Pole. Wolf-­wind howling in his sleep —­ winds droning and the evil, unspeakable face of that monster leering up as he’d first seen it through clear, blue ice, with a bronze ice-­ax buried in its skull. 
The giant meteorologist spoke again. “The problem is them. Blair wants to examine the thing. Thaw it out and make micro slides of its tissues and so forth. Norris doesn’t believe that is safe, and Blair does. Dr. Copper agrees pretty much with Blair. Norris is a physicist, of course, not a biologist. But he makes a point I think we should all hear. Blair has described the microscopic life­ forms biologists find living, even in this cold an inhospitable place. They freeze every winter, and thaw every summer —­ for three months —­ and live. 
“The point Norris makes is —­ they thaw, and live again. There must have been microscopic life associated with this creature. There is with every living thing we know. And Norris is afraid that we may release a plague —­ some germ disease unknown to Earth —­ if we thaw those microscopic things that have been frozen there for twenty million years. 
“Blair admits that such micro-­life might retain the power of living. Such unorganized things as individual cells can retain life for unknown periods, when solidly frozen. The beast itself is as dead as those frozen mammoths they find in Siberia. Organized, highly developed life­forms can’t stand that treatment. 
“But micro-life could. Norris suggests that we may release some disease form that man, never having met it before, will be utterly defenseless against. 
“Blair’s answer is that there may be such still living germs, but that Norris has the case reversed. They are utterly non-immune to man. Our life chemistry probably ­— ” 
“Probably!” The little biologist’s head lifted in a quick, birdlike motion. The halo of gray hair about his bald head ruffled as though angry. “Heh. One look ­— ” 
“I know,” McReady acknowledged. “The thing is not Earthly. It does not seem likely that it can have a life-chemistry sufficiently like ours to make cross-­infection remotely possible. I would say that there is no danger.” 
McReady looked toward Dr. Copper. The physician shook his head slowly. “None whatever,” he asserted confidently. “Man cannot infect or be infected by germs that live in such comparatively close relatives as the snakes. And they are, I assure you,” his clean-­shaven face grimaced uneasily, “much nearer to us than ­— that.”

VANCE NORRIS moved angrily. He was comparatively short in this gathering of big men, some five­ feet eight, and his stocky, powerful build tended to make him seem shorter. His black hair was crisp and hard, like short, steel wires, and his eyes were the gray of fractured steel. If McReady was a man of bronze, Norris was all steel. His movements, his thoughts, his whole bearing had the quick, hard impulse of steel spring. His nerves were steel ­— hard, quick­-acting —­ swift corroding. 
He was decided on his point now, and he lashed out in its defense with a characteristic quick, clipped flow of words. “Different chemistry be damned. That thing may be dead­ — or, by God, it may not —­ but I don’t like it. Damn it, Blair, let them see the foul thing and decide for themselves whether they want that thing thawed out in this camp. 
“Thawed out, by the way. That’s got to be thawed out in one of the shacks tonight, if it is thawed out. Somebody —­ who’s watchman tonight? Magnetic —­ oh, Connant. Cosmic rays tonight. Well, you get to sit up with that twenty-­million­ year-old mummy of his. 
“Unwrap it, Blair. How the hell can they tell what they are buying if they can’t see it? It may have a different chemistry. I don’t know what else it has, but I know it has something I don’t want. If you can judge by the look on its face ­— it isn’t human so maybe you can’t —­ it was annoyed when it froze. Annoyed, in fact, is just about as close an approximation of the way it felt as crazy, mad, insane hatred. Neither one touches the subject. 
“How the hell can these birds tell what they are voting on? They haven’t seen those three red eyes, and the blue hair like crawling worms. Crawling —­ damn, it’s crawling there in the ice right now! 
“Nothing Earth ever spawned had the unutterable sublimation of devastating wrath that thing let loose in its face when it looked around this frozen desolation twenty million years ago. Mad? It was mad clear through —­ searing, blistering mad! 
“Hell, I’ve had bad dreams ever since I looked at those three red eyes. Nightmares. Dreaming the thing thawed out and came to life —­ that it wasn’t dead, or even wholly unconscious all those twenty million years, but just slowed, waiting ­— waiting. You’ll dream, too, while that damned thing that Earth wouldn’t own is dripping, dripping in the Cosmos House tonight. 
“And, Connant,” Norris whipped toward the cosmic ray specialist, “won’t you have fun sitting up all night in the quiet. Wind whining above —­ and that thing dripping ­— ” He stopped for a moment, and looked around. 
“I know. That’s not science. But this is, it’s psychology. You’ll have nightmares for a year to come. Every night since I looked at that thing I’ve had ’em., That’s why I hate it —­ sure I do ­ and don’t want it around. Put it back where it came from and let it freeze for another twenty million years. I had some swell nightmares ­ that it wasn’t made like we are ­ which is obvious ­ but of a different kind of flesh that it can really control. That it can change its shape, and look like a man ­— and wait to kill and eat —­ 
“That’s not a logical argument. I know it isn’t. The thing isn’t Earth ­logic anyway. 
“Maybe it has an alien body ­chemistry, and maybe its bugs do have a different body­ chemistry. A germ might not stand that, but, Blair and Copper, how about a virus? That’s just an enzyme molecule, you’ve said. That wouldn’t need anything but a protein molecule of any body to work on. 
“And how are you so sure that, of the million varieties of microscopic life it may have, none of them are dangerous? How about diseases like hydrophobia ­— rabies ­— that attacks any warm­ blooded creature, whatever its body­ chemistry may be? And parrot fever? Have you a body like a parrot, Blair? And plain rot —­ gangrene —­ necrosis, do you want? That isn’t choosy about body­ chemistry! ”

BLAIR LOOKED up from his puttering long enough to meet Norris’ angry gray eyes for an instant. “So far the only thing you have said this thing gave off that was catching was dreams. I’ll go so far as to admit that.” An impish, slightly malignant grin crossed the little man’s seamed face. “I had some, too. So. It’s dream-­infectious. No doubt an exceedingly dangerous malady. 
“So far as your other things go, you have a badly mistaken idea about viruses. In the first place, nobody has shown that the enzyme­ molecule theory, and that alone, explains them. And in the second place, when you catch tobacco mosaic or wheat rust, let me know. A wheat plant is a lot nearer your body­ chemistry than this other­world creature is. 
“And your rabies is limited, strictly limited. You can’t get it from, nor give it to, a wheat plant or a fish ­ which is a collateral descendant of a common ancestor of yours. Which this, Norris, is not.” Blair nodded pleasantly toward the tarpaulined bulk on the table. 
“Well, thaw the damned thing in a tub of formalin if you must thaw it. I’ve suggested that ­— ” 
“And I’ve said there would be no sense in it. You can’t compromise. Why did you and Commander Garry come down here to study magnetism? Why weren’t you content to stay at home? There’s magnetic force enough in New York. I could no more study the life this thing once had from a formalin­-pickled sample than you could get the information you wanted back in New York. And ­ if this one is so treated, never in all time to come can there be a duplicate! The race it came from must have passed away in the twenty millions years it lay frozen, so that even if it came from Mars then, we’d never find its like. And —­ the ship is gone. 
“There’s only one way to do this ­ and that is the best possible way. It must be thawed slowly, carefully, and not in formalin.” 
Commander Garry stood forward again, and Norris stepped back muttering angrily. “I think Blair is right, gentlemen. What do you say?” 
Connant grunted. “It sounds right to us, I think ­— only perhaps he ought to stand watch over it while it’s thawing.” He grinned ruefully, brushing a stray lock of ripe-cherry hair back from his forehead. “Swell idea, in fact ­— if he sits up with his jolly little corpse.” 
Garry smiled slightly. A general chuckle of agreement rippled over the group. “I should think any ghost it may have had would have starved to death if it hung around here that long, Connant,” Garry suggested. “And you look capable of taking care of it. ’Ironman’ Connant ought to be able to take out any opposing players, still.” 
Connant shook himself uneasily. “I’m not worrying about ghosts. Let’s see that thing. I ­— ” 
Eagerly Blair was stripping back the ropes. A single throw of the tarpaulin revealed the thing. The ice had melted somewhat in the heat of the room and it was clear and blue as thick, good glass. It shone wet and sleek under the harsh light of the unshielded globe above. 
The room stiffened abruptly. It was face up there on the plain, greasy planks of the table. The broken half of the bronze ice­-ax was still buried in the queer skull. Three mad, hate­-filled eyes blazed up with a living fire, bright as fresh-­spilled blood. from a face ringed with a writhing, loathsome nest of worms, blue, mobile worms that crawled where hair should grow —
Van Wall, six feet and 200 pounds of ice-­nerved pilot, gave a queer, strangled gasp and butted, stumbled his way out to the corridor. Half the company broke for the doors. The others stumbled away from the table. 
McReady stood at one end of the table watching them, his great body planted solid on his powerful legs. Norris from the opposite end glowered at the thing with smoldering heat. Outside the door, Garry was talking with half a dozen of the men at once. 
Blair had a tack hammer. The ice that cased the thing schluffed crisply under its steel claw as it peeled from the thing it had cased for twenty thousand thousand years —­

CHAPTER III

I KNOW you don’t like the thing, Connant, but it just has to be thawed out right. You say leave it as it is till we get back to civilization. All right, I’ll admit your argument that we could do a better and more complete job there is sound. But ­— how are we going to get this across the Line? We have to take this through one temperate zone, the equatorial zone, and half way through the other temperate zone before we get it to New York. You don’t want to sit with it one night, but you suggest, then, that I hang its corpse in the freezer with the beef?” Blair looked up from his cautious chipping, his bald, freckled skull nodding triumphantly. 
Kinner, the stocky, scar­-faced cook, saved Connant the trouble of answering. “Hey, you listen, mister. You put that thing in the box with the meat, and by all the gods there ever were, I’ll put you in to keep it company. You birds have brought everything movable in this camp in onto my mess tables here already, and I had to stand for that. But you go putting things like that in my meat box or even my meat cache here, and you cook your own damn grub.” 
“But, Kinner, this is the only table in Big Magnet that’s big enough to work on,” Blair objected. “Everybody’s explained that.” 
“Yeah, and everybody’s brought everything in here. Clark brings his dogs every time there’s a fight and sews them up on that table. Ralsen brings in his sledges. Hell, the only thing you haven’t had on that table is the Boeing. And you’d ’a’ had that in if you coulda figured a way to get it through the tunnels.’ 
Commander Garry chuckled and grinned at Van Wall, the huge Chief Pilot. Van Wall’s great blond beard twitched suspiciously as he nodded gravely to Kinner. “You’re right, Kinner. The aviation department is the only one that treats you right.” 
“It does get crowded, Kinner,” Garry acknowledged. “But I’m afraid we all find it that way at times. Not much privacy in an Antarctic camp.” 
“Privacy? What the hell’s that? You know, the thing that really made me weep, was when I saw Barclay marchin’ through here chantin’ ’The last lumber in the camp! The last lumber in the camp!’ and carryin’ it out to build that house on his tractor. Damn it, I missed that moon cut in the door he carried out more’n I missed the sun when it set. That wasn’t just the last lumber Barclay was walkin’ off with. He was carryin’ off the last bit of privacy in this blasted place.” 
A grin rode even on Connant’s heavy face as Kinner’s perennial good­natured grouch came up again. But it died away quickly as his dark, deep-­set eyes turned again to the red-­eyed thing Blair was chipping from its cocoon of ice. A big hand ruffed his shoulder-­length hair, and tugged at a twisted lock that fell behind his ear in a familiar gesture. “I know that cosmic ray shack’s going to be too crowded if I have to sit up with that thing,” he growled. “Why can’t you go on chipping the ice away from around it ­— you can do that without anybody butting in, I assure you —­ and then hang the thing up over the power ­plant boiler? That’s warm enough. It’ll thaw out a chicken, even a whole side of beef, in a few hours.” 
“I know.” Blair protested, dropping the tack hammer to gesture more effectively with his bony, freckled fingers, his small body tense with eagerness, “but this is too important to take any chances. There never was a find like this; there never can be again. It’s the only chance men will ever have, and it has to be done exactly right.

“LOOK, you know how the fish we caught down near the Ross Sea would freeze almost as soon as we got them on deck, and come to life again if we thawed them gently? Low forms of life aren’t killed by quick freezing and slow thawing. We have —­ ” 
“Hey, for the love of Heaven ­ you mean that damned thing will come to life!” Connant yelled. “You get the damned thing —­ Let me at it! That’s going to be in so many pieces —­ ” 
“NO! No, you fool —­ ” Blair jumped in front of Connant to protect his precious find. “No. Just low forms of life. For Pete’s sake let me finish. You can’t thaw higher forms of life and have them come to. Wait a moment now —­ hold it! A fish can come to after freezing because it’s so low a form of life that the individual cells of its body can revive, and that alone is enough to re­establish life. Any higher forms thawed out that way are dead. Though the individual cells revive, they die because there must be organization and cooperative effort to live. That cooperation cannot be re­ established. There is a sort of potential life in any uninjured, quick-­frozen animal. But it can’t ­— can’t under any circumstances ­— become active life in higher animals. The higher animals are too complex, too delicate. This is an intelligent creature as high in its evolution as we are in ours. Perhaps higher. It is as dead as a frozen man would be.” 
“How do you know?” demanded Connant, hefting the ice-ax he had seized a moment before. 
Commander Garry laid a restraining hand on his heavy shoulder. “Wait a minute, Connant. I want to get this straight. I agree that there is going to be no thawing of this thing if there is the remotest chance of its revival. I quite agree it is much too unpleasant to have alive, but I had no idea there was the remotest possibility.” 
Dr. Copper pulled his pipe from between his teeth and heaved his stocky, dark body from the bunk he had been sitting in. “Blair’s being technical. That’s dead. As dead as the mammoths they find frozen in Siberia. Potential life is like atomic energy —­ there, but nobody can get it out, and it certainly won’t release itself except in rare cases, as rare as radium in the chemical analogy. We have all sorts of proof that things don’t live after being frozen —­ not even fish, generally speaking ­— and no proof that higher animal life can under any circumstances. What’s the point, Blair?” 
The little biologist shook himself. The little ruff of hair standing out around his bald pate waved in righteous anger. “The point is,” he said in an injured tone, ’that the individual cells might show the characteristics they had in life, if it is properly thawed. A man’s muscle cells live many hours after he has died. Just because they live, and a few things like hair and fingernail cells still live, you wouldn’t accuse a corpse of being a Zombie, or something. 
“Now if I thaw this right, I may have a chance to determine what sort of world it’s native to. We don’t, and can’t know by any other means, whether it came from Earth or Mars or Venus or from beyond the stars. 
“And just because it looks unlike men, you don’t have to accuse it of being evil, or vicious or something. Maybe that expression on its face is its equivalent to a resignation to fate. White is the color of mourning to the Chinese. If men can have different customs, why can’t a so-different race have different understandings of facial expressions?”

CONNANT laughed softly, mirthlessly. “Peaceful resignation! If that is the best it could do in the way of resignation, I should exceedingly dislike seeing it when it was looking mad. That face was never designed to express peace. It just didn’t have any philosophical thoughts like peace in its make­up. 
“I know it’s your pet ­— but be sane about it. The thing grew up on evil, adolesced slowly roasting alive the local equivalent of kittens, and amused itself through maturity on new and ingenious torture. ” 
“You haven’t the slight right to say that,” snapped Blair. “How do you know the first thing about the meaning of a facial expression inherently inhuman! It may well have no human equivalent whatever. That is just a different development of Nature, another example of Nature’s wonderful adaptability. Growing on another, perhaps harsher world, it has different form and features. But it is just as much a legitimate child of Nature as you are. You are displaying the childish human weakness of hating the different. On its own world it would probably class you as a fish-belly, white monstrosity with an insufficient number of eyes and a fungoid body pale and bloated with gas. 
“Just because its nature is different, you haven’t any right to say it’s necessarily evil.” 
Norris burst out a single, explosive, “Haw!” He looked down at the thing. “May be that things from other worlds don’t have to be evil just because they’re different. But that thing was! Child of Nature, eh? Well, it was a hell of an evil Nature.” 
“Aw, will you mugs cut crabbing at each other and get the damned thing off my table?” Kinner growled. “And put a canvas over it. It looks indecent.” 
“Kinner’s gone modest,” jeered Connant. 
Kinner slanted his eyes up to the big physicist. The scarred cheek twisted to join the line of his tight lips in a twisted grin. “All right, big boy, and what were you grousing about a minute ago? We can set the thing in a chair next to you tonight, if you want. ” 
“I’m not afraid of its face,” Connant snapped. “I don’t like keeping awake over its corpse particularly, but I’m going to do it.” 
Kinner’s grin spread. “Uh-huh” He went off to the galley stove and shook down ashes vigorously, drowning the brittle chipping of the ice as Blair fell to work again.

CHAPTER IV

“CLUCK,” reported the cosmic ray counter, cluck-­brrrp­-cluck.” Connant started and dropped his pencil. 
“Damnation.” The physicist looked toward the far corner, back at the Geiger counter on the table near that comer, and crawled under the desk at which he had been working to retrieve the pencil. He sat down at his work again, trying to make his writing more even. It tended to have jerks and quavers in it, in time with the abrupt proud­-hen noises of the Geiger counter. The muted whoosh of the pressure lamp he was using for illumination, the mingled gargles and bugle calls of a dozen men sleeping down the corridor in Paradise House formed the background sounds for the irregular, clucking noises of the counter, the occasional rustle of falling coal in the copper­-bellied stove. And a soft, steady drip­-drip­-drip from the thing in the corner. 
Connant jerked a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, snapped it so that a cigarette protruded and jabbed the cylinder into his mouth. The lighter failed to function, and he pawed angrily through the pile of papers in search of a match. He scratched the wheel of the lighter several times, dropped it with a curse and got up to pluck a hot coal from the stove with the coal tongs. 
The lighter functioned instantly when he tried it on returning to the desk. The counter ripped out a series of chucking guffaws as a burst of cosmic rays struck through to it. Connant turned to glower at it, and tried to concentrate on the interpretation of data collected during the past week. The weekly summary ­— 
He gave up and yielded to curiosity, or nervousness. He lifted the pressure lamp from the desk and carried it over to the table in the corner. Then he returned to the stove and picked up the coal tongs. The beast had been thawing for nearly 18 hours now. He poked at it with an unconscious caution; the flesh was no longer hard as armor plate, but had assumed a rubbery texture. It looked like wet, blue rubber glistening under droplets of water like little round jewels in the glare of the gasoline pressure lantern. Connant felt an unreasoning desire to pour the contents of the lamp’s reservoir over the thing in its box and drop the cigarette into it. The three red eyes glared up at him sightlessly, the ruby eyeballs reflecting murky, smoky rays of light. 
He realized vaguely that he had been looking at them for a very long time, even vaguely understood that they were no longer sightless. But it did not seem of importance, of no more importance than the labored, slow motion of the tentacular things that sprouted from the base of the scrawny, slowly pulsing neck. 
Connant picked up the pressure lamp and returned to his chair. He sat down, staring at the pages of mathematics before him. The clucking of the counter was strangely less disturbing, the rustle of the coals in the stove no longer distracting. 
The creak of the floorboards behind him didn’t interrupt his thoughts as he went about his weekly report in an automatic manner, filing in columns of data and making brief, summarizing notes. 
The creak of the floorboard sounded nearer.

CHAPTER V

BLAIR came up from the nightmare­-haunted depths of sleep abruptly. Connant’s face floated vaguely above him; for a moment it seemed a continuance of the wild horror of the dream. But Connant’s face was angry, and a little frightened. “Blair —­ Blair you damned log, wake up.” 
“Uh-eh?” the little biologist rubbed his eyes, his bony, freckled fingers crooked to a mutilated child-fist From surrounding bunks other faces lifted to stare down at them. 
Connant straightened up. “Get up ­— and get a lift on. Your damned animal’s escaped.” 
“Escaped —­ what! ” Chief Pilot Van Walls’s bull voice roared out with a volume that shook the walls. Down the communication tunnels other voices yelled suddenly. The dozen inhabitants of Paradise House tumbled in abruptly, Barclay, stocky and bulbous in long woollen underwear, carrying a fire extinguisher. 
“What the hell’s the matter?” Barclay demanded. 
“Your damned beast got loose. I fell asleep about twenty minutes ago, and when I woke up, the thing was gone. Hey, Doc, the hell you say those things can’t come to life. Blair’s blasted potential life developed a hell of a lot of potential and walked out on us.’ 
Copper stared blankly. “It wasn’t ­— Earthly,” he sighed suddenly. “I ­— I guess Earthly laws don’t apply.” 
“Well, it applied for leave of absence and took it. We’ve got to find it and capture it somehow.” Connant swore bitterly, his deep-­set black eyes sullen and angry. “It’s a wonder the hellish creature didn’t eat me in my sleep.” 
Blair stared back, his pale eyes suddenly fear-struck. “Maybe it did ­— er —­ uh —­ we’ll have to find it. 
“You find it. It’s your pet. I’ve had all I want to do with it, sitting there for seven hours with the counter clucking every few seconds, and you birds in here singing night ­music. It’s a wonder I got to sleep. I’m going through to the Ad Building.” 
Commander Garry ducked through the doorway, pulling his belt tight. “You won’t have to. Van’s roar sounded like the Boeing taking off down wind. So it wasn’t dead?” 
“I didn’t carry it off in my arms, I assure you,” Connant snapped. “The last I saw, that split skull was oozing green goo, like a squashed caterpillar. Doc just said our laws don’t work —­ it’s unearthly. Well, it’s an unearthly monster, with an unearthly disposition, judging by the face, wandering around with a split skull and brains oozing out.” 
Norris and McReady appeared in the doorway, a doorway filling with other shivering men. “Has anybody seen it coming over here?” Norris asked innocently. “About four feet tall —­ three red eyes ­ brains oozing —­ Hey, has anybody checked to make sure this isn’t a cracked idea of humor? If it is, I think we’ll unite in tying Blair’s pet around Connant’s neck like the ancient Mariner’s albatross. 
“It’s no humor,” Connant shivered. “Lord, I wish it were. I’d rather wear ­—” He stopped. A wild, weird howl shrieked through the corridors. The men stiffened abruptly, and half turned.

“I THINK it’s been located,” Connant finished. His dark eyes shifted with a queer unease. He darted back to his bunk in Paradise house, to return almost immediately with a heavy .45 revolver and an ice-ax He hefted both gently as he started for the corridor toward Dogtown. “It blundered down the wrong corridor ­— and landed among the huskies. Listen ­ the dogs have broken their chains —­ ” 
The half­-terrorized howl of the dog pack changed to a wild hunting melee. The voices of the dogs thundered in the narrow corridors, and through them came a low rippling snarl of distilled hate. A shrill of pain, a dozen snarling yelps. 
Connant broke for the door. Close behind him, McReady, then Barclay and Commander Garry came. Other men broke for the Ad Building, and weapons —­ the sledge house. Pomroy, in charge of Big Magnet’s five cows, started down the corridor in the opposite direction ­ he had a six-­foot­ handled, long­-tined pitchfork in mind. 
Barclay slid to a halt, as McReady’s giant bulk turned abruptly away from the tunnel leading to Dogtown, and vanished off at an angle. Uncertainly, the mechanician wavered a moment, the fire­ extinguisher in his hands, hesitating from one side to the other. Then he was racing after Connant’s broad back. Whatever McReady had in mind, he could be trusted to make it work. 
Connant stopped at the bend in the corridor. His breath hissed suddenly through his throat. “Great God —­ ” The revolver exploded thunderously; three numbing, palpable waves of sound crashed through the confined corridors. Two more. The revolver dropped to the hard­-packed snow of the trail, and Barclay saw the ice­-ax shift into defensive position. Connant’s powerful body blocked his vision, but beyond he heard something mewing, and, insanely, chuckling. The dogs were quieter; there was a deadly seriousness in their low snarls. Taloned feet scratched at hard-­packed snow, broken chains were clinking and tangling. 
Connant shifted abruptly, and Barclay could see what lay beyond. For a second he stood frozen, then his breath went out in a gusty curse. The Thing launched itself at Connant, the powerful arms of the man swung the ice­-ax flat side first at what might have been a hand. It scrunched horribly, and the tattered flesh, ripped by a half­-dozen savage huskies, leapt to its feet again. The red eyes blazed with an unearthy hatred, an unearthly, unkillable vitality. 
Barclay turned the fire extinguisher on it; the blinding, blistering stream of chemical spray confused it, baffled it, together with the savage attacks of the huskies, not for long afraid of anything that did, or could live, held it at bay. 
McReady wedged men out of his way and drove down the narrow corridor packed with men unable to reach the scene. There was a sure fore-planned drive to McReady’s attack. One of the giant blow-torches used in warming the plane’s engines was in his bronzed hands. It roared gustily as he turned the corner and opened the valve. The mad mewing hissed louder. The dogs scrambled back from the three-­foot lance of blue-­hot flame. 
“Bar, get a power cable, run it in somehow. And a handle. We can electrocute this ­— monster, if I don’t incinerate it.” McReady spoke with an authority of planned action. Barclay turned down the long corridor to the power plant, but already before him Norris and Van Wall were racing down.

BARCLAY found the cable in the electrical cache in the tunnel wall. In a half minute he was hacking at it, walking back. Van Wall’s voice rang out in a warning shout of “Power!” as the emergency gasoline­-powered dynamo thudded into action. Half a dozen other men were down there now; the coal, kindling were going into the firebox of the steam power plant. Norris, cursing in a low, deadly monotone, was working with quick, sure fingers on the other end of Barclay’s cable, splicing in a contactor in one of the power leads. 
The dogs had fallen back when Barclay reached the corridor bend, fallen back before a furious monstrosity that glared from baleful red eyes, mewing in trapped hatred. The dogs were a semi­ circle of red-­dipped muzzles with a fringe of glistening white teeth, whining with a vicious eagerness that near matched the fury of the red eyes. McReady stood confidently alert at the corridor bend, the gustily muttering torch. held loose and ready for action in his hands. He stepped aside without moving his eyes from the beast as Barclay came up. There was a slight, tight smile on his lean, bronzed face. 
Norris’ voice called down the corridor, and Barclay stepped forward. The cable was taped to the long handle of a snow ­shovel, the two conductors split, and held 18 inches apart by a scrap of lumber lashed at right angles across the far end of the handle. Bare copper conductors, charged with 220 volts, glinted in the light of pressure lamps. The Thing mewed and halted and dodged. McReady advanced to Barclay’s side. The dogs beyond sensed the plan with the almost­ telepathic intelligence of trained huskies. Their whimpering grew shriller, softer, their mincing steps carried them nearer. Abruptly a huge, night-black Alaskan leapt onto the trapped thing. It turned squalling, saber-­clawed feet slashing. 
Barclay leapt forward and jabbed. A weird, shrill scream rose and choked out. The smell of burnt flesh in the corridor intensified; greasy smoke curled up. The echoing pound of the gas-­electric dynamo down the corridor became a slogging thud. 
The red eyes clouded over in a stiffening, jerking travesty of a face. Arm-like, leg-like members quivered and jerked. The dogs leapt forward, and Barclay yanked back his shovel­-handled weapon. The thing on the snow did not move as gleaming teeth ripped it open.

CHAPTER VI

GARRY looked about the crowded room. Thirty-­two men, some tensed nervously standing against the wall, some uneasily relaxed, some sitting, most perforce standing, as intimate as sardines. Thirty-­two, plus the five engaged in sewing up wounded dogs, made thirty­ seven, the total personnel. 
Garry started speaking. “All right, I guess we’re here. Some of you —­ three or four at most ­— saw what happened. All of you have seen that thing on the table, and can get a general idea. Anyone hasn’t, I’ll lift – ” His hand strayed to the tarpaulin bulking over the thing on the table. There was an acrid odor of singed flesh seeping out of it. The men, stirred restlessly, hasty denials. 
“It looks rather as though Charnauk isn’t going to lead any more teams,” Garry went on. “Blair wants to get at this thing, and make some more detailed examination. We want to know what happened, and make sure right now that this is permanently, totally dead. Right?” 
Connant grinned. “Anybody that doesn’t agree can sit up with it tonight.” 
“All right then, Blair, what can you say about it? What was it?” Garry turned to the little biologist. 
“I wonder if we ever saw its natural form. ” Blair looked at the covered mass. “It may have been imitating the beings that built that ship ­— but I don’t think it was. I think that was its true form. Those of us who were up near the bend saw the thing in action; the thing on the table is the result. When it got loose, apparently, it started looking around. Antarctica still frozen as it was ages ago when the creature first saw it ­— and froze. From my observations while it was thawing out, and the bits of tissue I cut and hardened then, I think it was native to a hotter planet than Earth. It couldn’t, in its natural form, stand the temperature. There is no life­ form on Earth that can live in Antarctica during the winter, but the best compromise is the dog. It found the dogs, and somehow got near enough to Charnauk to get him. The others smelled it ­— heard it —­ I don’t know ­ anyway they went wild, and broke chains, and attacked it before it was finished. The thing we found was part Charnauk, queerly only half­ dead, part Charnauk half­-digested by the jellylike protoplasm of that creature, and part the remains of the thing we originally found, sort of melted down to the basic protoplasm. 
“When the dogs attacked it, it turned ­ into the best fighting thing it could think of. Some other­ world beast apparently.” 
“Turned,” snapped Garry. “How?” 
“Every living thing is made up of jelly —­ protoplasm and minute, submicroscopic things called nuclei, which control the bulk, the protoplasm. This thing was just a modification of that same worldwide plan of Nature; cells made up of protoplasm, controlled by infinitely tinier nuclei. You physicists might compare it —­ an individual cell of any living thing —­ with an atom; the bulk of the atom, the space-­filling part, is made up of the electron orbits, but the character of the thing is determined by the atomic nucleus. 
“This isn’t wildly beyond what we already know. It’s just a modification we haven’t seen before. It’s as natural, as logical, as any other manifestation of life. It obeys exactly the same laws. The cells are made of protoplasm, their character determined by the nucleus.

“ONLY in this creature, the cell ­nuclei can control those cells at will. It digested Charnauk, and as it digested, studied every cell of his tissue, and shaped its own cells to imitate them exactly. Parts of it ­— parts that had time to finish changing —­ are dog-­cells. But they don’t have dog-­cell nuclei.” Blair lifted a fraction of the tarpaulin. A torn dog’s leg with stiff gray fur protruded. “That, for instance, isn’t dog at all; it’s imitation. Some parts I’m certain about; the nucleus was hiding itself, 
covering up with dog­-cell imitation nucleus. In time, not even a microscope would have shown the difference.” 
“Suppose,” asked Norris bitterly, “it had had lots of time?” 
“Then it would have been a dog. The other dogs would have accepted it. We would have accepted it. I don’t think anything would have distinguished it, not microscope, nor X­ray, nor any other means. This is a member of a supremely intelligent race, a race that has learned the deepest secrets of biology, and turned them to its use.” 
“What was it planning to do?” Barclay looked at the humped tarpaulin. 
Blair grinned unpleasantly. The wavering halo of thin hair round his bald pate wavered in the stir of air. “Take over the world, I imagine.” 
“Take over the world! Just it, all by itself?” Connant gasped. “Set itself up as a lone dictator?” 
“No,” Blair shook his head. The scalpel he had been fumbling in his bony fingers dropped; he bent to pick it up, so that his face was hidden as he spoke. “It would become the population of the world.” 
“Become ­— populate the world? Does it reproduce asexually?” 
Blair shook his head and gulped. “It’s —­ it doesn’t have to. It weighed 85 pounds. Charnauk weighed about 90. It would have become Charnauk, and had 85 pounds left, to become —­ oh, Jack for instance, or Chinook. It can imitate anything ­— that is, become anything. If it had reached the Antarctic Sea, it would have become a seal, maybe two seals. They might have attacked a killer whale, and become either killers, or a herd of seals. Or maybe it would have caught an albatross, or a skua gull, and flown to South America.” 
Norris cursed softly. “And every time, it digested something, and imitated it —­ ” 
“It would have had its original bulk left, to start again,” Blair finished. “Nothing would kill it. It has no natural enemies, because it becomes whatever it wants to. If a killer whale attacked, it would become a killer whale. If it was an albatross, and an eagle attacked it, it would become an eagle. Lord, it might become a female eagle. Go back —­ build a nest and lay eggs!” 
“Are you sure that thing from hell is dead?” Dr. Copper asked softly. 
“Yes, thank Heaven,” the little biologist gasped. “After they drove the dogs off, I stood there poking Bar’s electrocution thing into it for five minutes. It’s dead and —­ cooked.” 
“Then we can only give thanks that this is Antarctica, where there is not one, single, solitary, living thing for it to imitate, except these animals in camp.” 
“Us,” Blair giggled. “It can imitate us. Dogs can’t make 400 miles to the sea; there’s no food. There aren’t any skua gulls to imitate at this season. There aren’t any Penguins this far inland. There’s nothing that can reach the sea from this point ­ except us. We’ve got the brains. We can do it. Don’t you see —­ it’s got to imitate us —­ it’s got to be one of us ­— that’s the only way it can fly an airplane — fly a plane for two hours, and rule — ­be —­ all Earth’s inhabitants. A world for the taking —­ if it imitates us!
“It didn’t know yet. It hadn’t had a chance to learn. It was rushed ­— hurried ­— look the thing nearest its own size. Look ­— I’m Pandora! I opened the box! And the only hope that can come out is ­— that nothing can come out. You didn’t see me. I did It. I fixed it I smashed every magneto. Not a plane can fly. Nothing can fly.” Blair giggled and lay down on the floor crying.

CHIEF PILOT Van Wall made a dive for the door. His feet were fading echoes in the corridors as Dr. Copper bent unhurriedly over the little man on the floor. From his office at the end of the room he brought something, and injected a solution into Blair’s arm. “He might come out of it when he wakes up,” he sighed rising. McReady helped him lift the biologist onto a near­by bunk. “It all depends on whether we can convince him that thing is dead.” 
Van Wall ducked into the shack brushing his heavy blond beard absently. “I didn’t think a biologist would do a thing like that up thoroughly. He missed the spares in the second cache. It’s all right. I smashed them.” 
Commander Garry nodded. “I was wondering about the radio.” 
Dr. Copper snorted. “You don’t think it can leak out on a radio wave, do you? You’d have five rescue attempts in the next three months if you stop the broadcasts. The thing to do is talk loud and not make a sound. Now I wonder —­ ” 
McReady looked speculatively at the doctor. “It might be like an infectious disease. Everything that drank, any of its blood —­ ” 
Copper shook his head. “Blair missed something. Imitate it may, but it has, to a certain extent, its own body­ chemistry, its own metabolism. If it didn’t it would become a dog ­— and be a dog and nothing more. It has to be an imitation dog. Therefore you can detect it by serum tests. And its chemistry, since it comes from another world. Must be so wholly, radically different that a few cells, such as gained by drops of blood, would be treated as disease germs by the dog, or human body.” 
“Blood —­ would one of those imitations bleed?” Norris demanded. 
“Surely. Nothing mystic about blood. Muscle is about 90 per cent water; blood differs only in having­ a­ couple per cent more water, and less connective tissue. They’d bleed all right,” Copper assured him. 
Blair sat up in his bunk suddenly. “Connant ­— where’s Connant?” 
The physicist moved over toward the little biologist. “Here I am. What do you want?” 
“Are You?” giggled Blair. He lapsed back into the bunk contorted with silent laughter. 
Connant looked at him blankly “Huh? Am I what?” 
Are you there?” Blair burst into gales of laughter. “Are you Connant? The beast wanted to be a man —­ not a dog —”

CHAPTER VII

DR. COPPER rose wearily from the bunk, and washed the hypodermic carefully. The little tinkles it made seemed loud in the packed room, now that Blair’s gurgling laughter had finally quieted. 
Copper looked toward Garry and shook his head slowly. “Hopeless, I’m afraid. I don’t think we can ever convince him the thing is dead now.” 
Norris laughed uncertainly. “I’m not sure you can convince me. Oh, damn you, McReady. ” 
“McReady?” Commander Garry turned to look from Norris to McReady curiously. 
“The nightmares,” Norris explained. “He had a theory about the nightmares we had at the Secondary Station after finding that thing.” 
“And that was?” Garry looked at McReady levelly. 
Norris answered for him, jerkily, uneasily. “That the creature wasn’t dead, had a sort of enormously slowed existence, an existence that permitted it, none the less, to be vaguely aware of the passing of time, of our coming, after endless years. I had a dream it could imitate things.” 
“Well,” Copper grunted, “it can.” 
“Don’t be an ass,” Norris snapped. “That’s not what’s bothering me. In the dream it could read minds, read thoughts and ideas and mannerisms.” 
“What’s so bad about that? It seems to be worrying you more than the thought of the joy we’re going to have with a mad man in an Antarctic camp.” Copper nodded toward Blair’s sleeping form. 
McReady shook his great head slowly. “You know that Connant is Connant, because he not merely looks like Connant ­— which we’re beginning to believe that beast might be able to do ­ but he thinks like Connant, talks like Connant, moves himself around as Connant does. That takes more than merely a body that looks like him; that takes Connant’s own mind, and thoughts and mannerisms. Therefore, though you know that the thing might make itself look like Connant, you aren’t much bothered, because you know it has a mind from another world, a totally unhuman mind, that couldn’t possibly react and think and talk like a man we know, and do it so well as to fool us for a moment. The idea of the creature imitating one of us is fascinating, but unreal because it is too completely unhuman to deceive us. It doesn’t have a human mind.” 
“As I said before,” Norris repeated, looking steadily at McReady, “you can say the damnedest things at the damnedest times. Will you be so good as to finish that thought —­ one way or the other?” 
Kinner, the scar-­faced expedition cook, had been standing near Connant. Suddenly he moved down the length of the crowded room toward his familiar galley. He shook the ashes from the galley stove noisily. 
“It would do it no good,” said Dr. Copper, softly as though thinking out loud, “to merely look like something it was trying to imitate; it would have to understand its feelings, its reaction. It is unhuman; it has powers of imitation beyond any conception of man. A good actor, by training himself, can imitate another man, another man’s mannerisms, well enough to fool most people. Of course no actor could imitate so perfectly as to deceive men who had been living with the imitated one in the complete lack of privacy of an Antarctic camp. That would take a super­human skill.” 
“Oh, you’ve got the bug too?” Norris cursed softly.

CONNANT, standing alone at one end of the room, looked about him wildly, his face white. A gentle eddying of the men had crowded them slowly down toward the other end of the room, so that he stood quite alone. “My God, will you two Jeremiahs shut up?” Connant’s voice shook. “What am I? Some kind of a microscopic specimen you’re dissecting? Some unpleasant worm you’re discussing in the third person?” 
McReady looked up at him; his slowly twisting hand stopped for a moment. “Having a lovely time. Wish you were here. Signed: Everybody. 
“Connant, if you think you’re having a hell of a time, just move over on the other end for a while. You’ve got one thing we haven’t; you know what the answer is. I’ll tell you this, right now you’re the most feared and respected man in Big Magnet.” 
“Lord, I wish you could see your eyes,” Connant gasped. “Stop staring, will you! What the hell are you going to do?” 
“Have you any suggestions, Dr. Copper?” Commander Garry asked steadily. “The present situation is impossible.” 
“Oh, is it?” Connant snapped. “Come over here and look at that crowd. By Heaven, they look exactly like that gang of huskies around the corridor bend. Benning, will you stop hefting that damned ice­-ax?” 
The coppery blade rang on the floor as the aviation mechanic nervously dropped it. He bent over and picked it up instantly, hefting it slowly, turning it in his hands, his browns eyes moving jerkily about the room. 
Copper sat down on the bunk beside Blair. The wood creaked noisily in the room. Far down a corridor, a dog yelped in pain, and the dog-drivers’ tense voices floated softly back. “Microscopic examination,” said the doctor thoughtfully, “would be useless, as Blair pointed out. Considerable time has passed. However, serum tests would be definitive. 
“Serum tests? What do you mean exactly?” Commander Garry asked. 
“If I had a rabbit that had been injected with human blood ­— a poison to rabbits, of course, as is the blood of any animal save that of another rabbit ­ and the injections continued in increasing doses for some time, the rabbit would be human-­immune. If a small quantity of its blood were drawn off, allowed to separate in a test­-tube, and to the clear serum, a bit of human blood were added, there would be a visible reaction, proving the blood was human. If cow, or dog blood were added —­ or any protein material other than that one thing, human blood —­ no reaction would take place. That would prove definitely.” 
“Can you suggest where I might catch a rabbit for you, Doc?” Norris asked. “That is, nearer than Australia; we don’t want to waste time going that far.” 
“I know there aren’t any rabbits in Antarctica,” Copper nodded, “but that is simply the usual animal. Any animal except man will do. A dog for instance. But it will take several days, and due to the greater size of the animal, considerable blood. Two of us will have to contribute.” 
“Would I do?” Garry asked. 
“That will make two,” Copper nodded. “I’ll get to work on it right away.” 
“What about Connant in the meantime?” Kinner demanded. “I’m going out that door and head off for the Ross Sea before I cook for him.” 
“He may be human ­— ” Copper started. 
Connant burst out in a flood of curses. “Human! May be human, you damned saw bones! What in hell do you think I am?” 
“A monster,” Copper snapped sharply. “Now shut up and listen.” Connant’s face drained of color and he sat down heavily as the indictment was put in words. “Until we know ­— you know as well as we do that we have reason to question the fact, and only you know how that question is to be answered —­ we may reasonably be expected to lock you up. If you are —­ unhuman —­ you’re a lot more dangerous than poor Blair there, and I’m going to see that he’s locked up thoroughly. I expect that his next stage will be a violent desire to kill you, all the dogs, and probably all of us. When he wakes, he will be convinced we’re all unhuman, and nothing on the planet will ever change his conviction. It would be kinder to let him die, but we can’t do that, of course. He’s going in one shack, and you can stay in Cosmos House with your cosmic ray apparatus. Which is about what you’d do anyway. I’ve got to fix up a couple of dogs.” 
Connant nodded bitterly. “I’m human. Hurry that test. Your eyes ­ Lord, I wish you could see your eyes staring —­ ”

COMMANDER Garry watched anxiously as Clark, the dog handler, held the big brown Alaskan husky, while Copper began the injection treatment. The dog was not anxious to cooperate; the needle was painful, and already he’d experienced considerable needle work that morning. Five stitches held closed a slash that ran from his shoulder across the ribs half way down his body. One long fang was broken off short; the missing part was to be found half­-buried in the shoulder bone of the monstrous thing on the table in the Ad Building. 
“How long will that take?” Garry asked, pressing his arm gently. It was sore from the prick of the needle Dr. Copper had used to withdraw blood. 
Copper shrugged. “I don’t know, to be frank. I know the general method, I’ve used it on rabbits. But I haven’t experimented with dogs. They’re big, clumsy animals to work with; naturally rabbits are preferable, and serve ordinarily. In civilized places you can buy a stock of human-immune rabbits from suppliers, and not many investigators take the trouble to prepare their own.” 
“What do they want with them back there?” Clark asked. 
“Criminology is one large field. A says he didn’t murder B, but that the blood on his shirt came from killing a chicken. The State makes a test, then it’s up to A to explain how it is the blood reacts on human-­immune rabbits, but not on chicken-­immunes.” 
“What are we going to do with Blair in the meantime?” Garry asked wearily. “It’s all right to let him sleep where he is for a while, but when he wakes up —­ ” 
“Barclay and Benning are fitting some bolts on the door of Cosmos House,” Copper replied grimly. “Connant’s acting like a gentleman. I think perhaps the way the other men look at him makes him rather want privacy. Lord knows, heretofore we’ve all of us individually prayed for a little privacy. ” 
Clark laughed bitterly. “Not any more, thank you. The more the merrier.” 
“Blair,” Copper went on, “will also have to have privacy —­ and locks. He’s going to have a pretty definite plan in mind when he wakes up. Ever hear the old story of how to stop hoof­-and-­mouth disease in cattle?” 
“If there isn’t any hoof­-and-­mouth disease, there won’t be any hoof­-and­-mouth disease,” Copper explained. “You get rid of it by killing every animal that exhibits it, and every animal that’s been near the diseased animal. Blair’s a biologist, and knows that story. He’s afraid of this thing we loosed. The answer is probably pretty clear in his mind now. Kill everybody and everything in this camp before a skua gull or a wandering albatross coming in with the spring chances out this way and ­— catches the disease.” 
Clark’s lips curled in a twisted grin. “Sounds logical to me. If things get too bad ­ maybe we’d better let Blair get loose. It would save us committing suicide. We might also make something of a vow that if things get bad, we see that that does happen.”

COPPER laughed softly. “The last man alive in Big Magnet ­ wouldn’t be a man,” he pointed out. “Somebody’s got to kill those ­ creatures that don’t desire to kill themselves, you know. We don’t have enough thermite to do it all at once, and the decanite explosive wouldn’t help much. I have an idea that even small pieces of one of those beings would be self-­sufficient.” 
“If,” said Garry thoughtfully, “they can modify their protoplasm at will, won’t they simply modify themselves to birds and fly away? They can read all about birds, and imitate their structure without even meeting them. Or imitate, perhaps, birds of their home planet.” 
Copper shook his head, and helped Clark to free the dog. “Man studied birds for centuries, trying to learn how to make a machine to fly like them. He never did do the trick; his final success came when he broke away entirely and tried new methods. Knowing the general idea, and knowing the detailed structure of wing and bone and nerve­ tissue is something far, far different. And as for otherworld birds, perhaps, in fact very probably, the atmospheric conditions here are so vastly different that their birds couldn’t fly. Perhaps, even, the being came from a planet like Mars with such a thin atmosphere that there were no birds.” 
Barclay came into the building, trailing a length of airplane control cable. “It’s finished, Doc. Cosmo House can’t be opened from the inside. Now where do we put Blair?” 
Copper looked toward Garry. “There wasn’t any biology building. I don’t know where we can isolate him.” 
“How about East Cache?” Garry said after a moment’s thought. “Will Blair be able to look after himself ­— or need attention?” 
“He’ll be capable enough. We’ll be the ones to watch out,” Copper assured him grimly. “Take a stove, a couple of bags of coal, necessary supplies and a few tools to fix it up. Nobody’s been out there since last fall, have they?” 
Garry shook his head. “if he gets noisy —­ I thought that might be a good idea.” 
Barclay hefted the tools he was carrying and looked up at Garry. “if the muttering he’s doing now is any sign, he’s going to sing away the night hours. And we won’t like his song.” 
“What’s he saying?” Copper asked. 
Barclay shook his head. “I didn’t care to listen much. You can if you want to. But I gathered that the blasted idiot had all the dreams McReady had, and a few more. He slept beside the thing when we stopped on the trail coming in from Secondary Magnetic, remember. He dreamt the thing was alive, and dreamt more details. And ­— damn his soul ­— knew it wasn’t all dream, or had reason to. He knew it had telepathic powers that were stirring vaguely, and that it could not only read minds, but project thoughts. They weren’t dreams, you see. They were stray thoughts that thing was broadcasting, the way Blair’s broadcasting his thoughts now ­ a sort of telepathic muttering in its sleep. That’s why he knew so much about its powers. I guess you and I, Doc, weren’t so sensitive ­— if you want to believe in telepathy.” 
“I have to,” Copper sighed. “Dr. Rhine of Duke University has shown that it exists, shown that some are much more sensitive than others.” 
“Well, if you want to learn a lot of details, go listen in on Blair’s broadcast. He’s driven most of the boys out of the Ad Building; Kinner’s rattling pans like coal going down a chute. When he can’t rattle a pan, he shakes ashes. 
“By the way, Commander, what are we going to do this spring, now the planes are out of it?” 
Garry sighed. “I’m afraid our expedition is going to be a loss. We cannot divide our strength now. 
“It won’t be a loss ­— if we continue to live, and come out of this,” Copper promised him. “The find we’ve made, if we can get it under control, is important enough. The cosmic ray data, magnetic work, and atmospheric work won’t be greatly hindered. ” 
GARRY laughed mirthlessly. “I was just thinking of the radio broadcasts. Telling half the world about the wonderful results of our exploration flights, trying to fool men like Byrd and Ellsworth back home there that we’re doing something.” 
Copper nodded gravely. “They’ll know something’s wrong. But men like that have judgment enough to know we wouldn’t do tricks without some sort of reason, and will wait for our return to judge us. I think it comes to this: men who know enough to recognize our deception will wait for our return. Men who haven’t discretion and faith enough to wait will not have the experience to detect any fraud. We know enough of the conditions here to put through a good bluff.” 
“Just so they don’t send ’rescue’ expeditions,” Garry prayed. “When —­ if ­— we’re ever ready to come out, we’ll have to send word to Captain Forsythe to bring a stock of magnetos with him when he comes down. But ­— never mind that.” 
“You mean if we don’t come out?” asked Barclay. “I was wondering if a nice running account of an eruption or an earthquake via radio —­ with a swell windup by using a stick of decanite under the microphone —­ would help. Nothing, of course, will entirely keep people out. One of those swell, melodramatic ’last­-man-alive-scenes’ might make ’em go easy though.” 
Garry smiled with genuine humor. “is everybody in camp trying to figure that out too?” 
Copper laughed. “What do you think, Garry? We’re confident we can win out. But not too easy about it, I guess.” 
Clark grinned up from the dog he was petting into calmness. “Confident, did you say, Doc?”

CHAPTER VIII

BLAIR MOVED restlessly around the small shack. His eyes jerked and quivered in vague, fleeting glances at the four men with him; Barclay, six feet tall and weighing over 190 pounds; McReady, a bronze giant of a man; Dr. Copper, short, squatly powerful; and Benning, five­ feet ­ten of wiry strength. 
Blair was huddled up against the far wall of the East Cache cabin, his gear piled in the middle of the floor beside the heating stove, forming an island between him and the four men. His bony hands clenched and fluttered, terrified. His pale eyes wavered uneasily as his bald, freckled head darted about in birdlike motion. 
“I don’t. want anybody coming here. I’ll cook my own food,” he snapped nervously. “Kinner may be human now, but I don’t believe it. I’m going to get out of here, but I’m not going to eat any food you send me. I want cans. Sealed cans.” 
“O.K., Blair, we’ll bring ’em tonight,” Barclay promised. “You’ve got coal, and the fire’s started. I’ll make a last — ” ­ Barclay started forward. 
Blair instantly scurried to the farthest corner. “Get out! Keep away from me, you monster!” the little biologist shrieked, and tried to claw his way through the wall of the shack. “Keep away from me ­— keep away —­ I won’t be absorbed — ­I won’t be —­ ” 
Barclay relaxed and moved back. Dr. Copper shook his head. “Leave him alone, Bar. It’s easier for him to fix the thing himself. We’ll have to fix the door, I think —­ ” 
The four men let themselves out. Efficiently, Benning and Barclay fell to work. There were no locks in Antarctica; there wasn’t enough privacy to make them needed. But powerful screws had been driven in each side of the door frame, and the spare aviation control cable, immensely strong, woven steel wire, was rapidly caught between them,. and drawn taut. Barclay went to work with a drill and a keyhole saw. Presently he had a trap cut in the door through which goods could be passed without unlashing the entrance. Three powerful hinges from a stock ­crate, two hasps and a pair of three-­inch cotter­-pins made it proof against opening from the other side. 
Blair moved about restlessly inside. He was dragging something over to the door with panting gasps and muttering, frantic curses. Barclay opened the hatch and glanced in, Dr. Copper peering over his shoulder. Blair had moved the heavy bunk against the door. It could not be opened without his cooperation now. 
“Don’t know but what the poor man’s fight at that,” McReady sighed. “If he gets loose, it is his avowed intention to kill each and all of us as quickly as possible, which is something we don’t agree with. But we’ve something on our side of that door that is worse than a homicidal maniac. If one or the other has to get loose, I think I’ll come up and undo those lashings here.” 
Barclay grinned. “You let me know, and I’ll show you how to get these off fast. Let’s go back.” 
The sun was painting the northern horizon in multi­colored rainbows still, though it was two hours below the horizon. The field of drift swept off to the north, sparkling under its flaming colors in a million reflected glories. Low mounds of rounded white on the northern horizon showed the Magnet Range was barely awash above the sweeping drift. Little eddies of wind-­lifted snow swirled away from their skis as they set out toward the main encampment two miles away. The spidery finger of the broadcast radiator lifted a gaunt black needle against the white of the Antarctic continent. The snow under their skies was like fine sand, hard and gritty.

“SPRING,” said Benning bitterly, “is come. Ain’t we got fun! I’ve been looking forward to getting away from this blasted hole in the ice.” 
“I wouldn’t try it now, if I were you.” Barclay grunted. “Guys that set out from here in the next few days are going to be marvelously unpopular.” 
“How is your dog getting along, Dr. Copper?” McReady asked. “Any results yet?” 
“In 30 hours? I wish there were. I gave him an injection of my blood today. But I imagine another five days will be needed. I don’t know certainly enough to stop sooner.” 
“I’ve been wondering ­— if Connant were ­— changed, would he have warned us so soon after the animal escaped? Wouldn’t he have waited long enough for it to have a real chance to fix itself? Unless we woke up naturally?” McReady asked slowly. 
“The thing is selfish. You didn’t think it looked as though it were possessed of a store of the higher justices, did you?” Dr. Copper pointed out. “Every part of it is all of it, every part of it is all for itself, I imagine. If Connant were changed, to save his skin, he’d have to —­ but Connant’s feelings aren’t changed; they’re imitated perfectly, or they’re his own. Naturally, the imitation, imitating perfectly Connant’s feelings, would do exactly what Connant would do.” 
“Say, couldn’t Norris or Van give Connant some kind of a test? If the thing is brighter than men, it might know more physics than Connant should, and they’d catch it out,” Barclay suggested. 
Copper shook his head wearily. “Not if it reads minds. You can’t plan a trap for it. Van suggested that last night. He hoped it would answer some of the questions of physics he’d like to know answers to.” 
“This expedition­-of­-four idea is going to make life happy.” Benning looked at his companions. “Each of us with an eye on the others to make sure he doesn’t do something ­— peculiar. Man, aren’t we going to be a trusting bunch! Each man eyeing his neighbors with the grandest exhibition of faith and trust ­— I’m beginning to know what Connant meant by ’I wish you could see your eyes.’ Every now and then we all have it, I guess. One of you looks around with a sort of ’I­-wonder­-if-­the-­other-­three-are­-look.” Incidentally, I’m not excepting myself.” 
“So far as we know, the animal is dead, with a slight question as to Connant. No other is suspected,” McReady stated slowly. “The ’always ­four’ order is merely a precautionary measure.” 
“I’m waiting for Garry to make it four­-in-­a-­bunk,” Barclay sighed. “I thought I didn’t have any privacy before, but since that order ­— ”

NONE watched more tensely than Connant. A little sterile glass test-­tube, half­-filled with straw­ colored fluid. One­—two—­three—­four—­five drops of the clear solution Dr. Copper had prepared from the drops of blood from Connant’s arm. The tube was shaken carefully, then set in a beaker of clear, warm water. The thermometer read blood heat, a little thermostat clicked noisily, and the electric hotplate began to glow as the lights flickered slightly. 
Then —­ little white flecks of precipitation were forming, snowing down in the clear straw­-colored fluid. “Lord,” said Connant He dropped heavily into a bunk, crying like a baby. “Six days ­— ” Connant sobbed, “six days in there ­ wondering if that damned test would lie —­ ” 
Garry moved over silently, and slipped his arm across the physicist’s back. 
“It couldn’t tie,” Dr. Copper said, “The dog was human­-immune ­ and the serum reacted.” 
“He’s —­ all right?” Norris gasped. “Then —­ the animal is dead —­ dead forever?” 
“He is human,” Copper spoke definitely,” and the animal is dead.” 
Kinner burst out laughing, laughing hysterically: McReady turned toward him and slapped his face with a methodical one­-two, one­-two action. The cook laughed, gulped, cried a moment, and sat up rubbing his checks, mumbling his thanks vaguely. “I was scared. Lord, I was scared­—” 
Norris laughed bitterly. “You think we weren’t, you ape? You think maybe Connant wasn’t?” 
The Ad Building stirred with a sudden rejuvenation. Voices laughed, the men clustering around Connant spoke with unnecessarily loud voices, jittery, nervous voices relievedly friendly again. Somebody called out a suggestion, and a dozen started for their skis. Blair. Blair might recover ­— Dr. Copper fussed with his test­-tubes in nervous relief, trying solutions. The party of relief for Blair’s shack started out the door, skis clapping noisily. Down the corridor, the dogs set up a quick yelping howl as the air of excited relief reached them. 
Dr. Copper fussed with his tubes. McReady noticed him first, sitting on the edge of the bunk, with two precipitin­-whitened test­-tubes of straw­-colored fluid, his face whiter than the stuff in the tubes, silent tears slipping down from horror-widened eyes. 
McReady felt a cold knife of fear pierce through his heart and freeze in his breast. Dr. Copper looked up. 
“Garry,” he called hoarsely. “Garry, for God’s sake, come here.” 
Commander Garry walked toward him sharply. Silence clapped down on the Ad Building. Connant looked up, rose stiffly from his seat. 
“Garry —­ tissue from the monster ­ precipitates too. It proves nothing. Nothing but ­ but the dog was monster-­immune too. That one of the two contributing blood ­— one of us two, you and I, Garry ­— one of us is a monster.

CHAPTER IX

“BAR, CALL back those men before they tell Blair,” McReady said quietly. Blair went to the door; faintly his shouts came back to the tensely silent men in the room. Then he was back. 
“They’re coming,” he said. “I didn’t tell them why. Just that Dr. Copper said not to go.” 
“McReady,” Garry sighed, “you’re in command now. May God help you. I cannot.” 
The bronzed giant nodded slowly, his deep eyes on Commander Garry. 
“I may be the one,” Garry added. “I know I’m not, but I cannot prove it to you in any way. Dr. Copper’s test has broken down. The fact that he showed it was useless, when it was to the advantage of the monster to have that uselessness not known, would seem to prove he was human.” 
Copper rocked back and forth slowly on the bunk. “I know I’m human. I can’t prove it either. One of us two is a liar, for that test cannot lie, and it says one of us is. I gave proof that the test was wrong, which seems to prove I’m human, and now Garry has given that argument which proves me human ­ which he, as the monster, should not do. Round and round and round and round and —­ “
Dr. Copper’s head, then his neck and shoulders began circling slowly in time to the words. Suddenly he was lying back on the bunk, roaring with laughter. ’It doesn’t have to prove one of us is a monster! It doesn’t have to prove that at all! Ho-ho If we’re all monsters it works the same! We’re all monsters —­ all of us —­ Connant and Garry and I —­ and all of you.” 
“McReady,” Van Wall, the blond-bearded Chief Pilot, called softly. “you were on the way to an M.D. when you took up meteorology, weren’t you? Can you make some kind of test?” 
McReady went over to Copper slowly, took the hypodermic from his hand, and washed it carefully in 95 per cent alcohol. Garry sat on the bunk edge with wooden face, watching Copper and McReady expressionlessly. “What Copper said is possible,” McReady sighed. “Van, will you help here? Thanks.” The filled needle jabbed into Copper’s thigh. The man’s laughter did not stop, but slowly faded into sobs, then sound sleep as the morphia took hold. 
McReady turned again. The men who had started for Blair stood at the far end of the room, skis dripping snow, their faces as white as their skis. Connant had a lighted cigarette in each hand; one he was puffing absently, and staring at the floor. The heat of the one in his left hand attracted him and he stared at it, and the one in the other hand stupidly for a moment. He dropped one and crushed it under his heel slowly. 
“Dr. Copper,” McReady repeated, “could be right. I know I’m human ­ but of course can’t prove it. I’ll repeat the test for my own information. Any of you others who wish to may do the same.” 
Two minutes later, McReady held a test­-tube with white precipitin settling slowly from straw­ colored serum. “It reacts to human blood too, so they aren’t both monsters.” 
“I didn’t think they were,” Van Wall sighed. “That wouldn’t suit the monster either; we could have destroyed them if we knew. Why hasn’t the monster destroyed us, do you suppose? It seems to be loose.” 
McReady snorted. Then laughed softly. “Elementary, my dear Watson. The monster wants to have life­forms available. It cannot animate a dead body, apparently. It is just waiting —­ waiting until the best opportunities come. We who remain human, it is holding in reserve.” 
Kinner shuddered violently. “Hey. Hey, Mac. Mac, would I know if I was a monster? Would I know if the monster had already got me? Oh Lord, I may be a monster already.” 
“You’d know, ” McReady answered. 
“But we wouldn’t,” Norris laughed shortly, half-­hysterically. 
McReady looked at the vial of serum remaining. “There’s one thing this damned stuff is good for, at that,” he said thoughtfully. “Clark, will you and Van help me? The rest of the gang better stick together here. Keep an eye on each other,” he said bitterly. “See that you don’t get into mischief, shall we say?” 
McReady started down the tunnel toward Dog Town, with Clark and Van Wall behind him. “You need more serum?” Clark asked. 
McReady shook his head. “Tests. There’s four cows and a bull, and nearly seventy dogs down there. This stuff reacts only to human blood and —­ monsters.”

McREADY came back to the Ad Building and went silently to the wash stand. Clark and Van Wall joined him a moment later. Clark’s lips had developed a tic, jerking into sudden, unexpected sneers. 
“What did you do?” Connant exploded suddenly. “More immunizing?” 
Clark snickered, and stopped with a hiccough. “Immunizing. Haw! Immune all right.” 
“That monster,” said Van Wall steadily, “is quite logical. Our immune dog was quite all right, and we drew a little more serum for the tests. But we won’t make any more.” 
“Can’t —­ can’t you use one man’s blood or another dog ­— ” Norris began. 
“There aren’t,” said McReady softly, “any more dogs, Nor cattle, I might add.” 
“No more dogs?” Benning sat down slowly. 
“They’re very nasty when they start changing,” Van Wall said precisely, “but slow. That electrocution iron you made up, Barclay, is very fast. There is only one dog left ­ our immune. The monster left that for us, so we could play with our little test. The rest ­— ” He shrugged and dried his hands. 
“The cattle —­ ,” gulped Kinner. 
“Also. Reacted very nicely. They look funny as hell when they start melting. The beast hasn’t any quick escape, when it’s tied in dog chains, or halters, and it had to be to imitate.” 
Kinner stood up slowly, His eyes darted around the room, and came to rest horribly quivering on a tin bucket in the galley. Slowly, step by step. he retreated toward the door, his mouth opening and closing silently, like a fish out of water. 
“The milk —­ ” he gasped. “I milked ’em an hour ago —­” His voice broke into a scream as he dived through the door. He was out on the ice cap without windproof or heavy clothing. 
Van Wall looked after him for a moment thoughtfully. “He’s probably hopelessly mad,” he said at length, “but he might be a monster escaping. He hasn’t skis. Take a blow-torch ­— in case.” 
The physical motion of the chase helped them; something that needed doing. Three of the other men were quietly being sick. Norris was lying flat on his back, his face greenish, looking steadily at the bottom of the bunk above him. 
“Mac, how long have the ­— cows been not-­cows —­” 
McReady shrugged his shoulders hopelessly. He went over to the milk bucket, and with his little tube of serum went to work on it. The milk clouded it, making certainty difficult. Finally he dropped 
the test­-tube in the stand and shook his head. “It tests negatively. Which means either they were cows then, or that, being perfect imitations, they gave perfectly good milk.” 
Copper stirred restless in his sleep and gave a gurgling cross between a snore and a laugh. Silent eyes fastened on him. “Would morphia —­ a monster —­” somebody started to ask. 
“Lord knows,” McReady shrugged. “It affects every Earthly animal I know of.” 
Connant suddenly raised his head. “Mac! The dogs must have swallowed pieces of the monster, and the pieces destroyed them! The dogs were where the monster resided. I was locked up. Doesn’t that prove ­— ” 
Van Wall shook his head. “Sorry. Proves nothing about what you are, only proves what you didn’t do.” 
“It doesn’t do that,” McReady sighed. “We are helpless. Because we don’t know enough, and so jittery we don’t think straight. Locked up! Ever watch a white corpuscle of the blood go through the wall of a blood vessel? No? It sticks out a pseudopod. And there it is —­ on the far side of the wall. ” 
“Oh,” said Van Wall unhappily. “The cattle tried to melt down, didn’t they? The could have melted down ­— become just a thread of stuff and leaked under a door to re­collect on the other side. Ropes ­no ­ no, that wouldn’t do it. They couldn’t live in a sealed tank or ­— ” 
“If,” said McReady, “you shoot it through the heart, and it doesn’t die, it’s a monster. That’s the best test I can think of, offhand.” 
“No dogs,” said Garry quietly, “and no cattle. It has to imitate men now. And locking up doesn’t do any good. Your test might have work, Mac, but I am afraid it would be hard on the men.”

CHAPTER X

CLARK LOOKED up from the galley stove as Van Wall, Barclay, McReady and Benning came in, brushing the drift from their clothes. The other men jammed into the Ad Building continued studiously to do as they were doing, playing chess, poker, reading. Ralsen was fixing a sledge on the table; Van and Norris had their heads together over magnetic data, while Harvey read tables in a low voice. 
Dr. Copper snored softly on the bunk. Garry was working with Dutton over a sheaf of radio messages on the corner of Dutton’s bunk and a small fraction of the radio table. Connant was using most of the table for Cosmic Ray sheets. 
Quite plainly through the corridor, despite two closed doors, they could hear Kinner’s voice. Clark banged a kettle onto the galley stove and beckoned McReady silently. The meteorologist went over to him. 
“I don’t mind the cooking so damn much,” Clark said nervously, “but isn’t there some way to stop that bird? We all agreed that it would be safe to move him into Cosmos House.” 
“Kinner?” McReady nodded toward the door. “I’m afraid not. I can dope him, I suppose, but we don’t have an unlimited supply of morphia, and he’s not in danger of losing his mind. Just hysterical.” 
“Well, we’re in danger of losing ours. You’ve been out for an hour and a half. That’s been going on steadily ever since, and it was going for two hours before. There’s a limit, you know.” 
Garry wandered over slowly, apologetically. For an instant, McReady caught the feral spark of fear ­— horror —­ in Clark’s eyes, and knew at the same instant it was in his own. Garry —­ Garry or Copper —­ was certainly a monster. 
“If you could stop that, I think it would be a sound policy, Mac,” Garry spoke quietly. “There are ­ tensions enough in this room. We agreed that it would be safe for Kinner in there, because everyone else in camp is under constant eyeing.” Garry shivered slightly. “And try, try in God’s name, to find some test that will work.” 
McReady sighed. “Watch or unwatched, everyone’s tense. Blair’s jammed the trap so it won’t open now. Says he’s got food enough, and keeps screaming ’Go away, go away ­— you’re monsters. I won’t be absorbed. I won’t. I’ll tell men when they come. Go away.’ So ­— we went away.” 
“There’s no other test?” Garry pleaded. 
McReady shrugged his shoulders. “Copper was perfectly right. The serum test could be absolutely definitive if it hadn’t been ­— contaminated. But that’s the only dog left, and he’s fixed now.” 
“Chemicals? Chemical tests?” 
McReady shook his head. “Our chemistry isn’t that good. I tried the microscope, you know.” 
Garry nodded. “Monster-­dog and real dog were identical. But ­ you’ve got to go on. What are we going to do after dinner?”

VAN WALL joined them quietly. “Rotation sleeping. Half the crowd asleep; half awake. I wonder how many of us are monsters? All the dogs were. We thought we were safe, but somehow it got Copper — ­or you.” Van Wall’s eyes flashed uneasily. “It may have gotten every one of you —­ all of you but myself may be wondering, looking. No, that’s not possible. You’d just spring then. I’d be helpless. We humans might somehow have the greater number now. But ­— ” he stopped. 
McReady laughed shortly. “You’re doing what Norris complained of in me. Leaving it hanging. ’But if one more is changed —­ that may shift the balance of power.’ It doesn’t fight. I don’t think it ever fights. It must be a peaceable thing, in its own ­— inimitable — ­way. It never had to, because it always gained its end ­— otherwise.” 
Van Wall’s mouth twisted in a sickly grin. “You’re suggesting then, that perhaps it already has the greater numbers, but is just waiting ­— waiting, all of them —­ all of you, for all I know —­ waiting till I, the last human, drop my wariness in sleep. Mac, did you notice their eyes, all looking at us?” 
Garry sighed. “You haven’t been sitting here for four straight hours, while all their eyes silently weighed the information that one of us two, Copper or I, is a monster certainly ­— perhaps both of us.” 
Clark repeated his request. “Will you stop that bird’s noise? He’s driving me nuts. Make him tone down, anyway.” 
“Still praying?” McReady asked. 
“Still praying,” Clark groaned. “He hasn’t stopped for a second. I don’t mind, his praying if it relieves him, but he yells, he sings psalms and hymns and shouts prayers. He thinks God can’t hear well way down here.” 
“Maybe He can’t,” Barclay grunted. “Or He’d have done something about this thing loosed from hell.” 
“Somebody’s going to try that test you mentioned, if you don’t stop him,” Clark stated grimly. “I think a cleaver in the head would be as positive a test as a bullet in the heart.” 
“Go ahead with the food. I’ll see what I can do. There may be something in the cabinets.” McReady moved wearily toward the corner Copper had used as his dispensary. Three tall cabinets of rough boards, two locked, were the repositories of the camp’s medical supplies. Twelve years ago McReady had graduated, had started for an internship, and been diverted to meteorology. Copper was a picked man, a man who knew his profession. thoroughly and modernly. More than half the drugs available were totally unfamiliar to McReady; many of the others he had forgotten. There was no huge medical library here, no series of journals available to learn the things he had forgotten, the elementary, simple things to Copper, things that did not merit inclusion in the small library he had been forced to content himself with. Books are heavy, and every ounce of supplies had been freighted in by air. 
McReady picked a barbiturate hopefully. Barclay and Van went with him. One man never went anywhere alone in Big Magnet. 
Ralsen had his sledge put away, and the physicists had moved off the table, the poker game broken up when they got back. Clark was putting out the food. The click of spoons and the muffled sounds of eating were the only sign of life in the room. There were no words spoken as the three returned; simply all eyes focused on them questioningly, while the jaw moved methodically. 
MeReady stiffened suddenly. Kinner was screeching out a hymn in a hoarse, cracked voice. He looked wearily at Van Wall with a twisted grin and shook his head. “Hu-­uh.”

VAN WALL cursed bitterly, and sat down at the table. “We’ll just plumb have to take that till his voice wears out. He can’t yell like that forever.” 
“He’s got a brass throat and a cast-iron larynx,” Norris declared savagely. “Then we could be hopeful, and suggest he’s one of our friends. In that case he could go on renewing his throat till doomsday.” 
Silence clamped down. For twenty minutes they ate without a word. Then Connant jumped up with an angry violence. “You sit as still as a bunch of graven images. You don’t say a word, but oh Lord, what expressive eyes you’ve got. They roll around like a bunch of glass marbles spilling down a table. They wink and blink and stare —­ and whisper things. Can you guys look somewhere else for a change, please? 
“Listen, Mac, you’re in charge here. Let’s run movies for the rest of the night. We’ve been saving those reels to make ’em last. Last for what? Who is it’s going to see those last reels, eh? Let’s see ’em while we can, and look at something other than each other. 
“Sound idea, Connant I, for one, am quite willing to change this in any way I can.” 
“Turn the sound up loud, Dutton. Maybe you can drown out the hymns,” Clark suggested. 
“But don’t,” Norris said softly, “don’t turn off the lights altogether.” 
“The lights will be out.” McReady shook his head. “We’ll show all the cartoon movies we have. You won’t mind seeing the old cartoons, will you?” 
“Goody, goody —­ a moom pitcher show. I’m just in the mood.” McReady turned to look at the speaker, a lean, lanky New Englander, by the name of Caldwell. Caldwell was stuffing his pipe slowly, a sour eye cocked up to McReady. 
The bronze giant was forced to laugh. “O.K., Bart, you win. Maybe we aren’t quite in the mood for Popeye and trick ducks, but it’s something.” 
“Let’s play Classifications,” Caldwell suggested slowly. “Or maybe you call it Guggenheim. You draw lines on a piece of paper, and put down classes of things ­— like animals, you know. One for ’H’ and one for ’U’ and so on. Like ’Human and ’Unknown’ for instance. I think that would be a hell of a lot better game. Classification, I sort of figure is what we need right now a lot more than movies. Maybe somebody’s got a pencil that he can draw lines with, draw lines between the ’U’ animals and the ’H’ animals for instance.” 
“McReady’s trying to find that kind of pencil,” Van Wall answered quietly, “but we’ve got three kinds of animals here, you know. One that begins with ’M’. We don’t want any more.” 
“Mad ones, you mean. Uh­-huh. Clark, I’ll help you with those pots so we can get our little peepshow going.” Caldwell got up slowly.

DUTTON and Barclay and Benning, in charge of the projector and sound mechanism arrangements, went about their job silently, while the Ad Building was cleared and the dishes and pans disposed of. McReady drifted over toward Van Wall slowly, and leaned back in the bunk beside him. “I’ve been wondering, Van,” he said with a wry grin, “whether or not to report my ideas in advance. I forgot the ’U animals’ as Caldwell named it, could read minds. I’ve a vague idea of something that might work. it’s too vague to bother with though. Go ahead with your show, while I try to figure out the logic of the thing. I’ll take this bunk.” 
Van Wall glanced up, and nodded. The movie screen would be practically on a line with his bunk, hence making the pictures least distracting here, because least intelligible. “Perhaps you should tell us what you have in mind. As it is, only the unknowns know what you plan. You might be ­—unknown before you got it into operation.” 
“Won’t take long, if I get it figured out right. But I don’t want any more all­-but-­the­-test-­dog-monsters things. We better move Copper into this bunk directly above me. He won’t be watching the screen either.” McReady nodded toward Copper’s gently snoring bulk. Garry helped them lift and move the doctor. 
McReady leaned back against the bunk, and sank into a trance, almost, of concentration, trying to calculate chances, operations, methods. He was scarcely aware as the others distributed themselves silently, and the screen lit up. Vaguely Kinner’s hectic, shouted prayers and his rasping hymn-singing annoyed him till the sound accompaniment started. The lights were turned out, but the large, light-colored areas of the screen reflected enough light for ready visibility. It made men’s eyes sparkle as they moved restlessly. Kinner was still praying, shouting, his voice a raucous accompaniment to the mechanical sound. Dutton stepped up the amplification. 
So long had the voice been going on, that only vaguely at first was McReady aware that something seemed missing. Lying as he was, just across the narrow room from the corridor leading to Cosmos House, Kinner’s voice had reached him fairly clearly, despite the sound accompaniment of the pictures. It struck him abruptly that it had stopped. 
“Dutton, cut that sound,” McReady called as he sat up abruptly. The pictures flickered a moment, soundless and strangely futile in the sudden, deep silence. The rising wind on the surface above bubbled melancholy tears of sound down the stove pipes. “Kinner’s stopped,” McReady said softly. 
“For God’s sake start that sound then, he may have stopped to listen,” Norris snapped. 
McReady rose and went down the corridor. Barclay and Van Wall left their places at the far end of the room to follow him. The flickers bulged and twisted on the back of Barclay’s gray underwear as he crossed the still-functioning beam of the projector. Dutton snapped on the lights, and the pictures vanished. 
Norris stood at the door as McReady had asked. Garry sat down quietly in the bunk nearest the door, forcing Clark to make room for him. Most of the others had stayed exactly where they were. Only Connant walked slowly up and down the room, in steady, unvarying rhythm. 
“If you’re going to do that, Connant,” Clark spat, “we can get along without you altogether, whether you’re human or not. Will you stop that damned rhythm?” 
“Sorry.” The physicist sat down in a bunk, and watched his toes thoughtfully. It was almost five minutes, five ages while the wind made the only sound, before McReady appeared at the door. 
“We,” he announced, “haven’t got enough grief here already. Somebody’s tried to help us out. Kinner has a knife in his throat, which was why he stopped singing, probably. We’ve got monsters, madmen and murderers. Any more ’M’s’ you can think of, Caldwell? If there are, we’ll probably have ’em before long.”

CHAPTER XI

“IS BLAIR loose?” someone asked. 
“Blair is not loose. Or he flew in. If there’s any doubt about where our gentle helper came from ­ this may clear it up.” Van Hull held a footlong, thin-bladed knife in a cloth. The wooden handle was half-burnt, charred with the peculiar pattern of the top of the galley stove. 
Clark stared at it. “I did that this afternoon. I forgot the damn thing and left it on the stove.” 
Van Wall nodded. “I smelled it, if you remember. I knew the knife came from the galley.” 
“I wonder,” said Benning, looking around at the party warily, “how many more monsters have we? If somebody could slip out of his place, go back of the screen to the galley and then down to the Cosmos House and back ­ he did come back, didn’t he? Yes ­everybody’s here. Well, if one of the gang could do all that ­— ” 
“Maybe a monster did it,” Garry suggested quietly. “There’s that possibility.” 
“The monster, as you pointed out today, has only men left to imitate. Would he decrease his ­— supply, shall we say?” Van Wall pointed out. “No, we just have a plain, ordinary louse, a murderer to deal with. Ordinarily we’d call him an ’inhuman murderer’ I suppose, but we have to distinguish now. We have inhuman murderers, and now we have human murderers. Or one at least.” 
“There’s one less human,” Norris said softly. “Maybe the monsters have the balance of power now.” 
“Never mind that,” McReady sighed and turned to Barclay. “Bar, will you get your electric gadget? I’m going to make certain ­— ” 
Barclay turned down the corridor to get the pronged electrocuter, while McReady and Van Wall went back toward Cosmos House. Barclay followed them in some thirty seconds. 
The corridor to Cosmos House twisted, as did nearly all corridors in Big Magnet, and Norris stood at the entrance again. But they heard, rather muffled McReady’s sudden shout. There was a savage scurry of blows, dull ch­thunk, shluff sounds. “Bar ­— Bar —­” And a curious, savage mewing scream, silenced before even quick-­moving Norris had reached the bend. 
Kinner —­ or what had been Kinner ­— lay on the floor; cut half in two by the great knife McReady had had. The meteorologist stood against the wall, the knife dripping red in his hand. Van Wall was stirring vaguely on the floor, moaning, his hand half-­consciously rubbing at his jaw. Barclay an unutterably savage gleam in his eyes, was methodically leaning on the pronged weapon in his hand, jabbing, jabbing. 
Kinner’s arms had developed a queer, scaly fur, and the flesh had twisted. The fingers had shortened, the hand rounded, the fingernails become three­-inch long things of dull red horn, keened to steel­-hard razor­-sharp talons. 
McReady raised his head, looked at the knife in his hand and dropped it. “Well, whoever did it can speak up now. He was an inhuman murderer at that — ­in that he murdered an inhuman. I swear by all that’s holy, Kinner was a lifeless corpse on the floor here when we arrived. But when it found we were going to jab it with the power —­ it changed.”

NORRIS stared unsteadily. “Oh. Lord, those things can act. Ye gods —­ sitting in here for hours, mouthing prayers to a God it hated! Shouting hymns in a cracked voice —­ hymns about a Church it never knew. Driving us mad with its ceaseless howling ­—
“Well. Speak up, whoever did it, You didn’t know it, but you did the camp a favor. And I want to know how in blazes you got out of that room without anyone seeing you. It might help in guarding ourselves.” 
“His screaming —­ his singing. Even the sound projector couldn’t drown it.” Clark shivered. “It was a monster.” 
“Oh,” said Van Wall in sudden comprehension. “You were sitting right next to the door, weren’t you! And almost behind the projection screen already.” 
Clark nodded dumbly. “He —­ it’s quiet now. It’s a dead ­— Mac, your test’s no damn good. It was dead anyway, monster or man, it was dead.” 
McReady chuckled softly. “Boys, meet Clark, the only one we know is human! Meet Clark, the one who proves he’s human by trying to commit murder—­and failing. Will the rest of you please refrain from trying to prove you’re human for a while? I think we may have another test.” 
“A test!” Connant snapped joyfully, then his face sagged in disappointment. “I suppose it’s another either­-way-­you-­want-­it.” 
“No,” said McReady steadily. “Look sharp and be careful. Come into the Ad Building. Barclay, bring your electrocuter. And somebody —­ Dutton —­ stand with Barclay to make sure he does it. Watch every neighbor, for by the Hell these monsters come from, I’ve got something, and they know it. They’re going to get dangerous!” 
The group tensed abruptly. An air of crushing menace entered into every man’s body, sharply they looked at each other. More keenly than ever before ­— is that man next to me an inhuman monster? 
“What is it?” Garry asked, as they stood again in the main room. “How long will it take?” 
“I don’t know exactly,” said McReady, his voice brittle with angry determination. “But I know it will work, and no two ways about it. It depends on a basic quality of the monsters, not on us. ’Kinner’ just convinced me.” He stood heavy and solid in bronzed immobility, completely sure of himself again at last. 
“This,” said Barclay, hefting the wooden-handled weapon, tipped with its two sharp-pointed, charged conductors, “is going to be rather necessary, I take it. Is the power plant assured?” 
Dutton nodded sharply. “The automatic stoker bin is full. The gas power plant is on stand­by. Van Wall and I set it for the movie operation and ­ we’ve checked it over rather carefully several times, you know. Anything those wires touch, dies,” he assured them grimly “I know that.” 
Dr. Copper stirred vaguely in his bunk, rubbed his eyes with fumbling hand. He sat up slowly, blinked his eyes blurred with sleep and drugs, widened with an unutterable horror of drug-­ridden nightmares. “Garry,” he mumbled, “Garry —­ listen. Selfish­—from hell they came, and hellish shellfish —­ I mean self ­— Do I? What do I mean?” he sank back in his bunk, and snored softly.

McREADY looked at him thoughtfully. “We’ll know presently,” he nodded slowly. “But selfish is what you mean all right. You may have thought of that, half­-sleeping, dreaming there. I didn’t stop to think what dreams you might be having. But that’s all right. Selfish is the word. They must be, you see.” He turned to the men in the cabin, tense, silent men staring with wolfish eyes each at his neighbor. Selfish, and as Dr. Copper said— every part is a whole. Every piece is self-­sufficient, an animal in itself. 
“That, and one other thing, tell the story. There’s nothing mysterious about blood; it’s just as normal a body tissue as a piece of muscle, or a piece of liver. But it hasn’t so much connective tissue, though it has millions, billions of life-cells” 
McReady’s great bronze beard ruffled in a grim smile. “This is satisfying, in a way. I’m pretty ­sure we humans still outnumber you —­ others. Others standing here. And we have what you, your otherworld race, evidently doesn’t. Not an imitated, but a bred-­in-­the-­bone instinct, a driving, unquenchable fire that’s genuine. We’ll fight, fight with a ferocity you may attempt to imitate, but you’ll never equal! We’re human. We’re real. You’re imitations, false to the core of your every cell. 
“All right. It’s a showdown now. You know. You, with your mind reading. You’ve lifted the idea from my brain. You can’t do a thing about it. 
“Standing here ­— 
“Let it pass. Blood is tissue. They have to bleed, if they don’t bleed when cut, then, by Heaven, they’re phony! Phony from hell! If they bleed —­ then that blood, separated from them, is an individual ­— a newly formed individual in its own right, just as they, split, all of them, from one original, are individuals!
“Get it, Van? See the answer, Bar?” 
Van Wall laughed very softly. “The blood ­— the blood will not obey. It’s a new individual, with all the desire to protect its own life that the original —­ the main mass from which it was split —­­ has. The blood will live —­ and try to crawl away from a hot needle, say!” 
McReady picked up the scalpel from the table. From the cabinet, he took a rack of test-tubes, a tiny alcohol lamp, and a length of platinum wire set in a little glass rod. A smile of grim satisfaction rode his lips. For a moment he glanced up at those around him. Barclay and Dutton moved toward him slowly, the wooden-­handled electric instrument alert. 
“Dutton,” said McReady,” suppose you stand over by the splice there where you’ve connected that in. Just make sure no—thing pulls it loose.” 
Dutton moved away. “Now, Van, suppose you be first on this.” 
White-faced, Van Wall stepped forward. With a delicate precision, McReady cut a vein in the base of his thumb. Van Wall winced slightly, then held steady as a half inch of bright blood collected in the tube. McReady put the tube in the rack, gave Van Wall a bit of alum, and indicated the iodine bottle. 
Van Wall stood motionlessly watching. McReady heated the platinum wire in the alcohol lamp flame, then dipped it into the tube. it hissed softly. Five times he repeated the test. “Human, I’d say.” McReady sighed, and straightened. “As yet, my theory hasn’t been actually proven ­— but I have hopes. I have hopes. 
“Don’t, by the way, get too interested in this. We have with us some unwelcome ones, no doubt, Van, will you relieve Barclay at the switch? Thanks. O.K., Barclay, and may I say I hope you stay with us? You’re a damned good guy.” 
Barclay grinned uncertainly; winced under the keen edge of the scalpel. Presently, smiling widely, he retrieved his long-­handled weapon. 
“Mr. Samuel Dutt —­ Bar!

THE TENSITY was released in that second. Whatever of hell the monsters may have had within them, the men in that instant matched it. Barclay had no chance to move his weapon as a score of men poured down on that thing that had seemed Dutton. It mewed, and spat, and tried to grow fangs ­— and was a hundred broken, torn pieces. Without knives, or any weapon save the brute­ given strength of a staff of picked men, the thing was crushed, rent. 
Slowly they picked themselves up, their eyes smoldering, very quiet in their emotions. A curious wrinkling of their lips betrayed a species of nervousness. 
Barclay went over with the electric weapon. Things smoldered and stank. The caustic acid Van Wall dropped on each spilled drop of blood gave off tickling, cough-­provoking fumes. 
McReady grinned, his deep-set eyes alight and dancing. “Maybe,” he said softly,. “I underrated man’s abilities when I said nothing human could have the ferocity in the eyes of that thing we found. I wish we could have the opportunity to treat in a more befitting manner these things. Something with boiling oil, or melted lead in it, or maybe slow roasting in the power boiler. When I think what a man Dutton was ­— 
“Never mind. My theory is confirmed by —­ by one who knew? Well, Van Wall and Barclay are proven. I think, then, that I’ll try to show you what I already know. That I too am human.” McReady swished the scalpel in absolute alcohol, burned it off the metal blade, and cut the base of his thumb expertly. 
Twenty seconds later he looked up from the desk at the waiting men. There were more grins out there now, friendly grins, yet withal, something else in the eyes. 
“Connant,” McReady laughed softly, “was right. The huskies watching that thing in the corridor bend had nothing on you. Wonder why we think only the wolf blood has the right to ferocity? Maybe on spontaneous viciousness a wolf takes tops, but after these seven days —­ abandon all hope, ye wolves who enter here! 
“Maybe we can save time. Connant, would you step for— ” 
Again Barclay was too slow. There were more grins, less tensity still, when Barclay and Van Wall finished their work. 
Garry spoke in a low, bitter voice. “Connant was one of the finest men we had here ­— and five minutes ago I’d have sworn he was a man. Those damnable things are more than imitation.” Garry shuddered and sat back in his bunk. 
And thirty seconds later, Garry’s blood shrank from the hot platinum wire, and struggled to escape the tube, struggled as frantically as a suddenly feral, red-­eyed, dissolving imitation of Garry struggled to dodge the snake­-tongue weapon Barclay advanced at him, white faced and sweating. The Thing in the test­-tube screamed with a tin, tinny voice as McReady dropped it into the glowing coal of the galley stove.

CHAPTER XII

“THE LAST OF IT?” Dr. Copper looked down from his bunk with bloodshot, saddened eyes. “Fourteen of them ­— ” 
McReady nodded shortly. “In some ways ­ if only we could have permanently prevented their spreading ­— I’d like to have even the imitations back. Commander Garry —­ Connant ­— Dutton —­ Clark ­—” 
“Where are they taking those things?” Copper nodded to the stretcher Barclay and Norris were carrying out. 
“Outside. Outside on the ice, where they’ve got fifteen smashed crates, half a ton of coal, and presently will add ten gallons of kerosene. We’ve dumped acid on every spilled drop, every torn fragment. We’re going to incinerate those.” 
“Sounds like a good plan.” Copper nodded wearily. “I wonder, you haven’t said whether Blair —­” 
McReady started. “We forgot him! We had so much else! I wonder ­— do you suppose we can cure him now? 
“If— ­” began Dr. Copper, and stopped meaningly. 
McReady started a second time. “Even a madman. It imitated Kinner and his praying hysteria —­” McReady turned toward Van Wall at the long table. “Van, we’ve got to make an expedition to Blair’s shack.” 
Van looked up sharply, the frown of worry faded for an instant in surprised remembrance. Then he rose, nodded. “Barclay better go along. He applied the lashings, and may figure how to get in without frightening Blair too much.” 
Three quarters of an hour, through ­-37 cold, while the Aurora curtain bellied overhead. The twilight was nearly 12 hours long, flaming in the north on snow like white, crystalline sand under their skis. A 5­mile wind piled it in drift-­lines pointing off to the northwest. Three quarters of an hour to reach the snow-­buried shack. No smoke came from the little shack, and the men hastened. 
“Blair!” Barclay roared into the wind when he was still a hundred yards away. “Blair!” 
“Shut up,” said McReady softly. “And hurry. He may be trying a long hike. If we have to go after him —­no planes, the tractors disabled —­” 
“Would a monster have the stamina a man has?” 
“A broken leg wouldn’t stop it for more than a minute,” McReady pointed out.

BARCLAY gasped suddenly and pointed aloft. Dim in the twilit sky, a winged thing circled in curves of indescribable grace and ease. Great white wings tipped gently, and the bird swept over them in silent curiosity. “Albatross ­” Barclay said softly. “First of the season, and wandering way inland for some reason. If a monster’s loose— ­” 
Norris bent down on the ice, and tore hurriedly at his heavy, wind­proof clothing. He straightened, his coat flapping open, a grim blue­-metaled weapon in his hand. It roared a challenge to the white silence of Antarctica. 
The thing in the air screamed hoarsely. Its great wings worked frantically as a dozen feathers floated down from its tail. Norris fired again. The bird was moving swiftly now, but in an almost straight line of retreat. It screamed again, more feathers dropped and with beating wings it soared behind a ridge of pressure ice, to vanish. 
Norris hurried after the others. “It won’t come back,” he panted. 
Barclay cautioned him to silence, pointing. A curiously, fiercely blue light beat out from the cracks of the shack’s door. A very low, soft humming sounded inside, a low, soft humming and a clink and clank of tools, the very sounds somehow bearing a message of frantic haste. 
McReady’s face paled. “Lord help us if that thing has —­” He grabbed Barclay’s shoulder, and made snipping motions with his fingers, pointing toward the lacing of control­-cables that held the door. 
Barclay drew the wire-­cutters from his pocket, and kneeled soundlessly at the door. The snap and twang of cut wires made an unbearable racket in the utter quiet of the Antarctic hush. There was only that strange, sweetly soft hum from within the shack, and the queerly, hectically clipped clicking and rattling of tools to drown their noises. 
McReady peered through a crack in the door. His breath sucked in huskily and his great fingers clamped cruelly on Barclay’s shoulder. The meteorologist backed down. “It isn’t,” he explained very softly, “Blair. It’s kneeling on something on the bunk­—something that keeps lifting. Whatever it’s working on is a thing like a knap­sack ­— and it lifts.” 
“All at once,” Barclay said grimly. “No Norris, hang back, and get that iron of yours out. It may have —­ weapons.” 
Together, Barclay’s powerful body and McReady’s giant strength struck the door. Inside, the bunk jammed against the door screeched madly and crackled into kindling. The door flung down from broken hinges, the patched lumber of the doorpost dropping inward. 
Like a blue-­rubber ball, a Thing bounced up. One of its four tentacle-like arms looped out like a striking snake. In a seven-­tentacled hand a six-­inch pencil of winking, shining metal glinted and swung upward to face them. Its line-thin lips twitched back from snake-­fangs in a grin of hate, red eyes blazing. 
Norris’ revolver thundered in the confined space. The hate­-washed face twitched in agony, the looping tentacle snatched back. The silvery thing in its hand a smashed ruin of metal, the seven­ tentacled hand became a mass of mangled flesh oozing greenish-­yellow ichor. The revolver thundered three times more. Dark holes drilled each of the three eyes before Norris hurled the empty weapon against its face.

THE THING screamed a feral hate, a lashing tentacle wiping at blinded eyes. For a moment it crawled on the floor, savage tentacles lashing out, the body twitching. Then it staggered up again, blinded eyes working, boiling hideously, the crushed flesh sloughing away in sodden gobbets. 
Barclay lurched to his feet and dove forward with an ice­-ax. The flat of the weighty thing crushed against the side of the head. Again the unkillable monster went down. The tentacles lashed out, and suddenly Barclay fell to his feet in the grip of a living, livid rope. The thing dissolved as he held it, a white-­hot band that ate into the flesh of his hands like living fire. Frantically he tore the stuff from him, held his hands where they could not be reached. The blind Thing felt and ripped at the tough; heavy, windproof cloth, seeking flesh —­ flesh it could convert ­— 
The huge blow-­torch McReady had brought coughed solemnly. Abruptly it rumbled disapproval throatily. Then it laughed gurglingly, and thrust out a blue­-white, three-­foot tongue. The Thing on the floor shrieked, flailed out blindly with tentacles that writhed and withered in the bubbling wrath of the blow-torch. It crawled and turned on the floor, it shrieked and hobbled madly, but always McReady held the blow-torch on the face, the dead eyes burning and bubbling uselessly. Frantically the Thing crawled and howled. 
A tentacle sprouted a savage talon —­ and crisped in the flame. Steadily McReady moved with a planned, grim campaign. Helpless, maddened, the Thing retreated from the grunting torch, the caressing, licking tongue. For a moment it rebelled, squalling in inhuman hatred at the touch of icy snow. Then it fell back before the charring breath of the torch, the stench of its flesh bathing it. Hopelessly it retreated ­— on and on across the Antarctic snow, The bitter wind swept over it twisting the torch-­tongue; vainly it flopped, a trail of oily, stinking smoke bubbling away from it— 
McReady walked back toward the shack silently. Barclay met him at the door. “No more?” the giant meteorologist asked grimly. 
Barclay shook his head. “No more. It didn’t split?” 
“It had other things to think about,” McReady assured him. “When I left it, it was a glowing coal. What was it doing?” 
Norris laughed shortly. “Wise boys, we are. Smash magnetos, so planes won’t work. Rip the boiler tubing’ out of the tractors. And leave that Thing alone for a week in this shack. Alone and undisturbed.” 
McReady looked in at the shack more carefully. The air, despite the ripped door, was hot and humid. On a table at the far end of the room rested a thing of coiled wires and small magnets, glass tubing and radio tubes. At the center a block of rough stone rested. From the center of the block came the light that flooded the place, the fiercely blue light bluer than the glare of an electric arc, and from it came the sweetly soft hum. Off to one side was another mechanism of crystal glass, blown with an incredible neatness and delicacy, metal plates and a queer, shimmery sphere of insubstantiality. 
“What is that?” McReady moved nearer.

NORRIS grunted. “Leave it for investigation. But I can guess pretty well. That’s atomic power. That stuff to the left ­— that’s a neat little thing for doing what men have been trying to do with 100­ton cyclotrons and so forth. It separates neutrons from heavy water, which he was getting from the surrounding ice.” 
“Where did he get all ­— oh. Of course, A monster couldn’t be locked in —­ or out. He’s been through the apparatus caches.” McReady stared at the apparatus. “Lord, what minds that race must have —­”
“The shimmery sphere ­ I think it’s a sphere of pure force. Neutrons can pass through any matter, and he wanted a supply reservoir of neutrons. Just project neutrons against silica —­ calcium —­ beryllium— ­almost anything, and the atomic energy is released. That thing is the atomic generator.” 
McReady plucked a thermometer from his coat. “It’s 120 in here, despite the open door. Our clothes have kept the heat out to an extent, but I’m sweating now.” 
Norris nodded. “The light’s cold. I found that. But it gives off heat to warm the place through that coil. He had all the power in the world. He could keep it warm and pleasant, as his race thought of warmth and pleasantness. Did you notice the light, the color of it?” 
McReady nodded. “Beyond the stars is the answer. From beyond the stars. From a hotter planet that circled a brighter, bluer sun they came.” 
McReady glanced out the door toward the blasted, smoke-­stained trail that flopped and wandered blindly off across the drift. “There won’t be any more coming, I guess. Sheer accident it landed here, and that was twenty million years ago. What did it do all that for?” he nodded toward the apparatus. 
Barclay laughed softly. “Did you notice what it was working on when we came? Look.” He pointed toward the ceiling of the shack. 
Like a knapsack made of flattened coffee­-tins, with dangling cloth straps and leather belts, the mechanism clung to the ceiling. A tiny, glaring heart of supernal flame burned in it, yet burned through the ceiling’s wood without scorching it. Barclay walked over to it, grasped two of the dangling straps in his hands, and pulled it down with an effort. He strapped it about his body. A slight jump carried him in a weirdly slow arc across the room. 
“Anti-­gravity,” said McReady softly. 
“Anti-­gravity,” Norris nodded. “Yes, we had ’em stopped, with no planes, and no birds. The birds hadn’t come ­ but they had coffee-­tins and radio parts, and glass and the machine shop at night. And a week —­ a whole week —­ all to itself. America in a single jump —­ with anti-­gravity powered by the atomic energy of matter. 

“We had ’em stopped, Another half hour —­ it was just tightening these straps on the device so it could wear it —­ and we’d have stayed in Antarctica, and shot down any moving thing that came from, the rest of the world.” 
“The albatross— ­” McReady said softly. “Do you suppose— ­” 
“With this thing almost finished? With that death weapon it held in its hand? 
“No, by the grace of God, who evidently does hear very well, even down here, and the margin of half an hour, we keep our world, and the planets of the system too. Anti­-gravity, you know, and atomic power. Because They came from another sun, a star beyond the stars. They came from a world with a bluer sun.”


The End

.

 

Tony and the Beetles, by Philip K. Dick

This text was produced from Orbit volume 1 number 2, 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.

TONY and the BEETLES

by Philip K. Dick

A TEN-YEAR-OLD BOY GROWS UP FAST WHEN HISTORY CATCHES UP WITH THE HUMAN RACE.


Reddish-yellow sunlight filtered through the thick quartz windows into the sleep-compartment. Tony Rossi yawned, stirred a little, then opened his black eyes and sat up quickly. With one motion he tossed the covers back and slid to the warm metal floor. He clicked off his alarm clock and hurried to the closet.

It looked like a nice day. The landscape outside was motionless, undisturbed by winds or dust-shift. The boy’s heart pounded excitedly. He pulled his trousers on, zipped up the reinforced mesh, struggled into his heavy canvas shirt, and then sat down on the edge of the cot to tug on his boots. He closed the seams around their tops and then did the same with his gloves. Next he adjusted the pressure on his pump unit and strapped it between his shoulder blades. He grabbed his helmet from the dresser, and he was ready for the day.

In the dining-compartment his mother and father had finished breakfast. Their voices drifted to him as he clattered down the ramp. A disturbed murmur; he paused to listen. What were they talking about? Had he done something wrong, again?

And then he caught it. Behind their voices was another voice. Static and crackling pops. The all-system audio signal from Rigel IV. They had it turned up full blast; the dull thunder of the monitor’s voice boomed loudly. The war. Always the war. He sighed, and stepped out into the dining-compartment.

“Morning,” his father muttered.

“Good morning, dear,” his mother said absently. She sat with her head turned to one side, wrinkles of concentration webbing her forehead. Her thin lips were drawn together in a tight line of concern. His father had pushed his dirty dishes back and was smoking, elbows on the table, dark hairy arms bare and muscular. He was scowling, intent on the jumbled roar from the speaker above the sink.

“How’s it going?” Tony asked. He slid into his chair and reached automatically for the ersatz grapefruit. “Any news from Orion?”

Neither of them answered. They didn’t hear him. He began to eat his grapefruit. Outside, beyond the little metal and plastic housing unit, sounds of activity grew. Shouts and muffled crashes, as rural merchants and their trucks rumbled along the highway toward Karnet. The reddish daylight swelled; Betelgeuse was rising quietly and majestically.

“Nice day,” Tony said. “No flux wind. I think I’ll go down to the n-quarter awhile. We’re building a neat spaceport, a model, of course, but we’ve been able to get enough materials to lay out strips for—”

With a savage snarl his father reached out and struck the audio roar immediately died. “I knew it!” He got up and moved angrily away from the table. “I told them it would happen. They shouldn’t have moved so soon. Should have built up Class A supply bases, first.”

“Isn’t our main fleet moving in from Bellatrix?” Tony’s mother fluttered anxiously. “According to last night’s summary the worst that can happen is Orion IX and X will be dumped.”

Joseph Rossi laughed harshly. “The hell with last night’s summary. They know as well as I do what’s happening.”

“What’s happening?” Tony echoed, as he pushed aside his grapefruit and began to ladle out dry cereal. “Are we losing the battle?”

“Yes!” His father’s lips twisted. “Earthmen, losing to—to beetles. I told them. But they couldn’t wait. My God, there’s ten good years left in this system. Why’d they have to push on? Everybody knew Orion would be tough. The whole damn beetle fleet’s strung out around there. Waiting for us. And we have to barge right in.”

“But nobody ever thought beetles would fight,” Leah Rossi protested mildly. “Everybody thought they’d just fire a few blasts and then—”

“They have to fight! Orion’s the last jump-off. If they don’t fight here, where the hell can they fight?” Rossi swore savagely. “Of course they’re fighting. We have all their planets except the inner Orion string—not that they’re worth much, but it’s the principle of the thing. If we’d built up strong supply bases, we could have broken up the beetle fleet and really clobbered it.”

“Don’t say ‘beetle,'” Tony murmured, as he finished his cereal. “They’re Pas-udeti, same as here. The word ‘beetle’ comes from Betelgeuse. An Arabian word we invented ourselves.”

Joe Rossi’s mouth opened and closed. “What are you, a goddamn beetle-lover?”

“Joe,” Leah snapped. “For heaven’s sake.”

Rossi moved toward the door. “If I was ten years younger I’d be out there. I’d really show those shiny-shelled insects what the hell they’re up against. Them and their junky beat-up old hulks. Converted freighters!” His eyes blazed. “When I think of them shooting down Terran cruisers with our boys in them—”

“Orion’s their system,” Tony murmured.

Their system! When the hell did you get to be an authority on space law? Why, I ought to—” He broke off, choked with rage. “My own kid,” he muttered. “One more crack out of you today and I’ll hang one on you you’ll feel the rest of the week.”

Tony pushed his chair back. “I won’t be around here today. I’m going into Karnet, with my EEP.”

“Yeah, to play with beetles!”

Tony said nothing. He was already sliding his helmet in place and snapping the clamps tight. As he pushed through the back door, into the lock membrane, he unscrewed his oxygen tap and set the tank filter into action. An automatic response, conditioned by a lifetime spent on a colony planet in an alien system.


A faint flux wind caught at him and swept yellow-red dust around his boots. Sunlight glittered from the metal roof of his family’s housing unit, one of endless rows of squat boxes set in the sandy slope, protected by the line of ore-refining installations against the horizon. He made an impatient signal, and from the storage shed his EEP came gliding out, catching the sunlight on its chrome trim.

“We’re going down into Karnet,” Tony said, unconsciously slipping into the Pas dialect. “Hurry up!”

The EEP took up its position behind him, and he started briskly down the slope, over the shifting sand, toward the road. There were quite a few traders out, today. It was a good day for the market; only a fourth of the year was fit for travel. Betelgeuse was an erratic and undependable sun, not at all like Sol (according to the edutapes, fed to Tony four hours a day, six days a week—he had never seen Sol himself).

He reached the noisy road. Pas-udeti were everywhere. Whole groups of them, with their primitive combustion-driven trucks, battered and filthy, motors grinding protestingly. He waved at the trucks as they pushed past him. After a moment one slowed down. It was piled with tis, bundled heaps of gray vegetables dried, and prepared for the table. A staple of the Pas-udeti diet. Behind the wheel lounged a dark-faced elderly Pas, one arm over the open window, a rolled leaf between his lips. He was like all other Pas-udeti; lank and hard-shelled, encased in a brittle sheath in which he lived and died.

“You want a ride?” the Pas murmured—required protocol when an Earthman on foot was encountered.

“Is there room for my EEP?”

The Pas made a careless motion with his claw. “It can run behind.” Sardonic amusement touched his ugly old face. “If it gets to Karnet we’ll sell it for scrap. We can use a few condensers and relay tubing. We’re short on electronic maintenance stuff.”

“I know,” Tony said solemnly, as he climbed into the cabin of the truck. “It’s all been sent to the big repair base at Orion I. For your warfleet.”

Amusement vanished from the leathery face. “Yes, the warfleet.” He turned away and started up the truck again. In the back, Tony’s EEP had scrambled up on the load of tis and was gripping precariously with its magnetic lines.

Tony noticed the Pas-udeti’s sudden change of expression, and he was puzzled. He started to speak to him—but now he noticed unusual quietness among the other Pas, in the other trucks, behind and in front of his own. The war, of course. It had swept through this system a century ago; these people had been left behind. Now all eyes were on Orion, on the battle between the Terran warfleet and the Pas-udeti collection of armed freighters.

“Is it true,” Tony asked carefully, “that you’re winning?”

The elderly Pas grunted. “We hear rumors.”

Tony considered. “My father says Terra went ahead too fast. He says we should have consolidated. We didn’t assemble adequate supply bases. He used to be an officer, when he was younger. He was with the fleet for two years.”

The Pas was silent a moment. “It’s true,” he said at last, “that when you’re so far from home, supply is a great problem. We, on the other hand, don’t have that. We have no distances to cover.”

“Do you know anybody fighting?”

“I have distant relatives.” The answer was vague; the Pas obviously didn’t want to talk about it.

“Have you ever seen your warfleet?”

“Not as it exists now. When this system was defeated most of our units were wiped out. Remnants limped to Orion and joined the Orion fleet.”

“Your relatives were with the remnants?”

“That’s right.”

“Then you were alive when this planet was taken?”

“Why do you ask?” The old Pas quivered violently. “What business is it of yours?”

Tony leaned out and watched the walls and buildings of Karnet grow ahead of them. Karnet was an old city. It had stood thousands of years. The Pas-udeti civilization was stable; it had reached a certain point of technocratic development and then leveled off. The Pas had inter-system ships that had carried people and freight between planets in the days before the Terran Confederation. They had combustion-driven cars, audiophones, a power network of a magnetic type. Their plumbing was satisfactory and their medicine was highly advanced. They had art forms, emotional and exciting. They had a vague religion.

“Who do you think will win the battle?” Tony asked.

“I don’t know.” With a sudden jerk the old Pas brought the truck to a crashing halt. “This is as far as I go. Please get out and take your EEP with you.”

Tony faltered in surprise. “But aren’t you going—?”

“No farther!”

Tony pushed the door open. He was vaguely uneasy; there was a hard, fixed expression on the leathery face, and the old creature’s voice had a sharp edge he had never heard before. “Thanks,” he murmured. He hopped down into the red dust and signaled his EEP. It released its magnetic lines, and instantly the truck started up with a roar, passing on inside the city.

Tony watched it go, still dazed. The hot dust lapped at his ankles; he automatically moved his feet and slapped at his trousers. A truck honked, and his EEP quickly moved him from the road, up to the level pedestrian ramp. Pas-udeti in swarms moved by, endless lines of rural people hurrying into Karnet on their daily business. A massive public bus had stopped by the gate and was letting off passengers. Male and female Pas. And children. They laughed and shouted; the sounds of their voices blended with the low hum of the city.

“Going in?” a sharp Pas-udeti voice sounded close behind him. “Keep moving—you’re blocking the ramp.”

It was a young female, with a heavy armload clutched in her claws. Tony felt embarrassed; female Pas had a certain telepathic ability, part of their sexual make-up. It was effective on Earthmen at close range.

“Here,” she said. “Give me a hand.”

Tony nodded his head, and the EEP accepted the female’s heavy armload. “I’m visiting the city,” Tony said, as they moved with the crowd toward the gates. “I got a ride most of the way, but the driver let me off out here.”

“You’re from the settlement?”

“Yes.”

She eyed him critically. “You’ve always lived here, haven’t you?”

“I was born here. My family came here from Earth four years before I was born. My father was an officer in the fleet. He earned an Emigration Priority.”

“So you’ve never seen your own planet. How old are you?”

“Ten years. Terran.”

“You shouldn’t have asked the driver so many questions.”

They passed through the decontamination shield and into the city. An information square loomed ahead; Pas men and women were packed around it. Moving chutes and transport cars rumbled everywhere. Buildings and ramps and open-air machinery; the city was sealed in a protective dust-proof envelope. Tony unfastened his helmet and clipped it to his belt. The air was stale-smelling, artificial, but usable.

“Let me tell you something,” the young female said carefully, as she strode along the foot-ramp beside Tony. “I wonder if this is a good day for you to come into Karnet. I know you’ve been coming here regularly to play with your friends. But perhaps today you ought to stay at home, in your settlement.”

“Why?”

“Because today everybody is upset.”

“I know,” Tony said. “My mother and father were upset. They were listening to the news from our base in the Rigel system.”

“I don’t mean your family. Other people are listening, too. These people here. My race.”

“They’re upset, all right,” Tony admitted. “But I come here all the time. There’s nobody to play with at the settlement, and anyhow we’re working on a project.”

“A model spaceport.”

“That’s right.” Tony was envious. “I sure wish I was a telepath. It must be fun.”

The female Pas-udeti was silent. She was deep in thought. “What would happen,” she asked, “if your family left here and returned to Earth?”

“That couldn’t happen. There’s no room for us on Earth. C-bombs destroyed most of Asia and North America back in the Twentieth Century.”

“Suppose you had to go back?”

Tony did not understand. “But we can’t. Habitable portions of Earth are overcrowded. Our main problem is finding places for Terrans to live, in other systems.” He added, “And anyhow, I don’t particularly want to go to Terra. I’m used to it here. All my friends are here.”

“I’ll take my packages,” the female said. “I go this other way, down this third-level ramp.”

Tony nodded to his EEP and it lowered the bundles into the female’s claws. She lingered a moment, trying to find the right words.

“Good luck,” she said.

“With what?”

She smiled faintly, ironically. “With your model spaceport. I hope you and your friends get to finish it.”

“Of course we’ll finish it,” Tony said, surprised. “It’s almost done.” What did she mean?

The Pas-udeti woman hurried off before he could ask her. Tony was troubled and uncertain; more doubts filled him. After a moment he headed slowly into the lane that took him toward the residential section of the city. Past the stores and factories, to the place where his friends lived.

The group of Pas-udeti children eyed him silently as he approached. They had been playing in the shade of an immense hengelo, whose ancient branches drooped and swayed with the air currents pumped through the city. Now they sat unmoving.

“I didn’t expect you today,” B’prith said, in an expressionless voice.

Tony halted awkwardly, and his EEP did the same. “How are things?” he murmured.

“Fine.”

“I got a ride part way.”

“Fine.”

Tony squatted down in the shade. None of the Pas children stirred. They were small, not as large as Terran children. Their shells had not hardened, had not turned dark and opaque, like horn. It gave them a soft, unformed appearance, but at the same time it lightened their load. They moved more easily than their elders; they could hop and skip around, still. But they were not skipping right now.

“What’s the matter?” Tony demanded. “What’s wrong with everybody?”

No one answered.

“Where’s the model?” he asked. “Have you fellows been working on it?”

After a moment Llyre nodded slightly.

Tony felt dull anger rise up inside him. “Say something! What’s the matter? What’re you all mad about?”

“Mad?” B’prith echoed. “We’re not mad.”

Tony scratched aimlessly in the dust. He knew what it was. The war, again. The battle going on near Orion. His anger burst up wildly. “Forget the war. Everything was fine yesterday, before the battle.”

“Sure,” Llyre said. “It was fine.”

Tony caught the edge to his voice. “It happened a hundred years ago. It’s not my fault.”

“Sure,” B’prith said.

“This is my home. Isn’t it? Haven’t I got as much right here as anybody else? I was born here.”

“Sure,” Llyre said, tonelessly.

Tony appealed to them helplessly. “Do you have to act this way? You didn’t act this way yesterday. I was here yesterday—all of us were here yesterday. What’s happened since yesterday?”

“The battle,” B’prith said.

“What difference does that make? Why does that change everything? There’s always war. There’ve been battles all the time, as long as I can remember. What’s different about this?”

B’prith broke apart a clump of dirt with his strong claws. After a moment he tossed it away and got slowly to his feet. “Well,” he said thoughtfully, “according to our audio relay, it looks as if our fleet is going to win, this time.”

“Yes,” Tony agreed, not understanding. “My father says we didn’t build up adequate supply bases. We’ll probably have to fall back to….” And then the impact hit him. “You mean, for the first time in a hundred years—”

“Yes,” Llyre said, also getting up. The others got up, too. They moved away from Tony, toward the near-by house. “We’re winning. The Terran flank was turned, half an hour ago. Your right wing has folded completely.”

Tony was stunned. “And it matters. It matters to all of you.”

“Matters!” B’prith halted, suddenly blazing out in fury. “Sure it matters! For the first time—in a century. The first time in our lives we’re beating you. We have you on the run, you—” He choked out the word, almost spat it out. “You white-grubs!”

They disappeared into the house. Tony sat gazing stupidly down at the ground, his hands still moving aimlessly. He had heard the word before, seen it scrawled on walls and in the dust near the settlement. White-grubs. The Pas term of derision for Terrans. Because of their softness, their whiteness. Lack of hard shells. Pulpy, doughy skin. But they had never dared say it out loud, before. To an Earthman’s face.

Beside him, his EEP stirred restlessly. Its intricate radio mechanism sensed the hostile atmosphere. Automatic relays were sliding into place; circuits were opening and closing.

“It’s all right,” Tony murmured, getting slowly up. “Maybe we’d better go back.”

He moved unsteadily toward the ramp, completely shaken. The EEP walked calmly ahead, its metal face blank and confident, feeling nothing, saying nothing. Tony’s thoughts were a wild turmoil; he shook his head, but the crazy spinning kept up. He couldn’t make his mind slow down, lock in place.

“Wait a minute,” a voice said. B’prith’s voice, from the open doorway. Cold and withdrawn, almost unfamiliar.

“What do you want?”

B’prith came toward him, claws behind his back in the formal Pas-udeti posture, used between total strangers. “You shouldn’t have come here, today.”

“I know,” Tony said.

B’prith got out a bit of tis stalk and began to roll it into a tube. He pretended to concentrate on it. “Look,” he said. “You said you have a right here. But you don’t.”

“I—” Tony murmured.

“Do you understand why not? You said it isn’t your fault. I guess not. But it’s not my fault, either. Maybe it’s nobody’s fault. I’ve known you a long time.”

“Five years. Terran.”

B’prith twisted the stalk up and tossed it away. “Yesterday we played together. We worked on the spaceport. But we can’t play today. My family said to tell you not to come here any more.” He hesitated, and did not look Tony in the face. “I was going to tell you, anyhow. Before they said anything.”

“Oh,” Tony said.

“Everything that’s happened today—the battle, our fleet’s stand. We didn’t know. We didn’t dare hope. You see? A century of running. First this system. Then the Rigel system, all the planets. Then the other Orion stars. We fought here and there—scattered fights. Those that got away joined up. We supplied the base at Orion—you people didn’t know. But there was no hope; at least, nobody thought there was.” He was silent a moment. “Funny,” he said, “what happens when your back’s to the wall, and there isn’t any further place to go. Then you have to fight.”

“If our supply bases—” Tony began thickly, but B’prith cut him off savagely.

“Your supply bases! Don’t you understand? We’re beating you! Now you’ll have to get out! All you white-grubs. Out of our system!”

Tony’s EEP moved forward ominously. B’prith saw it. He bent down, snatched up a rock, and hurled it straight at the EEP. The rock clanged off the metal hull and bounced harmlessly away. B’prith snatched up another rock. Llyre and the others came quickly out of the house. An adult Pas loomed up behind them. Everything was happening too fast. More rocks crashed against the EEP. One struck Tony on the arm.

“Get out!” B’prith screamed. “Don’t come back! This is our planet!” His claws snatched at Tony. “We’ll tear you to pieces if you—”

Tony smashed him in the chest. The soft shell gave like rubber, and the Pas stumbled back. He wobbled and fell over, gasping and screeching.

Beetle,” Tony breathed hoarsely. Suddenly he was terrified. A crowd of Pas-udeti was forming rapidly. They surged on all sides, hostile faces, dark and angry, a rising thunder of rage.

More stones showered. Some struck the EEP, others fell around Tony, near his boots. One whizzed past his face. Quickly he slid his helmet in place. He was scared. He knew his EEP’s E-signal had already gone out, but it would be minutes before a ship could come. Besides, there were other Earthmen in the city to be taken care of; there were Earthmen all over the planet. In all the cities. On all the twenty-three Betelgeuse planets. On the fourteen Rigel planets. On the other Orion planets.

“We have to get out of here,” he muttered to the EEP. “Do something!”

A stone hit him on the helmet. The plastic cracked; air leaked out, and then the autoseal filmed over. More stones were falling. The Pas swarmed close, a yelling, seething mass of black-sheathed creatures. He could smell them, the acrid body-odor of insects, hear their claws snap, feel their weight.

The EEP threw its heat beam on. The beam shifted in a wide band toward the crowd of Pas-udeti. Crude hand weapons appeared. A clatter of bullets burst around Tony; they were firing at the EEP. He was dimly aware of the metal body beside him. A shuddering crash—the EEP was toppled over. The crowd poured over it; the metal hull was lost from sight.

Like a demented animal, the crowd tore at the struggling EEP. A few of them smashed in its head; others tore off struts and shiny arm-sections. The EEP ceased struggling. The crowd moved away, panting and clutching jagged remains. They saw Tony.

As the first line of them reached for him, the protective envelope high above them shattered. A Terran scout ship thundered down, heat beam screaming. The crowd scattered in confusion, some firing, some throwing stones, others leaping for safety.

Tony picked himself up and made his way unsteadily toward the spot where the scout was landing.


“I’m sorry,” Joe Rossi said gently. He touched his son on the shoulder. “I shouldn’t have let you go down there today. I should have known.”

Tony sat hunched over in the big plastic easychair. He rocked back and forth, face pale with shock. The scout ship which had rescued him had immediately headed back toward Karnet; there were other Earthmen to bring out, besides this first load. The boy said nothing. His mind was blank. He still heard the roar of the crowd, felt its hate—a century of pent-up fury and resentment. The memory drove out everything else; it was all around him, even now. And the sight of the floundering EEP, the metallic ripping sound, as its arms and legs were torn off and carried away.

His mother dabbed at his cuts and scratches with antiseptic. Joe Rossi shakily lit a cigarette and said, “If your EEP hadn’t been along they’d have killed you. Beetles.” He shuddered. “I never should have let you go down there. All this time…. They might have done it any time, any day. Knifed you. Cut you open with their filthy goddamn claws.”

Below the settlement the reddish-yellow sunlight glinted on gunbarrels. Already, dull booms echoed against the crumbling hills. The defense ring was going into action. Black shapes darted and scurried up the side of the slope. Black patches moved out from Karnet, toward the Terran settlement, across the dividing line the Confederation surveyors had set up a century ago. Karnet was a bubbling pot of activity. The whole city rumbled with feverish excitement.

Tony raised his head. “They—they turned our flank.”

“Yeah.” Joe Rossi stubbed out his cigarette. “They sure did. That was at one o’clock. At two they drove a wedge right through the center of our line. Split the fleet in half. Broke it up—sent it running. Picked us off one by one as we fell back. Christ, they’re like maniacs. Now that they’ve got the scent, the taste of our blood.”

“But it’s getting better,” Leah fluttered. “Our main fleet units are beginning to appear.”

“We’ll get them,” Joe muttered. “It’ll take a while. But by God we’ll wipe them out. Every last one of them. If it takes a thousand years. We’ll follow every last ship down—we’ll get them all.” His voice rose in frenzy. “Beetles! Goddamn insects! When I think of them, trying to hurt my kid, with their filthy black claws—”

“If you were younger, you’d be in the line,” Leah said. “It’s not your fault you’re too old. The heart strain’s too great. You did your job. They can’t let an older person take chances. It’s not your fault.”

Joe clenched his fists. “I feel so—futile. If there was only something I could do.”

“The fleet will take care of them,” Leah said soothingly. “You said so yourself. They’ll hunt every one of them down. Destroy them all. There’s nothing to worry about.”

Joe sagged miserably. “It’s no use. Let’s cut it out. Let’s stop kidding ourselves.”

“What do you mean?”

“Face it! We’re not going to win, not this time. We went too far. Our time’s come.”

There was silence.

Tony sat up a little. “When did you know?”

“I’ve known a long time.”

“I found out today. I didn’t understand, at first. This is—stolen ground. I was born here, but it’s stolen ground.”

“Yes. It’s stolen. It doesn’t belong to us.”

“We’re here because we’re stronger. But now we’re not stronger. We’re being beaten.”

“They know Terrans can be licked. Like anybody else.” Joe Rossi’s face was gray and flabby. “We took their planets away from them. Now they’re taking them back. It’ll be a while, of course. We’ll retreat slowly. It’ll be another five centuries going back. There’re a lot of systems between here and Sol.”

Tony shook his head, still uncomprehending. “Even Llyre and B’prith. All of them. Waiting for their time to come. For us to lose and go away again. Where we came from.”

Joe Rossi paced back and forth. “Yeah, we’ll be retreating from now on. Giving ground, instead of taking it. It’ll be like this today—losing fights, draws. Stalemates and worse.”

He raised his feverish eyes toward the ceiling of the little metal housing unit, face wild with passion and misery.

“But, by God, we’ll give them a run for their money. All the way back! Every inch!”


	

Mr. Spaceship, by Philip K. Dick

This text was produced from Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy, January 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.

A human brain-controlled spacecraft would mean mechanical perfection. This was accomplished, and something unforeseen: a strange entity called—

Mr. Spaceship

By
Philip K. Dick

Kramer leaned back. “You can see the situation. How can we deal with a factor like this? The perfect variable.”

“Perfect? Prediction should still be possible. A living thing still acts from necessity, the same as inanimate material. But the cause-effect chain is more subtle; there are more factors to be considered. The difference is quantitative, I think. The reaction of the living organism parallels natural causation, but with greater complexity.”

Gross and Kramer looked up at the board plates, suspended on the wall, still dripping, the images hardening into place. Kramer traced a line with his pencil.

“See that? It’s a pseudopodium. They’re alive, and so far, a weapon we can’t beat. No mechanical system can compete with that, simple or intricate. We’ll have to scrap the Johnson Control and find something else.”

“Meanwhile the war continues as it is. Stalemate. Checkmate. They can’t get to us, and we can’t get through their living minefield.”

Kramer nodded. “It’s a perfect defense, for them. But there still might be one answer.”

“What’s that?”

“Wait a minute.” Kramer turned to his rocket expert, sitting with the charts and files. “The heavy cruiser that returned this week. It didn’t actually touch, did it? It came close but there was no contact.”

“Correct.” The expert nodded. “The mine was twenty miles off. The cruiser was in space-drive, moving directly toward Proxima, line-straight, using the Johnson Control, of course. It had deflected a quarter of an hour earlier for reasons unknown. Later it resumed its  course. That was when they got it.”

“It shifted,” Kramer said. “But not enough. The mine was coming along after it, trailing it. It’s the same old story, but I wonder about the contact.”

“Here’s our theory,” the expert said. “We keep looking for contact, a trigger in the pseudopodium. But more likely we’re witnessing a psychological phenomena, a decision without any physical correlative. We’re watching for something that isn’t there. The mine decides to blow up. It sees our ship, approaches, and then decides.”

“Thanks.” Kramer turned to Gross. “Well, that confirms what I’m saying. How can a ship guided by automatic relays escape a mine that decides to explode? The whole theory of mine penetration is that you must avoid tripping the trigger. But here the trigger is a state of mind in a complicated, developed life-form.”

“The belt is fifty thousand miles deep,” Gross added. “It solves another problem for them, repair and maintenance. The damn things reproduce, fill up the spaces by spawning into them. I wonder what they feed on?”

“Probably the remains of our first-line. The big cruisers must be a delicacy. It’s a game of wits, between a living creature and a ship piloted by automatic relays. The ship always loses.” Kramer opened a folder. “I’ll tell you what I suggest.”

“Go on,” Gross said. “I’ve already heard ten solutions today. What’s yours?”

“Mine is very simple. These creatures are superior to any mechanical system, but only because they’re alive. Almost any other life-form could compete with them, any higher life-form. If the yuks can put out living mines to protect their planets, we ought to be able to harness some of our own life-forms in a similar way. Let’s make use of the same weapon ourselves.”

“Which life-form do you propose to use?”

“I think the human brain is the most agile of known living forms. Do you know of any better?”

“But no human being can withstand outspace travel. A human pilot would be dead of heart failure long before the ship got anywhere near Proxima.”

“But we don’t need the whole body,” Kramer said. “We need only the brain.”

“What?”

“The problem is to find a person of high intelligence who would contribute, in the same manner that eyes and arms are volunteered.”

“But a brain….”

“Technically, it could be done. Brains have been transferred several times, when body destruction made it necessary. Of course, to a spaceship, to a heavy outspace cruiser, instead of an artificial body, that’s new.”

The room was silent.

“It’s quite an idea,” Gross said  slowly. His heavy square face twisted. “But even supposing it might work, the big question is whose brain?”

It was all very confusing, the reasons for the war, the nature of the enemy. The Yucconae had been contacted on one of the outlying planets of Proxima Centauri. At the approach of the Terran ship, a host of dark slim pencils had lifted abruptly and shot off into the distance. The first real encounter came between three of the yuk pencils and a single exploration ship from Terra. No Terrans survived. After that it was all out war, with no holds barred.

Both sides feverishly constructed defense rings around their systems. Of the two, the Yucconae belt was the better. The ring around Proxima was a living ring, superior to anything Terra could throw against it. The standard equipment by which Terran ships were guided in outspace, the Johnson Control, was not adequate. Something more was needed. Automatic relays were not good enough.

—Not good at all, Kramer thought to himself, as he stood looking down the hillside at the work going on below him. A warm wind blew along the hill, rustling the weeds and grass. At the bottom, in the valley, the mechanics had almost finished; the last elements of the reflex system had been removed from the ship and crated up.

All that was needed now was the new core, the new central key that would take the place of the mechanical system. A human brain, the brain of an intelligent, wary human being. But would the human being part with it? That was the problem.

Kramer turned. Two people were approaching him along the road, a man and a woman. The man was Gross, expressionless, heavy-set, walking with dignity. The woman was—He stared in surprise and growing annoyance. It was Dolores, his wife. Since they’d separated he had seen little of her….

“Kramer,” Gross said. “Look who I ran into. Come back down with us. We’re going into town.”

“Hello, Phil,” Dolores said. “Well, aren’t you glad to see me?”

He nodded. “How have you been? You’re looking fine.” She was still pretty and slender in her uniform, the blue-grey of Internal Security, Gross’ organization.

“Thanks.” She smiled. “You seem to be doing all right, too. Commander Gross tells me that you’re responsible for this project, Operation Head, as they call it. Whose head have you decided on?”

“That’s the problem.” Kramer lit a cigarette. “This ship is to be equipped with a human brain instead of the Johnson system. We’ve constructed special draining baths for the brain, electronic relays to catch the impulses and magnify them, a continual feeding duct that supplies the living cells with everything  they need. But—”

“But we still haven’t got the brain itself,” Gross finished. They began to walk back toward the car. “If we can get that we’ll be ready for the tests.”

“Will the brain remain alive?” Dolores asked. “Is it actually going to live as part of the ship?”

“It will be alive, but not conscious. Very little life is actually conscious. Animals, trees, insects are quick in their responses, but they aren’t conscious. In this process of ours the individual personality, the ego, will cease. We only need the response ability, nothing more.”

Dolores shuddered. “How terrible!”

“In time of war everything must be tried,” Kramer said absently. “If one life sacrificed will end the war it’s worth it. This ship might get through. A couple more like it and there wouldn’t be any more war.”

They got into the car. As they drove down the road, Gross said, “Have you thought of anyone yet?”

Kramer shook his head. “That’s out of my line.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m an engineer. It’s not in my department.”

“But all this was your idea.”

“My work ends there.”

Gross was staring at him oddly. Kramer shifted uneasily.

“Then who is supposed to do it?” Gross said. “I can have my organization prepare examinations of various kinds, to determine fitness, that kind of thing—”

“Listen, Phil,” Dolores said suddenly.

“What?”

She turned toward him. “I have an idea. Do you remember that professor we had in college. Michael Thomas?”

Kramer nodded.

“I wonder if he’s still alive.” Dolores frowned. “If he is he must be awfully old.”

“Why, Dolores?” Gross asked.

“Perhaps an old person who didn’t have much time left, but whose mind was still clear and sharp—”

“Professor Thomas.” Kramer rubbed his jaw. “He certainly was a wise old duck. But could he still be alive? He must have been seventy, then.”

“We could find that out,” Gross said. “I could make a routine check.”

“What do you think?” Dolores said. “If any human mind could outwit those creatures—”

“I don’t like the idea,” Kramer said. In his mind an image had appeared, the image of an old man sitting behind a desk, his bright gentle eyes moving about the classroom. The old man leaning forward, a thin hand raised—

“Keep him out of this,” Kramer said.

“What’s wrong?” Gross looked at him curiously.

“It’s because I suggested it,” Dolores  said.

“No.” Kramer shook his head. “It’s not that. I didn’t expect anything like this, somebody I knew, a man I studied under. I remember him very clearly. He was a very distinct personality.”

“Good,” Gross said. “He sounds fine.”

“We can’t do it. We’re asking his death!”

“This is war,” Gross said, “and war doesn’t wait on the needs of the individual. You said that yourself. Surely he’ll volunteer; we can keep it on that basis.”

“He may already be dead,” Dolores murmured.

“We’ll find that out,” Gross said speeding up the car. They drove the rest of the way in silence.

For a long time the two of them stood studying the small wood house, overgrown with ivy, set back on the lot behind an enormous oak. The little town was silent and sleepy; once in awhile a car moved slowly along the distant highway, but that was all.

“This is the place,” Gross said to Kramer. He folded his arms. “Quite a quaint little house.”

Kramer said nothing. The two Security Agents behind them were expressionless.

Gross started toward the gate. “Let’s go. According to the check he’s still alive, but very sick. His mind is agile, however. That seems to be certain. It’s said he doesn’t leave the house. A woman takes care of his needs. He’s very frail.”

They went down the stone walk and up onto the porch. Gross rang the bell. They waited. After a time they heard slow footsteps. The door opened. An elderly woman in a shapeless wrapper studied them impassively.

“Security,” Gross said, showing his card. “We wish to see Professor Thomas.”

“Why?”

“Government business.” He glanced at Kramer.

Kramer stepped forward. “I was a pupil of the Professor’s,” he said. “I’m sure he won’t mind seeing us.”

The woman hesitated uncertainly. Gross stepped into the doorway. “All right, mother. This is war time. We can’t stand out here.”

The two Security agents followed him, and Kramer came reluctantly behind, closing the door. Gross stalked down the hall until he came to an open door. He stopped, looking in. Kramer could see the white corner of a bed, a wooden post and the edge of a dresser.

He joined Gross.

In the dark room a withered old man lay, propped up on endless pillows. At first it seemed as if he were asleep; there was no motion or sign of life. But after a time Kramer saw with a faint shock that the old man was watching them intently, his eyes fixed on them, unmoving, unwinking.

“Professor Thomas?” Gross said. “I’m Commander Gross of Security. This man with me is perhaps known to you—”

The faded eyes fixed on Kramer.

“I know him. Philip Kramer…. You’ve grown heavier, boy.” The voice was feeble, the rustle of dry ashes. “Is it true you’re married now?”

“Yes. I married Dolores French. You remember her.” Kramer came toward the bed. “But we’re separated. It didn’t work out very well. Our careers—”

“What we came here about, Professor,” Gross began, but Kramer cut him off with an impatient wave.

“Let me talk. Can’t you and your men get out of here long enough to let me talk to him?”

Gross swallowed. “All right, Kramer.” He nodded to the two men. The three of them left the room, going out into the hall and closing the door after them.

The old man in the bed watched Kramer silently. “I don’t think much of him,” he said at last. “I’ve seen his type before. What’s he want?”

“Nothing. He just came along. Can I sit down?” Kramer found a stiff upright chair beside the bed. “If I’m bothering you—”

“No. I’m glad to see you again, Philip. After so long. I’m sorry your marriage didn’t work out.”

“How have you been?”

“I’ve been very ill. I’m afraid that my moment on the world’s stage has almost ended.” The ancient eyes studied the younger man reflectively. “You look as if you have been doing well. Like everyone else I thought highly of. You’ve gone to the top in this society.”

Kramer smiled. Then he became serious. “Professor, there’s a project we’re working on that I want to talk to you about. It’s the first ray of hope we’ve had in this whole war. If it works, we may be able to crack the yuk defenses, get some ships into their system. If we can do that the war might be brought to an end.”

“Go on. Tell me about it, if you wish.”

“It’s a long shot, this project. It may not work at all, but we have to give it a try.”

“It’s obvious that you came here because of it,” Professor Thomas murmured. “I’m becoming curious. Go on.”

After Kramer finished the old man lay back in the bed without speaking. At last he sighed.

“I understand. A human mind, taken out of a human body.” He sat up a little, looking at Kramer. “I suppose you’re thinking of me.”

Kramer said nothing.

“Before I make my decision I want to see the papers on this, the theory and outline of construction. I’m not sure I like it.—For reasons of my own, I mean. But I want to look at the material. If you’ll do that—”

“Certainly.” Kramer stood up and went to the door. Gross and the two Security Agents were standing outside, waiting tensely. “Gross, come inside.”

 They filed into the room.

“Give the Professor the papers,” Kramer said. “He wants to study them before deciding.”

Gross brought the file out of his coat pocket, a manila envelope. He handed it to the old man on the bed. “Here it is, Professor. You’re welcome to examine it. Will you give us your answer as soon as possible? We’re very anxious to begin, of course.”

“I’ll give you my answer when I’ve decided.” He took the envelope with a thin, trembling hand. “My decision depends on what I find out from these papers. If I don’t like what I find, then I will not become involved with this work in any shape or form.” He opened the envelope with shaking hands. “I’m looking for one thing.”

“What is it?” Gross said.

“That’s my affair. Leave me a number by which I can reach you when I’ve decided.”

Silently, Gross put his card down on the dresser. As they went out Professor Thomas was already reading the first of the papers, the outline of the theory.

Kramer sat across from Dale Winter, his second in line. “What then?” Winter said.

“He’s going to contact us.” Kramer scratched with a drawing pen on some paper. “I don’t know what to think.”

“What do you mean?” Winter’s good-natured face was puzzled.

“Look.” Kramer stood up, pacing back and forth, his hands in his uniform pockets. “He was my teacher in college. I respected him as a man, as well as a teacher. He was more than a voice, a talking book. He was a person, a calm, kindly person I could look up to. I always wanted to be like him, someday. Now look at me.”

“So?”

“Look at what I’m asking. I’m asking for his life, as if he were some kind of laboratory animal kept around in a cage, not a man, a teacher at all.”

“Do you think he’ll do it?”

“I don’t know.” Kramer went to the window. He stood looking out. “In a way, I hope not.”

“But if he doesn’t—”

“Then we’ll have to find somebody else. I know. There would be somebody else. Why did Dolores have to—”

The vidphone rang. Kramer pressed the button.

“This is Gross.” The heavy features formed. “The old man called me. Professor Thomas.”

“What did he say?” He knew; he could tell already, by the sound of Gross’ voice.

“He said he’d do it. I was a little surprised myself, but apparently he means it. We’ve already made arrangements for his admission to the hospital. His lawyer is drawing up the statement of liability.”

Kramer only half heard. He nodded wearily. “All right. I’m glad. I suppose we can go ahead, then.”

 “You don’t sound very glad.”

“I wonder why he decided to go ahead with it.”

“He was very certain about it.” Gross sounded pleased. “He called me quite early. I was still in bed. You know, this calls for a celebration.”

“Sure,” Kramer said. “It sure does.”

Toward the middle of August the project neared completion. They stood outside in the hot autumn heat, looking up at the sleek metal sides of the ship.

Gross thumped the metal with his hand. “Well, it won’t be long. We can begin the test any time.”

“Tell us more about this,” an officer in gold braid said. “It’s such an unusual concept.”

“Is there really a human brain inside the ship?” a dignitary asked, a small man in a rumpled suit. “And the brain is actually alive?”

“Gentlemen, this ship is guided by a living brain instead of the usual Johnson relay-control system. But the brain is not conscious. It will function by reflex only. The practical difference between it and the Johnson system is this: a human brain is far more intricate than any man-made structure, and its ability to adapt itself to a situation, to respond to danger, is far beyond anything that could be artificially built.”

Gross paused, cocking his ear. The turbines of the ship were beginning to rumble, shaking the ground under them with a deep vibration. Kramer was standing a short distance away from the others, his arms folded, watching silently. At the sound of the turbines he walked quickly around the ship to the other side. A few workmen were clearing away the last of the waste, the scraps of wiring and scaffolding. They glanced up at him and went on hurriedly with their work. Kramer mounted the ramp and entered the control cabin of the ship. Winter was sitting at the controls with a Pilot from Space-transport.

“How’s it look?” Kramer asked.

“All right.” Winter got up. “He tells me that it would be best to take off manually. The robot controls—” Winter hesitated. “I mean, the built-in controls, can take over later on in space.”

“That’s right,” the Pilot said. “It’s customary with the Johnson system, and so in this case we should—”

“Can you tell anything yet?” Kramer asked.

“No,” the Pilot said slowly. “I don’t think so. I’ve been going over everything. It seems to be in good order. There’s only one thing I wanted to ask you about.” He put his hand on the control board. “There are some changes here I don’t understand.”

“Changes?”

“Alterations from the original design. I wonder what the purpose is.”

Kramer took a set of the plans  from his coat. “Let me look.” He turned the pages over. The Pilot watched carefully over his shoulder.

“The changes aren’t indicated on your copy,” the Pilot said. “I wonder—” He stopped. Commander Gross had entered the control cabin.

“Gross, who authorized alterations?” Kramer said. “Some of the wiring has been changed.”

“Why, your old friend.” Gross signaled to the field tower through the window.

“My old friend?”

“The Professor. He took quite an active interest.” Gross turned to the Pilot. “Let’s get going. We have to take this out past gravity for the test they tell me. Well, perhaps it’s for the best. Are you ready?”

“Sure.” The Pilot sat down and moved some of the controls around. “Anytime.”

“Go ahead, then,” Gross said.

“The Professor—” Kramer began, but at that moment there was a tremendous roar and the ship leaped under him. He grasped one of the wall holds and hung on as best he could. The cabin was filling with a steady throbbing, the raging of the jet turbines underneath them.

The ship leaped. Kramer closed his eyes and held his breath. They were moving out into space, gaining speed each moment.

Well, what do you think?” Winter said nervously. “Is it time yet?”

“A little longer,” Kramer said. He was sitting on the floor of the cabin, down by the control wiring. He had removed the metal covering-plate, exposing the complicated maze of relay wiring. He was studying it, comparing it to the wiring diagrams.

“What’s the matter?” Gross said.

“These changes. I can’t figure out what they’re for. The only pattern I can make out is that for some reason—”

“Let me look,” the Pilot said. He squatted down beside Kramer. “You were saying?”

“See this lead here? Originally it was switch controlled. It closed and opened automatically, according to temperature change. Now it’s wired so that the central control system operates it. The same with the others. A lot of this was still mechanical, worked by pressure, temperature, stress. Now it’s under the central master.”

“The brain?” Gross said. “You mean it’s been altered so that the brain manipulates it?”

Kramer nodded. “Maybe Professor Thomas felt that no mechanical relays could be trusted. Maybe he thought that things would be happening too fast. But some of these could close in a split second. The brake rockets could go on as quickly as—”

“Hey,” Winter said from the control seat. “We’re getting near the moon stations. What’ll I do?”

They looked out the port. The  corroded surface of the moon gleamed up at them, a corrupt and sickening sight. They were moving swiftly toward it.

“I’ll take it,” the Pilot said. He eased Winter out of the way and strapped himself in place. The ship began to move away from the moon as he manipulated the controls. Down below them they could see the observation stations dotting the surface, and the tiny squares that were the openings of the underground factories and hangars. A red blinker winked up at them and the Pilot’s fingers moved on the board in answer.

“We’re past the moon,” the Pilot said, after a time. The moon had fallen behind them; the ship was heading into outer space. “Well, we can go ahead with it.”

Kramer did not answer.

“Mr. Kramer, we can go ahead any time.”

Kramer started. “Sorry. I was thinking. All right, thanks.” He frowned, deep in thought.

“What is it?” Gross asked.

“The wiring changes. Did you understand the reason for them when you gave the okay to the workmen?”

Gross flushed. “You know I know nothing about technical material. I’m in Security.”

“Then you should have consulted me.”

“What does it matter?” Gross grinned wryly. “We’re going to have to start putting our faith in the old man sooner or later.”

The Pilot stepped back from the board. His face was pale and set. “Well, it’s done,” he said. “That’s it.”

“What’s done?” Kramer said.

“We’re on automatic. The brain. I turned the board over to it—to him, I mean. The Old Man.” The Pilot lit a cigarette and puffed nervously. “Let’s keep our fingers crossed.”

The ship was coasting evenly, in the hands of its invisible pilot. Far down inside the ship, carefully armoured and protected, a soft human brain lay in a tank of liquid, a thousand minute electric charges playing over its surface. As the charges rose they were picked up and amplified, fed into relay systems, advanced, carried on through the entire ship—

Gross wiped his forehead nervously. “So he is running it, now. I hope he knows what he’s doing.”

Kramer nodded enigmatically. “I think he does.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing.” Kramer walked to the port. “I see we’re still moving in a straight line.” He picked up the microphone. “We can instruct the brain orally, through this.” He blew against the microphone experimentally.

“Go on,” Winter said.

“Bring the ship around half-right,” Kramer said. “Decrease speed.”

They waited. Time passed. Gross looked at Kramer. “No change. Nothing.”

 “Wait.”

Slowly, the ship was beginning to turn. The turbines missed, reducing their steady beat. The ship was taking up its new course, adjusting itself. Nearby some space debris rushed past, incinerating in the blasts of the turbine jets.

“So far so good,” Gross said.

They began to breathe more easily. The invisible pilot had taken control smoothly, calmly. The ship was in good hands. Kramer spoke a few more words into the microphone, and they swung again. Now they were moving back the way they had come, toward the moon.

“Let’s see what he does when we enter the moon’s pull,” Kramer said. “He was a good mathematician, the old man. He could handle any kind of problem.”

The ship veered, turning away from the moon. The great eaten-away globe fell behind them.

Gross breathed a sigh of relief. “That’s that.”

“One more thing.” Kramer picked up the microphone. “Return to the moon and land the ship at the first space field,” he said into it.

“Good Lord,” Winter murmured. “Why are you—”

“Be quiet.” Kramer stood, listening. The turbines gasped and roared as the ship swung full around, gaining speed. They were moving back, back toward the moon again. The ship dipped down, heading toward the great globe below.

“We’re going a little fast,” the Pilot said. “I don’t see how he can put down at this velocity.”

The port filled up, as the globe swelled rapidly. The Pilot hurried toward the board, reaching for the controls. All at once the ship jerked. The nose lifted and the ship shot out into space, away from the moon, turning at an oblique angle. The men were thrown to the floor by the sudden change in course. They got to their feet again, speechless, staring at each other.

The Pilot gazed down at the board. “It wasn’t me! I didn’t touch a thing. I didn’t even get to it.”

The ship was gaining speed each moment. Kramer hesitated. “Maybe you better switch it back to manual.”

The Pilot closed the switch. He took hold of the steering controls and moved them experimentally. “Nothing.” He turned around. “Nothing. It doesn’t respond.”

No one spoke.

“You can see what has happened,” Kramer said calmly. “The old man won’t let go of it, now that he has it. I was afraid of this when I saw the wiring changes. Everything in this ship is centrally controlled, even the cooling system, the hatches, the garbage release. We’re helpless.”

“Nonsense.” Gross strode to the board. He took hold of the wheel and turned it. The ship continued on its course, moving away from the moon, leaving it behind.

 “Release!” Kramer said into the microphone. “Let go of the controls! We’ll take it back. Release.”

“No good,” the Pilot said. “Nothing.” He spun the useless wheel. “It’s dead, completely dead.”

“And we’re still heading out,” Winter said, grinning foolishly. “We’ll be going through the first-line defense belt in a few minutes. If they don’t shoot us down—”

“We better radio back.” The Pilot clicked the radio to send. “I’ll contact the main bases, one of the observation stations.”

“Better get the defense belt, at the speed we’re going. We’ll be into it in a minute.”

“And after that,” Kramer said, “we’ll be in outer space. He’s moving us toward outspace velocity. Is this ship equipped with baths?”

“Baths?” Gross said.

“The sleep tanks. For space-drive. We may need them if we go much faster.”

“But good God, where are we going?” Gross said. “Where—where’s he taking us?”

The Pilot obtained contact. “This is Dwight, on ship,” he said. “We’re entering the defense zone at high velocity. Don’t fire on us.”

“Turn back,” the impersonal voice came through the speaker. “You’re not allowed in the defense zone.”

“We can’t. We’ve lost control.”

“Lost control?”

“This is an experimental ship.”

Gross took the radio. “This is Commander Gross, Security. We’re being carried into outer space. There’s nothing we can do. Is there any way that we can be removed from this ship?”

A hesitation. “We have some fast pursuit ships that could pick you up if you wanted to jump. The chances are good they’d find you. Do you have space flares?”

“We do,” the Pilot said. “Let’s try it.”

“Abandon ship?” Kramer said. “If we leave now we’ll never see it again.”

“What else can we do? We’re gaining speed all the time. Do you propose that we stay here?”

“No.” Kramer shook his head. “Damn it, there ought to be a better solution.”

“Could you contact him?” Winter asked. “The Old Man? Try to reason with him?”

“It’s worth a chance,” Gross said. “Try it.”

“All right.” Kramer took the microphone. He paused a moment. “Listen! Can you hear me? This is Phil Kramer. Can you hear me, Professor. Can you hear me? I want you to release the controls.”

There was silence.

“This is Kramer, Professor. Can you hear me? Do you remember who I am? Do you understand who this is?”

Above the control panel the wall speaker made a sound, a sputtering static. They looked up.

“Can you hear me, Professor. This  is Philip Kramer. I want you to give the ship back to us. If you can hear me, release the controls! Let go, Professor. Let go!”

Static. A rushing sound, like the wind. They gazed at each other. There was silence for a moment.

“It’s a waste of time,” Gross said.

“No—listen!”

The sputter came again. Then, mixed with the sputter, almost lost in it, a voice came, toneless, without inflection, a mechanical, lifeless voice from the metal speaker in the wall, above their heads.

“… Is it you, Philip? I can’t make you out. Darkness…. Who’s there? With you….”

“It’s me, Kramer.” His fingers tightened against the microphone handle. “You must release the controls, Professor. We have to get back to Terra. You must.”

Silence. Then the faint, faltering voice came again, a little stronger than before. “Kramer. Everything so strange. I was right, though. Consciousness result of thinking. Necessary result. Cognito ergo sum. Retain conceptual ability. Can you hear me?”

“Yes, Professor—”

“I altered the wiring. Control. I was fairly certain…. I wonder if I can do it. Try….”

Suddenly the air-conditioning snapped into operation. It snapped abruptly off again. Down the corridor a door slammed. Something thudded. The men stood listening. Sounds came from all sides of them, switches shutting, opening. The lights blinked off; they were in darkness. The lights came back on, and at the same time the heating coils dimmed and faded.

“Good God!” Winter said.

Water poured down on them, the emergency fire-fighting system. There was a screaming rush of air. One of the escape hatches had slid back, and the air was roaring frantically out into space.

The hatch banged closed. The ship subsided into silence. The heating coils glowed into life. As suddenly as it had begun the weird exhibition ceased.

“I can do—everything,” the dry, toneless voice came from the wall speaker. “It is all controlled. Kramer, I wish to talk to you. I’ve been—been thinking. I haven’t seen you in many years. A lot to discuss. You’ve changed, boy. We have much to discuss. Your wife—”

The Pilot grabbed Kramer’s arm. “There’s a ship standing off our bow. Look.”

They ran to the port. A slender pale craft was moving along with them, keeping pace with them. It was signal-blinking.

“A Terran pursuit ship,” the Pilot said. “Let’s jump. They’ll pick us up. Suits—”

He ran to a supply cupboard and turned the handle. The door opened and he pulled the suits out onto the floor.

“Hurry,” Gross said. A panic seized them. They dressed frantically, pulling the heavy garments  over them. Winter staggered to the escape hatch and stood by it, waiting for the others. They joined him, one by one.

“Let’s go!” Gross said. “Open the hatch.”

Winter tugged at the hatch. “Help me.”

They grabbed hold, tugging together. Nothing happened. The hatch refused to budge.

“Get a crowbar,” the Pilot said.

“Hasn’t anyone got a blaster?” Gross looked frantically around. “Damn it, blast it open!”

“Pull,” Kramer grated. “Pull together.”

“Are you at the hatch?” the toneless voice came, drifting and eddying through the corridors of the ship. They looked up, staring around them. “I sense something nearby, outside. A ship? You are leaving, all of you? Kramer, you are leaving, too? Very unfortunate. I had hoped we could talk. Perhaps at some other time you might be induced to remain.”

“Open the hatch!” Kramer said, staring up at the impersonal walls of the ship. “For God’s sake, open it!”

There was silence, an endless pause. Then, very slowly, the hatch slid back. The air screamed out, rushing past them into space.

One by one they leaped, one after the other, propelled away by the repulsive material of the suits. A few minutes later they were being hauled aboard the pursuit ship. As the last one of them was lifted through the port, their own ship pointed itself suddenly upward and shot off at tremendous speed. It disappeared.

Kramer removed his helmet, gasping. Two sailors held onto him and began to wrap him in blankets. Gross sipped a mug of coffee, shivering.

“It’s gone,” Kramer murmured.

“I’ll have an alarm sent out,” Gross said.

“What’s happened to your ship?” a sailor asked curiously. “It sure took off in a hurry. Who’s on it?”

“We’ll have to have it destroyed,” Gross went on, his face grim. “It’s got to be destroyed. There’s no telling what it—what he has in mind.” Gross sat down weakly on a metal bench. “What a close call for us. We were so damn trusting.”

“What could he be planning,” Kramer said, half to himself. “It doesn’t make sense. I don’t get it.”

As the ship sped back toward the moon base they sat around the table in the dining room, sipping hot coffee and thinking, not saying very much.

“Look here,” Gross said at last. “What kind of man was Professor Thomas? What do you remember about him?”

Kramer put his coffee mug down. “It was ten years ago. I don’t remember much. It’s vague.”

He let his mind run back over the years. He and Dolores had been at Hunt College together, in physics and the life sciences. The  College was small and set back away from the momentum of modern life. He had gone there because it was his home town, and his father had gone there before him.

Professor Thomas had been at the College a long time, as long as anyone could remember. He was a strange old man, keeping to himself most of the time. There were many things that he disapproved of, but he seldom said what they were.

“Do you recall anything that might help us?” Gross asked. “Anything that would give us a clue as to what he might have in mind?”

Kramer nodded slowly. “I remember one thing….”

One day he and the Professor had been sitting together in the school chapel, talking leisurely.

“Well, you’ll be out of school, soon,” the Professor had said. “What are you going to do?”

“Do? Work at one of the Government Research Projects, I suppose.”

“And eventually? What’s your ultimate goal?”

Kramer had smiled. “The question is unscientific. It presupposes such things as ultimate ends.”

“Suppose instead along these lines, then: What if there were no war and no Government Research Projects? What would you do, then?”

“I don’t know. But how can I imagine a hypothetical situation like that? There’s been war as long as I can remember. We’re geared for war. I don’t know what I’d do. I suppose I’d adjust, get used to it.”

The Professor had stared at him. “Oh, you do think you’d get accustomed to it, eh? Well, I’m glad of that. And you think you could find something to do?”

Gross listened intently. “What do you infer from this, Kramer?”

“Not much. Except that he was against war.”

“We’re all against war,” Gross pointed out.

“True. But he was withdrawn, set apart. He lived very simply, cooking his own meals. His wife died many years ago. He was born in Europe, in Italy. He changed his name when he came to the United States. He used to read Dante and Milton. He even had a Bible.”

“Very anachronistic, don’t you think?”

“Yes, he lived quite a lot in the past. He found an old phonograph and records, and he listened to the old music. You saw his house, how old-fashioned it was.”

“Did he have a file?” Winter asked Gross.

“With Security? No, none at all. As far as we could tell he never engaged in political work, never joined anything or even seemed to have strong political convictions.”

“No,” Kramer, agreed. “About all he ever did was walk through the hills. He liked nature.”

“Nature can be of great use to a scientist,” Gross said. “There wouldn’t be any science without it.”

“Kramer, what do you think his plan is, taking control of the ship  and disappearing?” Winter said.

“Maybe the transfer made him insane,” the Pilot said. “Maybe there’s no plan, nothing rational at all.”

“But he had the ship rewired, and he had made sure that he would retain consciousness and memory before he even agreed to the operation. He must have had something planned from the start. But what?”

“Perhaps he just wanted to stay alive longer,” Kramer said. “He was old and about to die. Or—”

“Or what?”

“Nothing.” Kramer stood up. “I think as soon as we get to the moon base I’ll make a vidcall to earth. I want to talk to somebody about this.”

“Who’s that?” Gross asked.

“Dolores. Maybe she remembers something.”

“That’s a good idea,” Gross said.

Where are you calling from?” Dolores asked, when he succeeded in reaching her.

“From the moon base.”

“All kinds of rumors are running around. Why didn’t the ship come back? What happened?”

“I’m afraid he ran off with it.”

“He?”

“The Old Man. Professor Thomas.” Kramer explained what had happened.

Dolores listened intently. “How strange. And you think he planned it all in advance, from the start?”

“I’m certain. He asked for the plans of construction and the theoretical diagrams at once.”

“But why? What for?”

“I don’t know. Look, Dolores. What do you remember about him? Is there anything that might give a clue to all this?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. That’s the trouble.”

On the vidscreen Dolores knitted her brow. “I remember he raised chickens in his back yard, and once he had a goat.” She smiled. “Do you remember the day the goat got loose and wandered down the main street of town? Nobody could figure out where it came from.”

“Anything else?”

“No.” He watched her struggling, trying to remember. “He wanted to have a farm, sometime, I know.”

“All right. Thanks.” Kramer touched the switch. “When I get back to Terra maybe I’ll stop and see you.”

“Let me know how it works out.”

He cut the line and the picture dimmed and faded. He walked slowly back to where Gross and some officers of the Military were sitting at a chart table, talking.

“Any luck?” Gross said, looking up.

“No. All she remembers is that he kept a goat.”

“Come over and look at this detail chart.” Gross motioned him around to his side. “Watch!”

Kramer saw the record tabs moving furiously, the little white dots racing back and forth.

 “What’s happening?” he asked.

“A squadron outside the defense zone has finally managed to contact the ship. They’re maneuvering now, for position. Watch.”

The white counters were forming a barrel formation around a black dot that was moving steadily across the board, away from the central position. As they watched, the white dots constricted around it.

“They’re ready to open fire,” a technician at the board said. “Commander, what shall we tell them to do?”

Gross hesitated. “I hate to be the one who makes the decision. When it comes right down to it—”

“It’s not just a ship,” Kramer said. “It’s a man, a living person. A human being is up there, moving through space. I wish we knew what—”

“But the order has to be given. We can’t take any chances. Suppose he went over to them, to the yuks.”

Kramer’s jaw dropped. “My God, he wouldn’t do that.”

“Are you sure? Do you know what he’ll do?”

“He wouldn’t do that.”

Gross turned to the technician. “Tell them to go ahead.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but now the ship has gotten away. Look down at the board.”

Gross stared down, Kramer over his shoulder. The black dot had slipped through the white dots and had moved off at an abrupt angle. The white dots were broken up, dispersing in confusion.

“He’s an unusual strategist,” one of the officers said. He traced the line. “It’s an ancient maneuver, an old Prussian device, but it worked.”

The white dots were turning back. “Too many yuk ships out that far,” Gross said. “Well, that’s what you get when you don’t act quickly.” He looked up coldly at Kramer. “We should have done it when we had him. Look at him go!” He jabbed a finger at the rapidly moving black dot. The dot came to the edge of the board and stopped. It had reached the limit of the chartered area. “See?”

—Now what? Kramer thought, watching. So the Old Man had escaped the cruisers and gotten away. He was alert, all right; there was nothing wrong with his mind. Or with his ability to control his new body.

Body—The ship was a new body for him. He had traded in the old dying body, withered and frail, for this hulking frame of metal and plastic, turbines and rocket jets. He was strong, now. Strong and big. The new body was more powerful than a thousand human bodies. But how long would it last him? The average life of a cruiser was only ten years. With careful handling he might get twenty out of it, before some essential part failed and there was no way to replace it.

And then, what then? What would he do, when something failed and there was no one to fix it for him? That would be the end. Someplace,  far out in the cold darkness of space, the ship would slow down, silent and lifeless, to exhaust its last heat into the eternal timelessness of outer space. Or perhaps it would crash on some barren asteroid, burst into a million fragments.

It was only a question of time.

“Your wife didn’t remember anything?” Gross said.

“I told you. Only that he kept a goat, once.”

“A hell of a lot of help that is.”

Kramer shrugged. “It’s not my fault.”

“I wonder if we’ll ever see him again.” Gross stared down at the indicator dot, still hanging at the edge of the board. “I wonder if he’ll ever move back this way.”

“I wonder, too,” Kramer said.

That night Kramer lay in bed, tossing from side to side, unable to sleep. The moon gravity, even artificially increased, was unfamiliar to him and it made him uncomfortable. A thousand thoughts wandered loose in his head as he lay, fully awake.

What did it all mean? What was the Professor’s plan? Maybe they would never know. Maybe the ship was gone for good; the Old Man had left forever, shooting into outer space. They might never find out why he had done it, what purpose—if any—had been in his mind.

Kramer sat up in bed. He turned on the light and lit a cigarette. His quarters were small, a metal-lined bunk room, part of the moon station base.

The Old Man had wanted to talk to him. He had wanted to discuss things, hold a conversation, but in the hysteria and confusion all they had been able to think of was getting away. The ship was rushing off with them, carrying them into outer space. Kramer set his jaw. Could they be blamed for jumping? They had no idea where they were being taken, or why. They were helpless, caught in their own ship, and the pursuit ship standing by waiting to pick them up was their only chance. Another half hour and it would have been too late.

But what had the Old Man wanted to say? What had he intended to tell him, in those first confusing moments when the ship around them had come alive, each metal strut and wire suddenly animate, the body of a living creature, a vast metal organism?

It was weird, unnerving. He could not forget it, even now. He looked around the small room uneasily. What did it signify, the coming to life of metal and plastic? All at once they had found themselves inside a living creature, in its stomach, like Jonah inside the whale.

It had been alive, and it had talked to them, talked calmly and rationally, as it rushed them off, faster and faster into outer space. The wall speaker and circuit had become the vocal cords and mouth, the wiring the spinal cord and nerves, the hatches and relays and circuit breakers the muscles.

 They had been helpless, completely helpless. The ship had, in a brief second, stolen their power away from them and left them defenseless, practically at its mercy. It was not right; it made him uneasy. All his life he had controlled machines, bent nature and the forces of nature to man and man’s needs. The human race had slowly evolved until it was in a position to operate things, run them as it saw fit. Now all at once it had been plunged back down the ladder again, prostrate before a Power against which they were children.

Kramer got out of bed. He put on his bathrobe and began to search for a cigarette. While he was searching, the vidphone rang.

He snapped the vidphone on.

“Yes?”

The face of the immediate monitor appeared. “A call from Terra, Mr. Kramer. An emergency call.”

“Emergency call? For me? Put it through.” Kramer came awake, brushing his hair back out of his eyes. Alarm plucked at him.

From the speaker a strange voice came. “Philip Kramer? Is this Kramer?”

“Yes. Go on.”

“This is General Hospital, New York City, Terra. Mr. Kramer, your wife is here. She has been critically injured in an accident. Your name was given to us to call. Is it possible for you to—”

“How badly?” Kramer gripped the vidphone stand. “Is it serious?”

“Yes, it’s serious, Mr. Kramer. Are you able to come here? The quicker you can come the better.”

“Yes.” Kramer nodded. “I’ll come. Thanks.”

The screen died as the connection was broken. Kramer waited a moment. Then he tapped the button. The screen relit again. “Yes, sir,” the monitor said.

“Can I get a ship to Terra at once? It’s an emergency. My wife—”

“There’s no ship leaving the moon for eight hours. You’ll have to wait until the next period.”

“Isn’t there anything I can do?”

“We can broadcast a general request to all ships passing through this area. Sometimes cruisers pass by here returning to Terra for repairs.”

“Will you broadcast that for me? I’ll come down to the field.”

“Yes sir. But there may be no ship in the area for awhile. It’s a gamble.” The screen died.

Kramer dressed quickly. He put on his coat and hurried to the lift. A moment later he was running across the general receiving lobby, past the rows of vacant desks and conference tables. At the door the sentries stepped aside and he went outside, onto the great concrete steps.

The face of the moon was in shadow. Below him the field stretched out in total darkness, a black void, endless, without form. He made his way carefully down the steps and along the ramp along the  side of the field, to the control tower. A faint row of red lights showed him the way.

Two soldiers challenged him at the foot of the tower, standing in the shadows, their guns ready.

“Kramer?”

“Yes.” A light was flashed in his face.

“Your call has been sent out already.”

“Any luck?” Kramer asked.

“There’s a cruiser nearby that has made contact with us. It has an injured jet and is moving slowly back toward Terra, away from the line.”

“Good.” Kramer nodded, a flood of relief rushing through him. He lit a cigarette and gave one to each of the soldiers. The soldiers lit up.

“Sir,” one of them asked, “is it true about the experimental ship?”

“What do you mean?”

“It came to life and ran off?”

“No, not exactly,” Kramer said. “It had a new type of control system instead of the Johnson units. It wasn’t properly tested.”

“But sir, one of the cruisers that was there got up close to it, and a buddy of mine says this ship acted funny. He never saw anything like it. It was like when he was fishing once on Terra, in Washington State, fishing for bass. The fish were smart, going this way and that—”

“Here’s your cruiser,” the other soldier said. “Look!”

An enormous vague shape was setting slowly down onto the field. They could make nothing out but its row of tiny green blinkers. Kramer stared at the shape.

“Better hurry, sir,” the soldiers said. “They don’t stick around here very long.”

“Thanks.” Kramer loped across the field, toward the black shape that rose up above him, extended across the width of the field. The ramp was down from the side of the cruiser and he caught hold of it. The ramp rose, and a moment later Kramer was inside the hold of the ship. The hatch slid shut behind him.

As he made his way up the stairs to the main deck the turbines roared up from the moon, out into space.

Kramer opened the door to the main deck. He stopped suddenly, staring around him in surprise. There was nobody in sight. The ship was deserted.

“Good God,” he said. Realization swept over him, numbing him. He sat down on a bench, his head swimming. “Good God.”

The ship roared out into space leaving the moon and Terra farther behind each moment.

And there was nothing he could do.

So it was you who put the call through,” he said at last. “It was you who called me on the vidphone, not any hospital on Terra. It was all part of the plan.” He looked up and around him. “And Dolores is really—”

“Your wife is fine,” the wall speaker above him said tonelessly.  “It was a fraud. I am sorry to trick you that way, Philip, but it was all I could think of. Another day and you would have been back on Terra. I don’t want to remain in this area any longer than necessary. They have been so certain of finding me out in deep space that I have been able to stay here without too much danger. But even the purloined letter was found eventually.”

Kramer smoked his cigarette nervously. “What are you going to do? Where are we going?”

“First, I want to talk to you. I have many things to discuss. I was very disappointed when you left me, along with the others. I had hoped that you would remain.” The dry voice chuckled. “Remember how we used to talk in the old days, you and I? That was a long time ago.”

The ship was gaining speed. It plunged through space at tremendous speed, rushing through the last of the defense zone and out beyond. A rush of nausea made Kramer bend over for a moment.

When he straightened up the voice from the wall went on, “I’m sorry to step it up so quickly, but we are still in danger. Another few moments and we’ll be free.”

“How about yuk ships? Aren’t they out here?”

“I’ve already slipped away from several of them. They’re quite curious about me.”

“Curious?”

“They sense that I’m different, more like their own organic mines. They don’t like it. I believe they will begin to withdraw from this area, soon. Apparently they don’t want to get involved with me. They’re an odd race, Philip. I would have liked to study them closely, try to learn something about them. I’m of the opinion that they use no inert material. All their equipment and instruments are alive, in some form or other. They don’t construct or build at all. The idea of making is foreign to them. They utilize existing forms. Even their ships—”

“Where are we going?” Kramer said. “I want to know where you are taking me.”

“Frankly, I’m not certain.”

“You’re not certain?”

“I haven’t worked some details out. There are a few vague spots in my program, still. But I think that in a short while I’ll have them ironed out.”

“What is your program?” Kramer said.

“It’s really very simple. But don’t you want to come into the control room and sit? The seats are much more comfortable than that metal bench.”

Kramer went into the control room and sat down at the control board. Looking at the useless apparatus made him feel strange.

“What’s the matter?” the speaker above the board rasped.

Kramer gestured helplessly. “I’m—powerless. I can’t do  anything. And I don’t like it. Do you blame me?”

“No. No, I don’t blame you. But you’ll get your control back, soon. Don’t worry. This is only a temporary expedient, taking you off this way. It was something I didn’t contemplate. I forgot that orders would be given out to shoot me on sight.”

“It was Gross’ idea.”

“I don’t doubt that. My conception, my plan, came to me as soon as you began to describe your project, that day at my house. I saw at once that you were wrong; you people have no understanding of the mind at all. I realized that the transfer of a human brain from an organic body to a complex artificial space ship would not involve the loss of the intellectualization faculty of the mind. When a man thinks, he is.

“When I realized that, I saw the possibility of an age-old dream becoming real. I was quite elderly when I first met you, Philip. Even then my life-span had come pretty much to its end. I could look ahead to nothing but death, and with it the extinction of all my ideas. I had made no mark on the world, none at all. My students, one by one, passed from me into the world, to take up jobs in the great Research Project, the search for better and bigger weapons of war.

“The world has been fighting for a long time, first with itself, then with the Martians, then with these beings from Proxima Centauri, whom we know nothing about. The human society has evolved war as a cultural institution, like the science of astronomy, or mathematics. War is a part of our lives, a career, a respected vocation. Bright, alert young men and women move into it, putting their shoulders to the wheel as they did in the time of Nebuchadnezzar. It has always been so.

“But is it innate in mankind? I don’t think so. No social custom is innate. There were many human groups that did not go to war; the Eskimos never grasped the idea at all, and the American Indians never took to it well.

“But these dissenters were wiped out, and a cultural pattern was established that became the standard for the whole planet. Now it has become ingrained in us.

“But if someplace along the line some other way of settling problems had arisen and taken hold, something different than the massing of men and material to—”

“What’s your plan?” Kramer said. “I know the theory. It was part of one of your lectures.”

“Yes, buried in a lecture on plant selection, as I recall. When you came to me with this proposition I realized that perhaps my conception could be brought to life, after all. If my theory were right that war is only a habit, not an instinct, a society built up apart from Terra with a minimum of cultural roots might develop differently. If it failed to absorb our outlook, if it  could start out on another foot, it might not arrive at the same point to which we have come: a dead end, with nothing but greater and greater wars in sight, until nothing is left but ruin and destruction everywhere.

“Of course, there would have to be a Watcher to guide the experiment, at first. A crisis would undoubtedly come very quickly, probably in the second generation. Cain would arise almost at once.

“You see, Kramer, I estimate that if I remain at rest most of the time, on some small planet or moon, I may be able to keep functioning for almost a hundred years. That would be time enough, sufficient to see the direction of the new colony. After that—Well, after that it would be up to the colony itself.

“Which is just as well, of course. Man must take control eventually, on his own. One hundred years, and after that they will have control of their own destiny. Perhaps I am wrong, perhaps war is more than a habit. Perhaps it is a law of the universe, that things can only survive as groups by group violence.

“But I’m going ahead and taking the chance that it is only a habit, that I’m right, that war is something we’re so accustomed to that we don’t realize it is a very unnatural thing. Now as to the place! I’m still a little vague about that. We must find the place, still.

“That’s what we’re doing now. You and I are going to inspect a few systems off the beaten path, planets where the trading prospects are low enough to keep Terran ships away. I know of one planet that might be a good place. It was reported by the Fairchild Expedition in their original manual. We may look into that, for a start.”

The ship was silent.

Kramer sat for a time, staring down at the metal floor under him. The floor throbbed dully with the motion of the turbines. At last he looked up.

“You might be right. Maybe our outlook is only a habit.” Kramer got to his feet. “But I wonder if something has occurred to you?”

“What is that?”

“If it’s such a deeply ingrained habit, going back thousands of years, how are you going to get your colonists to make the break, leave Terra and Terran customs? How about this generation, the first ones, the people who found the colony? I think you’re right that the next generation would be free of all this, if there were an—” He grinned. “—An Old Man Above to teach them something else instead.”

Kramer looked up at the wall speaker. “How are you going to get the people to leave Terra and come with you, if by your own theory, this generation can’t be saved, it all has to start with the next?”

The wall speaker was silent. Then it made a sound, the faint dry chuckle.

“I’m surprised at you, Philip. Settlers can be found. We won’t need many, just a few.” The speaker  chuckled again. “I’ll acquaint you with my solution.”

At the far end of the corridor a door slid open. There was sound, a hesitant sound. Kramer turned.

“Dolores!”

Dolores Kramer stood uncertainly, looking into the control room. She blinked in amazement. “Phil! What are you doing here? What’s going on?”

They stared at each other.

“What’s happening?” Dolores said. “I received a vidcall that you had been hurt in a lunar explosion—”

The wall speaker rasped into life. “You see, Philip, that problem is already solved. We don’t really need so many people; even a single couple might do.”

Kramer nodded slowly. “I see,” he murmured thickly. “Just one couple. One man and woman.”

“They might make it all right, if there were someone to watch and see that things went as they should. There will be quite a few things I can help you with, Philip. Quite a few. We’ll get along very well, I think.”

Kramer grinned wryly. “You could even help us name the animals,” he said. “I understand that’s the first step.”

“I’ll be glad to,” the toneless, impersonal voice said. “As I recall, my part will be to bring them to you, one by one. Then you can do the actual naming.”

“I don’t understand,” Dolores faltered. “What does he mean, Phil? Naming animals. What kind of animals? Where are we going?”

Kramer walked slowly over to the port and stood staring silently out, his arms folded. Beyond the ship a myriad fragments of light gleamed, countless coals glowing in the dark void. Stars, suns, systems. Endless, without number. A universe of worlds. An infinity of planets, waiting for them, gleaming and winking from the darkness.

He turned back, away from the port. “Where are we going?” He smiled at his wife, standing nervous and frightened, her large eyes full of alarm. “I don’t know where we are going,” he said. “But somehow that doesn’t seem too important right now…. I’m beginning to see the Professor’s point, it’s the result that counts.”

And for the first time in many months he put his arm around Dolores. At first she stiffened, the fright and nervousness still in her eyes. But then suddenly she relaxed against him and there were tears wetting her cheeks.

“Phil … do you really think we can start over again—you and I?”

He kissed her tenderly, then passionately.

And the spaceship shot swiftly through the endless, trackless eternity of the void….

The Concrete Mixer by Ray Bradbury (Full text)

The following in one of Ray Bradbury’s short stories. It is titled “The Cement Mixer”. “The Concrete Mixer” is one of his earlier stories. It was first published in Thrilling Wonder Stories in April 1949. In the story, a warlike race of Martians plans their glorious conquest of Earth but one of them, Ettil Vrye, foresaw defeat. He was given his choice of joining the Legion of War —or burning his beloved instead!

The Concrete Mixer

HE LISTENED to the dry-grass rustle of the old witches’ voices beneath his open
window:
‘Ettil, the coward! Ettil, the refuser! Ettil, who will not wage the glorious
war of Mars against Earth!’
‘Speak on, witches!’ he cried.
The voices dropped to a murmur like that of water in the long canals under the
Martian sky.
‘Ettil, the father of a son who must grow up in the shadow of this horrid
knowledge!’ said the old wrinkled women. They knocked their sly-eyed heads
gently together. ‘Shame, shame!’
His wife was crying on the other side of the room. Her tears were as rain,
numerous and cool on the tiles. ‘Oh, Ettil, how can you think this way?’
Ettil laid aside his metal book which, at his beckoning, had been singing him a
story all morning from its thin golden-wired frame.
‘I’ve tried to explain,’ he said. ‘This is a foolish thing, Mars invading Earth.
We’ll be destroyed, utterly.’

Outside, a banging, crashing boom, a surge of brass, a drum, a cry, marching
feet, pennants and songs. Through the stone sheets the army, fire weapons to
shoulder, stamped. Children skipped after. Old women waved dirty flags.
‘I shall remain on Mars and read a book,’ said Ettil. A blunt knock on the door.
Tylla answered. Father-in-law stormed in. ‘What’s this I hear about my
son-in-law? A traitor?’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘You’re not fighting in the Martian Army?’
‘No, Father.’
‘Gods!’ The old father turned very red. ‘A plague on your name! You’ll be shot.’
‘Shoot me, then, and have it over.’
‘Who ever heard of a Martian not invading? Who!’
‘Nobody. It is, I admit, quite incredible.’
‘Incredible,’ husked the witch voices under the window.
‘Father, can’t you reason with him?’ demanded Tylla.
‘Reason with a dung heap,’ cried Father, eyes blazing. He came and stood over
Ettil. ‘Bands playing, a fine day, women weeping, children jumping, everything
right, men marching bravely, and you sit here! Oh, shame!’
‘Shame,’ sobbed the faraway voices in the hedge.
‘Get the devil out of my house with your inane chatter,’ said Ettil, exploding.
‘Take your medals and your drums and run!’

He shoved Father-in-law past a screaming wife, only to have the door thrown wide at this moment, as a military detail entered.
A voice shouted, ‘Ettil Vrye?’
‘Yes!’
‘You are under arrest!’

‘Good-by, my dear wife. I am off to the wars with these fools!’ shouted Ettil,
dragged through the door by the men in bronze mesh.
‘Good-by, good-by,’ said the town witches, fading away. . . .

The cell was neat and clean. Without a book, Ettil was nervous. He gripped the
bars and watched the rockets shoot up into the night air. The stars were cold
and numerous; they seemed to scatter when every rocket blasted up among them.
‘Fools,’ whispered Ettil. ‘Fools!’

The cell door opened. One man with a kind of vehicle entered, full of books;
books here, there, everywhere in the chambers of the vehicle. Behind him the
Military Assignor loomed.
‘Ettil Vrye, we want to know why you had these illegal Earth books in your
house. These copies of Wonder Stories, Scientific Tales, Fantastic Stories.
Explain.’ The man gripped Ettil’s wrist.

Ettil shook him free. ‘If you’re going to shoot me, shoot me. That literature,
from Earth, is the very reason why I won’t try to invade them. It’s the reason
why your invasion will fail.’
‘How so?’ The assignor scowled and turned to the yellowed magazines.
‘Pick any copy,’ said Ettil. ‘Any one at all. Nine out of ten stories in the
years 1929, ’30 to ’50, Earth calendar, have every Martian invasion successfully
invading Earth.’
‘Ah!’ The assignor smiled, nodded.

‘And then,’ said Ettil, ‘failing.’
‘That’s treason! Owning such literature!’
‘So be it, if you wish. But let me draw a few conclusions. Invariably, each
invasion is thwarted by a young man, usually lean, usually Irish, usually alone,
named Mick or Rick or Jick or Bannon, who destroys the Martians.’
‘You don’t believe that!’
‘No, I don’t believe Earthmen can actually do that’no. But they have a
background, understand, Assignor, of generations of children reading just such
fiction, absorbing it. They have nothing but a literature of invasions
successfully thwarted. Can you say the same for Martian literature?’
‘Well”’
‘No.’
‘I guess not.’

‘You know not. We never wrote stories of such a fantastic nature. Now we rebel,
we attack, and we shall die.’
‘I don’t see your reasoning on that. Where does this tie in with the magazine
stories?’
‘Morale. A big thing. The Earthmen know they can’t fail. It is in them like
blood beating in their veins. They cannot fail. They will repel each invasion,
no matter how well organized. Their youth of reading just such fiction as this
has given them a faith we cannot equal. We Martians? We are uncertain; we know that we might fail. Our morale is low, in spite of the banged drums and tooted horns.’
‘I won’t listen to this treason,’ cried the assignor. ‘This fiction will be burned, as you will be, within the next ten minutes. You have a choice, Ettil Vrye. Join the Legion of War, or burn.’

‘It is a choice of deaths. I choose to burn.’

‘Men!’
He was hustled out into the courtyard. There he saw his carefully hoarded
reading matter set to the torch. A special pit was prepared, with oil five feet
deep in it. This, with a great thunder, was set afire. Into this, in a minute,
he would be pushed.
On the far side of the courtyard, in shadow, he noticed the solemn figure of his
son standing alone, his great yellow eyes luminous with sorrow and fear. He did
not put out his hand or speak, but only looked at his father like some dying
animal, a wordless animal seeking rescue.
Ettil looked at the flaming pit. He felt the rough hands seize him, strip him,
push him forward to the hot perimeter of death. Only then did Ettil swallow and
cry out, ‘Wait!’
The assignor’s face, bright with the orange fire, pushed forward in the
trembling air. ‘What is it?’

‘I will join the Legion of War,’ replied Ettil.
‘Good! Release him!’
The hands fell away.
As he turned he saw his son standing far across the court, waiting. His son was
not smiling, only waiting.

In the sky a bronze rocket leaped across the stars, ablaze. . . .

‘And now we bid good-by to these stalwart warriors,’ said the assignor. The band
thumped and the wind blew a fine sweet rain of tears gently upon the sweating
army. The children cavorted. In the chaos Ettil saw his wife weeping with pride,
his son solemn and silent at her side.
They marched into the ship, everybody laughing and brave. They buckled
themselves into their spiderwebs. All through the tense ship the spiderwebs were
filled with lounging, lazy men. They chewed on bits of food and waited. A great
lid slammed shut. A valve hissed.
‘Off to Earth and destruction,’ whispered Ettil.
‘What?’ asked someone.
‘Off to glorious victory,’ said Ettil, grimacing.
The rocket jumped.

Space, thought Ettil. Here we are banging across black inks and pink lights of
space in a brass kettle. Here we are, a celebratory rocket heaved out to fill
the Earthmen’s eyes with fear flames as they look up to the sky. What is it
like, being far, far away from your home, your wife, your child, here and now?
He tried to analyze his trembling. It was like tying your most secret inward
working organs to Mars and then jumping out a million miles. Your heart was
still on Mars, pumping, glowing. Your brain was still on Mars, thinking,
crenulated, like an abandoned torch. Your stomach was still on Mars, somnolent,
trying to digest the final dinner. Your lungs were still in the cool blue wine
air of Mars, a soft folded bellows screaming for release, one part of you
longing for the rest.
For here you were, a meshless, cogless automaton, a body upon which officials
had performed clinical autopsy and left all of you that counted back upon the
empty seas and strewn over the darkened hills. Here you were, bottle-empty,
fireless, chill, with only your hands to give death to Earthmen. A pair of hands
is all you are now, he thought in cold remoteness.
Here you lie in the tremendous web. Others are about you, but they are
whole’whole hearts and bodies. But all of you that lives is back there walking
the desolate seas in evening winds. This thing here, this cold clay thing, is
already dead.

‘Attack stations, attack stations, attack!’
‘Ready, ready, ready!’
‘Up!’
‘Out of the webs, quick!’

Ettil moved. Somewhere before him his two cold hands moved.
How swift it has all been, he thought. A year ago one Earth rocket reached Mars.
Our scientists, with their incredible telepathic ability, copied it; our
workers, with their incredible plants, reproduced it a hundredfold. No other
Earth ship has reached Mars since then, and yet we know their language
perfectly, all of us. We know their culture, their logic. And we shall pay the
price of our brilliance.
‘Guns on the ready!’
‘Right!’
‘Sights!’
‘Reading by miles?’
‘Ten thousand!’
‘Attack!’

A humming silence. A silence of insects throbbing in the walls of the rocket.
The insect singing of tiny bobbins and levers and whirls of wheels. Silence of
waiting men. Silence of glands emitting the slow steady pulse of sweat under
arm, on brow, under staring pale eyes!
‘Wait! Ready!’
Ettil hung onto his sanity with his fingernails, hung hard and long.
Silence, silence, silence. Waiting.
Teeee-e-ee!
‘What’s that?’
‘Earth radio!’
‘Cut them in!’
‘They’re trying to reach us, call us. Cut them in!’
Eee-e-e!
‘Here they are! Listen!’

‘Calling Martian invasion fleet!’
The listening silence, the insect hum pulling back to let the sharp Earth voice
crack in upon the rooms of waiting men.
‘This is Earth calling. This is William Sommers, president of the Association of
United American Producers!’
Ettil held tight to his station, bent forward, eyes shut.
‘Welcome to Earth.’
‘What?’ the men in the rocket roared. ‘What did he say?’
‘Yes, welcome to Earth.’
‘It’s a trick!’

Ettil shivered, opened his eyes to stare in bewilderment at the unseen voice
from the ceiling source.
‘Welcome! Welcome to green, industrial Earth!’ declared the friendly voice.
‘With open arms we welcome you, to turn a bloody invasion into a time of
friendships that will last through all of Time.’
‘A trick!’
‘Hush, listen!’
‘Many years ago we of Earth renounced war, destroyed our atom bombs. Now,
unprepared as we are, there is nothing for us but to welcome you. The planet is
yours. We ask only mercy from you good and merciful invaders.’

‘It can’t be true!’ a voice whispered.
‘It must be a trick!’
‘Land and be welcomed, all of you,’ said Mr. William Sommers of Earth. ‘Land
anywhere. Earth is yours; we are all brothers!’
Ettil began to laugh. Everyone in the room turned to see him. The other Martians
blinked. ‘He’s gone mad!’
He did not stop laughing until they hit him.

The tiny fat man in the center of the hot rocket tarmac at Green Town,
California, jerked out a clean white handkerchief and touched it to his wet
brow. He squinted blindly from the fresh plank platform at the fifty thousand
people restrained behind a fence of policemen, arm to arm. Everybody looked at
the sky.
‘There they are!’
A gasp.
‘No, just sea gulls!’
A disappointed grumble.
‘I’m beginning to think it would have been better to have declared war on them,’
whispered the mayor. ‘Then we could all go home.’
‘Sh-h!’ said his wife.
‘There!’ The crowd roared.
Out of the sun came the Martian rockets.
‘Everybody ready?’ The mayor glanced nervously about.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Miss California 1965.
‘Yes,’ said Miss America 1940, who had come rushing up at the last minute as a
substitute for Miss America 1966, who was ill at home.
‘Yes siree,’ said Mr. Biggest Grapefruit in San Fernando Valley 1956, eagerly.
‘Ready, band?’
The band poised its brass like so many guns.
‘Ready!’
The rockets landed. ‘Go!’
The band played ‘California, Here I Come’ ten times. From noon until one o’clock
the mayor made a speech, shaking his hands in the direction of the silent,
apprehensive rockets.

At one-fifteen the seals of the rockets opened
The band played ‘Oh, You Golden State’ three times.
Ettil and fifty other Martians leaped out, guns at the ready.
The mayor ran forward with the key to Earth in his hands.
The band played ‘Santa Claus Is Coming to Town,’ and a full chorus of singers
imported from Long Beach sang different words to it, something about ‘Martians
Are Coming to Town.’
Seeing no weapons about, the Martians relaxed, but kept their guns out.
From one-thirty until two-fifteen the mayor made the same speech over for the
benefit of the Martians.
At two-thirty Miss America of 1940 volunteered to kiss all the Martians if they
lined up.
At two-thirty and ten seconds the band played ‘How Do You Do, Everybody,’ to
cover up the confusion caused by Miss America’s suggestion.
At two thirty-five Mr. Biggest Grapefruit presented the Martians with a two-ton
truck full of grapefruit.
At two thirty-seven the mayor gave them all free passes to the Elite and
Majestic theaters, combining this gesture with another speech which lasted until
after three.
The band played, and the fifty thousand people sang, ‘For They Are Jolly Good
Fellows.’
It was over at four o’clock.

Ettil sat down in the shadow of the rocket, two of his fellows with him. ‘So
this is Earth!’
‘I say kill the filthy rats,’ said one Martian. ‘I don’t trust them. They’re
sneaky. What’s their motive for treating us this way?’ He held up a box of
something that rustled. ‘What’s this stuff they gave me? A sample, they said.’
He read the label. BLIX, the new sudsy soap.
The crowd had drifted about, was mingling with the Martians like a carnival
throng. Everywhere was the buzzing murmur of people fingering the rockets,
asking questions.

Ettil was cold. He was beginning to tremble even more now. ‘Don’t you feel it?’
he whispered. ‘The tenseness, the evilness of all this. Something’s going to
happen to us. They have some plan. Something subtle and horrible. They’re going
to do something to us’I know.’
‘I say kill every one of them!’
‘How can you kill people who call you ‘pal’ and ‘buddy’?’ asked another Martian.
Ettil shook his head. ‘They’re sincere. And yet I feel as if we were in a big
acid vat melting away, away. I’m frightened.’ He put his mind out to touch among
the crowd. ‘Yes, they’re really friendly, hail-fellows-well-met (one of their
terms). One huge mass of common men, loving dogs and cats and Martians equally.
And yet’ and yet”’
The band played ‘Roll Out the Barrel.’ Free beer was being distributed through
the courtesy of Hagenback Beer, Fresno, California.

The sickness came.
The men poured out fountains of slush from their mouths. The sound of sickness
filled the land.
Gagging, Ettil sat beneath a sycamore tree. ‘A plot, a plot’a horrible plot,’ he
groaned, holding his stomach.
‘What did you eat?’ The assignor stood over him.
‘Something that they called popcorn,’ groaned Ettil.
‘And?’
‘And some sort of long meat on a bun, and some yellow liquid in an iced vat, and
some sort of fish and something called pastrami,’ sighed Ettil, eyelids
flickering.
The moans of the Martian invaders sounded all about.
‘Kill the plotting snakes!’ somebody cried weakly.
‘Hold on,’ said the assignor. ‘It’s merely hospitality. They overdid it. Up on
your feet now, men. Into the town. We’ve got to place small garrisons of men
about to make sure all is well. Other ships are landing in other cities. We’ve
our job to do here.’
The men gained their feet and stood blinking stupidly about.
‘Forward, march!’
One, two, three, four! One, two, three, four! . . .

The white stores of the little town lay dreaming in shimmering heat. Heat
emanated from everything’poles, concrete, metal, awnings, roofs, tar
paper’everything.
The sound of Martian feet sounded on the asphalt.
‘Careful, men!’ whispered the assignor. They walked past a beauty shop.
From inside, a furtive giggle. ‘Look!’
A coppery head bobbed and vanished like a doll in the window. A blue eye glinted
and winked at a keyhole.
‘It’s a plot,’ whispered Ettil. ‘A plot, I tell you!’
The odors of perfume were fanned out on the summer air by the whirling vents of
the grottoes where the women hid like undersea creatures, under electric cones,
their hair curled into wild whorls and peaks, their eyes shrewd and glassy,
animal and sly, their mouths painted a neon red. Fans were whirring, the
perfumed wind issuing upon the stillness, moving among green trees, creeping
among the amazed Martians.
‘For God’s sake!’ screamed Ettil, his nerves suddenly breaking loose. ‘Let’s get
in our rockets’go home! They’ll get us! Those horrid things in there. See them?
Those evil undersea things, those women in their cool little caverns of
artificial rock!’
‘Shut up!’
Look at them in there, he thought, drifting their dresses like cool green gills
over their pillar legs. He shouted.
‘Someone shut his mouth!’
‘They’ll rush out on us, hurling chocolate boxes and copies of Kleig Love and
Holly Pick-ture, shrieking with their red greasy mouths! Inundate us with
banality, destroy our sensibilities! Look at them, being electrocuted by
devices, their voices like hums and chants and murmurs! Do you dare go in
there?’
‘Why not?’ asked the other Martians.
‘They’ll fry you, bleach you, change you! Crack you, flake you away until you’re
nothing but a husband, a working man, the one with the money who pays so they
can come sit in there devouring their evil chocolates! Do you think you could
control them?’
‘Yes, by the gods!’
From a distance a voice drifted, a high and shrill voice, a woman’s voice
saying, ‘Ain’t that middle one there cute?’
‘Martians ain’t so bad after all. Gee, they’re just men,’ said another, fading.
‘Hey, there. Yoo-hoo! Martians! Hey!’
Yelling, Ettil ran. . . .

He sat in a park and trembled steadily. He remembered what he had seen. Looking up at the dark night sky, he felt so far from home, so deserted. Even now, as he sat among the still trees, in the distance he could see Martian warriors walking the streets with the Earth women, vanishing into the phantom darknesses of the little emotion palaces to hear the ghastly sounds of white things moving on gray screens, with little frizz-haired women beside them, wads of gelatinous gum working in their jaws, other wads under the seats, hardening with the fossil imprints of the women’s tiny cat teeth forever imbedded therein. The cave of winds’the cinema.
‘Hello.’
He jerked his head in terror.
A woman sat on the bench beside him, chewing gum lazily. ‘Don’t run off; I don’t
bite,’ she said.
‘Oh,’ he said.
‘Like to go to the pictures?’ she said.
‘No.’
‘Aw, come on,’ she said. ‘Everybody else is.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Is that all you do in this world?’
‘All? Ain’t that enough?’ Her blue eyes widened suspiciously. ‘What you want me
to do’sit home, read a book? Ha, ha! That’s rich.’

Ettil stared at her a moment before asking a question.
‘Do you do anything else?’ he asked.
‘Ride in cars. You got a car? You oughta get you a big new convertible Podler
Six. Gee, they’re fancy! Any man with a Podler Six can go out with any gal, you
bet!’ she said, blinking at him. ‘I bet you got all kinds of money’you come from
Mars and all. I bet if you really wanted you could get a Podler Six and travel
everywhere.’
‘To the show maybe?’
‘What’s wrong with ‘at?’
‘Nothing’ nothing.’

‘You know what you talk like, mister?’ she said. ‘A Communist! Yes, sir, that’s
the kinda talk nobody stands for, by gosh. Nothing wrong with our little old
system. We was good enough to let you Martians invade, and we never raised even our bitty finger, did we?’
‘That’s what I’ve been trying to understand,’ said Ettil. ‘Why did you let us?’
”Cause we’re bighearted, mister; that’s why! Just remember that, bighearted.’
She walked off to look for someone else.

Gathering courage to himself, Ettil began to write a letter to his wife, moving
the pen carefully over the paper on his knee.
‘Dear Tylla”’
But again he was interrupted. A small-little-girl-of-an-old-woman, with a pale
round wrinkled little face, shook her tambourine in front of his nose, forcing
him to glance up.
‘Brother,’ she cried, eyes blazing. ‘Have you been saved?’
‘Am I in danger?’ Ettil dropped his pen, jumping.
‘Terrible danger!’ she wailed, clanking her tambourine, gazing at the sky. ‘You
need to be saved, brother, in the worst way!’
‘I’m inclined to agree,’ he said, trembling.
‘We saved lots already today. I saved three myself, of you Mars people. Ain’t
that nice?’ She grinned at him.
‘I guess so.’
She was acutely suspicious. She leaned forward with her secret whisper.
‘Brother,’ she wanted to know, ‘you been baptized?’
‘I don’t know,’ he whispered back.
‘You don’t know?’ she cried, flinging up hand and tambourine.
‘Is it like being shot?’ he asked.
‘Brother,’ she said, ‘you are in a bad and sinful condition. I blame it on your
ignorant bringing up. I bet those schools on Mars are terrible’don’t teach you
no truth at all. Just a pack of made-up lies. Brother, you got to be baptized if
you want to be happy.’
‘Will it make me happy even in this world here?’ he said. ‘Don’t ask for
everything on your platter,’ she said. ‘Be satisfied with a wrinkled pea, for
there’s another world we’re all going to that’s better than this one.’

‘I know that world,’ he said.
‘It’s peaceful,’ she said.
‘Yes.’
‘There’s quiet,’ she said.
‘Yes.’
‘There’s milk and honey flowing.’
‘Why, yes,’ he said.
‘And everybody’s laughing.’
‘I can see it now,’ he said.
‘A better world,’ she said.
‘Far better,’ he said. ‘Yes, Mars is a great planet.’

‘Mister,’ she said, tightening up and almost flinging the tambourine in his
face, ‘you been joking with me?’
‘Why, no.’ He was embarrassed and bewildered. ‘I thought you were talking
about”’
‘Not about mean old nasty Mars, I tell you, mister! It’s your type that is going
to boil for years, and suffer and break out in black pimples and be tortured”’
‘I must admit Earth isn’t very nice. You’ve described it beautifully.’
‘Mister, you’re funning me again!’ she cried angrily.
‘No, no’please. I plead ignorance.’
‘Well,’ she said, ‘you’re a heathen, and heathens are improper. Here’s a paper.
Come to this address tomorrow night and be baptized and be happy. We shouts and we stomps and we talk in voices, so if you want to hear our all-cornet,
all-brass band, you come, won’t you now?’
‘I’ll try,’ he said hesitantly.
Down the street she went, patting her tambourine, singing at the top of her
voice, ‘Happy Am I, I’m Always Happy.’

Dazed, Ettil returned to his letter.
‘Dear Tylla: To think that in my na’vet’ I imagined that the Earthmen would have
to counterattack with guns and bombs. No, no. I was sadly wrong. There is no
Rick or Mick or Jick or Bannon’those lever fellows who save worlds. No.
‘There are blond robots with pink rubber bodies, real, but somehow unreal, alive
but somehow automatic in all responses, living in caves all of their lives.
Their derri’res are incredible in girth. Their eyes are fixed and motionless
from an endless time of staring at picture screens. The only muscles they have
occur in their jaws from their ceaseless chewing of gum.
‘And it is not only these, my dear Tylla, but the entire civilization into which
we have been dropped like a shovelful of seeds into a large concrete mixer.
Nothing of us will survive. We will be killed not by the gun but by the
glad-hand. We will be destroyed not by the rocket but by the automobile . . .’

Somebody screamed. A crash, another crash. Silence.
Ettil leaped up from his letter. Outside, on the street two ears had crashed.
One full of Martians, another with Earthmen. Ettil returned to his letter:
‘Dear, dear Tylla, a few statistics if you will allow. Forty-five thousand
people killed every year on this continent of America; made into jelly right in
the can, as it were, in the automobiles. Red blood jelly, with white marrow
bones like sudden thoughts, ridiculous horror thoughts, transfixed in the
immutable jelly. The cars roll up in tight neat sardine rolls’all sauce, all
silence.
‘Blood manure for green buzzing summer flies, all over the highways. Faces made into Halloween masks by sudden stops. Halloween is one of their holidays. I think they worship the automobile on that night’something to do with death,
anyway.
‘You look out your window and see two people lying atop each other in friendly
fashion who, a moment ago, had never met before, dead. I foresee our army
mashed, diseased, trapped in cinemas by witches and gum. Sometime in the next
day I shall try to escape back to Mars before it is too late.
‘Somewhere on Earth tonight, my Tylla, there is a Man with a Lever, which, when
he pulls it, Will Save the World. The man is now unemployed. His switch gathers
dust. He himself plays pinochle.
‘The women of this evil planet are drowning us in a tide of banal
sentimentality, misplaced romance, and one last fling before the makers of
glycerin boil them down for usage. Good night, Tylla. Wish me well, for I shall
probably die trying to escape. My love to our child.’
Weeping silently, he folded the letter and reminded himself to mail it later at
the rocket post.

He left the park. What was there to do? Escape? But how? Return to the post late
tonight, steal one of the rockets alone and go back to Mars? Would it be
possible? He shook his head. He was much too confused.
All that he really knew was that if he stayed here he would soon be the property
of a lot of things that buzzed and snorted and hissed, that gave off fumes or
stenches. In six months he would be the owner of a large pink, trained ulcer, a
blood pressure of algebraic dimensions, a myopia this side of blindness, and
nightmares as deep as oceans and infested with improbable lengths of dream
intestines through which he must violently force his way each night. No, no.
He looked at the haunted faces of the Earthmen drifting violently along in their
mechanical death boxes. Soon’yes, very soon’they would invent an auto with six
silver handles on it!
‘Hey, there!’
An auto horn. A large long hearse of a car, black and ominous pulled to the
curb. A man leaned out.
‘You a Martian?’
‘Yes.’
‘Just the man I gotta see. Hop in quick’the chance of a lifetime. Hop in. Take
you to a real nice joint where we can talk. Come on’don’t stand there.’
As if hypnotized, Ettil opened the door of the car, got in.
They drove off.
‘What’ll it be, E.V.? How about a manhattan? Two manhattans, waiter. Okay, E.V.
This is my treat. This is on me and Big Studios! Don’t even touch your wallet.
Pleased to meet you, E.V. My name’s R. R. Van Plank. Maybe you hearda me? No?
Well, shake anyhow.’
Ettil felt his hand massaged and dropped. They were in a dark hole with music
and waiters drifting about. Two drinks were set down. It had all happened so
swiftly. Now Van Plank, hands crossed on his chest, was surveying his Martian
discovery.
‘What I want you for, E.V., is this. It’s the most magnanimous idea I ever got
in my life. I don’t know how it came to me, just in a flash. I was sitting home
tonight and I thought to myself, My God, what a picture it would make! Invasion
of Earth by Mars. So what I got to do? I got to find an adviser for the film. So
I climbed in my car and found you and here we are. Drink up! Here’s to your
health and our future. Skoal!’
‘But”’ said Ettil.
‘Now, I know, you’ll want money. Well, we got plenty of that. Besides, I got a
li’l black book full of peaches I can lend you.’
‘I don’t like most of your Earth fruit and”’
‘You’re a card, mac, really. Well, here’s how I get the picture in my
mind’listen.’ He leaned forward excitedly. ‘We got a flash scene of the Martians
at a big powwow, drummin’ drums, gettin’ stewed on Mars. In the background are
huge silver cities”’
‘But that’s not the way Martian cities are”’
‘We got to have color, kid. Color. Let your pappy fix this. Anyway, there are
all the Martians doing a dance around a fire”’
‘We don’t dance around fires”’
‘In this film you got a fire and you dance,’ declared Van Plank, eyes shut,
proud of his certainty. He nodded, dreaming it over on his tongue. ‘Then we got
a beautiful Martian woman, tall and blond.’
‘Martian women are dark”’
‘Look, I don’t see how we’re going to be happy, E.V. By the way, son, you ought
to change your name. What was it again?’
‘Ettil.’
‘That’s a woman’s name. I’ll give you a better one. Call you Joe. Okay, Joe. As
I was saying, our Martian women are gonna be blond, because, see, just because.
Or else your poppa won’t be happy. You got any suggestions?’
‘I thought that”’
‘And another thing we gotta have is a scene, very tearful, where the Martian
woman saves the whole ship of Martian men from dying when a meteor or something hits the ship. That’ll make a whackeroo of a scene. You know, I’m glad I found you, Joe. You’re going to have a good deal with us, I tell you.’
Ettil reached out and held the man’s wrist tight. ‘Just a minute. There’s
something I want to ask you.’
‘Sure, Joe, shoot.’
‘Why are you being so nice to us? We invade your planet, and you welcome
us’everybody’like long-lost children. Why?’
‘They sure grow ’em green on Mars, don’t they? You’re a na’ve-type guy’I can see
from way over here. Mac, look at it this way. We’re all Little People, ain’t
we?’ He waved a small tan hand garnished with emeralds.
‘We’re all common as dirt, ain’t we? Well, here on Earth, we’re proud of that.
This is the century of the Common Man, Bill, and we’re proud we’re small. Billy,
you’re looking at a planet full of Saroyans. Yes, sir. A great big fat family of
friendly Saroyans’everybody loving everybody. We understand you Martians, Joe,
and we know why you invaded Earth. We know how lonely you were up on that little cold planet Mars, how you envied us our cities”’
‘Our civilization is much older than yours”’
‘Please, Joe, you make me unhappy when you interrupt. Let me finish my theory
and then you talk all you want. As I was saying, you was lonely up there, and
down you came to see our cities and our women and all, and we welcomed you in, because you’re our brothers, Common Men like all of us.
‘And then, as a kind of side incident, Roscoe, there’s a certain little small
profit to be had from this invasion. I mean for instance this picture I plan,
which will net us, neat, a billion dollars, I bet. Next week we start putting
out a special Martian doll at thirty bucks a throw. Think of the millions there.
I also got a contract to make a Martian game to sell for five bucks. There’s all
sorts of angles.’
‘I see,’ said Ettil, drawing back.
‘And then of course there’s that whole nice new market. Think of all the
depilatories and gum and shoeshine we can sell to you Martians.’
‘Wait. Another question.’
‘Shoot.’
‘What’s your first name? What’s the R.R. stand for?’
‘Richard Robert.’
Ettil looked at the ceiling. ‘Do they sometimes, perhaps, on occasion, once in a
while, by accident, call you ‘Rick?’
‘How’d you guess, mac? Rick, sure.’
Ettil sighed and began to laugh and laugh. He put out his hand. ‘So you’re Rick?
Rick! So you’re Rick!’
‘What’s the joke, laughing boy? Let Poppa in!’
‘You wouldn’t understand’a private joke. Ha, ha!’ Tears ran down his cheeks and
into his open mouth. He pounded the table again and again. ‘So you’re Rick. Oh,
how different, how funny. No bulging muscles, no lean jaw, no gun. Only a wallet
full of money and an emerald ring and a big middle!’
‘Hey, watch the language! I may not be no Apollo, but”’
‘Shake hands, Rick. I’ve wanted to meet you. You’re the man who’ll conquer Mars,
with cocktail shakers and foot arches and poker chips and riding crops and
leather boots and checkered caps and rum collinses.’
‘I’m only a humble businessman,’ said Van Plank, eyes slyly down. ‘I do my work
and take my humble little piece of money pie. But, as I was saying, Mort, I been
thinking of the market on Mars for Uncle Wiggily games and Dick Tracy comics;
all new. A big wide field never even heard of cartoons, right? Right! So we just
toss a great big bunch of stuff on the Martians’ heads. They’ll fight for it,
kid, fight! Who wouldn’t, for perfumes and Paris dresses and Oshkosh overalls,
eh? And nice new shoes”’
‘We don’t wear shoes.’
‘What have I got here?’ R.R. asked of the ceiling. ‘A planet full of Okies?
Look, Joe, we’ll take care of that. We’ll shame everyone into wearing shoes.
Then we sell them the polish!’
‘Oh.’
He slapped Ettil’s. arm. ‘Is it a deal? Will you be technical director on my
film? You’ll get two hundred a week to start, a five-hundred top. What you say?’
‘I’m sick,’ said Ettil. He had drunk the manhattan and was now turning blue.
‘Say, I’m sorry. I didn’t know it would do that to you. Let’s get some fresh
air.’

In the open air Ettil felt better. He swayed. ‘So that’s why Earth took us in?’
‘Sure, son. Any time an Earthman can turn an honest dollar, watch him steam. The customer is always right. No hard feelings. Here’s my card. Be at the studio in
Hollywood tomorrow morning at nine o’clock. They’ll show you your office. I’ll
arrive at eleven and see you then. Be sure you get there at nine o’clock. It’s a
strict rule.’
‘Why?’
‘Gallagher, you’re a queer oyster, but I love you. Good night. Happy invasion!’
The car drove off.

Ettil blinked after it, incredulous. Then, rubbing his brow with the palm of his
hand, he walked slowly along the street toward the rocket port.
‘Well, what are you going to do?’ he asked himself, aloud. The rockets lay
gleaming in the moonlight silent. From the city came the sounds of distant
revelry. In the medical compound an extreme case of nervous breakdown was being tended to: a young Martian who, by his screams, had seen too much, drunk too much, heard too many songs on the little red-and-yellow boxes in the drinking places, and had been chased around innumerable tables by a large elephant-like woman. He kept murmuring:
‘Can’t breathe . . . crushed, trapped.’
The sobbing faded. Ettil came out of the shadows and moved on across a wide
avenue toward the ships. Far over, he could see the guards lying about
drunkenly. He listened. From the vast city came the faint sounds of cars and
music and sirens. And he imagined other sounds too: the insidious whir of malt
machines stirring malts to fatten the warriors and make them lazy and forgetful,
the narcotic voices of the cinema caverns lulling and lulling the Martians fast,
fast into a slumber through which, all of their remaining lives, they would
sleepwalk.
A year from now, how many Martians dead of cirrhosis of the liver, bad kidneys,
high blood pressure, suicide?
He stood in the middle of the empty avenue. Two blocks away a car was rushing
toward him.
He had a choice: stay here, take the studio job, report for work each morning as
adviser on a picture, and, in time, come to agree with the producer that, yes
indeed, there were massacres on Mars; yes, the women were tall and blond; yes,
there were tribal dances and sacrifices; yes, yes, yes. Or he could walk over
and get into a rocket ship and, alone, return to Mars.
‘But what about next year?’ he said.
The Blue Canal Night Club brought to Mars. The Ancient City Gambling Casino,
Built Right Inside. Yes, Right Inside a Real Martian Ancient City! Neons, racing
forms blowing in the old cities, picnic lunches in the ancestral graveyards’all
of it, all of it.
But not quite yet. In a few days he could be home. Tylla would be waiting with
their son, and then for the last few years of gentle life he might sit with his
wife in the blowing weather on the edge of the canal reading his good, gentle
books, sipping a rare and light wine, talking and living out their short time
until the neon bewilderment fell from the sky.
And then perhaps he and Tylla might move into the blue mountains and hide for
another year or two until the tourists came to snap their cameras and say how
quaint things were.

He knew just what he would say to Tylla. ‘War is a bad thing, but peace can be a
living horror.’
He stood in the middle of the wide avenue.
Turning, it was with no surprise that he saw a car bearing down upon him, a car
full of screaming children. These boys and girls, none older than sixteen, were
swerving and ricocheting their open-top car down the avenue. He saw them point at him and yell. He heard the motor roar louder. The car sped forward at sixty miles an hour.
He began to run.
Yes, yes, he thought tiredly, with the car upon him, how strange, how sad. It
sounds so much like . . . a concrete mixer.

The End

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Chapter 2, Part 5, of the 33 Strategies of War by Robert Greene titled “Avoid groupthink: Command-and-control”

This is a full reprint in HTML of the fifth chapter (Chapter 5) of the second part (Part II) of the massive volume titled "The 33 Strategies of War". Written by Robert Greene (with emotional support from his cats). I read this book while in prison, and found much of what was written to be interesting, enjoyable, and pertinent to things going on in my life. I think that you will as well.

People naturally have their own agendas in the groups you lead. If you’re too authoritarian they will resent you, and if you’re too lax they will revert doing their own interests. You need a chain of command where people buy into your vision and follow your lead naturally. The overall strategic vision must come from you and you alone. But make the group feel involved in the decision making. Take their good ideas, deflect the bad ones and if necessary make minor changes to appease the most political ones.

Part II

Chapter 5

AVOID THE SNARES OF GROUPTHINK

Avoid groupthink: Command-and-control

The problem in leading any group is that people inevitably have their own agendas. If you are too authoritarian, they will resent you and rebel in silent ways. If you are too easygoing, they will revert to their natural selfishness and you will lose control. You have to create a chain of command in which people do not feel constrained by your influence yet follow your lead. Put the right people in place--people who will enact the spirit of your ideas without being automatons. 

Make your commands clear and inspiring, focusing attention on the team, not the leader. Create a sense of participation, but do not fall into Groupthink--the irrationality of collective decision making. Make yourself look like a paragon of fairness, but never relinquish unity of command.

How very different is the cohesion between that of an army rallying around one flag carried into battle at the personal command of one general and that of an allied military force extending 50 or 100 leagues, or even on different sides of the theater! In the first case, cohesion is at its strongest and unity at its closest. In the second case, the unity is very remote, often consisting of no more than a shared political intention, and therefore only scanty and imperfect, while the cohesion of the parts is mostly weak and often no more than an illusion.

ON WAR, CARL VON CLAUSEWITZ, 1780-1831

THE BROKEN CHAIN

World War I began in August 1914, and by the end of that year, all along the Western Front, the British and French were caught in a deadly stalemate with the Germans. Meanwhile, though, on the Eastern Front, Germany was badly beating the Russians, allies of Britain and France. Britain’s military leaders had to try a new strategy, and their plan, backed by First Lord of the Admiralty Winston Churchill and others, was to stage an attack on Gallipoli, a peninsula on Turkey’s
Dardanelles Strait. Turkey was an ally of Germany’s, and the Dardanelles was the gateway to Constantinople, the Turkish capital (present-day Istanbul). If the Allies could take Gallipoli, Constantinople would follow, and Turkey would have to leave the war. In addition, using bases in Turkey and the Balkans, the Allies could attack Germany from the southeast, dividing its armies and weakening its ability to fight on the Western Front. They would also have a clear supply line to Russia. Victory at Gallipoli would change the course of the war.

The plan was approved, and in March 1915, General Sir Ian Hamilton was named to lead the campaign. Hamilton, at sixty-two, was an able strategist and an experienced commander. He and Churchill felt certain that their forces, including Australians and New Zealanders, would out-match the Turks.

Churchill’s orders were simple: take Constantinople. He left the details to the general.

Hamilton’s plan was to land at three points on the southwestern tip of the Gallipoli peninsula, secure the beaches, and sweep north. The landings took place on April 27. From the beginning almost everything went wrong: the army’s maps were inaccurate, its troops landed in the wrong places, the beaches were much narrower than expected. Worst of all, the Turks fought back unexpectedly fiercely and well. At the end of the first day, most of the Allies’ 70,000 men had landed, but they were unable to advance beyond the beaches, where the Turks would hold them pinned down for several weeks. It was another stalemate; Gallipoli had become a disaster.

All seemed lost, but in June, Churchill convinced the government to send more troops and Hamilton devised a new plan. He would land 20,000 men at Suvla Bay, some twenty miles to the north. Suvla was a vulnerable target: it had a large harbor, the terrain was low-lying and easy, and it was defended by only a handful of Turks. An invasion here would force the Turks to divide their forces,
freeing up the Allied armies to the south. The stalemate would be broken, and Gallipoli would fall.

To command the Suvla operation Hamilton was forced to accept the most senior Englishman available for the job, Lieutenant General Sir Frederick Stopford. Under him, Major General Frederick Hammersley would lead the Eleventh Division. Neither of these men was Hamilton’s first choice.

Stopford, a sixty-one-year-old military teacher, had never led troops in war and saw artillery bombardment as the only way to win a battle; he was also in poor health. Hammersley, for his part, had suffered a nervous breakdown the previous year.

In war it is not men, but the man, that counts.

NAPOLEON BONAPARTE, 1769-1821

Hamilton’s style was to tell his officers the purpose of an upcoming battle but leave it to them how to bring it about. He was a gentleman, never blunt or forceful. At one of their first meetings, for example, Stop-ford requested changes in the landing plans to reduce risk. Hamilton politely deferred to him.

Hamilton did have one request. Once the Turks knew of the landings at Suvla, they would rush in reinforcements. As soon as the Allies were ashore, then, Hamilton wanted them to advance immediately to a range of hills four miles inland, called Tekke Tepe, and to get there before the Turks. From Tekke Tepe the Allies would dominate the peninsula. The order was simple enough, but
Hamilton, so as not to offend his subordinate, expressed it in the most general terms. Most crucially, he specified no time frame. He was sufficiently vague that Stopford completely misinterpreted him: instead of trying to reach Tekke Tepe “as soon as possible,” Stopford thought he should advance to the hills “if possible.” That was the order he gave Hammersley. And as Hammersley, nervous about the whole campaign, passed it down to his colonels, the order became less
urgent and vaguer still.

Also, despite his deference to Stopford, Hamilton overruled the lieutenant general in one respect: he denied a request for more artillery bombardments to loosen up the Turks. Stopford’s troops would outnumber the Turks at Suvla ten to one, Hamilton replied; more artillery was superfluous.

The attack began in the early morning of August 7. Once again much turned bad: Stopford’s changes in the landing plans made a mess. As his officers came ashore, they began to argue, uncertain about their positions and objectives. They sent messengers to ask their next step: Advance? Consolidate?

Hammersley had no answers. Stopford had stayed on a boat offshore, from which to control the battlefield–but on that boat he was impossible to reach quickly enough to get prompt orders from him. Hamilton was on an island still farther away. The day was frittered away in argument and the endless relaying of messages.

The next morning Hamilton began to sense that something had gone very wrong. From reconnaissance aircraft he knew that the flat land around Suvla was essentially empty and undefended; the way to Tekke Tepe was open–the troops had only to march–but they were staying where they were. Hamilton decided to visit the front himself. Reaching Stopford’s boat late that afternoon, he found the general in a self-congratulatory mood: all 20,000 men had gotten ashore.

No, he had not yet ordered the troops to advance to the hills; without artillery he was afraid the Turks might counterattack, and he needed the day to consolidate his positions and to land supplies.

Hamilton strained to control himself: he had heard an hour earlier that Turkish reinforcements had been seen hurrying toward Suvla. The Allies would have to secure Tekke Tepe this evening, he said–but Stopford was against a night march. Too dangerous. Hamilton retained his cool and politely excused himself.

Any army is like a horse, in that it reflects the temper and the spirit of its rider. If there is an uneasiness and an uncertainty, it transmits itself through the reins, and the horse feels uneasy and uncertain.

LONE STAR PREACHER, COLONEL JOHN W. THOMASON, JR., 1941

In near panic, Hamilton decided to visit Hammersley at Suvla. Much to his dismay, he found the army lounging on the beach as if it were a bank holiday. He finally located Hammersley–he was at the far end of the bay, busily supervising the building of his temporary headquarters. Asked why he had failed to secure the hills, Hammersley replied that he had sent several brigades for the purpose,
but they had encountered Turkish artillery and his colonels had told him they could not advance without more instructions. Communications between Hammersley, Stopford, and the colonels in the field were taking forever, and when Stopford had finally been reached, he had sent the message back
to Hammersley to proceed cautiously, rest his men, and wait to advance until the next day. Hamilton could control himself no longer: a handful of Turks with a few guns were holding up an army of 20,000 men from marching a mere four miles!

Tomorrow morning would be too late; the Turkish reinforcements were on their way.

Although it was already night, Hamilton ordered Hammersley to send a brigade immediately to Tekke Tepe. It would be a race to the finish.

Hamilton returned to a boat in the harbor to monitor the situation. At sunrise the next morning, he watched the battlefield through binoculars–and saw, to his horror, the Allied troops in headlong retreat to Suvla. A large Turkish force had arrived at Tekke Tepe thirty minutes before them.

In the next few days, the Turks managed to regain the flats around Suvla and to pin Hamilton’s army on the beach. Some four months later, the Allies gave up their attack on Gallipoli and evacuated their troops.

Interpretation

In planning the invasion at Suvla, Hamilton thought of everything. He  understood the need for surprise, deceiving the Turks about the landing site. He mastered the logistical details of a complex amphibious assault. Locating the key point–Tekke Tepe–from which the Allies could break the stalemate in Gallipoli, he crafted an excellent strategy to get there.

Gallipoli

He even tried to prepare for the kind of unexpected contingencies that can always happen in battle. But he ignored the one thing closest to him: the chain of command, and the circuit of  communications by which orders, information, and decisions would circulate back and forth. He was dependent on that circuit to give him control of the situation and allow him to execute his strategy.

The first links in the chain of command were Stopford and Hammersley. Both men were terrified of risk, and Hamilton failed to adapt himself to their weakness: his order to reach Tekke Tepe was polite, civilized, and unforceful, and Stopford and Hammersley interpreted it according to their fears. They saw Tekke Tepe as a possible goal to aim for once the beaches were secured.

The next links in the chain were the colonels who were to lead the assault on Tekke Tepe. They had no contact with Hamilton on his island or with Stopford on his boat, and Hammersley was too overwhelmed to lead them. They themselves were terrified of acting on their own and maybe messing up a plan they had never understood; they hesitated at every step. Below the colonels were officers
and soldiers who, without leadership, were left wandering on the beach like lost ants. Vagueness at the top turned into confusion and lethargy at the bottom. Success depended on the speed with which information could pass in both directions along the chain of command, so that Hamilton could understand what was happening and adapt faster than the enemy. The chain was broken, and Gallipoli was lost.

When a failure like this happens, when a golden opportunity slips through your fingers, you naturally look for a cause.

Maybe you blame your incompetent officers, your faulty technology, your flawed intelligence. But that is to look at the world backward; it ensures more failure.

The truth is that everything starts from the top.

What determines your failure or success is your style of leadership and the chain of command that you design. If your orders are vague and halfhearted, by the time they reach the field they will be meaningless. Let people work unsupervised and they will revert to their natural selfishness: they will see in your orders what they want to see, and their behavior will promote their own interests.

Unless you adapt your leadership style to the weaknesses of the people in your group, you will almost certainly end up with a break in the chain of command. Information in the field will reach you too slowly. A proper chain of command, and the control it brings you, is not an accident; it is your creation, a work of art that requires constant attention and care. Ignore it at your peril.

For what the leaders are, that, as a rule, will the men below them be.

--Xenophon (430?-355? B.C.)

REMOTE CONTROL

In the late 1930s, U.S. Brigadier General George C. Marshall (1880-1958) preached the need for major military reform. The army had too few soldiers, they were badly trained, current doctrine was ill suited to modern technology–the list of problems went on.

In 1939, President Franklin D. Roosevelt had to select his next army chief of staff. The appointment was critical: World War II had begun in Europe, and Roosevelt believed that the United States was sure to get involved. He understood the need for military reform, so he bypassed generals with more seniority and experience and chose Marshall for the job.

The appointment was a curse in disguise, for the War Department was hopelessly dysfunctional.

Many of its generals had monstrous egos and the power to impose their way of doing things. Senior officers, instead of retiring, took jobs in the department, amassing power bases and fiefdoms that they did everything they could to protect. A place of feuds, waste, communication breakdowns, and
overlapping jobs, the department was a mess. How could Marshall revamp the army for global war if he could not control it? How could he create order and efficiency?

What must be the result of an operation which is but partially understood by the commander, since it is not his own conception? I have undergone a pitiable experience as prompter at head- quarters, and no one has a better appreciation of the value of such services than myself; and it is particularly in a council of war that such a part is absurd. The greater the number and the higher the rank of the military officers who compose the council, the more difficult will it be to accomplish the triumph of truth and reason, however small be the amount of dissent. What would have been the action of a council of war to which Napoleon proposed the movement of Arcola, the crossing of the Saint-Bernard, the maneuver at Ulm, or that at Gera and Jena? The timid would have regarded them as rash, even to madness, others would have seen a thousand difficulties of execution, and all would have concurred in rejecting them; and if, on the contrary, they had been adopted, and had been executed by any one but Napoleon, would they not certainly have proved failures?

BARON ANTOINE-HENRI DE JOMINI, 1779-1869

Some ten years earlier, Marshall had served as the assistant commander of the Infantry School at Fort Benning, Georgia, where he had trained many officers.

Throughout his time there, he had kept a notebook in which he recorded the names of promising young men.

Soon after becoming chief of staff, Marshall began to retire the older officers in the War Department and replace them with these younger men whom he had personally trained. These officers were ambitious, they shared his desire for reform, and he encouraged them to speak their minds and show initiative.

They included men like Omar Bradley and Mark Clark, who would be crucial in World War II, but no one was more important than the protege Marshall spent the most time on: Dwight D. Eisenhower.

The relationship began a few days after the attack on Pearl Harbor, when Marshall asked Eisenhower, then a colonel, to prepare a report on what should be done in the Far East. The report showed Marshall that Eisenhower shared his ideas on how to run the war.

For the next few months, he kept Eisenhower in the War Plans Division and watched him closely: the two men met every day, and in that time Eisenhower soaked up Marshall’s style of leadership, his way of getting things done.

Marshall tested Eisenhower’s patience by indicating that he planned to keep him in Washington instead of giving him the field assignment that he desperately wanted.

The colonel passed the test.

Much like Marshall himself, he got along well with other officers yet was quietly forceful. In July 1942, as the Americans prepared to enter the war by fighting alongside the British in North Africa, Marshall surprised one and all by naming Eisenhower commander in the European Theater of Operations.

Eisenhower was by this time a lieutenant general but was still relatively unknown, and in his first few months in the job, as the Americans fared poorly in North Africa, the British clamored for a replacement. But Marshall stood by his man, offering him advice and encouragement.

One key suggestion was for Eisenhower to develop a protege, much as Marshall had with him–a kind of roving deputy who thought the way he did and would act as his go-between with subordinates.

Marshall’s suggestion for the post was Major General Bradley, a man he knew well; Eisenhower accepted the idea, essentially duplicating the staff structure that Marshall had created in the War Department.

With Bradley in place, Marshall left Eisenhower alone.

Marshall positioned his proteges throughout the War Department, where they quietly spread his way of doing things. To make the task easier, he cut the waste in the department with utter ruthlessness, reducing from sixty to six the number of deputies who reported to him.

Marshall hated excess; his reports to Roosevelt made him famous for his ability to summarize a complex situation in a few pages.

The six men who reported to him found that any report that lasted a page too long simply went unread. He would listen to their oral presentations with rapt attention, but the minute they wandered from the topic or said something not thought through, he would look away, bored, uninterested.

It was an expression they dreaded: without saying a word, he had made it known that they had displeased him and it was time for them to leave.

Marshall’s six deputies began to think like him and to demand from those who reported to them the efficiency and streamlined communications style he demanded of them. The speed of the information flow up and down the line was now quadrupled.

"Do you think every Greek here can be a king? It's no good having a carload of commanders. We need One commander, one king, the one to whom Zeus, Son of Cronus the crooked, has given the staff And the right to make decisions for his people." And so Odysseus mastered the army. The men all Streamed back from their ships and huts and assembled With a roar.

THE ILIAD, HOMER, CIRCA NINTH CENTURY B.C.

Marshall exuded authority but never yelled and never challenged men frontally. He had a knack for communicating his wishes indirectly–a skill that was all the more effective since it made his officers think about what he meant.

Brigadier General Leslie R. Groves, the military director of the project to develop the atom bomb, once came to Marshall’s office to get him to sign off on $100 million in expenditures. Finding the chief of staff engrossed in paperwork, he waited while Marshall diligently compared documents and made notes.

Finally Marshall put down his pen, examined the $100 million request, signed it, and returned it to Groves without a word. The general thanked him and was turning to leave when Marshall finally spoke: “It may interest you to know what I was doing: I was writing the check for $3.52 for grass seed for my lawn.”

The thousands who worked under Marshall, whether in the War Department or abroad in the field, did not have to see him personally to feel his presence.

They felt it in the terse but insightful reports that reached them from his deputies, in the speed of the responses to their questions and requests, in the department’s efficiency and team spirit. They felt it in the leadership style of men like Eisenhower, who had absorbed Marshall’s diplomatic yet forceful way of doing things. In a few short years, Marshall transformed the War Department and the U.S. Army.

Few really understood how he had done it.

Interpretation

When Marshall became chief of staff, he knew that he would have to hold himself back. The temptation was to do combat with everyone in every problem area: the recalcitrance of the generals, the political feuds, the layers of waste. But Marshall was too smart to give in to that temptation.

First, there were too many battles to fight, and they would exhaust him. He’d get frustrated, lose time, and probably give himself a heart attack. Second, by trying to micromanage the department, he would become embroiled in petty entanglements and lose sight of the larger picture. And finally he would come across as a bully. The only way to slay this many-headed monster, Marshall knew, was to step back.

He had to rule indirectly through others, controlling with such a light touch that no one would realize how thoroughly he dominated.

Reports gathered and presented by the General Staff, on the one hand, and by the Statistical Bureau, on the other, thus constituted the most important sources of information at Napoleon's disposal. 

Climbing through the chain of command, however, such reports tend to become less and less specific; the more numerous the stages through which they pass and the more standardized the form in which they are presented, the greater the danger that they will become so heavily profiled (and possibly sugar-coated or merely distorted by the many summaries) as to become almost meaningless. 

To guard against this danger and to keep subordinates on their toes, a commander needs to have in addition a kind of directed telescope--the metaphor is an apt one--which he can direct, at will, at any part of the enemy's forces, the terrain, or his own army in order to bring in information that is not only less structured than that passed on by the normal channels but also tailored to meet his momentary (and specific) needs. Ideally, the regular reporting system should tell the commander which questions to ask, and the directed telescope should enable him to answer those questions. 

It was the two systems together, cutting across each other and wielded by Napoleon's masterful hand, which made the revolution in command possible.

COMMAND IN WAR, MARTIN VAN CREVELD, 1985

The key to Marshall’s strategy was his selection, grooming, and placement of his proteges. He metaphorically cloned himself in these men, who enacted the spirit of his reforms on his behalf, saving him time and making him appear not as a manipulator but as a delegator.

His cutting of waste was heavy-handed at first, but once he put his stamp on the department, it began to run efficiently on its own–fewer people to deal with, fewer irrelevant reports to read, less wasted time on every level.

This streamlining achieved, Marshall could guide the machine with a lighter touch. The political types who were clogging the chain of command were either retired or joined in the team spirit he infused.

His indirect style of communicating amused some of his staff, but it was actually a highly effective way of asserting his authority. An officer might go home chuckling about finding Marshall fussing over a gardening bill, but it would slowly dawn on him that if he wasted a penny, his boss would know.

Like the War Department that Marshall inherited, today’s world is complex and chaotic. It is harder than ever to exercise control through a chain of command. You cannot supervise everything yourself; you cannot keep your eye on everyone.

Being seen as a dictator will do you harm, but if you submit to complexity and let go of the chain of command, chaos will consume you.

The solution is to do as Marshall did: operate through a kind of remote control. Hire deputies who share your vision but can think on their own, acting as you would in their place.

Instead of wasting time negotiating with every difficult person, work on spreading a spirit of camaraderie and efficiency that becomes self-policing.

Streamline the organization, cutting out waste–in staff, in the irrelevant reports on your desk, in pointless meetings. The less attention you spend on petty details, the more time you will have for the larger picture, for asserting your authority generally and indirectly. People will follow your lead without feeling bullied. That is the ultimate in control.

Madness is the exception in individuals but the rule in groups.

--Friedrich Nietzsche (1844-1900)

KEYS TO WARFARE

Now more than ever, effective leadership requires a deft and subtle touch.

The reason is simple: we have grown more distrustful of authority. At the same time, almost all of us imagine ourselves as authorities in our own right–officers, not foot soldiers.

Feeling the need to assert themselves, people today put their own interests before the team.

Group unity is fragile and can easily crack.

These trends affect leaders in ways they barely know. The tendency is to give more power to the group: wanting to seem democratic, leaders poll the whole staff for opinions, let the group make decisions, give subordinates input into the crafting of an overall strategy.

Without realizing it, these leaders are letting the politics of the day seduce them into violating one of the most important rules of warfare and leadership: unity of command. Before it is too late, learn the lessons of war: divided leadership is a recipe for disaster, the cause of the greatest military defeats in history.

Among the foremost of these defeats was the Battle of Cannae, in 216 B.C., between the Romans and the Carthaginians led by Hannibal. The Romans outnumbered the Carthaginians two to one but were virtually annihilated in a perfectly executed strategic envelopment.

Hannibal, of course, was a military genius, but the Romans take much of the blame for their own defeat: they had a faulty command system, with two tribunes sharing leadership of the army.

Disagreeing over how to fight Hannibal, these men fought each other as much as they fought him, and they made a mess of things.

Nearly two thousand years later, Frederick the Great, king of Prussia and leader of its army, outfought and outlasted the five great powers aligned against him in the Seven Years’ War partly because he made decisions so much faster than the alliance generals, who had to consult each other in every move they made.

In World War II, General Marshall was well aware of the dangers of divided
leadership and insisted that one supreme commander should lead the Allied armies.

Without his victory in this battle, Eisenhower could not have succeeded in Europe. In the Vietnam War, the unity of command enjoyed by the North Vietnamese general Vo Nguyen Giap gave him a tremendous advantage over the Americans, whose strategy was crafted by a crowd of politicians and generals.

Divided leadership is dangerous because people in groups often think and act in ways that are illogical and ineffective–call it Groupthink.

People in groups are political: they say and do things that they think will help their image within the group. They aim to please others, to promote themselves, rather than to see things dispassionately. Where an individual can be bold and creative, a group is often afraid of risk. The need to find a compromise among all the different egos kills creativity. The group has a mind of its own, and that mind is cautious, slow to decide, unimaginative, and sometimes downright irrational.

This is the game you must play: Do whatever you can to preserve unity of command.

Keep the strings to be pulled in your hands; the over-arching strategic vision must come from you and you alone.

At the same time, hide your tracks.

Work behind the scenes; make the group feel involved in your decisions. Seek their advice, incorporating their good ideas, politely deflecting their bad ones.

If necessary, make minor, cosmetic strategy changes to assuage the insecure political animals in the group, but ultimately trust your own vision. Remember the dangers of group decision making. The first rule of effective leadership is never to relinquish your unity of command.

Tomorrow at dawn you depart [from St. Cloud] and travel to Worms, cross the Rhine there, and make sure that all preparations for the crossing of the river by my guard are being made there. 

You will then proceed to Kassel and make sure that the place is being put in a state of defense and provisioned. Taking due security precautions, you will visit the fortress of Hanau. Can it be secured by a coup de main? 

If necessary, you will visit the citadel of Marburg too. You will then travel on to Kassel and report to me by way of my charge d'affaires at that place, making sure that he is in fact there. 

The voyage from Frankfurt to Kassel is not to take place by night, for you are to observe anything that might interest me. From Kassel you are to travel, also by day, by the shortest way to Koln. The land between Wesel, Mainz, Kassel, and Koln is to be reconnoitered. 

What roads and good communications exist there? Gather information about communications between Kassel and Paderborn. What is the significance of Kassel? Is the place armed and capable of resistance?

Evaluate the forces of the Prince Elector in regard to their present state, their artillery, militia, strong places. From Koln you will travel to meet me at Mainz; you are to keep to the right bank on the Rhine and submit a short appreciation of the country around Dusseldorf, Wesel, and Kassel. 

I shall be at Mainz on the 29th in order to receive your report. 

You can see for yourself how important it is for the beginning of the campaign and its progress that you should have the country well imprinted on your memory.

NAPOLEON'S WRITTEN INSTRUCTIONS TO FIELD GENERAL, QUOTED IN COMMAND IN WAR, MARTIN VAN CREVELD, 1985

Control is an elusive phenomenon. Often, the harder you tug at people, the less control you have over them. Leadership is more than just barking out orders; it takes subtlety.

Early in his career, the great Swedish film director Ingmar Bergman was often overwhelmed with frustration.

He had visions of the films he wanted to make, but the work of being a director was so taxing and the pressure so immense that he would lash out at his cast and crew, shouting orders and attacking them for not giving him what he wanted. Some would stew with resentment at his dictatorial ways, others became obedient automatons.

With almost every new film, Bergman would have to start again with a new cast and crew, which only made things worse.

But eventually he put together a team of the finest cinematographers, editors, art directors, and actors in Sweden, people who shared his high standards and whom he trusted.

That let him loosen the reins of command; with actors like Max von Sydow, he could just suggest what he had in mind and watch as the great actor brought his ideas to life. Greater control could now come from letting go.

A critical step in creating an efficient chain of command is assembling a skilled team that shares your goals and values.

That team gives you many advantages: spirited, motivated people who can think on their own; an image as a delegator, a fair and democratic leader; and a saving in your own valuable energy, which you can redirect toward the larger picture.

In creating this team, you are looking for people who make up for your deficiencies, who have the skills you lack.

In the American Civil War, President Abraham Lincoln had a strategy for defeating the South, but he had no military background and was disdained by his generals. What good was a strategy if he could not realize it? But Lincoln soon found his teammate in General Ulysses S. Grant, who shared his belief in offensive warfare and who did not have an oversize ego.

Once Lincoln discovered Grant, he latched on to him, put him in command, and let him run the war as he saw fit.

Be careful in assembling this team that you are not seduced by expertise and intelligence. Character, the ability to work under you and with the rest of the team, and the capacity to accept responsibility and think independently are equally key. That is why Marshall tested Eisenhower for so long. You may not have as much time to spare, but never choose a man merely by his glittering
resume. Look beyond his skills to his psychological makeup.

Rely on the team you have assembled, but do not be its prisoner or give it undue influence.Franklin D. Roosevelt had his infamous “brain trust,” the advisers and cabinet members on whom he depended for their ideas and opinions, but he never let them in on the actual decision making, and he kept them from building up their own power base within the administration.

He saw them simply as tools, extending his own abilities and saving him valuable time. He understood unity of command and was never seduced into violating it.

A key function of any chain of command is to supply information rapidly from the trenches, letting you adapt fast to circumstances. The shorter and more streamlined the chain of command, the better for the flow of information. Even so, information is often diluted as it passes up the chain: the telling details that reveal so much become standardized and general as they are filtered through formal channels.

Some on the chain, too, will interpret the information for you, filtering what you hear. To get more direct knowledge, you might occasionally want to visit the field yourself.

Marshall would sometimes drop in on an army base incognito to see with his own eyes how his reforms were taking effect; he would also read letters from soldiers. But in these days of increasing complexity, this can consume far too much of your time.

What you need is what the military historian Martin van Creveld calls “a directed telescope”: people in various parts of the chain, and elsewhere, to give you instant information from the battlefield.

These people–an informal network of friends, allies, and spies–let you bypass the slow- moving chain. The master of this game was Napoleon, who created a kind of shadow brigade of younger officers in all areas of the military, men chosen for their loyalty, energy, and intelligence.

At a moment’s notice, he would send one of these men to a far-off front or garrison, or even to enemy headquarters (ostensibly as a diplomatic envoy), with secret instructions to gather the kind of information he could not get fast enough through normal channels. In general, it is important to cultivate these directed telescopes and plant them throughout the group.

They give you flexibility in the chain, room to maneuver in a generally rigid environment. The single greatest risk to your chain of command comes from the political animals in the group.

People like this are inescapable; they spring up like weeds in any organization.

Not only are they out for themselves, but they build factions to further their own agendas and fracture the cohesion you have built. Interpreting your commands for their own purposes, finding loopholes in any ambiguity, they create invisible breaks in the chain.

Try to weed them out before they arrive. In hiring your team, look at the candidates’ histories: Are they restless? Do they often move from place to place? That is a sign of the kind of ambition that will keep them from fitting in. When people seem to share your ideas exactly, be wary: they are probably mirroring them to charm you.

The court of Queen Elizabeth I of England was full of political types.

Elizabeth’s solution was to keep her opinions quiet; on any issue, no one outside
her inner circle knew where she stood. That made it hard for people to mirror her, to disguise their intentions behind a front of perfect agreement. Hers was a wise strategy.

Another solution is to isolate the political moles–to give them no room to maneuver within the organization. Marshall accomplished this by infusing the group with his spirit of efficiency; disrupters of that spirit stood out and could quickly be isolated. In any event, do not be naive.

Once you identify the moles in the group, you must act fast to stop them from building a power base from which to destroy your authority.

Finally, pay attention to the orders themselves–their form as well as their substance. Vague orders are worthless. As they pass from person to person, they are hopelessly altered, and your staff comes to see them as symbolizing uncertainty and indecision.

It is critical that you yourself be clear about what you want before issuing your orders. On the other hand, if your commands are too specific and too narrow, you will encourage people to behave like automatons and stop thinking for themselves–which they must do when the situation requires it. Erring in neither direction is an art.

Here, as in so much else, Napoleon was the master. His orders were full of juicy details, which gave his officers a feel for how his mind worked while also allowing them interpretive leeway.

He would often spell out possible contingencies, suggesting ways the officer could adapt his instructions if necessary. Most important, he made his orders inspiring. His language communicated the spirit of his desires.

A beautifully worded order has extra power; instead of feeling like a minion, there only to execute the wishes of a distant emperor, the recipient becomes a participant in a great cause. Bland, bureaucratic orders filter down into listless activity and imprecise execution.

Clear, concise, inspiring orders make officers feel in control and fill troops with fighting spirit.

Authority: Better one bad general than two good ones.
--Napoleon Bonaparte (1769-1821)

REVERSAL

No good can ever come of divided leadership. If you are ever offered a position in which you will have to share command, turn it down, for the enterprise will fail and you will be held responsible.

Better to take a lower position and let the other person have the job.

It is always wise, however, to take advantage of your opponent’s faulty command structure. Never be intimidated by an alliance of forces against you: if they share leadership, if they are ruled by committee, your advantage is more than enough. In fact, do as Napoleon did and seek out enemies with that kind of command structure. You cannot fail to win.

Conclusion

There’s some great advice in this chapter for the manager and supervisor. When you are in a role, you must show leadership, no matter what style you possess. And make sure that everyone is following your lead in what ever actions you take.

Do you want more?

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Chapter 1, Part 4, of the 33 Strategies of War by Robert Greene titled “Create a sense of urgency and desperation; The Death Ground Strategy”

This is a full reprint in HTML of the fourth chapter (Chapter 4) of the first part (Part I) of the massive volume titled "The 33 Strategies of War". Written by Robert Greene (with emotional support from his cats). I read this book while in prison, and found much of what was written to be interesting, enjoyable, and pertinent to things going on in my life. I think that you will as well.

You are your own worst enemy. You waste precious time dreaming of the future instead of engaging in the present. Cut your ties to the past; enter unknown territory. Place yourself on “death ground,” where your back is against the wall and you have to fight like hell to get out alive.

Part I

Chapter 4

Create a sense of urgency and desperation; The Death Ground Strategy

You are your own worst enemy. You waste precious time dreaming of the future instead of engaging in the present. Since nothing seems urgent to you, you are only half involved in what you do. The only way to change is through action and outside pressure. Put yourself in situations where you have too much at stake to waste time or resources–if you cannot afford to lose, you won’t. Cut your ties to the past; enter unknown territory where you must depend on your wits and energy to see you through. Place yourself on “death ground,” where your back is against the wall and you have to fight like hell to get out alive.

Cortes ran all that aground with the ten ships. Cuba, to be sure, was still there, in the blue sea, with its farms, its cows and its tame Indians; but the way to Cuba was no longer through sunny blue waves, rocked in soft idleness, oblivious of danger and endeavor; it was through Motecucuma's court, which had to be conquered by ruse, by force, or by both; through a sea of warlike Indians who ate their prisoners and donned their skins as trophies; at the stroke of their chief's masterly hand, the five hundred men had lost that flow of vital memories and hopes which linked up their souls with their mother-island; at one stroke, their backs had been withered and had lost all sense of life. Henceforward, for them, all life was ahead, towards those forbidding peaks which rose gigantically on the horizon as if to bar all access to what was now not merely their ambition, but their only possible aim--Mexico, mysterious and powerful behind the conflicting tribes. 

- HERNAN CORTES: CONQUEROR OF MEXICO, SALVADOR DE MADARIAGA, 1942

THE NO-RETURN TACTIC

In 1504 an ambitious nineteen-year-old Spaniard named Hernan Cortes gave up his studies in law and sailed for his country’s colonies in the New World. Stopping first in Santo Domingo (the island today comprising Haiti and the Dominican Republic), then in Cuba, he soon heard about a land to the west called Mexico–an empire teeming with gold and dominated by the Aztecs, with their magnificent highland capital of Tenochtitlan. From then on, Cortes had just one thought: someday he would conquer and settle the land of Mexico.

Over the next ten years, Cortes slowly rose through the ranks, eventually becoming secretary to the Spanish governor of Cuba and then the king’s treasurer for the island. In his own mind, though, he was merely biding his time. He waited patiently while Spain sent other men to Mexico, many of them never to return.

Finally, in 1518, the governor of Cuba, Diego de Velazquez, made Cortes the leader of an expedition to discover what had happened to these earlier explorers, find gold, and lay the groundwork for the country’s conquest. Velazquez wanted to make that future conquest himself, however, so for this expedition he wanted a man he could control, and he soon developed doubts about Cortes–the man was clever, perhaps too much so. Word reached Cortes that the governor was having second thoughts about sending him to Mexico. Deciding to give Velazquez no time to nurse his misgivings, he managed to slip out of Cuba in the middle of the night with eleven ships. He would explain himself to the governor later.

The expedition landed on Mexico’s east coast in March 1519. Over the next few months, Cortes put his plans to work–founding the town of Veracruz, forging alliances with local tribes who hated the Aztecs, and making initial contact with the Aztec emperor, whose capital lay some 250 miles to the west. But one problem plagued the conquistador: among the 500 soldiers who had sailed with him from Cuba were a handful who had been placed there by Velazquez to act as spies and make trouble for him if he exceeded his authority. These Velazquez loyalists accused Cortes of mismanaging the gold that he was collecting, and when it became clear that he intended to conquer Mexico, they spread rumors that he was insane–an all-too-convincing accusation to make about a man planning to lead 500 men against half a million Aztecs, fierce warriors known to eat their prisoners’ flesh and wear the skins as trophies. A rational man would take the gold they had, return to Cuba, and come back later with an army. Why stay in this forbidding land, with its diseases and its lack of creature comforts, when they were so heavily outnumbered? Why not sail for Cuba, back home where their farms, their wives, and the good life awaited them?

Cortes did what he could with these troublemakers, bribing some, keeping a close eye on others. Meanwhile he worked to build a strong enough rapport with the rest of his men that the grumblers could do no harm. All seemed well until the night of July 30, when Cortes was awoken by a Spanish sailor who, begging for mercy, confessed that he had joined in a plot to steal a ship and return that very evening to Cuba, where the conspirators would tell Velazquez about Cortes’s goal of conquering Mexico on his own.

Meditation on inevitable death should be performed daily. Every day when one's body and mind are at peace, one should meditate upon being ripped apart by arrows, rifles, spears and swords, being carried away by surging waves, being thrown into the midst of a great fire, bring struck by lightning, being shaken to death by a great earthquake, falling from thousand-foot cliffs, dying of disease or committing seppuku at the death of one's master. And every day without fail one should consider himself as dead. 

- HAGAKURE: THE BOOK OF THE SAMURAI, YAMAMOTO TSUNETOMO, 1659-1720

Cortes sensed that this was the decisive moment of the expedition. He could easily squash the conspiracy, but there would be others. His men were a rough lot, and their minds were on gold, Cuba, their families–anything but fighting the Aztecs. He could not conquer an empire with men so divided and untrustworthy, but how to fill them with the energy and focus for the immense task he faced?Thinking this through, he decided to take swift action. He seized the conspirators and had the two ringleaders hanged. Next, he bribed his pilots to bore holes in all of the ships and then announce that worms had eaten through the boards of the vessels, making them unseaworthy.

Pretending to be upset at the news, Cortes ordered what was salvageable from the ships to be taken ashore and then the hulls to be sunk. The pilots complied, but not enough holes had been bored, and only five of the ships went down. The story of the worms was plausible enough, and the soldiers accepted the news of the five ships with equanimity. But when a few days later more ships were run aground and only one was left afloat, it was clear to them that Cortes had arranged the whole thing. When he called a meeting, their mood was mutinous and murderous.

This was no time for subtlety. Cortes addressed his men: he was responsible for the disaster, he admitted; he had ordered it done, but now there was no turning back. They could hang him, but they were surrounded by hostile Indians and had no ships; divided and leaderless, they would perish. The only alternative was to follow him to Tenochtitlan. Only by conquering the Aztecs, by becoming lords of Mexico, could they get back to Cuba alive. To reach Tenochtitlan they would have to fight with utter intensity. They would have to be unified; any dissension would lead to defeat and a terrible death. The situation was desperate, but if the men fought desperately in turn, Cortes guaranteed that he would lead them to victory. Since the army was so small in number, the glory and riches would be all the greater. Any cowards not up to the challenge could sail the one remaining ship home.

There is something in war that drives so deeply into you that death ceases to be the enemy, merely another participant in a game you don't wish to end. 

- PHANTOM OVER VIETNAM, JOHN TROTTI, USMC, 1984

No one accepted the offer, and the last ship was run aground. Over the next months, Cortes kept his army away from Veracruz and the coast. Their attention was focused on Tenochtitlan, the heart of the Aztec empire. The grumbling, the self-interest, and the greed all disappeared. Understanding the danger of their situation, the conquistadors fought ruthlessly. Some two years after the destruction of the Spanish ships, and with the help of their Indian allies, Cortes’s army laid siege to Tenochtitlan and conquered the Aztec empire.

You don't have time for this display, you fool," he said in a severe tone. "This, whatever you're doing now, may be your last act on earth. It may very well be your last battle. There is no power which could guarantee that you are going to live one more minute...." "...Acts have power," he said, "Especially when the person acting knows that those acts are his last battle. There is a strange consuming happiness in acting with the full knowledge that whatever one is doing may very well be one's last act on earth. I recommend that you reconsider your life and bring your acts into that light.... Focus your attention on the link between you and your death, without remorse or sadness or worrying. Focus your attention on the fact you don't have time and let your acts flow accordingly. Let each of your acts be your last battle on earth. Only under those conditions will your acts have their rightful power. Otherwise they will be, for as long as you live, the acts of a timid man." "Is it so terrible to be a timid man?" "No. It isn't if you are going to be immortal, but if you are going to die there is not time for timidity, simply because timidity makes you cling to something that exists only in your thoughts. It soothes you while everything is at a lull, but then the awesome, mysterious world will open its mouth for you, as it will open for every one of us, and then you will realize that your sure ways were not sure at all. Being timid prevents us from examining and exploiting our lot as men." 

-JOURNEY TO IXTLAN: THE LESSONS OF DON JUAN, CARLOS CASTANEDA, 1972

Interpretation

On the night of the conspiracy, Cortes had to think fast. What was the root of the problem he faced? It was not Velazquez’s spies, or the hostile Aztecs, or the incredible odds against him. The root of the problem was his own men and the ships in the harbor. His soldiers were divided in heart and mind. They were thinking about the wrong things–their wives, their dreams of gold, their plans for the future. And in the backs of their minds there was always an escape route: if this conquest business went badly, they could go home. Those ships in the harbor were more than just transportation; they represented Cuba, the freedom to leave, the ability to send for reinforcements–so many possibilities.

For the soldiers the ships were a crutch, something to fall back on if things got ugly. Once Cortes had identified the problem, the solution was simple: destroy the ships. By putting his men in a desperate place, he would make them fight with utmost intensity.

A sense of urgency comes from a powerful connection to the present. Instead of dreaming of rescue or hoping for a better future, you have to face the issue at hand. Fail and you perish. People who involve themselves completely in the immediate problem are intimidating; because they are focusing so intensely, they seem more powerful than they are. Their sense of urgency multiplies their strength and gives them momentum. Instead of five hundred men, Cortes suddenly had the weight of a much larger army at his back.

Like Cortes you must locate the root of your problem. It is not the people around you; it is yourself, and the spirit with which you face the world. In the back of your mind, you keep an escape route, a crutch, something to turn to if things go bad. Maybe it is some wealthy relative you can count on to buy your way out; maybe it is some grand opportunity on the horizon, the endless vistas of time that seem to be before you; maybe it is a familiar job or a comfortable relationship that is always there if you fail. Just as Cortes’s men saw their ships as insurance, you may see this fallback as a blessing–but in fact it is a curse. It divides you. Because you think you have options, you never involve yourself deeply enough in one thing to do it thoroughly, and you never quite get what you want. Sometimes you need to run your ships aground, burn them, and leave yourself just one option: succeed or go down. Make the burning of your ships as real as possible–get rid of your safety net. Sometimes you have to become a little desperate to get anywhere.

The ancient commanders of armies, who well knew the powerful influence of necessity, and how it inspired the soldiers with the most desperate courage, neglected nothing to subject their men to such a pressure. 

- Niccolo Machiavelli (1469-1527)

THE DEATH-AT-YOUR-HEELS TACTIC

In 1845 the writer Fyodor Dostoyevsky, then twenty-four, shook the Russian literary world with the publication of his first novel, Poor Folk. He became the toast of St. Petersburg society. But something about his early fame seemed empty to him. He drifted into the fringes of left-wing politics, attending meetings of various socialist and radical groups. One of these groups centered on the charismatic Mikhail Petrashevsky.

Three years later, in 1848, revolution broke out all across Europe. Inspired by what was happening in the West, Russian radical groups like Petrashevsky’s talked of following suit. But agents of Czar Nicholas I had infiltrated many of these groups, and reports were written about the wild things being discussed at Petrashevsky’s house, including talk of inciting peasant revolts. Dostoyevsky was fervent about freeing the serfs, and on April 23, 1849, he and twenty-three other members of the Petrashevsky group were arrested.

After eight months of languishing in jail, the prisoners were awakened one cold morning and told that today they would finally hear their sentences. A few months’ exile was the usual punishment for their crime; soon, they thought, their ordeal would be over.

They were bundled into carriages and driven through the icy streets of St. Petersburg. Emerging from the carriages into Semyonovsky Square, they were greeted by a priest; behind him they could see rows of soldiers and, behind the soldiers, thousands of spectators. They were led toward a scaffold covered in black cloth at the center of the square. In front of the scaffold were three posts, and to the side was a line of carts laden with coffins.

Lord Naoshige said, "The Way of the Samurai is in desperateness. Ten men or more cannot kill such a man. Common sense will not accomplish great things. Simply become insane and desperate." 

- HAGAKURE: THE BOOK OF THE SAMURAI, YAMAMOTO TSUNETOMO, 1659-1720

Dostoyevsky could not believe what he saw. “It’s not possible that they mean to execute us,” he whispered to his neighbor. They were marched to the scaffold and placed in two lines. It was an unbelievably cold day, and the prisoners were wearing the light clothes they’d been arrested in back in April. A drumroll sounded. An officer came forward to read their sentences: “All of the accused are guilty as charged of intending to overthrow the national order, and are therefore condemned to death before a firing squad.” The prisoners were too stunned to speak.

As the officer read out the individual charges and sentences, Dostoyevsky found himself staring at the golden spire of a nearby church and at the sunlight bouncing off it. The gleams of light disappeared as a cloud passed overhead, and the thought occurred to him that he was about to pass into darkness just as quickly, and forever. Suddenly he had another thought: If I do not die, if I am not killed, my life will suddenly seem endless, a whole eternity, each minute a century. I will take account of everything that passes–I will not waste a second of life again.

The prisoners were given hooded shirts. The priest came forward to read them their last rites and hear their confessions. They said good-bye to one another. The first three to be shot were tied to the posts, and the hoods were pulled over their faces. Dostoyevsky stood in the front, in the next group to go. The soldiers raised their rifles, took aim–and suddenly a carriage came galloping into the square. A man got out with an envelope. At the last second, the czar had commuted their death sentences.

It had long been known, of course, that a man who, through disciplined training, had relinquished any desire or hope for survival and had only one goal--the destruction of his enemy--could be a redoubtable opponent and a truly formidable fighter who neither asked nor offered any quarter once his weapon had been unsheathed. In this way, a seemingly ordinary man who, by the force of circumstances rather than by profession, had been placed in the position of having to make a desperate choice, could prove dangerous, even to a skilled fencing master. One famous episode, for example, concerns a teacher of swordsmanship who was asked by a superior to surrender a servant guilty of an offense punishable by death. This teacher, wishing to test a theory of his concerning the power of that condition we would call "desperation," challenged the doomed man to a duel. Knowing full well the irrevocability of his sentence, the servant was beyond caring one way or the other, and the ensuing duel proved that even a skilled fencer and teacher of the art could find himself in great difficulty when confronted by a man who, because of his acceptance of imminent death, could go to the limit (and even beyond) in his strategy, without a single hesitation or distracting consideration. The servant, in fact, fought like a man possessed, forcing his master to retreat until his back was almost to the wall. At last the teacher had to cut him down in a final effort, wherein the master's own desperation brought about the fullest coordination of his courage, skill, and determination. 

- SECRETS OF THE SAMURAI, OSCAR RATTI AND ADELE WESTBROOK, 1973

Later that morning, Dostoyevsky was told his new sentence: four years hard labor in Siberia, to be followed by a stint in the army. Barely affected, he wrote that day to his brother, “When I look back at the past and think of all the time I squandered in error and idleness,…then my heart bleeds. Life is a gift…every minute could have been an eternity of happiness! If youth only knew! Now my life will change; now I will be reborn.”

A few days later, ten-pound shackles were put on Dostoyevsky’s arms and legs–they would stay there for the length of his prison term–and he was carted off to Siberia. For the next four years, he endured the most abysmal prison conditions. Granted no writing privileges, he wrote novels in his head, memorized them. Finally, in 1857, still serving the army period of his sentence, he was allowed to start publishing his work. Where before he would torture himself over a page, spend half a day idling it away in thought, now he wrote and wrote. Friends would see him walking the streets of St. Petersburg mumbling bits of dialogue to himself, lost in his characters and plots. His new motto was “Try to get as much done as possible in the shortest time.”

Some pitied Dostoyevsky his time in prison. That made him angry; he was grateful for the experience and felt no bitterness. But for that December day in 1849, he felt, he would have wasted his life. Right up until his death, in 1881, he continued writing at a frantic pace, churning out novel after novel–Crime and Punishment, The Possessed, The Brothers Karamazov–as if each one were his last.

Interpretation

Czar Nicholas had decided to sentence the Petrashevsky radicals to hard labor soon after their arrest. But he wanted to teach them a harsher lesson as well, so he dreamed up the cruel theater of the death sentence, with its careful details–the priest, the hoods, the coffins, the last-second pardon. This, he thought, would really humble and humiliate them. In fact, some of the prisoners were driven insane by the events of that day. But the effect on Dostoyevsky was different: he had been afflicted for years with a sense of wandering, of feeling lost, of not knowing what to do with his time. An extremely sensitive man, that day he literally felt his own death deep in his bones. And he experienced his “pardon” as a rebirth.

The effect was permanent. For the rest of his life, Dostoyevsky would consciously bring himself back to that day, remembering his pledge never to waste another moment. Or, if he felt he had grown too comfortable and complacent, he would go to a casino and gamble away all his money. Poverty and debt were for him a kind of symbolic death, throwing him back on the possible nothingness of his life. In either case he would have to write, and not the way other novelists wrote–as if it were a pleasant little artistic career, with all its attendant delights of salons, lectures, and other frills. Dostoyevsky wrote as if his life were at stake, with an intense feeling of urgency and seriousness.

Death is impossible for us to fathom: it is so immense, so frightening, that we will do almost anything to avoid thinking about it. Society is organized to make death invisible, to keep it several steps removed. That distance may seem necessary for our comfort, but it comes with a terrible price: the illusion of limitless time, and a consequent lack of seriousness about daily life. We are running away from the one reality that faces us all.

As a warrior in life, you must turn this dynamic around: make the thought of death something not to escape but to embrace. Your days are numbered. Will you pass them half awake and halfhearted or will you live with a sense of urgency? Cruel theaters staged by a czar are unnecessary; death will come to you without them. Imagine it pressing in on you, leaving you no escape–for there is no escape. Feeling death at your heels will make all your actions more certain, more forceful. This could be your last throw of the dice: make it count.

While knowing that we will die someday, we think that all the others will die before us and that we will be the last to go. Death seems a long way off. Is this not shallow thinking? It is worthless and is only a joke within a dream.... In sofar as death is always at one's door, one should make sufficient effort and act quickly.

--Hagakure: The Book of the Samurai, Yamamoto Tsunetomo (1659-1720)

KEYS TO WARFARE

Quite often we feel somewhat lost in our actions. We could do this or that–we have many options, but none of them seem quite necessary. Our freedom is a burden–what do we do today, where do we go?Our daily patterns and routines help us to avoid feeling directionless, but there is always the niggling thought that we could accomplish so much more. We waste so much time. Upon occasion all of us have felt a sense of urgency. Most often it is imposed from outside: we fall behind in our work, we inadvertently take on more than we can handle, responsibility for something is thrust into our hands. Now everything changes; no more freedom. We have to do this, we have to fix that. The surprise is always how much more spirited and more alive this makes us feel; now everything we do seems necessary. But eventually we go back to our normal patterns. And when that sense of urgency goes, we really do not know how to get it back.

Leaders of armies have thought about this subject since armies existed: how can soldiers be motivated, be made more aggressive, more desperate? Some generals have relied on fiery oratory, and those particularly good at it have had some success. But over two thousand years ago, the Chinese strategist Sun-tzu came to believe that listening to speeches, no matter how rousing, was too passive an experience to have an enduring effect. Instead Sun-tzu talked of a “death ground”–a place where an army is backed up against some geographical feature like a mountain, a river, or a forest and has no escape route. Without a way to retreat, Sun-tzu argued, an army fights with double or triple the spirit it would have on open terrain, because death is viscerally present. Sun-tzu advocated deliberately stationing soldiers on death ground to give them the desperate edge that makes men fight like the devil. That is what Cortes did in Mexico, and it is the only sure way to create a real fire in the belly. The world is ruled by necessity: People change their behavior only if they have to. They will feel urgency only if their lives depend on it.

Taking advantage of the opportunity, they began to question Han Hsin. "According to The Art of War , when one fights he should keep the hills to his right or rear, and bodies of water in front of him or to the left," they said. "Yet today you ordered us on the contrary to draw up ranks with our backs to the river, saying 'We shall defeat Chao and feast together!' We were opposed to the idea, and yet it has ended in victory. What sort of strategy is this?" "This is in The Art of War too," replied Han Hsin. "It is just that you have failed to notice it! Does it not say in The Art of War : 'Drive them into a fatal position and they will come out alive; place them in a hopeless spot and they will survive'? Moreover, I did not have at my disposal troops that I had trained and led from past times, but was forced, as the saying goes, to round up men from the market place and use them to fight with. Under such circumstances, if I had not placed them in a desperate situation where each man was obliged to fight for his own life, but had allowed them to remain in a safe place, they would have all run away. Then what good would they have been to me?" "Indeed!" his generals exclaimed in admiration. "We would never have thought of that." 

-RECORDS OF THE HISTORIAN, SZUMA CHIEN, CIRCA 145 B.C.-CIRCA 86 B.C.

Death ground is a psychological phenomenon that goes well beyond the battlefield: it is any set of circumstances in which you feel enclosed and without options. There is very real pressure at your back, and you cannot retreat. Time is running out. Failure–a form of psychic death–is staring you in the face. You must act or suffer the consequences.

Understand: we are creatures who are intimately tied to our environment–we respond viscerally to our circumstances and to the people around us. If our situation is easy and relaxed, if people are friendly and warm, our natural tension unwinds. We may even grow bored and tired; our environment is failing to challenge us, although we may not realize it. But put yourself in a high-stakes situation–a psychological death ground–and the dynamic changes. Your body responds to danger with a surge of energy; your mind focuses. Urgency is forced on you; you are compelled to waste no more time.

The trick is to use this effect deliberately from time to time, to practice it on yourself as a kind of wake-up call. The following five actions are designed to put you on a psychological death ground. Reading and thinking about them won’t work; you must put them into effect. They are forms of pressure to apply to yourself. Depending on whether you want a low-intensity jolt for regular use or a real shock, you can turn the level up or down. The scale is up to you.

Stake everything on a single throw. In 1937 the twenty-eight-year-old Lyndon B. Johnson–at the time the Texas director of the National Youth Administration–faced a dilemma. The Texas congressman James Buchanan had suddenly died. Since loyal Texan voters tended to return incumbents to office, a Texan congressional seat generally came available only every ten or twenty years–and Johnson wanted to be in Congress by the time he was thirty; he did not have ten years to wait. But he was very young and was virtually unknown in Buchanan’s old district, the tenth. He would be facing political heavyweights whom voters would heavily favor. Why try something that seemed doomed to failure? Not only would the race be a waste of money, but the humiliation, if Johnson lost badly, could derail his long-term ambitions.

Unlimited possibilities are not suited to man; if they existed, his life would only dissolve in the boundless. To become strong, a man's life needs the limitations ordained by duty and voluntarily accepted. The individual attains significance as a free spirit only by surrounding himself with these limitations and by determining for himself what his duty is. 

-THE I CHING, CHINA, CIRCA EIGHTH CENTURY B.C.

Johnson considered all this–then decided to run. Over the next few weeks, he campaigned intensely, visiting the district’s every backwater village and town, shaking the poorest farmer’s hand, sitting in drugstores to meet people who had never come close to talking to a candidate before. He pulled every trick in the book–old-style rallies and barbecues, newfangled radio ads. He worked night and day–and hard. By the time the race was over, Johnson was in a hospital, being treated for exhaustion and appendicitis. But, in one of the great upsets in American political history, he had won.

By staking his future on one throw, Johnson put himself in a death-ground situation. His body and spirit responded with the energy he needed. Often we try too many things at one time, thinking that one of them will bring us success–but in these situations our minds are diffused, our efforts halfhearted. It is better to take on one daunting challenge, even one that others think foolish. Our future is at stake; we cannot afford to lose. So we don’t.

Act before you are ready. In 49 B.C. a group of Roman senators, allied with Pompey and fearing the growing power of Julius Caesar, ordered the great general to disband his army or be considered a traitor to the Republic. When Caesar received this decree, he was in southern Gaul (modern-day France) with only five thousand men; the rest of his legions were far to the north, where he had been campaigning. He had no intention of obeying the decree–that would have been suicide–but it would be weeks before the bulk of his army could join him. Unwilling to wait, Caesar told his captains, “Let the die be cast,” and he and his five thousand men crossed the Rubicon, the river marking the border between Gaul and Italy. Leading troops onto Italian soil meant war with Rome. Now there was no turning back; it was fight or die. Caesar was compelled to concentrate his forces, to not waste a single man, to act with speed, and to be as creative as possible. He marched on Rome. By seizing the initiative, he frightened the senators, forcing Pompey to flee.

Death is nothing, but to live defeated is to die every day 

-NAPOLEON BONAPARTE, 1769-1821
When danger is greatest.--It is rare to break one's leg when in the course of life one is toiling upwards--it happens much more often when one starts to take things easy and to choose the easy paths. 

-FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE, 1844-1900

We often wait too long to act, particularly when we face no outside pressure. It is sometimes better to act before you think you are ready–to force the issue and cross the Rubicon. Not only will you take your opponents by surprise, you will also have to make the most of your resources. You have committed yourself and cannot turn back. Under pressure your creativity will flourish. Do this often and you will develop your ability to think and act fast.

Enter new waters. The Hollywood studio MGM had been good to Joan Crawford: it had discovered her, made her a star, crafted her image. By the early 1940s, though, Crawford had had enough. It was all too comfortable; MGM kept casting her in the same kinds of roles, none of them a challenge. So, in 1943, Crawford did the unthinkable and asked out of her contract.

Be absolute for death; either death or life Shall thereby be the sweeter. Reason thus with life: If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing That none but fools would keep: a breath thou art, Servile to all the skyey influences, That dost this habituation, where thou keep'st, Hourly afflict: merely, thou art death's fool; For him thou labour'st by thy flight to shun And yet runn'st toward him still. Thou art not noble; For all the accommodations that thou bear'st Are nursed by baseness. Thou'rt by no means valiant; For thou dost fear the soft and tender fork Of a poor worm. Thy best of rest is sleep, And that thou oft provokest; yet grossly fear'st Thy death, which is no more. 

-MEASURE FOR MEASURE, WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, 1564-1616

The consequences for Crawford could have been terrible; to challenge the studio system was considered highly unwise. Indeed, when she then signed up with Warner Brothers, predictably enough she was offered the same mediocre sorts of scripts. She turned them down. On the verge of being fired, she finally found the part she had been looking for: the title role in Mildred Pierce, which, however, she was not offered. Setting to work on the director, Michael Curtiz, she managed to change his mind and land the role. She gave the performance of her life, won her only Best Actress Oscar, and resurrected her career.

In leaving MGM, Crawford was taking a big chance. If she failed to succeed at Warner Brothers, and quickly, her career would be over. But Crawford thrived on risk. When she was challenged, when she felt on edge, she burst with energy and was at her best. Like Crawford, you sometimes have to force yourself onto death ground–leaving stale relationships and comfortable situations behind, cutting your ties to the past. If you give yourself no way out, you will have to make your new endeavor work. Leaving the past for unknown terrain is like a death–and feeling this finality will snap you back to life.

Make it “you against the world.” Compared to sports like football, baseball is slow and has few outlets for aggression. This was a problem for the hitter Ted Williams, who played best when he was angry–when he felt that it was him against the world. Creating this mood on the field was difficult for Williams, but early on, he discovered a secret weapon: the press. He got into the habit of insulting sportswriters, whether just by refusing to cooperate with them or by verbally abusing them. The reporters returned the favor, writing scathing articles on his character, questioning his talent, trumpeting the slightest drop in his batting average. It was when Williams was hammered by the press, though, that he played best. He would go on a hitting tear, as if to prove them wrong. In 1957, when he carried on a yearlong feud with the papers, he played perhaps his greatest season and won the batting title at what for a baseball player is the advanced age of forty. As one journalist wrote, “Hate seems to activate his reflexes like adrenaline stimulates the heart. Animosity is his fuel!”

For Williams the animosity of the press and, with the press, of the public, was a kind of constant pressure that he could read, hear, and feel. They hated him, they doubted him, they wanted to see him fail; he would show them. And he did. A fighting spirit needs a little edge, some anger and hatred to fuel it. So do not sit back and wait for people to get aggressive; irritate and infuriate them deliberately. Feeling cornered by a multitude of people who dislike you, you will fight like hell. Hatred is a powerful emotion. Remember: in any battle you are putting your name and reputation on the line; your enemies will relish your failure. Use that pressure to make yourself fight harder.

Keep yourself restless and unsatisfied. Napoleon had many qualities that made him perhaps history’s greatest general, but the one that raised him to the heights and kept him there was his boundless energy. During campaigns he worked eighteen to twenty-hour days. If necessary, he would go without sleep for several days, yet sleeplessness rarely reduced his capacities. He would work in the bath, at the theater, during a dinner party. Keeping his eye on every detail of the war, he would ride endless miles on horseback without tiring or complaining.

O gentlemen, the time of life is short! To spend that shortness basely were too long, If life did ride upon a dial's point, Still ending at the arrival of an hour. An if we live, we live to tread on kings; If die, brave death, when princes die with us! 

-KING HENRY IV, PART I, WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, 1564-1616

Certainly Napoleon had extraordinary endurance, but there was more to it than that: he never let himself rest, was never satisfied. In 1796, in his first real position of command, he led the French to a remarkable victory in Italy, then immediately went on another campaign, this time in Egypt. There, unhappy with the way the war was going and with a lack of political power that he felt was cutting into his control over military affairs, he returned to France and conspired to become first consul. This achieved, he immediately set out on his second Italian campaign. And on he went, immersing himself in new wars, new challenges, that required him to call on his limitless energy. If he did not meet the crisis, he would perish.

When we are tired, it is often because we are bored. When no real challenge faces us, a mental and physical lethargy sets in. “Sometimes death only comes from a lack of energy,” Napoleon once said, and lack of energy comes from a lack of challenges, comes when we have taken on less than we are capable of. Take a risk and your body and mind will respond with a rush of energy. Make risk a constant practice; never let yourself settle down. Soon living on death ground will become a kind of addiction–you won’t be able to do without it. When soldiers survive a brush with death, they often feel an exhilaration that they want to have again. Life has more meaning in the face of death. The risks you keep taking, the challenges you keep overcoming, are like symbolic deaths that sharpen your appreciation of life.

Authority: When you will survive if you fight quickly and perish if you do not, this is called [death] ground.... Put them in a spot where they have no place to go, and they will die before fleeing. If they are to die there, what can they not do? Warriors exert their full strength. When warriors are in great danger, then they have no fear. When there is nowhere to go, they are firm, when they are deeply involved, they stick to it. If they have no choice, they will fight. 

-The Art of War, Sun-tzu (fourth century B.C.)

REVERSAL

If the feeling of having nothing to lose can propel you forward, it can do the same for others. You must avoid any conflict with people in this position. Maybe they are living in terrible conditions or, for whatever reason, are suicidal; in any case they are desperate, and desperate people will risk everything in a fight. This gives them a huge advantage. Already defeated by circumstances, they have nothing to lose. You do. Leave them alone.

Conversely, attacking enemies when their morale is low gives you the advantage. Maybe they are fighting for a cause they know is unjust or for a leader they do not respect. Find a way to lower their spirits even further. Troops with low morale are discouraged by the slightest setback. A show of force will crush their fighting spirit.

Always try to lower the other side’s sense of urgency. Make your enemies think they have all the time in the world; when you suddenly appear at their border, they are in a slumbering state, and you will easily overrun them. While you are sharpening your fighting spirit, always do what you can to blunt theirs.

Conclusion

The world is in the midst of World War III right now. It is being fought with things that are strange and unusual, and it is not being reported. In fact, the “news” is instead sending everyone off on “wild goose chases” down “rabbit holes”. No one actually knows what is going on.

It is critically important that you secure yourself and your family, and maintain a calm head through all of this. Let those around you make rash, foolish decisions, panic, and worry. That is not for you.

Recognize who you are, and where you are. Then, steely and calmly conduct your affirmation campaigns to wrest control of the reality that surrounds you and bend it to your will. You have this ability. Make it so.

Do you want more?

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Chapter 1, Part 3, of the 33 Strategies of War by Robert Greene titled “Do not lose your presence of mind”

This is a full reprint in HTML of the third chapter (Chapter 3) of the first part (Part I) of the massive volume titled "The 33 Strategies of War". Written by Robert Greene (with emotional support from his cats). I read this book while in prison, and found much of what was written to be interesting, enjoyable, and pertinent to things going on in my life. I think that you will as well.

AMIDST THE TURMOIL OF EVENTS, DO NOT LOSE YOUR PRESENCE OF MIND

THE COUNTERBALANCE STRATEGY

 

In the heat of battle, the mind tends to lose its balance. Too many things confront you at the same timeunexpected setbacks,  doubts and  criticisms from your own allies.  There’s a  danger of responding emotionally, with fear, depression, or frustration.

It is vital to keep your presence of mind, maintaining your mental powers whatever the circumstances.

You must actively resist the emotional pull of the momentstaying decisive, confident, and aggressive no matter what hits you. Make the mind tougher by exposing it to adversity. Learn to detach yourself from the chaos of the battlefield. Let others lose their heads; your presence of mind will steer you clear of their influence and keep you on course.

[Presence of mind] must play a great role in war, the domain of the unexpected, since it is nothing but an increased capacity of dealing with the unexpected. We admire presence of mind in an apt repartee, as we admire  quick thinking in the  face of danger.... The  expression "presence of mind" precisely conveys the speed and immediacy of the help provided by the intellect.

ON WAR, CARL VON CLAUSEWITZ, 1780-1831

THE HYPERAGGRESSIVE TACTIC

Vice Admiral Lord Horatio Nelson (1758-1805) had been through it all. He had lost his right eye in the siege of Calvi and his right arm in the Battle of Tenerife. He had defeated the Spanish at Cape St. Vincent in 1797 and had thwarted Napoleon’s Egyptian campaign by defeating his navy at the Battle of the Nile the following year. But none of his tribulations and triumphs prepared him for the problems he faced from his own colleagues in the British navy as they prepared to go to war against Denmark in February 1801.

Nelson, England’s most glorious war hero, was the obvious choice to lead the fleet. Instead the Admiralty chose Sir Hyde Parker, with Nelson his second-in-command. This war was a delicate business; it was intended to force the disobedient Danes to comply with a British-led embargo on the shipping of military goods to France. The fiery Nelson was prone to lose his cool. He hated Napoleon, and if he went too far against the Danes, he would produce a diplomatic fiasco. Sir Hyde was an older, more stable, even-tempered man who would do the job and nothing more.

Nelson swallowed his pride and took the assignment, but he saw trouble ahead. He knew that time was of the essence: the faster the navy sailed, the less chance the Danes would have to build up their defenses. The ships were ready to sail, but Parker’s motto was “Everything in good order.” It wasn’t his style to hurry. Nelson hated his casualness and burned for action: he reviewed intelligence reports, studied maps, and came up with a detailed plan for fighting the Danes. He wrote to Parker urging him to seize the initiative. Parker ignored him.

More life may trickle out of men through thought than through a gaping wound.

THOMAS HARDY, 1840-1928

At last, on March 11, the British fleet set sail. Instead of heading for Copenhagen, however, Parker anchored well to the north of the city’s harbor and called a meeting of his captains. According to intelligence reports, he explained, the Danes had prepared elaborate defenses for Copenhagen. Boats anchored in the harbor, forts to the north and south, and mobile artillery batteries could blast the British out of the water. How to fight this artillery without terrible losses? Also, pilots who knew the waters around Copenhagen reported that they were treacherous, places of sandbars and tricky winds. Navigating these dangers under bombardment would be harrowing. With all of these difficulties, perhaps it was best to wait for the Danes to leave harbor and then fight them in open sea.

Nelson struggled to control himself. Finally he let loose, pacing the room, the stub of his lost arm jerking as he spoke. No war, he said, had ever been won by waiting. The Danish defenses looked formidable “to those who are children at war,” but he had worked out a strategy weeks earlier: he would attack from the south, the easier approach, while Parker and a reserve force would stay to the city’s north. Nelson would use his mobility to take out the Danish guns. He had studied the maps: sandbars were no threat. As for the wind, aggressive action was more important than fretting over wind.

Nelson’s speech energized Parker’s captains. He was by far their most successful leader, and his confidence was catching. Even Sir Hyde was impressed, and the plan was approved.

So Grant was alone; his most trusted subordinates besought him to change his plans, while his superiors were astounded at his temerity and strove to interfere. 

Soldiers of reputation and civilians in high places condemned, in advance, a campaign that seemed to them as hopeless as it was unprecedented. 

If he failed, the country would concur with the Government and the Generals. 

Grant knew all this, and appreciated his danger, but was as invulnerable to the apprehensions of ambition as to the entreaties of friendship, or the anxieties even of patriotism. 

That quiet confidence in himself which never forsook him, and which amounted indeed almost to a feeling of fate, was uninterrupted. Having once determined in a matter that required irreversible decision, he never reversed, nor even misgave, but was steadily loyal to himself and his plans. 

This absolute and implicit faith was, however, as far as possible from conceit or enthusiasm; it was simply a consciousness or conviction, rather, which brought the  very strength it believed in; which was itself strength, and which inspired others with a trust in him, because he was able thus to trust himself.

MILITARY HISTORY OF ULYSSES S. GRANT, ADAM BADEAU, 1868

The next morning Nelson’s line of ships advanced on Copenhagen, and the battle began. The Danish guns, firing on the British at close range, took a fierce toll. Nelson paced the deck of his flagship, HMS Elephant, urging his men on. He was in an excited, almost ecstatic state. A shot through the mainmast nearly hit him: “It is warm work, and this day may be the last to any of us at any moment,” he told a colonel, a little shaken up by the blast, “but mark you, I would not be elsewhere for thousands.”

Parker followed the battle from his position to the north. He now regretted agreeing to Nelson’s plan; he was responsible for the campaign, and a defeat here could ruin his career. After four hours of back-and-forth bombardment, he had seen enough: the fleet had taken a beating and had gained no advantage. Nelson never knew when to quit. Parker decided it was time to hoist signal flag 39, the order to withdraw. The first ships to see it were to acknowledge it and pass the signal on down the line. Once acknowledged there was nothing else to do but retreat.

The battle was over.

On board the Elephant, a lieutenant told Nelson about the signal. The vice-admiral ignored it. Continuing to pound the Danish defenses, he eventually called to an officer, “Is number sixteen still hoisted?” Number 16 was his own flag; it meant “Engage the enemy more closely.” The officer confirmed that the flag was still flying. “Mind you keep it so,” Nelson told him.

A few minutes later, Parker’s signal still flapping in the breeze, Nelson turned to his flag captain: “You know, Foley, I have only one eye–I have a right to be blind sometimes.” And raising his telescope to his blind eye, he calmly remarked, “I really do not see the signal.”

Torn between obeying Parker and obeying Nelson, the fleet captains chose Nelson. They would risk their careers along with his. But soon the Danish defenses started to crack; some of the ships anchored in the harbor surrendered, and the firing of the guns began to slow. Less than an hour after Parker’s signal to stop the battle, the Danes surrendered.

The next day Parker perfunctorily congratulated Nelson on the victory. He did not mention his subordinate’s disobedience. He was hoping the whole affair, including his own lack of courage, would be quietly forgotten.

Interpretation

When the Admiralty put its faith in Sir Hyde, it made a classical military error: it entrusted the waging of a war to a man who was careful and methodical. Such men may seem calm, even strong, in times of peace, but their self-control often hides weakness: the reason they think things through so carefully is that they are terrified of making a mistake and of what that might mean for them and their career.

This doesn’t come out until they are tested in battle: suddenly they cannot make a decision. They see problems everywhere and defeat in the smallest setback. They hang back not out of patience but out of fear. Often these moments of hesitation spell their doom.

There was once a man who may be called the "generalissimo" of robbers and who went by the name of Hakamadare. 

He had a strong mind and a powerful build. He was swift of foot, quick with his hands, wise in thinking and plotting. Altogether there was no one who could compare with him. 

His business was to rob people of their possessions when they were off guard. 

Once, around the tenth month of a year, he needed clothing and decided to get hold of some. 

He went to prospective spots and walked about, looking. 

About midnight when people had gone to sleep and were quiet, under a somewhat blurry moon he saw a man dressed in abundant clothes sauntering about on a boulevard. The man, with his trouser-skirt tucked up with strings perhaps and in a formal hunting robe which gently covered his body, was playing the flute, alone, apparently in no hurry to go to any particular place. 

Wow, here's a fellow who's shown up just to give me his clothes, Hakamadare thought. 

Normally he would have gleefully run up and beaten his quarry down and robbed him of his clothes. But this time, unaccountably, he felt something fearsome about the man, so he followed him for a couple of hundred yards. 

The man himself didn't seem to think, Somebody's following me. On the contrary, he continued to play the flute with what appeared to be greater calm. 

Give him a try, Hakamadare said to himself, and ran up close to the man, making as much clatter as he could with his feet. 

The man, however, looked not the least disturbed. He simply turned to look, still playing the flute. It wasn't possible to jump on him. Hakamadare ran off. 

Hakamadare tried similar approaches a number of times, but the man remained utterly unperturbed. Hakamadare realized he was dealing with an unusual fellow. When they had covered about a thousand yards, though, Hakamadare decided he couldn't continue like this, drew his sword, and ran up to him. 

This time the man stopped playing the flute and, turning, said, "What in the world are you doing?" Hakamadare couldn't have been struck with greater fear even if a demon or a god had run up to attack him when he was walking alone. 

For some unaccountable reason he lost both heart and courage. 

Overcome with deathly fear and despite himself, he fell on his knees and hands. "What are you doing?" the man repeated. 

Hakamadare felt he couldn't escape even if he tried. "I'm trying to rob you," he blurted out. "My name is Hakamadare." "

I've heard there's a man about with that name, yes. A dangerous, unusual fellow, I'm told," the man said. 

Then he simply said to Hakamadare, "Come with me," and continued on his way, playing the flute again. 

Terrified that he was dealing with no ordinary human being, and as if possessed by a demon or a god, Hakamadare followed the man, completely mystified. Eventually the man walked into a gate behind which was a large house. 

He stepped inside from the verandah after removing his shoes. While Hakamadare was thinking, He must be the master of the house, the man came back and summoned him. 

As he gave him a robe made of thick cotton cloth, he said, "If you need something like this in the future, just come and tell me. If you jump on somebody who doesn't know your intentions, you may get hurt." 

Afterward it occurred to Hakamadare that the house belonged to Governor of Settsu Fujiwara no Yasumasa. 

Later, when he was arrested, he is known to have observed, "He was such an unusually weird, terrifying man!" 

Yasumasa was not a warrior by family tradition because he was a son of Munetada. Yet he was not the least inferior to anyone who was a warrior by family tradition. 

He had a strong mind, was quick with his hands, and had tremendous strength. 

He was also subtle in thinking and plotting. So even the imperial court did not feel insecure in employing him in the way of the warrior. As a result, the whole world greatly feared him and was intimidated by him.

LEGENDS OF THE SAMURAI, HIROAKI SATO, 1995

Lord Nelson operated according to the opposite principle. Slight of build, with a delicate constitution, he compensated for his physical weakness with fierce determination. He forced himself to be more resolute than anyone around him. The moment he entered battle, he ratcheted up his aggressive impulses.

Where other sea lords worried about casualties, the wind, changes in the enemy’s formation, he concentrated on his plan. Before battle no one strategized or studied his opponent more thoroughly. (That knowledge helped Nelson to sense when the enemy was ready to crumble.) But once the engagement began, hesitation and carefulness were dropped.

Presence of mind is a kind of counterbalance to mental weakness, to our  tendency to get emotional and lose perspective in the heat of battle.

Our greatest weakness is losing heart, doubting ourselves, becoming unnecessarily cautious.

Being more careful is not what we need; that is just a screen for our fear of conflict and of making a mistake. What we need is double the resolve–an intensification of confidence. That will serve as a counterbalance.

In moments of turmoil and trouble, you must force yourself to be more determined. Call up the aggressive energy you need to overcome caution and inertia. Any mistakes you make, you can rectify with more energetic action still. Save your carefulness for the hours of preparation, but once the fighting begins, empty your mind of doubts. Ignore those who quail at any setback and call for retreat. Find joy in attack mode. Momentum will carry you through.

In moments of turmoil and trouble, you must force yourself to be more determined. Call up the aggressive energy you need to overcome caution and inertia.

The senses make a more vivid impression on the mind than systematic thought.... Even the man who planned the operation and now sees it being carried out may well lose confidence in his earlier judgment.... War has a way of masking the stage with scenery crudely daubed with fearsome apparitions. Once this is cleared away, and the horizon becomes unobstructed, developments will confirm his earlier convictions--this is one of the great chasms between planning and execution.

--Carl von Clausewitz, ON WAR (1780-1831)

THE DETACHED-BUDDHA TACTIC

Watching the movie director Alfred Hitchcock (1899-1980) at work on a film set was often quite a surprise to those seeing it for the first time. Most filmmakers are wound-up balls of energy, yelling at the crew and barking out orders, but Hitchcock would sit in his chair, sometimes dozing, or at least with his eyes half closed.

On the set of Strangers on a Train, made in 1951, the actor Farley Granger thought Hitchcock’s behavior meant he was angry or upset and asked him if anything was wrong. “Oh,” Hitchcock replied sleepily, “I’m so bored.” The crew’s complaints, an actor’s tantrums–nothing fazed him; he would just yawn, shift in his chair, and ignore the problem. “Hitchcock…didn’t seem to direct us at all,” said the actress Margaret Lockwood. “He was a dozing, nodding Buddha with an enigmatic smile on his face.”

It was hard for Hitchcock’s colleagues to understand how a man doing such stressful work could stay so calm and detached. Some thought it was part of his character–that there was something inherently cold-blooded about him. Others thought it a gimmick, a put-on.

Few suspected the truth: before the filmmaking had even begun, Hitchcock would have prepared for it with such intense attention to detail that nothing could go wrong.

He was completely in control; no temperamental actress, no panicky art director, no meddling producer could upset him or interfere with his plans. Feeling such absolute security in what he had set up, he could afford to lie back and fall asleep.

Hitchcock’s process began with a story-line, whether from a novel or an idea of his own. As if he had a movie projector in his head, he would begin to visualize the film. Next, he would start meeting with a writer, who would soon realize that this job was unlike any other. Instead of taking some producer’s half-baked idea and turning it into a screenplay, the writer was simply there to put on paper the dream trapped in Hitchcock’s mind.

He or she would add flesh and bones to the characters and would of course write the dialog, but not much else.

When Hitchcock sat down with the writer Samuel Taylor for the first script meeting on the movie Vertigo (1958), his descriptions of several scenes were so vivid, so intense, that the experiences seemed almost to have been real, or maybe something he had dreamed. This completeness of vision foreclosed creative conflict. As Taylor soon realized, although he was writing the script, it would remain a Hitchcock creation.

Once the screenplay was finished, Hitchcock would transform it into an elaborate shooting script.

Blocking, camera positions, lighting, and set dimensions were spelled out in detailed notes. Most directors leave themselves some latitude, shooting scenes from several angles, for example, to give the film editor options to work with later on. Not Hitchcock: he essentially edited the entire film in the shooting script. He knew exactly what he wanted and wrote it down. If a producer or actor tried to add or change a scene, Hitchcock was outwardly pleasant–he could afford to pretend to listen–but inside he was totally unmoved.

Nothing was left to chance. For the building of the sets (quite elaborate in a movie like Rear Window), Hitchcock would present the production designer with precise blueprints, floor plans, incredibly detailed lists of props. He supervised every aspect of set construction.

He was particularly attentive to the clothes of  his leading actresses: according to Edith Head, costumer on many Hitchcock movies, including Dial M for Murder in 1954, “There was a reason for every color, every style, and he was absolutely certain about everything he settled on. For one scene he saw [Grace Kelly] in pale green, for another in white chiffon, for another in gold. He was really putting a dream together in the studio.” When the actress Kim Novak refused to wear a gray suit in Vertigo because she felt it made her look washed out, Hitchcock told her he wanted her to look like a woman of mystery who had just stepped out of the San Francisco fog. How could she argue with that?

She wore the suit.

Hitchcock’s actors found working with him strange yet pleasant. Some of Hollywood’s best– Joseph Cotten, Grace Kelly, Cary Grant, Ingrid Bergman–said that he was the easiest director to work for: his nonchalance was catching, and since his films were so carefully staged as not to depend on the actor’s performance in any particular scene, they could relax.

Everything went like clockwork.

As James Stewart told the cast of The Man Who Knew Too Much (1956), “We’re in the hands of an expert here. You can lean on him. Just do everything he tells you and the whole thing will be okay.”

As Hitchcock sat calmly on the set, apparently half asleep, the cast and crew could see only the small part each one played. They had no idea how everything fit into his vision. When Taylor saw Vertigo for the first time, it was like seeing another man’s dream. The film neatly duplicated the vision Hitchcock had expressed to him many months before.

Interpretation

The first film Hitchcock directed was The Pleasure Garden, a silent he made in 1925. The production went wrong in every conceivable way.

Hitchcock hated chaos and disorder; unexpected events, panicky crew members, and any loss of control made him miserable.

From that point on, he decided, he would treat filmmaking like a military operation.

He would give his producers, actors, and crew no room to mess up what he wanted to create. He taught himself every aspect of film production: set design, lighting, the technicalities of cameras and lenses, editing, sound. He ran every stage of the film’s making. No shadow could fall between the planning and the execution.

Establishing control in advance the way Hitchcock did might not seem like presence of mind, but it actually takes that quality to its zenith. It means entering battle (in Hitchcock’s case a film shoot) feeling calm and ready.

Setbacks may come, but you will have foreseen them and thought of alternatives, and you are ready to respond.

Your mind will never go blank when it is that well prepared. When your colleagues barrage you with doubts, anxious questions, and slipshod ideas, you may nod and pretend to listen, but really you’re ignoring them–you’ve out-thought them in advance. And your relaxed manner will prove contagious to other people, making them easier to manage in turn.

It is easy to be overwhelmed by everything that faces you in battle, where so many people are asking or telling you what to do. So many vital matters press in on you that you can lose sight of your goals and plans; suddenly you can’t see the forest for the trees.

Understand: presence of mind is the ability to detach yourself from all that, to see the whole battlefield, the whole picture, with clarity. All great generals have this quality. And what gives you that mental distance is preparation, mastering the details beforehand. Let people think your Buddha-like detachment comes from some mysterious source. The less they understand you the better.

Understand: presence of mind is the ability to detach yourself from all that, to see the whole battlefield, the whole picture, with clarity.

For the love of God, pull yourself together and do not look at things so darkly: the first step backward makes a poor impression in the army, the second step is dangerous, and the third becomes fatal.

--Frederick the Great (1712-86), letter to a general

KEYS TO WARFARE

We humans like to see ourselves as rational creatures. We imagine that what separates us from animals is the ability to think and reason. But that is only partly true: what distinguishes us from animals just as much is our capacity to laugh, to cry, to feel a range of emotions. We are in fact emotional creatures as well as rational ones, and although we like to think we govern our actions through reason and thought, what most often dictates our behavior is the emotion we feel in the moment.

We maintain the illusion that we are rational through the routine of our daily affairs, which helps us to keep things calm and apparently controlled. Our minds seem rather strong when we’re following our routines. But place any of us in an adverse situation and our rationality vanishes; we react to pressure by growing fearful, impatient, confused. Such moments reveal us for the emotional creatures we are: under attack, whether by a known enemy or unpredictably by a colleague, our response is dominated by feelings of anger, sadness, betrayal. Only with great effort can we reason our way through these periods and respond rationally–and our rationality rarely lasts past the next attack.

Understand: your mind is weaker than your emotions. But you become aware of this weakness only in moments of adversity–precisely the time when you need strength. What best equips you to cope with the heat of battle is neither more knowledge nor more intellect. What makes your mind stronger, and more able to control your emotions, is internal discipline and toughness.

Understand: your mind is weaker than your emotions. But you become aware of this weakness only in moments of adversity–precisely the time when you need strength.

No one can teach you this skill; you cannot learn it by reading about it. Like any discipline, it can come only through practice, experience, even a little suffering. The first step in building up presence of mind is to see the need for it–to want it badly enough to be willing to work for it. Historical figures who stand out for their presence of mind–Alexander the Great, Ulysses S. Grant, Winston Churchill–acquired it through adversity, through trial and error. They were in positions of responsibility in which they had to develop this quality or sink. Although these men may have been blessed with an unusual amount of personal fortitude, they had to work hard to strengthen this into presence of mind.

The first quality of a General-in-Chief is to have a cool head which receives exact impressions of things, which never gets heated, which never allows itself to be dazzled, or intoxicated, by good or bad news. 

The successive simultaneous sensations which he receives in the course of a day must be classified, and must occupy the correct places they merit to fill, because common sense and reason are the results of the comparison of a number of sensations each equally well considered. 

There are certain men who, on account of their moral and physical constitution, paint mental pictures out of everything: however exalted be their reason, their will, their courage, and whatever good qualities they may possess, nature has not fitted them to command armies, nor to direct great operations of war.

NAPOLEON BONAPARTE, 1769-1821

The ideas that follow are based on their experience and hard-won victories. Think of these ideas as exercises, ways to toughen your mind, each a kind of counterbalance to emotion’s overpowering pull.

Expose yourself to conflict. George S. Patton came from one of America’s most distinguished military families–his ancestors included generals and colonels who had fought and died in the American Revolution and the Civil War. Raised on stories of their heroism, he followed in their footsteps and chose a career in the military. But Patton was also a sensitive young man, and he had one deep fear: that in battle he would turn coward and disgrace the family name.

Patton had his first real taste of battle in 1918, at the age of thirty-two, during the Allied offensive on the Argonne during World War I. He commanded a tank division. At one point during the battle, Patton managed to lead some American infantrymen to a position on a hilltop overlooking a key strategic town, but German fire forced them to take cover. Soon it became clear that they were trapped: if they retreated, they would come under fire from positions on the sides of the hill; if they advanced, they would run right into a battery of German machine guns. If they were all to die, as it seemed to Patton, better to die advancing. At the moment he was to lead the troops in the charge, however, Patton was stricken by intense fear. His body trembled, and his legs turned to jelly. In a confirmation of his deepest fears, he had lost his nerve.

At that instant, looking into the clouds beyond the German batteries, Patton had a vision: he saw his illustrious military ancestors, all in their uniforms, staring sternly down at him. They seemed to be inviting him to join their company–the company of dead war heroes. Paradoxically, the sight of these men had a calming effect on the young Patton: calling for volunteers to follow him, he yelled, “It is time for another Patton to die!” The strength had returned to his legs; he stood up and charged toward the German guns. Seconds later he fell, hit in the thigh. But he survived the battle.

From that moment on, even after he became a general, Patton made a point of visiting the front lines, exposing himself needlessly to danger. He tested himself again and again. His vision of his ancestors remained a constant stimulus–a challenge to his honor. Each time it became easier to face down his fears. It seemed to his fellow generals, and to his own men, that no one had more presence of mind than Patton. They did not know how much of his strength was an effort of will.

The story of Patton teaches us two things. First, it is better to confront your fears, let them come to the surface, than to ignore them or tamp them down. Fear is the most destructive emotion for presence of mind, but it thrives on the unknown, which lets our imaginations run wild. By deliberately putting yourself in situations where you have to face fear, you familiarize yourself with it and your anxiety grows less acute. The sensation of overcoming a deep-rooted fear in turn gives you confidence and presence of mind. The more conflicts and difficult situations you put yourself through, the more battle-tested your mind will be.

There was a fox who had never seen a lion. But one day he happened to meet one of these beasts face to face. On this first occasion he was so terrified that he felt he would die of fear. He encountered him again, and this time he was also frightened, but not so much as the first time. But on the third occasion when he saw him, he actually plucked up the courage to approach him and began to chat. This fable shows that familiarity soothes our fears.

FABLES, AESOP, SIXTH CENTURY B.C.

Second, Patton’s experience demonstrates the motivating power of a sense of honor and dignity. In giving in to fear, in losing your presence of mind, you disgrace not only yourself, your self-image, and your reputation but your company, your family, your group. You bring down the communal spirit. Being a leader of even the smallest group gives you something to live up to: people are watching you, judging you, depending on you. To lose your composure would make it hard for you to live with yourself.

Be self-reliant. There is nothing worse than feeling dependent on other people. Dependency makes you vulnerable to all kinds of emotions–betrayal, disappointment, frustration–that play havoc with your mental balance.

Early in the American Civil War, General Ulysses S. Grant, eventual commander in chief of the Northern armies, felt his authority slipping. His subordinates would pass along inaccurate information on the terrain he was marching through; his captains would fail to follow through on his orders; his generals were criticizing his plans. Grant was stoical by nature, but his diminished control over his troops led to a diminished control over himself and drove him to drink.

In the words of the ancients, one should make his decisions within the space of seven breaths. Lord Takanobu said, "If discrimination is long, it will spoil." Lord Naoshige said, "When matters are done leisurely, seven out of ten will turn out badly. 

A warrior is a person who does things quickly." When your mind is going hither and thither, discrimination will never be brought to a conclusion. With an intense, fresh and unde-laying spirit, one will make his judgments within the space of seven breaths. It is a matter of being determined and having the spirit to break right through to the other side.

HAGAKURE: THE BOOK OF THE SAMURAI, YAMAMOTO TSUNETOMO, 1659-1720

Grant had learned his lesson by the time of the Vicksburg campaign, in 1862-63. He rode the terrain himself, studying  it firsthand. He reviewed intelligence reports himself. He honed the precision of his orders, making it harder for his captains to flout them. And once he had made a decision, he would ignore his fellow generals’ doubts and trust his convictions. To get things done, he came to rely on himself. His feelings of helplessness dissolved, and with them all of the attendant emotions that had ruined his presence of mind.

Being self-reliant is critical. To make yourself less dependent on others and so-called experts, you need to expand your repertoire of skills. And you need to feel more confident in your own judgment. Understand: we tend to overestimate other people’s abilities–after all, they’re trying hard to make it look as if they knew what they were doing–and we tend to underestimate our own. You must compensate for this by trusting yourself more and others less.

It is important to remember, though, that being self-reliant does not mean burdening yourself with petty details. You must be able to distinguish between small matters that are best left to others and larger issues that require your attention and care.

Suffer fools gladly. John Churchill, the Duke of Marlborough, is one of history’s most successful generals. A genius of tactics and strategy, he had tremendous presence of mind. In the early eighteenth century, Churchill was often the leader of an alliance of English, Dutch, and German armies against the mighty forces of France. His fellow generals were timid, indecisive, narrow-minded men. They balked at the duke’s bold plans, saw dangers everywhere, were discouraged at the slightest setback, and promoted their own country’s interests at the expense of the alliance. They had no vision, no patience: they were fools.

On a famous occasion during the civil war, Caesar tripped when disembarking from a ship on the shores of Africa and fell flat on his face. With his talent for improvisation, he spread out his arms and embraced the earth as a symbol of conquest. By quick thinking he turned a terrible omen of failure into one of victory.

CICERO: THE LIFE AND TIMES OF ROME'S GREATEST POLITICIAN, ANTHONY EVERITT, 2001

The duke, an experienced and subtle courtier, never confronted his colleagues directly; he did not force his opinions on them. Instead he treated them like children, indulging them in their fears while cutting them out of his plans.

Occasionally he threw them a bone, doing some minor thing they had suggested or pretending to worry about a danger they had imagined.

But he never let himself get angry or frustrated; that would have ruined his presence of mind, undermining his ability to lead the campaign. He forced himself to stay patient and cheerful. He knew how to suffer fools gladly.

We mean the ability to keep one's head at times of exceptional stress and violent emotion.... But it might be closer to the truth to assume that the faculty known as self-control--the gift of keeping calm even under the greatest stress--is rooted in temperament. 

It is itself an emotion which serves to balance the passionate feelings in strong characters without destroying them, and it is this balance alone that assures the dominance of the intellect. 

The counter-weight we mean is simply the sense of human dignity, the noblest pride and deepest need of all: the urge to act rationally at all times. Therefore we would argue that a strong character is one that will not be unbalanced by the most powerful emotions.

ON WAR, CARL VON CLAUSEWITZ, 1780-1831

Understand: you cannot be everywhere or fight everyone. Your time and energy are limited, and you must learn how to preserve them. Exhaustion and frustration can ruin your presence of mind. The world is full of fools–people who cannot wait to get results, who change with the wind, who can’t see past their noses. You encounter them everywhere: the indecisive boss, the rash colleague, the hysterical subordinate. When working alongside fools, do not fight them. Instead think of them the way you think of children, or pets, not important enough to affect your mental balance. Detach yourself emotionally. And while you’re inwardly laughing at their foolishness, indulge them in one of their more harmless ideas. The ability to stay cheerful in the face of fools is an important skill.

Crowd out feelings of panic by focusing on simple tasks. Lord Yamanouchi, an aristocrat of eighteenth-century Japan, once asked his tea master to accompany him on a visit to Edo (later Tokyo), where he was to stay for a while. He wanted to show off to his fellow courtiers his retainer’s skill in the rituals of the tea ceremony. Now, the tea master knew everything there was to know about the tea ceremony, but little else; he was a peaceful man. He dressed, however, like a samurai, as his high position required.

One day, as the tea master was walking in the big city, he was accosted by a samurai who challenged him to a duel. The tea master was not a swordsman and tried to explain this to the samurai, but the man refused to listen. To turn the challenge down would disgrace both the tea master’s family and Lord Yamanouchi. He had to accept,  though that meant certain death. And accept he did, requesting only that the duel be put off to the next day. His wish was granted.

In panic, the tea master hurried to the nearest fencing school. If he were to die, he wanted to learn how to die honorably. To see the fencing master ordinarily required letters of introduction, but the tea master was so insistent, and so clearly terrified, that at last he was given an interview. The fencing master listened to his story.

However, he perceived now that it did not greatly matter what kind of soldiers he was going to fight, so long as they fought, which fact no one disputed. There was a more serious problem. 

He lay in his bunk pondering upon it. 

He tried to mathematically prove to himself that he would not run from a battle.... A little panic-fear grew in his mind. As his imagination went forward to a fight, he saw hideous possibilities. 

He contemplated the lurking menaces of the future, and failed in an effort to see himself standing stoutly in the midst of them. He recalled his visions of broken-bladed glory, but in the shadow of the impending tumult he suspected them to be impossible pictures. 

He sprang from the bunk and began to pace nervously to and fro. "Good Lord, what's th' matter with me?" he said aloud. 

He felt that in this crisis his laws of life were useless. Whatever he had learned of himself was here of no avail. He was an unknown quantity. He saw that he would again be obliged to experiment as he had in early youth. He must accumulate information of himself, and meanwhile he resolved to remain close upon his guard lest those qualities of which he knew nothing should everlastingly disgrace him. 

"Good Lord!" he repeated in dismay.... For days he made ceaseless calculations, but they were all wondrously unsatisfactory. He found that he could establish nothing. 

He finally concluded that the only way to prove himself was to go into the blaze, and then figuratively to watch his legs to discover their merits and faults. He reluctantly admitted that he could not sit still and with a mental slate and pencil derive an answer. To gain it, he must have blaze, blood, and danger, even as a chemist requires this, that, and the other. So he fretted for an opportunity.

THE RED BADGE OF COURAGE, STEPHEN CRANE, 1871-1900

The swordsman was sympathetic: he would teach the poor visitor the art of dying, but first he wanted to be served some tea. The tea master proceeded to perform the ritual, his manner calm, his concentration perfect.

Finally the fencing master yelled out in excitement, “No need for you to learn the art of death! The state of mind you’re in now is enough for you to face any samurai. When you see your challenger, imagine you’re about to serve tea to a guest. Take off your coat, fold it up carefully, and lay your fan on it just as you do at work.” This ritual completed, the tea master was to raise his sword in the same alert spirit. Then he would be ready to die.

The tea master agreed to do as his teacher said. The next day he went to meet the samurai, who could not help but notice the completely calm and dignified expression on his opponent’s face as he took off his coat. Perhaps, the samurai thought, this fumbling tea master is actually a skilled swordsman. He bowed, begged pardon for his behavior the day before, and hurried away.

When circumstances scare us, our imagination tends to take over, filling our minds with endless anxieties.

You need to gain control of your imagination, something easier said than done. Often the best way to calm down and give yourself such control  is to force the mind to concentrate on something relatively simple–a calming ritual, a repetitive task that you are good at. You are creating the kind of composure you naturally have when your mind is absorbed in a problem. A focused mind has no room for anxiety or for the effects of an overactive imagination. Once you have regained your mental balance, you can then face the problem at hand. At the first sign of any kind of fear, practice this technique until it becomes a habit. Being able to control your imagination at intense moments is a crucial skill.

Unintimidate yourself. Intimidation will always threaten your presence of mind. And it is a hard feeling to combat.

During World War II, the composer Dmitry Shostakovich and several of his colleagues were called into a meeting with the Russian ruler Joseph Stalin, who had commissioned them to write a new national anthem. Meetings with Stalin were terrifying; one misstep could lead you into a very dark alley. He would stare you down until you felt your throat tighten. And, as meetings with Stalin often did, this one took a bad turn: the ruler began to criticize one of the composers for his poor arrangement of his anthem. Scared silly, the man admitted he had used an arranger who had done a bad job. Here he was digging several graves: Clearly the poor arranger could be called to task. The composer was responsible for the hire, and he, too, could pay for the mistake. And what of the other composers, including Shostakovich? Stalin could be relentless once he smelled fear.

Shostakovich had heard enough: it was foolish, he said, to blame the arranger, who was mostly following orders. He then subtly redirected the conversation to a different subject–whether a composer should do his own orchestrations. What did Stalin think on the matter? Always eager to prove his expertise, Stalin swallowed the bait. The dangerous moment passed.

Shostakovich maintained his presence of mind in several ways. First, instead of letting Stalin intimidate him, he forced himself to see the man as he was: short, fat, ugly, unimaginative. The dictator’s famous piercing gaze was just a trick, a sign of his own insecurity. Second, Shostakovich faced up to Stalin, talking to him normally and straightforwardly. By his actions and tone of voice, the composer showed that he was not intimidated. Stalin fed off fear. If, without being aggressive or brazen, you showed no fear, he would generally leave you alone.

The key to staying unintimidated is to convince yourself that the person you’re facing is a mere mortal, no different from you–which is in fact the truth. See the person, not the myth. Imagine him or her as a child, as someone riddled with insecurities. Cutting the other person down to size will help you to keep your mental balance.

Develop your Fingerspitzengefuhl (fingertip feel). Presence of mind depends not only on your mind’s ability to come to your aid in difficult situations but also on the speed with which this happens. Waiting until the next day to think of the right action to take does you no good at all. “Speed” here means responding to circumstances with rapidity and making lightning-quick decisions. This power is often read as a kind of intuition, what the Germans call “Fingerspitzengefuhl” (fingertip feel).

Erwin Rommel, who led the German tank campaign in North Africa during World War II, had great fingertip feel. He could sense when the Allies would attack and from what direction. In choosing a line of advance, he had an uncanny feel for his enemy’s weakness; at the start of a battle, he could intuit his enemy’s strategy before it unfolded.

To Rommel’s men their general seemed to have a genius for war, and he did possess a quicker mind than most. But Rommel also did things to enhance his quickness, things that reinforced his feel for battle.

First, he devoured information about the enemy–from details about its weaponry to the psychological traits of the opposing general.

Second, he made himself an expert in tank technology, so that he could get the most out of his equipment.

Third, he not only memorized maps of the North African desert but would fly over it, at great risk, to get a bird’s-eye view of the battlefield.

Finally, he personalized his relationship with his men. He always had a sense of their morale and knew exactly what he could expect from them.

Rommel didn’t just study his men, his tanks, the terrain, and the enemy–he got inside their skin, understood the spirit that animated them, what made them tick. Having felt his way into these things, in battle he entered a state of mind in which he did not have to think consciously of the situation. The totality of what was going on was in his blood, at his fingertips.

He had Fingerspitzengefuhl.

Rommel

Whether or not you have the mind of a Rommel, there are things you can do to help you respond faster and bring out that intuitive feel that all animals possess. Deep knowledge of the terrain will let you process information faster than your enemy, a tremendous advantage. Getting a feel for the spirit of men and material, thinking your way into them instead of looking at them from outside, will help to put you in a different frame of mind, less conscious and forced, more unconscious and intuitive. Get your mind into the habit of making lightning-quick decisions, trusting your fingertip feel. Your mind will advance in a kind of mental blitzkrieg, moving past your opponents before they realize what has hit them.

Finally, do not think of presence of mind as a quality useful only in periods of adversity, something to switch on and off as you need it. Cultivate it as an everyday condition. Confidence, fearlessness, and self-reliance are as crucial in times of peace as in times of war. Franklin Delano Roosevelt showed his tremendous mental toughness and grace under pressure not only during the crises of the Depression and World War II but in everyday situations–in his dealings with his family, his cabinet, his own polio-racked body. The better you get at the game of war, the more your warrior frame of mind will do for you in daily life. When a crisis does come, your mind will already be calm and prepared. Once presence of mind becomes a habit, it will never abandon you.

The man with centre has calm, unprejudiced judgment. He knows what is important, what unimportant. He meets realilty serenely and with detachment keeping his sense of proportion. The Hara no aru hito [man with centre] faces life calmly, is tranquil, ready for anything.... Nothing upsets him. 

If suddenly fire breaks out and people begin to shout in wild confusion [he] does the right thing immediately and quietly, he ascertains the direction of the wind, rescues what is most important, fetches water, and behaves unhesitatingly in the way the emergency demands. 

The Hara no nai hito is the opposite of all this. 

The Hara no nai hito applies to the man without calm judgment. He lacks the measure which should be second nature. Therefore he reacts haphazardly and subectively, arbitrarily and capriciously. He cannot distinguish between important and unimportant, essential and unessential. 

His judgment is not based upon facts but on temporary conditions and rests on subjective foundations, such as moods, whims, "nerves." 

The Hara no nai hito is easily startled, is nervous, not because he is particularly sensitive but because he lacks that inner axis which would prevent his being thrown off centre and which would enable him to deal with situations realistically.... 

Hara [centre, belly] is only in slight measure innate. It is above all the result of persistent self-training and discipline, in fact the fruit of responsible, individual development. 

That is what the Japanese means when he speaks of the Hara no dekita hito , the man who has accomplished or finished his belly, that is, himself: for he is mature. If this development does not take place, we have the Hara no dekita inai hito, someone who has not developed, who has remained immature, who is too young in the psychological sense. The Japanese also say Hara no dekita inai hito wa hito no ue ni tatsu koto ga dekinai: the man who has not finished his belly cannot stand above others (is not fit for leadership).

HARA: THE VITAL CENTRE, KARLFRIED GRAF VON DURCKHEIM, 1962
Authority: A great part of courage is the courage of having done the thing before.

--Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-82)

REVERSAL

It is never good to lose your presence of mind, but you can use those moments when it is under threat to know how to act in the future. You must find a way to put yourself in the thick of battle, then watch yourself in action. Look for your own weaknesses, and think about how to compensate for them. People who have never lost their presence of mind are actually in danger: someday they will be taken by surprise, and the fall will be harsh. All great generals, from Julius Caesar to Patton, have at some point lost their nerve and then have been the stronger for winning it back. The more you have lost your balance, the more you will know about how to right yourself.

You do not want to lose your presence of mind in key situations, but it is a wise course to find a way to make your enemies lose theirs. Take what throws you off balance and impose it on them. Make them act before they are ready. Surprise them–nothing is more unsettling than the unexpected need to act. Find their weakness, what makes them emotional, and give them a double dose of it. The more emotional you can make them, the farther you will push them off course.

Conclusion

The world is in the midst of World War III right now. It is being fought with things that are strange and unusual, and it is not being reported. In fact, the “news” is instead sending everyone off on “wild goose chases” down “rabbit holes”. No one actually knows what is going on.

It is critically important that you secure yourself and your family, and maintain a calm head through all of this. Let those around you make rash, foolish decisions, panic, and worry. That is not for you.

Recognize who you are, and where you are. Then, steely and calmly conduct your affirmation campaigns to wrest control of the reality that surrounds you and bend it to your will. You have this ability. Make it so.

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Chapter 1, Part 2, of the 33 Strategies of War by Robert Greene titled “Do not fight the last war: Embrace Change”

This is a full reprint in HTML of the second chapter (Chapter 2) of the first part (Part I) of the massive volume titled "The 33 Strategies of War". Written by Robert Greene (with emotional support from his cats). I read this book while in prison, and found much of what was written to be interesting, enjoyable, and pertinent to things going on in my life. I think that you will as well.

PART I

2. DO NOT FIGHT THE LAST WAR

THE GUERRILLA-WAR-OF-THE-MIND STRATEGY

What most often weighs you down and brings you misery is the past, in the form of unnecessary attachments, repetitions of tired formulas, and the memory of old victories and defeats. You must consciously wage war against the past and force yourself to react to the present moment. Be ruthless on yourself; do not repeat the same tired methods. Sometimes you must force yourself to strike out in new directions, even if they involve risk. What you may lose in comfort and security, you will gain in surprise, making it harder for your enemies to tell what you will do. Wage guerrilla war on your mind, allowing no static lines of defense, no exposed citadelsmake everything fluid and mobile.

Theory cannot equip the mind with formulas for solving problems, nor can it mark the narrow path on which the sole solution is supposed to lie by planting a hedge of principles on either side. But it can give the mind insight into the great mass of phenomena and of their relationships, then leave it free to rise into the higher realms of action. There the mind can use its innate talents to capacity, combining them all so as to seize on what is right and true as though this were a single idea formed by their concentrated pressure--as though it were a response to the immediate challenge rather than a product of thought.

ON WAR, CARL VON CLAUSEWITZ, 1780-1831

THE LAST WAR

No one has risen to power faster than Napoleon Bonaparte (1769-1821). In 1793 he went from captain in the French revolutionary army to brigadier general. In 1796 he became the leader of the French force in Italy fighting the Austrians, whom he crushed that year and again three years later. He became first consul of France in 1801, emperor in 1804. In 1805 he humiliated the Austrian and Russian armies at the Battle of Austerlitz.

For many, Napoleon was more than a great general; he was a genius, a god of war. Not everyone was impressed, though: there were Prussian generals who thought he had merely been lucky. Where Napoleon was rash and aggressive, they believed, his opponents had been timid and weak. If he ever faced the Prussians, he would be revealed as a great fake.

Among these Prussian generals was Friedrich Ludwig, prince of Hohenlohe-Ingelfingen (1746- 1818). Hohenlohe came from one of Germany’s oldest aristocratic families, one with an illustrious military record. He had begun his career young, serving under Frederick the Great (1712-86) himself, the man who had single-handedly made Prussia a great power. Hohenlohe had risen through the ranks, becoming a general at fifty–young by Prussian standards.

To Hohenlohe success in war depended on organization, discipline, and the use of superior strategies developed by trained military minds. The Prussians exemplified all of these virtues. Prussian soldiers drilled relentlessly until they could perform elaborate maneuvers as precisely as a machine. Prussian generals intensely studied the victories of Frederick the Great; war for them was a mathematical affair, the application of timeless principles. To the generals Napoleon was a Corsican hothead leading an unruly citizens’ army. Superior in knowledge and skill, they would out-strategize him. The French would panic and crumble in the face of the disciplined Prussians; the Napoleonic myth would lie in ruins, and Europe could return to its old ways.

In August 1806, Hohenlohe and his fellow generals finally got what they wanted: King Friedrich Wilhelm III of Prussia, tired of Napoleon’s broken promises, decided to declare war on him in six weeks. In the meantime he asked his generals to come up with a plan to crush the French.

Hohenlohe was ecstatic.

This campaign would be the climax of his career. He had been thinking for years about how to beat Napoleon, and he presented his plan at the generals’ first strategy session: precise marches would place the army at the perfect angle from which to attack the French as they advanced through southern Prussia. An attack in oblique formation–Frederick the Great’s favorite tactic–would deliver a devastating blow. The other generals, all in their sixties and seventies, presented their own plans, but these too were merely variants on the tactics of Frederick the Great. Discussion turned into argument; several weeks went by. Finally the king had to step in and create a compromise strategy that would satisfy all of his generals.

He [Baron Antoine-Henri de Jomini] --often quite arbitrarily--presses [the deeds of Napoleon] into a system which he foists on Napoleon, and, in doing so, completely fails to see what, above all, really constitutes the greatness of this captain--namely, the reckless boldness of his operations, where, scoffing at all theory, he always tried to do what suited each occasion best.

FRIEDRICH VON BERNHARDI, 1849-1930

A feeling of exuberance swept the country, which would soon relive the glory years of Frederick the Great. The generals realized that Napoleon knew about their plans–he had excellent spies–but the Prussians had a head start, and once their war machine started to move, nothing could stop it.

On October 5, a few days before the king was to declare war, disturbing news reached the generals.

A reconnaissance mission revealed that divisions of Napoleon’s army, which they had believed was dispersed, had marched east, merged, and was massing deep in southern Prussia. The captain who had led the scouting mission reported that the French soldiers were marching with packs on their backs: where the Prussians used slow-moving wagons to provision their troops, the French carried their own supplies and moved with astonishing speed and mobility.

Before the generals had time to adjust their plans, Napoleon’s army suddenly wheeled north, heading straight for Berlin, the heart of Prussia. The generals argued and dithered, moving their troops here and there, trying to decide where to attack. A mood of panic set in. Finally the king ordered a retreat: the troops would reassemble to the north and attack Napoleon’s flank as he advanced toward Berlin. Hohenlohe was in charge of the rear guard, protecting the Prussians’ retreat.

On October 14, near the town of Jena, Napoleon caught up with Hohenlohe, who finally faced the battle he had wanted so desperately. The numbers on both sides were equal, but while the French were an unruly force, fighting pell-mell and on the run, Hohenlohe kept his troops in tight order, orchestrating them like a corps de ballet. The fighting went back and forth until finally the French captured the village of Vierzehnheiligen.

Hohenlohe ordered his troops to retake the village. In a ritual dating back to Frederick the Great, a drum major beat out a cadence and the Prussian soldiers, their colors flying, re-formed their positions in perfect parade order, preparing to advance. They were in an open plain, though, and Napoleon’s men were behind garden walls and on the house roofs. The Prussians fell like ninepins to the French marksmen. Confused, Hohenlohe ordered his soldiers to halt and change formation. The drums beat again, the Prussians marched with magnificent precision, always a sight to behold–but the French kept shooting, decimating the Prussian line.

Never had Hohenlohe seen such an army. The French soldiers were like demons. Unlike his disciplined soldiers, they moved on their own, yet there was method to their madness. Suddenly, as if from nowhere, they rushed forward on both sides, threatening to surround the Prussians. The prince ordered a retreat. The Battle of Jena was over.

Like a house of cards, the Prussians quickly crumbled, one fortress falling after another. The king fled east. In a matter of days, virtually nothing remained of the once mighty Prussian army.

THE BAT AND THE HOUSE-FERRETS

A bat fell to the ground and was caught by a house-ferret. Realizing that she was on the point of being killed, she begged for her life. The house-ferret said to her that she couldn't let her go, for ferrets were supposed to be natural enemies to all birds. The bat replied that she herself was not a bird, but a mouse. She managed to extricate herself from her danger by this means. Eventually, falling a second time, the bat was caught by another house-ferret. Again she pleaded to the ferret not to eat her. The second ferret declared that she absolutely detested all mice. But the bat positively affirmed that she was not a mouse but a bat. And so she was released again. And that was how she saved herself from death twice by a mere change of name. This fable shows that it is not always necessary to confine ourselves to the same tactics. But, on the contrary, if we are adaptable to circumstances we can better escape danger.

FABLES, AESOP, SIXTH CENTURY B.C.

Interpretation

The reality facing the Prussians in 1806 was simple: they had fallen fifty years behind the times. Their generals were old, and instead of responding to present circumstances, they were repeating formulas that had worked in the past.

Their army moved slowly, and their soldiers were automatons on parade. The Prussian generals had many signs to warn them of disaster: their army had not performed well in its recent engagements, a number of Prussian officers had preached reform, and, last but not least, they had had ten years to study Napoleon–his innovative strategies and the speed and fluidity with which his armies converged on the enemy. Reality was staring them in the face, yet they chose to ignore it. Indeed, they told themselves that Napoleon was the one who was doomed.

You might find the Prussian army just an interesting historical example, but in fact you are likely marching in the same direction yourself. What limits individuals as well as nations is the inability to confront reality, to see things for what they are. As we grow older, we become more rooted in the past. Habit takes over. Something that has worked for us before becomes a doctrine, a shell to protect us from reality. Repetition replaces creativity. We rarely realize we’re doing this, because it is almost impossible for us to see it happening in our own minds. Then suddenly a young Napoleon crosses our path, a person who does not respect tradition, who fights in a new way. Only then do we see that our ways of thinking and responding have fallen behind the times.

Never take it for granted that your past successes will continue into the future. Actually, your past successes are your biggest obstacle: every battle, every war, is different, and you cannot assume that what worked before will work today. You must cut yourself loose from the past and open your eyes to the present. Your tendency to fight the last war may lead to your final war.

When in 1806 the Prussian generals...plunged into the open jaws of disaster by using Frederick the Great's oblique order of battle, it was not just a case of a style that had outlived its usefulness but the most extreme poverty of the imagination to which routine has ever led. The result was that the Prussian army under Hohenlohe was ruined more completely than any army has ever been ruined on the battlefield.

--Carl von Clausewitz, ON WAR (1780-1831)

THE PRESENT WAR

In 1605, Miyamoto Musashi, a samurai who had made a name for himself as a swordsman at the young age of twenty-one, was challenged to a duel. The challenger, a young man named Matashichiro, came from the Yoshioka family, a clan itself renowned for swordsmanship. Earlier that year Musashi had defeated Matashichiro’s father, Genzaemon, in a duel. Days later he had killed Genzaemon’s younger brother in another duel. The Yoshioka family wanted revenge.

I never read any treatises on strategy.... When we fight, we do not take any books with us.

MAO TSE-TUNG, 1893-1976

Musashi’s friends smelled a trap in Matashichiro’s challenge and offered to accompany him to the duel, but Musashi went alone. In his earlier fights with the Yoshiokas, he had angered them by showing up hours late; this time, though, he came early and hid in the trees. Matashichiro arrived with a small army.

Musashi would “arrive way behind schedule as usual,” one of them said, “but that trick won’t work with us anymore!” Confident in their ambush, Matashichiro’s men lay down and hid in the grass. Suddenly Musashi leaped out from behind his tree and shouted, “I’ve been waiting long enough. Draw your sword!”

In one swift stroke, he killed Matashichiro, then took a position at an angle to the other men. All of them jumped to their feet, but they were caught off guard and startled, and instead of surrounding him, they stood in a broken line. Musashi simply ran down the line, killing the dazed men one after another in a matter of seconds.

Musashi’s victory sealed his reputation as one of Japan’s greatest swordsmen. He now roamed the country looking for suitable challenges. In one town he heard of an undefeated warrior named Baiken whose weapons were a sickle and a long chain with a steel ball at the end of it. Musashi wanted to see these weapons in action, but Baiken refused: the only way he could see them work, Baiken said, was by fighting a duel.

REFRESHING THE MIND When you and your opponent are engaged in combat which is dragging on with no end in sight, it is crucial that you should come up with a completely different technique. By refreshing your mind and techniques as you continue to fight your opponent, you will find an appropriate rhythm-timing with which to defeat him. Whenever you and your opponent become stagnant, you must immediately employ a different method of dealing with him in order to overcome him.

THE BOOK OF FIVE RINGS, MIYAMOTO MUSASHI, 1584-1645

Once again Musashi’s friends chose the safe route: they urged him to walk away. No one had come close to defeating Baiken, whose weapons were unbeatable: swinging his ball in the air to build up momentum, he would force his victim backward with a relentless charge, then hurl the ball at the man’s face. His opponent would have to fend off the ball and chain, and while his sword arm was occupied, in that brief instant Baiken would slash him with the sickle across his neck.

Ignoring the warnings of his friends, Musashi challenged Baiken and showed up at the man’s tent with two swords, one long, one short. Baiken had never seen someone fight with two swords. Also, instead of letting Baiken charge him, Musashi charged first, pushing his foe back on his heels. Baiken hesitated to throw the ball, for Musashi could parry it with one sword and strike him with the other. As he looked for an opening, Musashi suddenly knocked him off balance with a blow of the short sword and then, in a split second, followed with a thrust of the long one, stabbing him through and killing the once undefeated master Baiken.

A few years later, Musashi heard about a great samurai named Sasaki Ganryu, who fought with a very long sword–a startlingly beautiful weapon, which seemed possessed of some warlike spirit. This fight would be Musashi’s ultimate test. Ganryu accepted his challenge; the duel would take place on a little island near the samurai’s home.

It is a disease to be obsessed by the thought of winning. It is also a disease to be obsessed by the thought of employing your swordsmanship. So it is to be obsessed by the thought of using everything you have learned, and to be obsessed by the thought of attacking. It is also a disease to be obsessed and stuck with the thought of ridding yourself of any of these diseases. A disease here is an obsessed mind that dwells on one thing. Because all these diseases are in your mind, you must get rid of them to put your mind in order.

TAKUAN, JAPAN, 1573-1645

On the morning of the duel, the island was packed. A fight between such warriors was unprecedented. Ganryu arrived on time, but Musashi was late, very late. An hour went by, then two; Ganryu was furious.

Finally a boat was spotted approaching the island. Its passenger was lying down, half asleep, it seemed, whittling at a long wooden oar. It was Musashi. He seemed lost in thought, staring into the clouds. When the boat came to shore, he tied a dirty towel around his head and jumped out of the boat, brandishing the long oar–longer than Ganryu’s famous sword. This strange man had come to the biggest fight of his life with an oar for a sword and a towel for a headband.

Ganryu called out angrily, “Are you so frightened of me that you have broken your promise to be here by eight?” Musashi said nothing but stepped closer. Ganryu drew his magnificent sword and threw the sheath onto the sand. Musashi smiled: “Sasaki, you have just sealed your doom.” “Me? Defeated? Impossible!” “What victor on earth,” replied Musashi, “would abandon his sheath to the sea?” This enigmatic remark only made Ganryu angrier.

Then Musashi charged, aiming his sharpened oar straight for his enemy’s eyes. Ganryu quickly raised his sword and struck at Musashi’s head but missed, only cutting the towel headband in two. He had never missed before. In almost the same instant, Musashi brought down his wooden sword, knocking Ganryu off his feet. The spectators gasped. As Ganryu struggled up, Musashi killed him with a blow to the head. Then, after bowing politely to the men officiating over the duel, he got back into the boat and left as calmly as he had arrived.

From that moment on, Musashi was considered a swordsman without peer.

Anyone can plan a campaign, but few are capable of waging war, because only a true military genius can handle the developments and circumstances.

NAPOLEON BONAPARTE, 1769-1821

Interpretation

Miyamoto Musashi, author of The Book of Five Rings, won all his duels for one reason: in each instance he adapted his strategy to his opponent and to the circumstances of the moment.

With Matashichiro he decided it was time to arrive early, which he hadn’t done in his previous fights. Victory against superior numbers depended on surprise, so he leaped up when his opponents lay down; then, once he had killed their leader, he set himself at an angle that invited them to charge at him instead of surrounding him, which would have been much more dangerous for him.

With Baiken it was simply a matter of using two swords and then crowding his space, giving him no time to react intelligently to this novelty.

With Ganryu he set out to infuriate and humiliate his haughty opponent– the wooden sword, the nonchalant attitude, the dirty-towel headband, the enigmatic remark, the charge at the eyes.

Musashi’s opponents depended on brilliant technique, flashy swords, and unorthodox weapons. That is the same as fighting the last war: instead of responding to the moment, they relied on training, technology, and what had worked before.

Musashi, who had grasped the essence of strategy when he was still very young, turned their rigidity into their downfall. His first thought was of the gambit that would take this particular opponent most by surprise. Then he would anchor himself in the moment: having set his opponent off balance with something unexpected, he would watch carefully, then respond with another action, usually improvised, that would turn mere disequilibrium into defeat and death.

Thunder and wind: the image of DURATION. Thus the superior man stands firm And does not change his direction. Thunder rolls, and the wind blows; both are examples of extreme mobility and so are seemingly the very opposite of duration, but the laws governing their appearance and subsidence, their coming and going, endure. In the same way the independence of the superior man is not based on rigidity and immobility of character. He always keeps abreast of the time and changes with it. What endures is the unswerving directive, the inner law of his being, which determines all his actions.

THE I CHING, CHINA, CIRCA EIGHTH CENTURY B.C.

In preparing yourself for war, you must rid yourself of myths and misconceptions.  Strategy is not a question of learning a series of moves or ideas to follow like a recipe; victory has no magic formula. Ideas are merely nutrients for the soil: they lie in your brain as possibilities, so that in the heat of the moment they can inspire a direction, an appropriate and creative response. Let go of all fetishes–books, techniques, formulas, flashy weapons–and learn to become your own strategist.

Thus one's victories in battle cannot be repeated--they take their form in response to inexhaustibly changing circumstances.

--Sun-tzu (fourth century B.C.)

KEYS TO WARFARE

In looking back on an unpleasant or disagreeable experience, the thought inevitably occurs to us: if only we had said or done x instead of y, if only we could do it over.

Many a general has lost his head in the heat of battle and then, looking back, has thought of the one tactic, the one maneuver, that would have changed it all.

Even Prince Hohenlohe, years later, could see how he had botched the retaking of Vierzehnheiligen.

The problem, though, is not that we think of the solution only when it is too late. The problem is that we imagine that knowledge is what was lacking: if only we had known more, if only we had thought it through more thoroughly.

That is precisely the wrong approach.

What makes us go astray in the first place is that we are unattuned to the present moment, insensitive to the circumstances. We are listening to our own thoughts, reacting to things that happened in the past, applying theories and ideas that we digested long ago but that have nothing to do with our predicament in the present. More books, theories, and thinking only make the problem worse.

My policy is to have no policy.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN, 1809-1865

Understand: the greatest generals, the most creative strategists, stand out not because they have more knowledge but because they are able, when necessary, to drop their preconceived notions and focus intensely on the present moment. That is how creativity is sparked and opportunities are seized. Knowledge, experience, and theory have limitations: no amount of thinking in advance can prepare you for the chaos of life, for the infinite possibilities of the moment. The great philosopher of war Carl von Clausewitz called this “friction”: the difference between our plans and what actually happens. Since friction is inevitable, our minds have to be capable of keeping up with change and adapting to the unexpected. The better we can adapt our thoughts to changing circumstances, the more realistic our responses to them will be. The more we lose ourselves in predigested theories and past experiences, the more inappropriate and delusional our response.

It can be valuable to analyze what went wrong in the past, but it is far more important to develop the capacity to think in the moment. In that way you will make far fewer mistakes to analyze.

If you put an empty gourd on the water and touch it, it will slip to one side. No matter how you try, it won't stay in one spot. The mind of someone who has reached the ultimate state does not stay with anything, even for a second. It is like an empty gourd on the water that is pushed around.

TAKUAN, JAPAN, 1573-1645

Think of the mind as a river: the faster it flows, the better it keeps up with the present and responds to change. The faster it flows, also the more it refreshes itself and the greater its energy. Obsessional thoughts, past experiences (whether traumas or successes), and preconceived notions are like boulders or mud in this river, settling and hardening there and damming it up. The river stops moving; stagnation sets in. You must wage constant war on this tendency in the mind.

The first step is simply to be aware of the process and of the need to fight it. The second is to adopt a few tactics that might help you to restore the mind’s natural flow.

Reexamine all your cherished beliefs and principles. When Napoleon was asked what principles of war he followed, he replied that he followed none.  His genius was his ability to respond to circumstances, to make the most of what he was given–he was the supreme opportunist. Your only principle, similarly, should be to have no principles. To believe that strategy has inexorable laws or timeless rules is to take up a rigid, static position that will be your undoing. Of course the study of history and theory can broaden your vision of the world, but you have to combat theory’s tendency to harden into dogma. Be brutal with the past, with tradition, with the old ways of doing things. Declare war on sacred cows and voices of convention in your own head.

Our education is often a problem. During World War II, the British fighting the Germans in the deserts of North Africa were well trained in tank warfare; you might say they were indoctrinated with theories about it. Later in the campaign, they were joined by American troops who were much less educated in these tactics. Soon, though, the Americans began to fight in a way that was equal if not superior to the British style; they adapted to the mobility of this new kind of desert combat. According to Field Marshal Erwin Rommel himself, the leader of the German army in North Africa,

"The Americans...profited far more than the British from their experience in Africa, thus confirming the axiom that education is easier than reeducation."

What Rommel meant was that education tends to burn precepts into the mind that are hard to shake. In the midst of combat, the trained mind may fall a step behind–focusing more on learned rules than on the changing circumstances of battle.

When you are faced with a new situation, it is often best to imagine that you know nothing and that you need to start learning all over again. Clearing your head of everything you thought you knew, even your most cherished ideas, will give you the mental space to be educated by your present experience–the best school of all. You will develop your own strategic muscles instead of depending on other people’s theories and books.

Erase the memory of the last war. The last war you fought is a danger, even if you won it. It is fresh in your mind. If you were victorious, you will tend to repeat the strategies you just used, for success makes us lazy and complacent; if you lost, you may be skittish and indecisive.

Do not think about the last war; you do not have the distance or the detachment. Instead do whatever you can to blot it from your mind. During the Vietnam War, the great North Vietnamese general Vo Nguyen Giap had a simple rule of thumb: after a successful campaign, he would convince himself that it had actually been a failure. As a result he never got drunk on his success, and he never repeated the same strategy in the next battle. Rather he had to think through each situation anew.

Ted Williams, perhaps baseball’s greatest pure hitter, made a point of always trying to forget his last at-bat. Whether he’d gotten a home run or a strikeout, he put it behind him. No two at-bats are the same, even against the same pitcher, and Williams wanted an open mind. He would not wait for the next at-bat to start forgetting: the minute he got back to the dugout, he started focusing on what was happening in the game taking place. Attention to the details of the present is by far the best way to crowd out the past and forget the last war.

Keep the mind moving. When we were children, our minds never stopped. We were open to new experiences and absorbed as much of them as possible. We learned fast, because the world around us excited us. When we felt frustrated or upset, we would find some creative way to get what we wanted and then quickly forget the problem as something new crossed our path.

All the greatest strategists–Alexander the Great, Napoleon, Musashi–were childlike in this respect. Sometimes, in fact, they even acted like children.

The reason is simple: superior strategists see things as they are. They are highly sensitive to dangers and opportunities. Nothing stays the same in life, and keeping up with circumstances as they change requires a great deal of mental fluidity. Great strategists do not act according to preconceived ideas; they respond to the moment, like children. Their minds are always moving, and they are always excited and curious. They quickly forget the past–the present is much too interesting.

Defeat is bitter. Bitter to the common soldier, but trebly bitter to his general. The soldier may comfort himself with the thought that, whatever the result, he has done his duty faithfully and steadfastly, but the commander has failed in his duty if he has not won victory--for that is his duty. 

He has no other comparable to it. He will go over in his mind the events of the campaign. "Here," he will think, "I went wrong; here I took counsel of my fears when I should have been bold; there I should have waited to gather strength, not struck piecemeal; at such a moment I failed to grasp opportunity when it was presented to me." He will remember the soldiers whom he sent into the attack that failed and who did not come back. 

He will recall the look in the eyes of men who trusted him. "I have failed them," he will say to himself, "and failed my country!" He will see himself for what he is--a defeated general. 

In a dark hour he will turn in upon himself and question the very foundations of his leadership and manhood. And then he must stop! For if he is ever to command in battle again, he must shake off these regrets, and stamp on them, as they claw at his will and his self-confidence. He must beat off these attacks he delivers against himself, and cast out the doubts born of failure. 

Forget them, and remember only the lessons to be learned from defeat--they are more than from victory.

DEFEAT INTO VICTORY, WILLIAM SLIM, 1897-1970

The Greek thinker Aristotle thought that life was defined by movement. What does not move is dead. What has speed and mobility has more possibilities, more life. We all start off with the mobile mind of a Napoleon, but as we get older, we tend to become more like the Prussians. You may think that what you’d like to recapture from your youth is your looks, your physical fitness, your simple pleasures, but what you really need is the fluidity of mind you once possessed.

Whenever you find your thoughts revolving around a particular subject or idea–an obsession, a resentment–force them past it. Distract yourself with something else. Like a child, find something new to be absorbed by, something worthy of concentrated attention. Do not waste time on things you cannot change or influence. Just keep moving.

Absorb the spirit of the times. Throughout the history of warfare, there have been classic battles in which the past has confronted the future in a hopeless mismatch. It happened in the seventh century, when the Persians and Byzantines confronted the invincible armies of Islam, with their new form of desert fighting; or in the first half of the thirteenth century, when the Mongols used relentless mobility to overwhelm the heavy armies of the Russians and Europeans; or in 1806, when Napoleon crushed the Prussians at Jena.

In each case the conquering army developed a way of fighting that maximized a new form of technology or a new social order.

You can reproduce this effect on a smaller scale by attuning yourself to the spirit of the times. Developing antennae for the trends that have yet to crest takes work and study, as well as the flexibility to adapt to those trends.

As you get older, it is best to periodically alter your style.

In the golden age of Hollywood, most actresses had very short careers. But Joan Crawford fought the studio system and managed to have a remarkably long career by constantly changing her style, going from siren to noir heroine to cult queen.

Instead of staying sentimentally attached to some fashion of days gone by, she was able to sense a rising trend and go with it. By constantly adapting and changing your style, you will avoid the pitfalls of your previous wars. Just when people feel they know you, you will change.

Reverse course. The great Russian novelist Fyodor Dostoyevsky suffered from epilepsy. Just before  a seizure, he would experience a moment of intense ecstasy, which he described as a feeling of being suddenly flooded with reality, a momentary vision of the world exactly as it is.

Later he would find himself getting depressed, as this vision was crowded out by the habits and routines of daily life. During these depressions, wanting to feel that closeness to reality again, he would go to the nearest casino and gamble away all his money.

There reality would overwhelm him; comfort and routine would be gone, stale patterns broken. Having to rethink everything, he would get his creative energy back. This was the closest he could deliberately come to the sense of ecstasy he got through epilepsy.

Dostoyevsky’s method was a little extreme, but sometimes you have to shake yourself up, break free from the hold of the past.

This can take the form of reversing your course, doing the opposite of what you would normally do in any given situation, putting yourself in some unusual circumstance, or literally starting over. In those situations the mind has to deal with a new reality, and it snaps to life. The change may be alarming, but it is also refreshing–even exhilarating.

To know that one is in a certain condition, in a certain state, is already a process of liberation; but a man who is not aware of his condition, of his struggle, tries to be something other than he is, which brings about habit. So, then, let us keep in mind that we want to examine what is, to observe and be aware of exactly what is the actual, without giving it any slant, without giving it an interpretation. It needs an extraordinarily astute mind, an extraordinarily pliable heart, to be aware of and to follow what is; because what is is constantly moving, constantly undergoing a transformation, and if the mind is tethered to belief, to knowledge, it ceases to pursue, it ceases to follow the swift movement of what is. What is is not static, surely--it is constantly moving, as you will see if you observe it very closely. To follow it, you need a very swift mind and a pliable heart--which are denied when the mind is static, fixed in a belief, in a prejudice, in an identification; and a mind and heart that are dry cannot follow easily, swiftly, that which is.

JIDDU KRISHNAMURTI, 1895-1986

Relationships often develop a certain tiresome predictability. You do what you usually do, other people respond the way they usually do, and around it goes. If you reverse course, act in a novel manner, you alter the entire dynamic. Do this every so often to break up the relationship’s stale patterns and open it to new possibilities.

Think of your mind as an army.

Armies must adapt to the complexity and chaos of modern war by becoming more fluid and maneuverable. The ultimate extension of this evolution is guerrilla warfare, which exploits chaos by making disorder and unpredictability a strategy.

The guerrilla army never stops to defend a particular place or town; it wins by always moving, staying one step ahead. By following no set pattern, it gives the enemy no target.

The guerrilla army never repeats the same tactic. It responds to the situation, the moment, the terrain where it happens to find itself. There is no front, no concrete line of communication or supply, no slow-moving wagon.

The guerrilla army is pure mobility.

That is the model for your new way of thinking. Apply no tactic rigidly; do not let your mind settle into static positions, defending any particular place or idea, repeating the same lifeless maneuvers. Attack problems from new angles, adapting to the landscape and to what you’re given. By staying in constant motion you show your enemies no target to aim at. You exploit the chaos of the world instead of succumbing to it.

REVERSAL

There is never any value in fighting the last war. But while you’re eliminating that pernicious tendency, you must imagine that your enemy is trying to do the same–trying to learn from and adapt to the present.

Some of history’s worst military disasters have come not out of fighting the last war but out of assuming that that’s what your opponent will do.

When Saddam Hussein of Iraq invaded Kuwait in 1990, he thought the United States had yet to recover from “Vietnam syndrome”–the fear of casualties and loss that had been so traumatic during the Vietnam period–and that it would either avoid war altogether or would fight in the same way it had, trying to win the fight from the air instead of on the ground.

He did not realize that the American military was ready for a new kind of war.

Remember: the loser in any battle may be too traumatized to fight again but may also learn from the experience and move on. Err on the side of caution; be ready. Never let your enemy surprise you in war.

Conclusion

My latest article (prior to this one) underlines this entire strategy. Which is WHY all the American Generals and Admirals are telling the politicians and neocons in Washington DC to “Stand Down”. They, those on K-street in Washington DC want to fight against China or Russia. But the generals strongly advise against it.

You can read about it here…

Personally, the United States is in need of a shake-up, and maybe it’s time for a serious “house cleaning” in Washington DC as well. Maybe it would be a good thing to see Washington DC erased from the map. I am sure that the world would be a much calmer and nicer world.

Do you want more?

I have more posts in my 33 Strategies of War index here..

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Chapter 1, Part I, of the 33 Strategies of War by Robert Greene titled “Self-directed Warfare”

This is a full reprint in HTML of the first chapter (Chapter 1) of the first part (Part I) of the massive volume titled "The 33 Strategies of War". Written by Robert Greene (with emotional support from his cats). I read this book while in prison, and found much of what was written to be interesting, enjoyable, and pertinent to things going on in my life. I think that you will as well.

PART I

SELF-DIRECTED WARFARE

War, or any kind of conflict, is waged and won through strategy. Think of strategy as a series of lines and arrows aimed at a goal: at getting you to a certain point in the world, at helping you to attack a problem in your path, at figuring out how to encircle and destroy your enemy. Before directing these arrows at your enemies, however, you must first direct them at yourself.

Your mind is the starting point of all war and all strategy. A mind that is easily overwhelmed by emotion, that is rooted in the past instead of the present, that cannot see the world with clarity and urgency, will create strategies that will always miss the mark.

To become a true strategist, you must take three steps.

First, become aware of the weakness and illness that can take hold of the mind, warping its strategic powers. Second, declare a kind of war on yourself to make yourself move forward. Third, wage ruthless and continual battle on the enemies within you by applying certain strategies.

The following four chapters are designed to make you aware of the disorders that are probably flourishing in your mind right now and to arm you with specific strategies for eliminating them.

These chapters are arrows to aim at yourself. Once you have absorbed them through thought and practice, they will serve as a self-corrective device in all your future battles, freeing the grand strategist within you.

DECLARE WAR ON YOUR ENEMIES

THE POLARITY STRATEGY

 

Life is endless battle and conflict, and you cannot fight effectively unless you can identify your enemies. People are subtle and evasive, disguising their intentions, pretending to be on your side.

You need clarity. Learn to smoke out your enemies, to spot them by the signs and patterns that reveal hostility. Then, once you have them in your sights, inwardly declare war. As the opposite poles of a magnet create motion, your enemies–your opposites–can fill you with purpose and direction. As people who stand in your way, who represent what you loathe, people to react against, they are a source of energy. Do not be naive: with some enemies there can be no compromise, no
middle ground.

Then [Xenophon] got up, and first called together the under-officers of Proxenos. 

When they were collected he said: 

"Gentlemen, I cannot sleep and I don't think you can; and I can't lie here when I see what a plight we are in. 

It is clear that the enemy did not show us open war until they thought they had everything well prepared; and no-one among us takes the pains to make the best possible resistance. 

"Yet if we give way, and fall into the king's power, what do we expect our fate will be? 

When his own half-brother was dead, the man cut off his head and cut off his hand and stuck them up on a pole. 

We have no-one to plead for us, and we marched here to make the king a slave or to kill him if we could, and what do you think our fate will be? 

Would he not go to all extremes of torture to make the whole world afraid of making war on him? 

Why, we must do anything to keep out of his power! 

While the truce lasted, I never ceased pitying ourselves, I never ceased congratulating the king and his army. 

What a vast country I saw, how large, what endless provisions, what crowds of servants, how many cattle and sheep, what gold, what raiment! 

But when I thought of these our soldiers--we had no share in all these good things unless we bought them, and few had anything left to buy with; and to procure anything without buying was debarred by our oaths. 

While I reasoned like this, I sometimes feared the truce more than the war now. 

"However, now they have broken the truce, there is an end both to their insolence and to our suspicion. 

There lie all these good things before us, prizes for whichever side prove the better men; the gods are the judges of the contest, and they will be with us, naturally.... "

When you have appointed as many commanders as are wanted, assemble all the other soldiers and encourage them; that will be just what they want now. 

Perhaps you have noticed yourselves how crestfallen they were when they came into camp, how crestfallen they went on guard; in such a state I don't know what you could do with them.... 

But if someone could turn their minds from wondering what will happen to them, and make them wonder what they could do, they will be much more cheerful. 

You know, I am sure, that not numbers or strength brings victory in war; but whichever army goes into battle stronger in soul, their enemies generally cannot withstand them." 

-ANABASIS: THE MARCH UP COUNTRY, XENOPHON, 430?-355? B.C.

THE INNER ENEMY

In the spring of 401 B.C., Xenophon, a thirty-year-old country gentleman who lived outside Athens, received an intriguing invitation: a friend was recruiting Greek soldiers to fight as mercenaries for Cyrus, brother of the Persian king Ataxerxes, and asked him to go along.

The request was somewhat unusual: the Greeks and the Persians had long been bitter enemies. Some eighty years earlier, in fact, Persia had tried to conquer Greece.

But the Greeks, renowned fighters, had begun to offer their services to the highest bidder, and within the Persian Empire there were rebellious
cities that Cyrus wanted to punish.

Greek mercenaries would be the perfect reinforcements in his large army.

Xenophon was not a soldier. In fact, he had led a coddled life, raising dogs and horses, traveling into Athens to talk philosophy with his good friend Socrates, living off his inheritance.

He wanted adventure, though, and here he had a chance to meet the great Cyrus, learn war, see Persia. Perhaps when it was all over, he would write a book. He would go not as a mercenary (he was too wealthy for that) but as a philosopher and historian.

After consulting the oracle at Delphi, he accepted the invitation.

Some 10,000 Greek soldiers joined Cyrus’s punitive expedition. The mercenaries were a motley crew from all over Greece, there for the money and the adventure.

They had a good time of it for a while, but a few months into the job, after leading them deep into Persia, Cyrus admitted his true purpose: he was marching on Babylon, mounting a civil war to unseat his brother and make himself
king.

Unhappy to be deceived, the Greeks argued and complained, but Cyrus offered them more money, and that quieted them.

The armies of Cyrus and Ataxerxes met on the plains of Cunaxa, not far from Babylon. Early in the battle, Cyrus was killed, putting a quick end to the war.

Now the Greeks’ position was suddenly precarious: having fought on the wrong side of a civil war, they were far from home and surrounded by hostile Persians.

They were soon told, however, that Ataxerxes had no quarrel with them.

His only desire was that they leave Persia as quickly as possible. He even sent them an envoy, the Persian commander Tissaphernes, to provision them and escort them back to Greece.

And so, guided by Tissaphernes and the Persian army, the mercenaries began the long trek home–some fifteen hundred miles.

A few days into the march, the Greeks had new fears: their supplies from the Persians were insufficient, and the route that Tissaphernes had chosen for them was problematic.

Could they trust these Persians?

They started to argue among themselves.

The Greek commander Clearchus expressed his soldiers’ concerns to Tissaphernes, who was sympathetic: Clearchus should bring his captains to a meeting at a neutral site, the Greeks would voice their grievances, and the two sides would come to an understanding.

Clearchus agreed and  appeared the next day with his officers at the appointed time and place–where, however, a large contingent of Persians surrounded and arrested them.

They were beheaded that same day.

One man managed to escape and warn the Greeks of the Persian treachery.

That evening the Greek camp was a desolate place. Some men argued and accused; others slumped drunk to the ground. A few considered flight, but with their leaders dead, they felt doomed.

That night Xenophon, who had stayed mostly on the sidelines during the expedition, had a dream: a lightning bolt from Zeus set fire to his father’s house.

He woke up in a sweat.

It suddenly struck him: death was staring the Greeks in the face, yet they lay around moaning, despairing, arguing.

The problem was in their heads.

Fighting for money rather than for a purpose or cause, unable to distinguish between friend and foe, they had gotten lost.

The barrier between them and home was not rivers or mountains or the Persian army but their own muddled state of mind.

Xenophon didn’t want to die in this disgraceful way.

He was no military man, but he knew philosophy and the way men think, and he believed that if the Greeks concentrated on the enemies who wanted to kill them, they would become alert and creative.

If they focused on the vile treachery of the Persians, they would grow angry, and their anger would motivate them.

They had to stop being confused mercenaries and go back to being Greeks, the polar opposite of the faithless Persians.

What they needed was clarity and direction.

Xenophon decided to be Zeus’s lightning bolt, waking the men up and illuminating their way. He called a meeting of all the surviving officers and stated his plan:

We will declare war without parley on the Persians–no more thoughts of bargaining or debate.

We will waste no more time on argument or accusation among ourselves; every ounce of our energy will be spent on the Persians.

We will be as inventive and inspired as our ancestors at Marathon, who fought off a vastly larger Persian army.

We will burn our wagons, live off the land, move fast. We will not for one second lay down our arms or forget the dangers around us.

It is us or them, life or death, good or evil.

Should any man try to confuse us with clever talk or with vague ideas of appeasement, we will declare him too stupid and cowardly to be on our side and we will drive him away.

Let the Persians make us merciless.

We must be consumed with one idea: getting home alive.

The officers knew that Xenophon was right.

The next day a Persian officer came to see them, offering to act as an ambassador between them and Ataxerxes; following Xenophon’s counsel, he was quickly and rudely driven away.

It was now war and nothing else.

Roused to action, the Greeks elected leaders, Xenophon among them, and began the march home.

Forced to depend on their wits, they quickly learned to adapt to the terrain, to avoid battle, to move at night.

They successfully eluded the Persians, beating them to a key mountain pass and moving through it before they could be caught.

Although many enemy tribes still lay between them and Greece, the dreaded Persian army was now behind them.

It took several years, but almost all of them returned to Greece alive.

Political thought and political instinct prove themselves theoretically and practically in the ability to distinguish friend and enemy. The high points of politics are simultaneously the moments in which the enemy is, in concrete clarity, recognized as the enemy.

CARL SCHMITT, 1888-1985

Interpretation

Life is battle and struggle, and you will constantly find yourself facing bad situations, destructive relationships, dangerous engagements.

How you confront these difficulties will determine your fate.

As Xenophon said, your obstacles are not rivers or mountains or other people;
your obstacle is yourself.

If you feel lost and confused, if you lose your sense of direction, if you cannot tell the difference between friend and foe, you have only yourself to blame.

Think of yourself as always about to go into battle. Everything depends on your frame of mind and on how you look at the world.

A shift of perspective can transform you from a passive and confused mercenary into a motivated and creative fighter.

We are defined by our relationship to other people.

As children we develop an identity by differentiating ourselves from others, even to the point of pushing them away, rejecting them, rebelling.

The more clearly you recognize who you do not want to be, then, the clearer your sense of identity and purpose will be.

Without a sense of that polarity, without an enemy to react against, you are as lost as the Greek mercenaries.

Duped by other people’s treachery, you hesitate at the fatal moment and descend into whining and argument.

Focus on an enemy.

It can be someone who blocks your path or sabotages you, whether subtly or
obviously;

It can be someone who has hurt you or someone who has fought you unfairly;

It can be a value or an idea that you loathe and that you see in an individual or group.

It can be an abstraction: stupidity, smugness, vulgar materialism.

Do not listen to people who say that the distinction between friend and enemy is primitive and passe.

They are just disguising their fear of conflict behind a front of false warmth.

They are trying to push you off course, to infect you with the vagueness that inflicts them.

Once you feel clear and motivated, you will have space for true friendship and true compromise.

Your enemy is the polar star that guides you.

Given that direction, you can enter battle.

He that is not with me is against me.

--Luke 11:23

THE OUTER ENEMY

In the early 1970s, the British political system had settled into a comfortable pattern: the Labour Party would win an election, and then, the next time around, the Conservatives would win.

Back and forth the power went, all fairly genteel and civilized.

In fact, the two parties had come to resemble one another.

But when the Conservatives lost in 1974, some of them had had enough. Wanting
to shake things up, they proposed Margaret Thatcher as their leader. The party was divided that year, and Thatcher took advantage of the split and won the nomination.

I am by nature warlike.

To attack is among my instincts.

To be able to be an enemy, to be an enemy--that presupposes a strong nature, it is in any event a condition of every strong nature.

It needs resistances, consequently it seeks resistances....

The strength of one who attacks has in the opposition he needs a kind of gauge; every growth reveals itself in the seeking out of a powerful opponent--or problem: for a philosopher who is warlike also challenges problems to a duel.

The undertaking is to master, not any resistances that happen to present themselves, but those against which one has to bring all one's strength, suppleness and mastery of weapons--to master equal opponents.

-FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE, 1844-1900

No one had ever seen a politician quite like Thatcher.

A woman in a world run by men, she was also proudly middle class–the daughter of a grocer–in the traditional party of the aristocracy.

Her clothes were prim, more like a housewife’s than a politician’s.

She had not been a player in the Conservative Party; in fact, she was on its right-wing fringes.

Most striking of all was her style: where other politicians were smooth and conciliatory, she confronted her opponents, attacking them directly. She had an appetite for battle.

Most politicians saw Thatcher’s election as a fluke and didn’t expect her to last. And in her first few years leading the party, when Labour was in power, she did little to change their opinion.

She railed against the socialist system, which in her mind had choked all initiative and was largely responsible for the decline of the British economy.

She criticized the Soviet Union at a time of detente.

Then, in the winter of 1978-79, several public-sector unions decided to strike.

Thatcher went on the warpath, linking the strikes to the Labour Party and Prime Minister James Callaghan.

This was bold, divisive talk, good for making the evening news–but not for winning elections.

You had to be gentle with the voters, reassure them, not frighten them. At least that was the conventional wisdom.

In 1979 the Labour Party called a general election.

Thatcher kept on the attack, categorizing the election as a crusade against socialism and as Great Britain’s last chance to modernize.

Callaghan was the epitome of the genteel politician, but Thatcher got under his skin.

He had nothing but disdain for this housewife-turned-politician, and he returned her fire: he agreed that the election was a watershed, for if Thatcher won, she would send the economy into shock.

The strategy seemed partly to work; Thatcher scared many voters, and the polls that tracked personal popularity showed that her numbers had fallen well below Callaghan’s.

At the same time, though, her rhetoric, and Callaghan’s response to it, polarized the electorate, which could finally see a sharp difference between the parties.

Dividing the public into left and right, she charged into the breach, sucking
in attention and attracting the undecided. She won a sizable victory.

Thatcher had bowled over the voters, but now, as prime minister, she would have to moderate her tone, heal the wounds–according to the polls, at any rate, that was what the public wanted.

But Thatcher as usual did the opposite, enacting budget cuts that went even deeper than she had proposed during the campaign.

As her policies played out, the economy did indeed go into shock, as
Callaghan had said it would, and unemployment soared.

Men in her own party, many of whom had by that point been resenting her treatment of them for years, began publicly to question her
abilities.

These men, whom she called the “wets,” were the most respected members of the
Conservative Party, and they were in a panic: she was leading the country into an economic disaster that they were afraid they would pay for with their careers.

Thatcher’s response was to purge them from her cabinet.

She seemed bent on pushing everyone away; her legion of enemies was growing, her poll numbers slipping still lower.

Surely the next election would be her last.

[Salvador Dali] had no time for those who did not agree with his principles, and took the war into the enemy camp by writing insulting letters to many of the friends he had made in the Residencia, calling them pigs. 

He happily compared himself to a clever bull avoiding the cowboys and generally had a great deal of fun stirring up and scandalizing almost every Catalan intellectual worthy of the name. Dali was beginning to burn his bridges with the zeal of an arsonist.... 

"We [Dali and the filmmaker Luis Bunuel] had resolved to send a poison pen letter to one of the great celebrities of Spain," 

Dali later told his biographer Alain Bosquet. 

"Our goal was pure subversion.... Both of us were strongly influenced by Nietzsche.... 

We hit upon two names: Manuel de Falla, the composer, and Juan Ramon Jimenez, the poet. We drew straws and Jimenez won.... 

So we composed a frenzied and nasty letter of incomparable violence and addressed it to Juan Ramon Jimenez. 

It read: 'Our Distinguished Friend: We believe it is our duty to inform you--disinterestedly--that your work is deeply repugnant to us because of its immorality, its hysteria, its arbitrary quality....' It caused Jimenez great pain...."

THE PERSISTENCE OF MEMORY: A BIOGRAPHY OF DALI, MEREDITH ETHERINGTON- SMITH, 1992

Then, in 1982, on the other side of the Atlantic, the military junta that ruled Argentina, needing a cause to distract the country from its many problems, invaded the Falkland Islands, a British possession to which, however, Argentina had a historical claim.

The officers of the junta felt certain that the British would abandon these islands, barren and remote.

But Thatcher did not hesitate: despite the distance–eight thousand miles–she sent a naval task force to the Falklands.

Labour leaders attacked her for this pointless and costly war.

Many in her own party were terrified; if the attempt to retake the islands failed, the party would be ruined.

Thatcher was more alone than ever.

But much of the public now saw her qualities, which had seemed so irritating, in a new light: her obstinacy became courage, nobility.

Compared to the dithering, pantywaisted, careerist men around her, Thatcher seemed resolute and confident.

The British successfully won back the Falklands, and Thatcher stood taller than ever. Suddenly the country’s economic and social problems were forgotten.

Thatcher now dominated the scene, and in the next two elections she crushed Labour.

Interpretation

Margaret Thatcher came to power as an outsider: a middle-class woman, a right-wing radical. The first instinct of most outsiders who attain power is to become insiders–life on the outside is hard–but in doing so they lose their identity, their difference, the thing that makes them stand out in the public eye.

If Thatcher had become like the men around her, she would simply have been
replaced by yet another man.

Her instinct was to stay an outsider.

In fact, she pushed being an outsider as far as it could go: she set herself up as one woman against an army of men.

At every step of the way, to give her the contrast she needed, Thatcher marked out an opponent: the socialists, the wets, the Argentineans.

These enemies helped to define her image as determined, powerful, self-sacrificing.

Thatcher was not seduced by popularity, which is ephemeral and superficial.

Pundits might obsess over popularity numbers, but in the mind of the voter–which, for a politician, is the field of battle–a dominating presence has more pull than does likability. Let some of the public hate you; you cannot please everyone.

Your enemies, those you stand sharply against, will help you to forge a support base that will not desert you.

Do not crowd into the center, where everyone else is; there is no room to fight in a crowd.

Polarize people, drive some of them away, and create a space for battle.

Everything in life conspires to push you into the center, and not just politically.

The center is the realm of compromise.

Getting along with other people is an important skill to have, but it comes with a danger: by always seeking the path of least resistance, the path of conciliation, you forget who you are, and you sink into the center with everyone else. Instead see yourself as a fighter, an outsider surrounded by enemies.

Constant battle will keep you strong and alert. It will help to define what you believe in, both for yourself and for others.

Do not worry about antagonizing people; without antagonism there is no battle, and without battle, there is no chance of victory.

Do not be lured by the need to be liked: better to be respected, even feared.

Victory over your enemies will bring you a more lasting popularity.

The opposition of a member to an associate is no purely negative social factor, if only because such opposition is often the only means for making life with actually unbearable people at least possible.

If we did not even have the power and the right to rebel against tyranny, arbitrariness, moodiness, tactlessness, we could not bear to have any relation to people from whose characters we thus suffer.

We would feel pushed to take desperate steps–and these, indeed, would end the
relation but do not, perhaps, constitute “conflict.”

Not only because of the fact that…oppression usually increases if it is suffered calmly and without protest, but also because opposition gives us inner satisfaction, distraction, relief…

Our opposition makes us feel that we are not completely victims of the circumstances.

GEORG SIMMEL, 1858-1918
Don't depend on the enemy not coming; depend rather on being ready for him.

--Sun-tzu, The Art of War (fourth century B.C.)

KEYS TO WARFARE

We live in an era in which people are seldom directly hostile.

The rules of engagement–social, political, military–have changed, and so must your notion of the enemy.

An up-front enemy is rare now and is actually a blessing.

People hardly ever attack you openly anymore, showing their intentions, their desire to destroy you; instead they are political and indirect.

Although the world is more competitive than ever, outward aggression is discouraged, so people have learned to go underground, to attack unpredictably and craftily.

Many use friendship as a way to mask aggressive desires: they come close to you to do more harm. (A friend knows best how to hurt you.)

Or, without actually being friends, they offer assistance and alliance: they may seem supportive, but in the end they’re advancing their own interests at your expense.

Then there are those who master moral warfare, playing the victim, making you feel guilty for something unspecified you’ve done.

The battlefield is full of these warriors, slippery, evasive, and clever.

Understand: the word “enemy”–from the Latin inimicus, “not a friend”–has been demonized and politicized.

Your first task as a strategist is to widen your concept of the enemy, to include in
that group those who are working against you, thwarting you, even in subtle ways.

(Sometimes indifference and neglect are better weapons than aggression, because you can’t see the hostility they hide.)

Without getting paranoid, you need to realize that there are people who wish you ill and operate indirectly.

Identify them and you’ll suddenly have room to maneuver.

You can stand back and wait and see or you can take action, whether aggressive or just evasive, to avoid the worst.

You can even work to turn this enemy into a friend.

But whatever you do, do not be the naive victim.

Do not find yourself constantly retreating, reacting to your enemies’ maneuvers.

Arm yourself with prudence, and never completely lay down your arms, not even for friends.

As one travels up any one of the large rivers [of Borneo], one meets with tribes that are successively more warlike. 

In the coast regions are peaceful communities which never fight save in self-defense, and then with but poor success, whereas in the central regions, where the rivers take their rise, are a number of extremely warlike tribes whose raids have been a constant source of terror to the communities settled in the lower reaches of the rivers.... 

It might be supposed that the peaceful coast people would be found to be superior in moral qualities to their more warlike neighbors, but the contrary is the case. 

In almost all respects the advantage lies with the warlike tribes. 

Their houses are better built, larger, and cleaner; their domestic morality is superior; they are physically stronger, are braver, and physically and mentally more active and in general are more trustworthy. 

But, above all, their social organization is firmer and more efficient because their respect for and obedience to their chiefs and their loyalty to their community are much greater; each man identifies himself with the whole community and accepts and loyally performs the social duties laid upon him.

WILLIAM MCDOUGALL, 1871-1938

People are usually good at hiding their hostility, but often they unconsciously give off signals showing that all is not what it seems.

One of the closest friends and advisers of the Chinese Communist Party leader Mao Tse-tung was Lin Biao, a high-ranking member of the Politburo and possible successor to the chairman.

In the late 1960s and early ’70s, though, Mao detected a change in Lin: he had become effusively friendly.

Everyone praised Mao, but Lin’s praise was embarrassingly fervent.

To Mao this meant that something was wrong.

He watched Lin closely and decided that the man was plotting a takeover, or at the very least positioning himself for the top spot.

And Mao was right: Lin was plotting busily.

The point is not to mistrust all friendly gestures but to notice them.

Register any change in the emotional temperature: unusual chumminess, a new desire to exchange confidences, excessive praise of you to third parties, the desire for an alliance that may make more sense for the other person than for you.

Trust your instincts: if someone’s behavior seems suspicious, it probably is.

It may turn out to be benign, but in the meantime it is best to be on your guard.

You can sit back and read the signs or you can actively work to uncover your enemies–beat the grass to startle the snakes, as the Chinese say.

In the Bible we read of David’s suspicion that his father-in-law, King Saul, secretly wanted him dead.

How could David find out?

He confided his suspicion to Saul’s son Jonathan, his close friend. Jonathan refused to believe it, so David suggested a test.

He was expected at court for a feast.

He would not go; Jonathan would attend and pass along David’s excuse, which would be adequate but not urgent.

Sure enough, the excuse enraged Saul, who exclaimed, “Send at once and fetch him unto me–he deserves to die!”

David’s test succeeded because it was ambiguous.

His excuse for missing the feast could be read in more than one way: if Saul meant well toward David, he would have seen his son-in-law’s absence as
no more than selfish at worst, but because he secretly hated David, he saw it as effrontery, and it pushed him over the edge.

Follow David’s example: say or do something that can be read in more than
one way, that may be superficially polite but that could also indicate a slight coolness on your part or be seen as a subtle insult. A friend may wonder but will let it pass. The secret enemy, though, will react with anger. Any strong emotion and you will know that there’s something boiling under the surface.

Often the best way to get people to reveal themselves is to provoke tension and argument.

The Hollywood producer Harry Cohn, president of Universal Pictures, frequently used this strategy to ferret out the real position of people in the studio who refused to show what side they were on: he would suddenly attack their work or take an extreme position, even an offensive one, in an argument. His provoked directors and writers would drop their usual caution and show their real beliefs.

Understand: people tend to be vague and slippery because it is safer than outwardly committing to something. If you are the boss, they will mimic your ideas. Their agreement is often pure courtiership. Get them emotional; people are usually more sincere when they argue. If you pick an argument with someone and he keeps on mimicking your ideas, you may be dealing with a chameleon, a particularly dangerous type. Beware of people who hide behind a facade of vague abstractions and impartiality: no one is impartial. A sharply worded question, an opinion designed to offend, will make them react and take sides.

Man exists only in so far as he is opposed.

GEORG HEGEL, 1770-1831

Sometimes it is better to take a less direct approach with your potential enemies–to be as subtle and conniving as they are.

In 1519, Hernan Cortes arrived in Mexico with his band of adventurers.

Among these five hundred men were some whose loyalty was dubious.

Throughout the expedition, whenever any of Cortes’s soldiers did something he saw as suspicious, he never got angry or accusatory. Instead he pretended to go along with them, accepting and approving what they had done.

Thinking Cortes weak, or thinking he was on their side, they would take another step. Now he had what he wanted: a clear sign, to himself and others, that they were traitors. Now he could isolate and destroy them.

Adopt the method of Cortes: if friends or followers whom you suspect of ulterior motives suggest something subtly hostile, or against your interests, or simply odd, avoid the temptation to react, to say no, to get angry, or even to ask questions. Go along, or seem to turn a blind eye: your enemies will soon go further, showing more of their hand. Now you have them in sight, and you can attack.

An enemy is often large and hard to pinpoint–an organization, or a person hidden behind some complicated network. What you want to do is take aim at one part of the group–a leader, a spokesman, a key member of the inner circle.

That is how the activist Saul Alinsky tackled corporations and bureaucracies.

In his 1960s campaign to desegregate Chicago’s public-school system, he focused on the superintendent of schools, knowing full well that this man would try to
shift the blame upward.

By taking repeated hits at the superintendent, he was able to publicize his
struggle, and it became impossible for the man to hide.

Eventually those behind him had to come to his aid, exposing themselves in the process.

Like Alinsky, never aim at a vague, abstract enemy.

It is hard to drum up the emotions to fight such a bloodless battle, which in any case leaves your enemy invisible.

Personalize the fight, eyeball to eyeball.

Danger is everywhere.

There are always hostile people and destructive relationships.

The only way to break out of a negative dynamic is to confront it.

Repressing your anger, avoiding the person threatening you, always looking to conciliate–these common strategies spell ruin.

Avoidance of conflict becomes a habit, and you lose the taste for battle.

Feeling guilty is pointless; it is not your fault you have enemies.

Feeling wronged or victimized is equally futile. In both cases you are looking inward, concentrating on yourself and your feelings.

Instead of internalizing a bad situation, externalize it and face your enemy.

It is the only way out.

The frequent hearing of my mistress reading the bible--for she often read aloud when her husband was absent--soon awakened my curiosity in respect to this mystery of reading, and roused in me the desire to learn. Having no fear of my kind mistress before my eyes, (she had given me no reason to
fear,) I frankly asked her to teach me to read; and without hesitation, the dear woman began the task, and very soon, by her assistance, I was master of the alphabet, and could spell words of three or four letters...Master Hugh was amazed at the simplicity of his spouse, and, probably for the first time, he unfolded to her the true philosophy of slavery, and the peculiar rules necessary to be observed by masters and mistresses, in the management of their human chattels. Mr. Auld promptly forbade the continuance of her [reading] instruction; telling her, in the first place, that the thing itself was unlawful; that it was also unsafe, and could only lead to mischief....

Mrs. Auld evidently felt the force of his remarks; and, like an obedient wife, began to shape her course in the direction indicated by her husband. The effect of his words, on me, was neither slight nor transitory. His iron sentences--cold and harsh--sunk deep into my heart, and stirred up
not only my feelings into a sort of rebellion, but awakened within me a slumbering train of vital thought. It was a new and special revelation, dispelling a painful mystery, against which my youthful understanding had struggled, and struggled in vain, to wit: the white man's power to
perpetuate the enslavement of the black man. "Very well," thought I; "knowledge unfits a child to be a slave." 

I instinctively assented to the proposition; and from that moment I understood the direct pathway from slavery to freedom. This was just what I needed; and got it at a time, and from a source, whence I least expected it.... Wise as Mr. Auld was, he evidently underrated my comprehension, and had little idea of the use to which I was capable of putting the impressive lesson he was giving to his wife.... That which he most loved I
most hated; and the very determination which he expressed to keep me in ignorance, only rendered me the more resolute in seeking intelligence.

MY BONDAGE AND MY FREEDOM, FREDERICK DOUGLASS, 1818-1895

The child psychologist Jean Piaget saw conflict as a critical part of mental development. Through battles with peers and then parents, children learn to adapt to the world and develop strategies for dealing with problems. Those children who seek to avoid conflict at all cost, or those who have overprotective parents, end up handicapped socially and mentally.

The same is true of adults: it is through your battles with others that you learn what works, what doesn’t, and how to protect yourself. Instead of shrinking from the idea of having enemies, then, embrace it. Conflict is therapeutic.

Enemies bring many gifts.

For one thing, they motivate you and focus your beliefs.

The artist Salvador Dali found early on that there were many qualities he could not stand in people: conformity, romanticism, piety.

At every stage of his life, he found someone he thought embodied these anti- ideals–an enemy to vent on. First it was the poet Federico Garcia Lorca, who wrote romantic poetry; then it was Andre Breton, the heavy-handed leader of the surrealist movement.

Having such enemies to rebel against made Dali feel confident and inspired.

Enemies also give you a standard by which to judge yourself, both personally and socially.

The samurai of Japan had no gauge of their excellence unless they fought the best swordsmen; it took Joe Frazier to make Muhammad Ali a truly great fighter.

A tough opponent will bring out the best in you.

And the bigger the opponent, the greater your reward, even in defeat.

It is better to lose to a worthy opponent than to squash some harmless foe.

You will gain sympathy and respect, building support for your next fight.

Being attacked is a sign that you are important enough to be a target.

You should relish the attention and the chance to prove yourself.

We all have aggressive impulses that we are forced to repress; an enemy supplies you with an outlet for these drives. At last you have someone on whom to
unleash your aggression without feeling guilty.

Leaders have always found it useful to have an enemy at their gates in times of trouble, distracting the public from their difficulties.

In using your enemies to rally your troops, polarize them as far as possible: they will fight the more fiercely when they feel a little hatred.

So exaggerate the differences between you and the enemy–draw the lines clearly.

Xenophon made no effort to be fair; he did not say that the Persians weren’t really such a bad lot and had done much to advance civilization. He called them barbarians, the antithesis of the Greeks.

He described their recent treachery and said they were an evil culture that could find no favor with the gods.

And so it is with you: victory is your goal, not fairness and balance. Use the rhetoric of war to heighten the stakes and stimulate the spirit.

What you want in warfare is room to maneuver.

Tight corners spell death.

Having enemies gives you options.

You can play them off against each other, make one a friend as a way of attacking the other, on and on.

Without enemies you will not know how or where to maneuver, and you will lose a sense of your limits, of how far you can go.

Early on, Julius Caesar identified Pompey as his enemy. Measuring his actions and calculating carefully, he did only those things that left him in a solid position in relation to Pompey.

When war finally broke out between the two men, Caesar was at his best.

But once he defeated Pompey and had no more such rivals, he lost all sense of
proportion–in fact, he fancied himself a god.

His defeat of Pompey was his own undoing.

Your enemies force on you a sense of realism and humility.

Remember: there are always people out there who are more aggressive, more devious, more ruthless than you are, and it is inevitable that some of them will cross your path.

You will have a tendency to want to conciliate and compromise with them.

The reason is that such types are often brilliant deceivers who see the strategic value in charm or in seeming to allow you plenty of space, but actually their desires have no limit, and they are simply trying to disarm you.

With some people you have to harden yourself, to recognize that there is no middle ground, no hope of conciliation.

For your opponent your desire to compromise is a weapon to use against you.

Know these dangerous enemies by their past: look for quick power grabs, sudden rises in fortune, previous acts of treachery. Once you suspect you are dealing with a Napoleon, do not lay down your arms or entrust them to someone else. You are the last line of your own defense.

Authority: If you count on safety and do not think of danger, if you do not know enough to be wary when enemies arrive, this is called a sparrow nesting on a tent, a fish swimming in a cauldron–they won’t last the day.–Chuko Liang (A.D. 181-234 )

REVERSAL

Always keep the search for and use of enemies under control. It is clarity you want, not paranoia.

It is the downfall of many tyrants to see an enemy in everyone.

They lose their grip on reality and become hopelessly embroiled in the emotions their paranoia churns up.

By keeping an eye on possible enemies, you are simply being prudent and cautious.

Keep your suspicions to yourself, so that if you’re wrong, no one will know. Also, beware of polarizing people so completely that you cannot back off.

Margaret Thatcher, usually brilliant at the polarizing game, eventually lost control of it: she created too many enemies and kept repeating the same tactic, even in situations that called for retreat. Franklin Delano Roosevelt was a master polarizer, always looking to draw a line between himself and his enemies. Once he had made that line clear enough, though, he backed off, which made him look like a conciliator, a man of peace who occasionally went to war.

Even if that impression was false, it was the height of wisdom to create it.

Conclusion

Reading this, I cannot help but understand why Trump and his crew of dinosaurs were so rabidly inclined to label the biggest trading partner as an enemy. This article describes why.

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Law 1 of the 48 laws of Power by Robert Greene. Never Outshine the Master

Fearless (2006)

Fearless, as Jet Li's Fearless in the United Kingdom and in the United States, is a 2006 Chinese-Hong Kong martial arts film. It is loosely based on the life of Huo Yuanjia, a Chinese martial artist who challenged foreign fighters in highly publicised events, restoring pride and nationalism to China at a time when Western imperialism and Japanese manipulation were eroding the country in the final years of the Qing Dynasty before the birth of the Republic of China.

Lesson One.

This is one of the most important points that Robert Greene has taught us. Once a student, always a student until the day your mentor leaves. For a true master is a great ally, but an even worst foe. Be constantly on guard for your actions, and beware of your environment, least you damage something that has developed to be part of your very being.

LAW 1

NEVER OUTSHINE THE MASTER

JUDGMENT

Always make those above you feel comfortably superior. In your desire to please and impress them, do not go too far in displaying your talents or you might accomplish the opposite—inspire fear and insecurity. Make your masters appear more brilliant than they are and you will attain the heights of power.

TRANSGRESSION OF THE LAW

Nicolas Fouquet, Louis XIV’s finance minister in the first years of his reign, was a generous man who loved lavish parties, pretty women, and poetry. He also loved money, for he led an extravagant lifestyle.

Fouquet was clever and very much indispensable to the king, so when the prime minister, Jules Mazarin, died, in 1661, the finance minister expected to be named the successor. Instead, the king decided to abolish the position.

This and other signs made Fouquet suspect that he was falling out of favor, and so he decided to ingratiate himself with the king by staging the most spectacular party the world had ever seen. The party’s ostensible purpose would be to commemorate the completion of Fouquet’s château, Vaux-le- Vicomte, but its real function was to pay tribute to the king, the guest of honor.

The most brilliant nobility of Europe and some of the greatest minds of the time—La Fontaine, La Rochefoucauld, Madame de Sévigné attended the party. Molière wrote a play for the occasion, in which he himself was to perform at the evening’s conclusion. The party began with a lavish seven- course dinner, featuring foods from the Orient never before tasted in France, as well as new dishes created especially for the night. The meal was accompanied with music commissioned by Fouquet to honor the king.

After dinner there was a promenade through the château’s gardens. The grounds and fountains of Vaux-le-Vicomte were to be the inspiration for Versailles.

Fouquet personally accompanied the young king through the geometrically aligned arrangements of shrubbery and flower beds.

Arriving at the gardens’ canals, they witnessed a fireworks display, which was followed by the performance of Molière’s play.

The party ran well into the night and everyone agreed it was the most amazing affair they had ever attended.

The next day, Fouquet was arrested by the king’s head musketeer, D’Artagnan. Three months later he went on trial for stealing from the country’s treasury. (Actually, most of the stealing he was accused of he had done on the king’s behalf and with the king’s permission.)

Fouquet was found guilty and sent to the most isolated prison in France, high in the Pyrenees Mountains, where he spent the last twenty years of his life in solitary confinement.

Interpretation

Louis XIV, the Sun King, was a proud and arrogant man who wanted to be the center of attention at all times; he could not countenance being outdone in lavishness by anyone, and certainly not his finance minister.

To succeed Fouquet, Louis chose Jean-Baptiste Colbert, a man famous for his parsimony and for giving the dullest parties in Paris. Colbert made sure that any money liberated from the treasury went straight into Louis’s hands.

With the money, Louis built a palace even more magnificent than Fouquet’s —the glorious palace of Versailles. He used the same architects, decorators, and garden designer. And at Versailles, Louis hosted parties even more extravagant than the one that cost Fouquet his freedom.

Let us examine the situation.

The evening of the party, as Fouquet presented spectacle on spectacle to Louis, each more magnificent than the one before, he imagined the affair as demonstrating his loyalty and devotion to the king.

Not only did he think the party would put him back in the king’s favor, he thought it would show his good taste, his connections, and his popularity, making him indispensable to the king and demonstrating that he would make an excellent prime minister.

Instead, however, each new spectacle, each appreciative smile bestowed by the guests on Fouquet, made it seem to Louis that his own friends and subjects were more charmed by the finance minister than by the king himself, and that Fouquet was actually flaunting his wealth and power.

Rather than flattering Louis XIV, Fouquet’s elaborate party offended the king’s vanity.

Louis would not admit this to anyone, of course—instead, he found a convenient excuse to rid himself of a man who had inadvertently made him feel insecure.

Such is the fate, in some form or other, of all those who unbalance the master’s sense of self, poke holes in his vanity, or make him doubt his pre- eminence.

When the evening began, Fouquet was at the top of the world.

By the time it had ended, he was at the bottom.

Voltaire, 1694-1778

OBSERVANCE OF THE LAW

In the early 1600s, the Italian astronomer and mathematician Galileo found himself in a precarious position.

He depended on the generosity of great rulers to support his research, and so, like all Renaissance scientists, he would sometimes make gifts of his inventions and discoveries to the leading patrons of the time.

Once, for instance, he presented a military compass he had invented to the Duke of Gonzaga.

Then he dedicated a book explaining the use of the compass to the Medicis.

Both rulers were grateful, and through them Galileo was able to find more students to teach.

No matter how great the discovery, however, his patrons usually paid him with gifts, not cash.

This made for a life of constant insecurity and dependence. There must be an easier way, he thought.

Galileo hit on a new strategy in 1610, when he discovered the moons of Jupiter. Instead of dividing the discovery among his patrons—giving one the telescope he had used, dedicating a book to another, and so on—as he had done in the past, he decided to focus exclusively on the Medicis.

He chose the Medicis for one reason: Shortly after Cosimo I had established the Medici dynasty, in 1540, he had made Jupiter, the mightiest of the gods, the Medici symbol—a symbol of a power that went beyond politics and banking, one linked to ancient Rome and its divinities.

Galileo turned his discovery of Jupiter’s moons into a cosmic event honoring the Medicis’ greatness.

Shortly after the discovery, he announced that “the bright stars [the moons of Jupiter] offered themselves in the heavens” to his telescope at the same time as Cosimo II’s enthronement.

He said that the number of the moons—four—harmonized with the number of the Medicis (Cosimo II had three brothers) and that the moons orbited Jupiter as these four sons revolved around Cosimo I, the dynasty’s founder.

More than coincidence, this showed that the heavens themselves reflected the ascendancy of the Medici family.

After he dedicated the discovery to the Medicis, Galileo commissioned an emblem representing Jupiter sitting on a cloud with the four stars circling about him, and presented this to Cosimo II as a symbol of his link to the stars.

In 1610 Cosimo II made Galileo his official court philosopher and mathematician, with a full salary. For a scientist this was the coup of a lifetime.

The days of begging for patronage were over.

Interpretation

In one stroke, Galileo gained more with his new strategy than he had in years of begging.

The reason is simple: All masters want to appear more brilliant than other people.

They do not care about science or empirical truth or the latest invention ; they care about their name and their glory.

Galileo gave the Medicis infinitely more glory by linking their name with cosmic forces than he had by making them the patrons of some new scientific gadget or discovery.

Scientists are not spared the vagaries of court life and patronage.

They too must serve masters who hold the purse strings. And their great intellectual powers can make the master feel insecure, as if he were only there to supply the funds—an ugly, ignoble job.

The producer of a great work wants to feel he is more than just the provider of the financing. He wants to appear creative and powerful, and also more important than the work produced in his name.

Instead of insecurity you must give him glory. Galileo did not challenge the intellectual authority of the Medicis with his discovery, or make them feel inferior in any way; by literally aligning them with the stars, he made them shine brilliantly among the courts of Italy.

He did not outshine the master, he made the master outshine all others.

KEYS TO POWER

Everyone has insecurities.

When you show yourself in the world and display your talents, you naturally stir up all kinds of resentment, envy, and other manifestations of insecurity. This is to be expected.

You cannot spend your life worrying about the petty feelings of others.

With those above you, however, you must take a different approach: When it comes to power, outshining the master is perhaps the worst mistake of all.

Do not fool yourself into thinking that life has changed much since the days of Louis XIV and the Medicis.

Those who attain high standing in life are like kings and queens: They want to feel secure in their positions, and superior to those around them in intelligence, wit, and charm.

It is a deadly but common misperception to believe that by displaying and vaunting your gifts and talents, you are winning the master’s affection.

He may feign appreciation, but at his first opportunity he will replace you with someone less intelligent, less attractive, less threatening, just as Louis XIV replaced the sparkling Fouquet with the bland Colbert. And as with Louis, he will not admit the truth, but will find an excuse to rid himself of your presence.

This Law involves two rules that you must realize. First, you can inadvertently outshine a master simply by being yourself. There are masters who are more insecure than others, monstrously insecure; you may naturally outshine them by your charm and grace.

No one had more natural talents than Astorre Manfredi, prince of Faenza.

The most handsome of all the young princes of Italy, he captivated his subjects with his generosity and open spirit.

In the year 1500, Cesare Borgia laid siege to Faenza.

When the city surrendered, the citizens expected the worst from the cruel Borgia, who, however, decided to spare the town: He simply occupied its fortress, executed none of its citizens, and allowed Prince Manfredi, eighteen at the time, to remain with his court, in complete freedom.

A few weeks later, though, soldiers hauled Astorre Manfredi away to a Roman prison.

A year after that, his body was fished out of the River Tiber, a stone tied around his neck.

Borgia justified the horrible deed with some sort of trumped-up charge of treason and conspiracy, but the real problem was that he was notoriously vain and insecure.

The young man was outshining him without even trying.

Given Manfredi’s natural talents, the prince’s mere presence made Borgia seem less attractive and charismatic.

The lesson is simple: If you cannot help being charming and superior, you must learn to avoid such monsters of vanity.

Either that, or find a way to mute your good qualities when in the company of a Cesare Borgia.

Second, never imagine that because the master loves you, you can do anything you want.

Entire books could be written about favorites who fell out of favor by taking their status for granted, for daring to outshine.

In late- sixteenth-century Japan, the favorite of Emperor Hideyoshi was a man called Sen no Rikyu.

The premier artist of the tea ceremony, which had become an obsession with the nobility, he was one of Hideyoshi’s most trusted advisers, had his own apartment in the palace, and was honored throughout Japan.

Yet in 1591, Hideyoshi had him arrested and sentenced to death.

Rikyu took his own life, instead.

The cause for his sudden change of fortune was discovered later: It seems that Rikyu, former peasant and later court favorite, had had a wooden statue made of himself wearing sandals (a sign of nobility) and posing loftily. He had had this statue placed in the most important temple inside the palace gates, in clear sight of the royalty who often would pass by.

To Hideyoshi this signified that Rikyu had no sense of limits. Presuming that he had the same rights as those of the highest nobility, he had forgotten that his position depended on the emperor, and had come to believe that he had earned it on his own.

This was an unforgivable miscalculation of his own importance and he paid for it with his life.

Remember the following: Never take your position for granted and never let any favors you receive go to your head.

Knowing the dangers of outshining your master, you can turn this Law to your advantage.

First you must flatter and puff up your master.

Overt flattery can be effective but has its limits; it is too direct and obvious, and looks bad to other courtiers.

Discreet flattery is much more powerful. If you are more intelligent than your master, for example, seem the opposite: Make him appear more intelligent than you. Act naive. Make it seem that you need his expertise. Commit harmless mistakes that will not hurt you in the long run but will give you the chance to ask for his help. Masters adore such requests. A master who cannot bestow on you the gifts of his experience may direct rancor and ill will at you instead.

If your ideas are more creative than your master’s, ascribe them to him, in as public a manner as possible.

Make it clear that your advice is merely an echo of his advice.

If you surpass your master in wit, it is okay to play the role of the court jester, but do not make him appear cold and surly by comparison.

Tone down your humor if necessary, and find ways to make him seem the dispenser of amusement and good cheer.

If you are naturally more sociable and generous than your master, be careful not to be the cloud that blocks his radiance from others.

He must appear as the sun around which everyone revolves, radiating power and brilliance, the center of attention.

If you are thrust into the position of entertaining him, a display of your limited means may win you his sympathy. Any attempt to impress him with your grace and generosity can prove fatal: Learn from Fouquet or pay the price.

In all of these cases it is not a weakness to disguise your strengths if in the end they lead to power.

By letting others outshine you, you remain in control, instead of being a victim of their insecurity.

This will all come in handy the day you decide to rise above your inferior status.

If, like Galileo, you can make your master shine even more in the eyes of others, then you are a godsend and you will be instantly promoted.

Image:

The Stars in the Sky. There can be only one sun at a time. Never obscure the sunlight, or rival the sun’s brilliance; rather, fade into the sky and find ways to heighten the master star’s intensity.

Authority:

Avoid outshining the master. All superiority is odious, but the superiority of a subject over his prince is not only stupid, it is fatal. This is a lesson that the stars in the sky teach us—they may be related to the sun, and just as brilliant, but they never appear in her company. 

(Baltasar Gracián, 1601-1658)

REVERSAL

You cannot worry about upsetting every person you come across, but you must be selectively cruel.

If your superior is a falling star, there is nothing to fear from outshining him.

Do not be merciful—your master had no such scruples in his own cold-blooded climb to the top.

Gauge his strength.

If he is weak, discreetly hasten his downfall: Outdo, outcharm, outsmart him at key moments.

If he is very weak and ready to fall, let nature take its course.

Do not risk outshining a feeble superior—it might appear cruel or spiteful. But if your master is firm in his position, yet you know yourself to be the more capable, bide your time and be patient.

It is the natural course of things that power eventually fades and weakens. Your master will fall someday, and if you play it right, you will outlive and someday outshine him.

Conclusion

We are often nothing if we act alone, but we can achieve greatness if we form a bond with a group of people.

Within those people are those of great skill, knowledge, experience and ability. You can use their talents for the greater good of the group. You can also learn from them and then in tern become proficient as they.

However, when you are in a group, you must never outshine anyone. You must fit within the group and all praises o to the group, not to the individual stars. Once a group of hard-working individuals are ignored by a singular member, the negative emotions of human greet, envy, lust and others start to corrupt the group. It can harm everyone.

Be careful of what you do, and be humble in your assigned position in life.

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The Dragon by Ray Bradbury (Full Text)

Here's a nice short story to provide some brief moments of pleasure. I do hope that you enjoy it as much as I have. - MM

THE DRAGON
By Ray Bradbury

The night blew in the short grass on the moor; there was no other motion. It had been years since a single bird had flown by in the great blind shell of sky.

Long ago a few small stones had simulated life when they crumbled and fell into dust. Now only the night moved in the souls of the two men bent by their lonely fire in the wilderness; darkness pumped quietly in their veins and ticked silently in their temples and their wrists.

Firelight fled up and down their wild faces and welled in their eyes in orange tatters. They listened to each other’s faint, cool breathing and the lizard blink of their eyelids. At last, one man poked the fire with his sword.

“Don’t idiot; you’ll give us away!”

“No matter,” said the second man, “The dragon can smell us miles off anyway. God’s breath, it’s cold. I wish I was back at the castle.”

“It’s death, not sleep, we’re after…”

“Why? Why? The dragon never sets foot in the town!”

“Quiet, fool! He eats men traveling alone from our town to the next!”

“Let them be eaten and let us get home!”

“Wait now; listen!”

The two men froze.

They waited a long time, but there was only the shake of their horses’ nervous skin like black velvet tambourines jingling the silver stirrup buckles, softly, softly.
“Ah.” The second man sighed. “What a land of nightmares. Everything happens here. Someone blows out the sun; it’s night. And then, and then, oh, God, listen! This dragon, they say his eyes are fire. His breath a white gas; you can see him burn across the dark lands. He runs with sulfur and thunder and kindles the grass. Sheep panic and die insane. Women deliver forth monsters. The dragon’s fury is such that tower walls shake back to dust. His victims, at sunrise, are strewn hither thither on the hills. How many knights, I ask, have gone for this monster and failed, even as we shall fail?”

“Enough of that!”

“More than enough! Out here in this desolation I cannot tell what year this is!”

“Nine hundred years since the Nativity.”

“No, no,” whispered the second man, eyes shut, “On this moor is no Time, is only Forever. I feel if I ran back on the road the town would be gone, the people yet unborn, things changed, the castles unquarried from the rocks, the timbers still uncut from the forests; don’t ask how I know; the moor knows and tells me. And here we sit alone in the land of the fire dragon, God save us!”

“Be you afraid, then gird on your armor!”

“What use? The dragon runs from nowhere; we cannot guess its home. It vanishes in fog; we know not where it goes. Aye, on with our armor, we’ll die well dressed.”

Half into his silver corselet, the second man stopped again and turned his head.

Across the dim country, full of night and nothingness from the heart of the moor itself, the wind sprang full of dust from clocks that used dust for telling time. There were black suns burning in the heart of this new wind and a million burnt leaves shaken from some autumn tree be- yond the horizon. This wind melted landscapes, lengthened bones like white wax, made the blood roil and thicken to a muddy  deposit in the brain. The wind was a thousand souls dying and all time confused and in transit. It was a fog inside of a mist inside of a darkness, and this place was no man’s place and there was no year or hour at all, but only these men in a faceless emptiness of sudden frost, storm and white thunder which
moved behind the great falling pane of green glass that was the lightning. A squall of rain drenched the turf; all faded away until there was unbreathing hush and the two men waiting alone with their warmth in a cool season.

“There,” whispered the first man. “Oh, there…”

Miles off, rushing with a great chant and a roar – the dragon.

In silence the men buckled on their armor and mounted their horses. The midnight wilderness was split by a monstrous gushing as the dragon roared nearer, nearer; its flashing yellow glare spurted above a hill and then, fold on fold of dark body, distantly seen, therefore indistinct, flowed over that hill and plunged vanishing into a valley.

“Quick!”

They spurred their horses forward to a small hollow.

“This is where it passes!”

They seized their lances with mailed fists and blinded their horses by flipping the visors down over their eyes.

“Lord!”

“Yes, let us use His name.”

On the instant, the dragon rounded a hill. Its monstrous amber eye fed on them, fired their armor in red glints and glitters, With a terrible wailing cry and a grinding rush it flung itself forward.

“Mercy, God!”

The lance struck under the unlidded yellow eye, buckled, tossed the man through the air. The dragon hit, spilled him over, down, ground him under. Passing, the black brunt of its shoulder smashed the remaining horse and rider a hundred feet against the side of a boulder, wailing, wailing, the dragon shrieking, the fire all about, around, under it, a pink, yellow, orange sun-fire with great soft plumes of blinding smoke.

“Did you see it?” cried a voice. “Just like I told you!”

“The same! The same! A knight in armor, by the Lord Harry! We hit him!”

“You goin’ to stop?”

“Did once; found nothing. Don’t like to stop on this moor. I get the willies. Got a feel, it has.”

“But we hit something!”

“Gave him plenty of whistle; chap wouldn’t budge!”

A steaming blast cut the mist aside.

“We’ll make Stokely on time. More coal, eh, Fred?”

Another whistle shook dew from the empty sky. The night train, in fire and fury, shot through a gully, up a rise, and vanished away over cold earth toward the north, leaving black smoke and steam to dissolve in the numbed air minutes after it had passed and gone forever.

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Law 2 of the 48 Laws of Power by Robert Greene; Never put too much trust in friends, learn how to use enemies

Well, this book has quite a bit of controversy associated with it, but most of it stems from reviewers that believe all people are good inside and unicorns deliver their vegan low fat cappuccino with cream.

Well, most people aren’t kind, and this book prepared you for reality.

It doesn’t teach one to be self absorbed or evil or a heretic.

It teaches one to stand your ground and to protect yourself from taking unnecessary burden, unfair treatment, and manipulation from corrupt people.

LAW 2

NEVER PUT TOO MUCH TRUST IN FRIENDS, LEARN HOW TO USE ENEMIES

JUDGMENT

Be wary of friends—they will betray you more quickly, for they are easily aroused to envy. They also become spoiled and tyrannical. But hire a former enemy and he will be more loyal than a friend, because he has more to prove. In fact, you have more to fear from friends than from enemies. If you have no enemies, find a way to make them.

TRANSGRESSION OF THE LAW

In the mid-ninth century A.D., a young man named Michael III assumed the throne of the Byzantine Empire.

His mother, the Empress Theodora, had been banished to a nunnery, and her lover, Theoctistus, had been murdered ; at the head of the conspiracy to depose Theodora and enthrone Michael had been Michael’s uncle, Bardas, a man of intelligence and ambition.

Michael was now a young, inexperienced ruler, surrounded by in triguers, murderers, and profligates. In this time of peril he needed someone he could trust as his councilor, and his thoughts turned to Basilius, his best friend.

Basilius had no experience whatsoever in government and politics—in fact, he was the head of the royal stables—but he had proven his love and gratitude time and again.

To have a good enemy, choose a friend: He knows where to strike. 

-DIANF DE POITIERS. 1499-1566. MISTRESS OF HENRI II OF FRANCE

They had met a few years before, when Michael had been visiting the stables just as a wild horse got loose.

Basilius, a young groom from peasant Macedonian stock, had saved Michael’s life.

The groom’s strength and courage had impressed Michael, who immediately raised Basilius from the obscurity of being a horse trainer to the position of head of the stables.

He loaded his friend with gifts and favors and they became inseparable.

Basilius was sent to the finest school in Byzantium, and the crude peasant became a cultured and sophisticated courtier.

Every time I bestow a vacant office I make a hundred discontented persons and one ingrate.

Louis XIV, 1638-1715

Now Michael was emperor, and in need of someone loyal.

Who could he better trust with the post of chamberlain and chief councilor than a young man who owed him everything?

Basilius could be trained for the job and Michael loved him like a brother.

Ignoring the advice of those who recommended the much more qualified Bardas, Michael chose his friend.

Thus for my own part l have more than once been deceived by the person I loved most and of whose love, above everyone else’s, I have been most confident. So that I believe that u may be right to love and serve one person above all others. according to merit and worth, but never to trust so much in this tempting trap of friendship as to have cause to repent of it later on. 

BALDASSARE CASTIGLIONE, 1478-1529

Basilius learned well and was soon advising the emperor on all matters of state.

The only problem seemed to be money—Basiiius never had enough.

Exposure to the splendor of Byzantine court life made him avaricious for the perks of power.

Michael doubled, then tripled his salary, ennobled him, and married him off to his own mistress, Eudoxia Ingerina.

Keeping such a trusted friend and adviser satisfied was worth any price.

But more trouble was to come.

Bardas was now head of the army, and Basilius convinced Michael that the man was hopelessly ambitious.

Under the illusion that he could control his nephew, Bardas had conspired to put him on the throne, and he could conspire again, this time to get rid of Michael and assume the crown himself.

Basilius poured poison into Michael’s ear until the emperor agreed to have his uncle murdered.

During a great horse race, Basilius closed in on Bardas in the crowd and stabbed him to death.

Soon after, Basilius asked that he replace Bardas as head of the army, where he could keep control of the realm and quell rebellion.

This was granted.

Now Basilius’s power and wealth only grew, and a few years later Michael, in financial straits from his own extravagance, asked him to pay back some of the money he had borrowed over the years.

To Michael’s shock and astonishment, Basilius refused, with a look of such impudence that the emperor suddenly realized his predicament: The former stable boy had more money, more allies in the army and senate, and in the end more power than the emperor himself.

A few weeks later, after a night of heavy drinking,

Michael awoke to find himself surrounded by soldiers.

Basilius watched as they stabbed the emperor to death.

Then, after proclaiming himself emperor, he rode his horse through the streets of Byzantium, brandishing the head of his former benefactor and best friend at the end of a long pike.

THE SNAKE. THE FARMER. AND THE HERON

A snake chased by hunters asked a farmer to save its life. 

To hide it from its pursuers, the farmer squatted and let the snake crawl into his belly.

But when the danger had passed and the farmer asked the snake to come out, the snake refused.

It was warm and safe inside.

On his way home, the man saw a heron and went up to him and whispered what had happened.

The heron told him to squat and strain to eject the snake.

When the snake snuck its head out, the heron caught it, pulled it out, and killed it.

The farmer was worried that the snake’s poison might still be inside him, and the heron told him that the cure for snake poison was to cook and eat six white fowl.

“You’re a white fowl,” said the farmer. “You’ll do for a start.”

He grabbed the heron, put it in a bag, and carried it home, where he hung it up while he told his wife what had happened.

“I’m surprised
at you, ” said the wife. “The bird does you a kindness, rids you of the evil in your belly, saves your life in fact, yet you catch it and talk of killing it."

She immediately released the heron, and it flew away. But on its way, it gouged out her eyes.


Moral: When you see water flowing uphill, it means that someone is repaying a kindness.

AFRICAN FOLK TALE

Interpretation

Michael III staked his future on the sense of gratitude he thought Basilius must feel for him.

Surely Basilius would serve him best; he owed the emperor his wealth, his education, and his position.

Then, once Basilius was in power, anything he needed it was best to give to him, strengthening the bonds between the two men.

It was only on the fateful day when the emperor saw that impudent smile on Basilius’s face that he realized his deadly mistake.

He had created a monster.

He had allowed a man to see power up close— a man who then wanted more, who asked for anything and got it, who felt encumbered by the charity he had received and simply did what many people do in such a situation: They forget the favors they have received and imagine they have earned their success by their own merits.

At Michael’s moment of realization, he could still have saved his own life, but friendship and love blind every man to their interests. Nobody believes a friend can betray.

And Michael went on disbelieving until the day his head ended up on a pike.

Lord, protect me from my friends; I can take care of my enemies.

Voltaire, 1694-1778

OBSERVANCE OF THE LAW

For several centuries after the fall of the Han Dynasty (A.D. 222), Chinese history followed the same pattern of violent and bloody coups, one after the other.

Army men would plot to kill a weak emperor, then would replace him on the Dragon Throne with a strong general.

The general would start a new dynasty and crown himself emperor; to ensure his own survival he would kill off his fellow generals.

A few years later, however, the pattern would resume: New generals would rise up and assassinate him or his sons in their turn. To be emperor of China was to be alone, surrounded by a pack of enemies—it was the least powerful, least secure position in the realm.

In A.D. 959, General Chao K’uang-yin became Emperor Sung.

He knew the odds, the probability that within a year or two he would be murdered ; how could he break the pattern?

Soon after becoming emperor, Sung ordered a banquet to celebrate the new dynasty, and invited the most powerful commanders in the army.

After they had drunk much wine, he dismissed the guards and everybody else except the generals, who now feared he would murder them in one fell swoop.

Instead, he addressed them:

“The whole day is spent in fear, and I am unhappy both at the table and in my bed. For which one of you does not dream of ascending the throne? I do not doubt your allegiance, but if by some chance your subordinates, seeking wealth and position, were to force the emperor’s yellow robe upon you in turn, how could you refuse it?” 

Drunk and fearing for their lives, the generals proclaimed their innocence and their loyalty.

But Sung had other ideas:

“The best way to pass one’s days is in peaceful enjoyment of riches and honor. 

If you are willing to give up your commands, I am ready to provide you with fine estates and beautiful dwellings where you may take your pleasure with singers and girls as your companions.”

The astonished generals realized that instead of a life of anxiety and struggle Sung was offering them riches and security.

The next day, all of the generals tendered their resignations, and they retired as nobles to the estates that Sung bestowed on them.

There are manv who think therefore that a wise prince ought, when he has the chance, to foment astutely some enmity, so that by suppressing It he will augment his greatness. Princes, and especially new ones, have found more faith and more usefulness in those men, whom at the beginning of their power they regarded with suspicion, than in those they at first confided in. Pandolfo Petrucci, prince of Siena, governed his state more bv those whom he suspected than by others.

Niccoi o MACHIAVELLI, 1469-1527

In one stroke, Sung turned a pack of “friendly” wolves, who would likely have betrayed him, into a group of docile lambs, far from all power.

Over the next few years Sung continued his campaign to secure his rule.

In A.D. 971, King Liu of the Southern Han finally surrendered to him after years of rebellion.

To Liu’s astonishment, Sung gave him a rank in the imperial court and invited him to the palace to seal their newfound friendship with wine.

As King Liu took the glass that Sung offered him, he hesitated, fearing it contained poison.

“Your subject’s crimes certainly merit death,” he cried out, “but I beg Your Majesty to spare your subject’s life. Indeed I dare not drink this wine.”

Emperor Sung laughed, took the glass from Liu, and swallowed it himself. There was no poison. From then on Liu became his most trusted and loyal friend.

At the time, China had splintered into many smaller kingdoms.

When Ch‘ien Shu, the king of one of these, was defeated, Sung’s ministers advised the emperor to lock this rebel up.

They presented documents proving that he was still conspiring to kill Sung.

When Ch’ien Shu came to visit the emperor, however, instead of locking him up, Sung honored him.

He also gave him a package, which he told the former king to open when he was halfway home.

Ch’ien Shu opened the bundle on his return journey and saw that it contained all the papers documenting his conspiracy.

He realized that Sung knew of his murderous plans, yet had spared him nonetheless.

This generosity won him over, and he too became one of Sung’s most loyal vassals.

A brahman, a great expert in Veda who has become a great archer as well, offers his services to his good friend, who is now the king. 

The brahman cries out when he sees the king, “Recognize me, your friend!”

The king answers him with contempt and then explains: “Yes, we were friends before, but our friendship was based on what power we had.... I was friends with you, good brahman, because it served my purpose. No pauper is friend to the rich, no fool to the wise, no coward to the brave. An old friend
who needs him? It is two men of equal wealth and equal birth who contract friendship and marriage, not a rich man and a pauper.... An old friendwho needs him?

THE MAHABHARATA, C. THIRD CENTURY B.C.

Interpretation

A Chinese proverb compares friends to the jaws and teeth of a dangerous animal: If you are not careful, you will find them chewing you up.

Emperor Sung knew the jaws he was passing between when he assumed the throne:

His “friends” in the army would chew him up like meat, and if he somehow survived, his “friends” in the government would have him for supper.

Emperor Sung would have no truck with “friends”—he bribed his fellow generals with splendid estates and kept them far away.

This was a much better way to emasculate them than killing them, which would only have led other generals to seek vengeance.

And Sung would have nothing to do with “friendly” ministers.

More often than not, they would end up drinking his famous cup of poisoned wine.

Instead of relying on friends, Sung used his enemies, one after the other, transforming them into far more reliable subjects.

While a friend expects more and more favors, and seethes with jealousy, these former enemies expected nothing and got everything.

A man suddenly spared the guillotine is a grateful man indeed, and will go to the ends of the earth for the man who has pardoned him.

In time, these former enemies became Sung’s most trusted friends.

Pick up a bee from kindness, and learn the limitations of kindness.

SUFI PROVERB

And Sung was finally able to break the pattern of coups, violence, and civil war—the Sung Dynasty ruled China for more than three hundred years.

In a speech Abraham Lincoln delivered at the height of the Civil War, he referred to the Southerners as fellow human beings who were in error. An elderly lady chastised him for not calling them irreconcilable enemies who must be destroyed. “Why, madam,” Lincoln replied,

“do I not destroy my enemies when I make them my friends?”

KEYS TO POWER

It is natural to want to employ your friends when you find yourself in times of need. The world is a harsh place, and your friends soften the harshness. Besides, you know them. Why depend on a stranger when you have a friend at hand?

Men are more ready to repay an injury than a benefit, because gratitude is a burden and revenge a pleasure.

TACITUS, c. A.D. 55-120

The problem is that you often do not know your friends as well as you imagine.

Friends often agree on things in order to avoid an argument.

They cover up their unpleasant qualities so as to not offend each other.

They laugh extra hard at each other’s jokes.

Since honesty rarely strengthens friendship, you may never know how a friend truly feels.

Friends will say that they love your poetry, adore your music, envy your taste in clothes— maybe they mean it, often they do not.

When you decide to hire a friend, you gradually discover the qualities he or she has kept hidden.

Strangely enough, it is your act of kindness that unbalances everything.

People want to feel they deserve their good fortune.

The receipt of a favor can become oppressive: It means you have been chosen because you are a friend, not necessarily because you are deserving.

There is almost a touch of condescension in the act of hiring friends that secretly afflicts them.

The injury will come out slowly: A little more honesty, flashes of resentment and envy here and there, and before you know it your friendship fades.

The more favors and gifts you supply to revive the friendship, the less gratitude you receive.

Ingratitude has a long and deep history.

It has demonstrated its powers for so many centuries, that it is truly amazing that people continue to underestimate them.

Better to be wary.

If you never expect gratitude from a friend, you will be pleasantly surprised when they do prove grateful.

The problem with using or hiring friends is that it will inevitably limit your power.

The friend is rarely the one who is most able to help you; and in the end, skill and competence are far more important than friendly feelings. (Michael III had a man right under his nose who would have steered him right and kept him alive: That man was Bardas.)

PLUTARCH

King Hiero chanced upon a time, speaking with one of his enemies, to be told in a reproachful manner that he had stinking breath. 

Whereupon the good king, being somewhat dismayed in himself, as soon as he returned home chided his wife, “How does it happen that you never told me of this problem?”

The woman, being a simple, chaste. and harmless dame, said, “Sir, l had thought all men breath had smelled so.”

Thus it is plain that faults that are evident to the senses, gross and corporal, or otherwise notorious to the world, we know by our enemies sooner than by our friends and familiars.


PLUTARCH, C. A.D. 46-120

All working situations require a kind of distance between people.

You are trying to work, not make friends; friendliness (real or false) only obscures that fact.

The key to power, then, is the ability to judge who is best able to further your interests in all situations.

Keep friends for friendship, but work with the skilled and competent.

Your enemies, on the other hand, are an untapped gold mine that you must learn to exploit.

When Talleyrand, Napoleon’s foreign minister, decided in 1807 that his boss was leading France to ruin, and the time had come to turn against him, he understood the dangers of conspiring against the emperor; he needed a partner, a confederate—what friend could he trust in such a project?

He chose Joseph Fouché, head of the secret police, his most hated enemy, a man who had even tried to have him assassinated.

He knew that their former hatred would create an opportunity for an emotional reconciliation.

He knew that Fouché would expect nothing from him, and in fact would work to prove that he was worthy of Talleyrand’s choice; a person who has something to prove will move mountains for you.

Finally, he knew that his relationship with Fouché would be based on mutual self- interest, and would not be contaminated by personal feeling.

The selection proved perfect; although the conspirators did not succeed in toppling Napoleon, the union of such powerful but unlikely partners generated much interest in the cause; opposition to the emperor slowly began to spread.

And from then on, Talleyrand and Fouché had a fruitful working relationship.

Whenever you can, bury the hatchet with an enemy, and make a point of putting him in your service.

As Lincoln said, you destroy an enemy when you make a friend of him.

In 1971, during the Vietnam War, Henry Kissinger was the target of an unsuccessful kidnapping attempt, a conspiracy involving, among others, the renowned antiwar activist priests the Berrigan brothers, four more Catholic priests, and four nuns.

In private, without informing the Secret Service or the Justice Department, Kissinger arranged a Saturday-morning meeting with three of the alleged kidnappers.

Explaining to his guests that he would have most American soldiers out of Vietnam by mid-1972, he completely charmed them.

They gave him some “Kidnap Kissinger” buttons and one of them remained a friend of his for years, visiting him on several occasions.

This was not just a onetime ploy: Kissinger made a policy of working with those who disagreed with him.

Colleagues commented that he seemed to get along better with his enemies than with his friends.

Without enemies around us, we grow lazy.

An enemy at our heels sharpens our wits, keeping us focused and alert.

It is sometimes better, then, to use enemies as enemies rather than transforming them into friends or allies.

Mao Tse-tung saw conflict as key in his approach to power.

In 1937 the Japanese invaded China, interrupting the civil war between Mao’s Communists and their enemy, the Nationalists.

Fearing that the Japanese would wipe them out, some Communist leaders advocated leaving the Nationalists to fight the Japanese, and using the time to recuperate.

Mao disagreed: The Japanese could not possibly defeat and occupy a vast country like China for long.

Once they left, the Communists would have grown rusty if they had been out of combat for several years, and would be ill prepared to reopen their struggle with the Nationalists.

To fight a formidable foe like the Japanese, in fact, would be the perfect training for the Communists’ ragtag army.

Mao’s plan was adopted, and it worked: By the time the Japanese finally retreated, the Communists had gained the fighting experience that helped them defeat the Nationalists.

Years later, a Japanese visitor tried to apologize to Mao for his country’s invasion of China.

Mao interrupted, “Should I not thank you instead?” Without a worthy opponent, he explained, a man or group cannot grow stronger.

Mao’s strategy of constant conflict has several key components.

First, be certain that in the long run you will emerge victorious. Never pick a fight with someone you are not sure you can defeat, as Mao knew the Japanese would be defeated in time.

Second, if you have no apparent enemies, you must sometimes set up a convenient target, even turning a friend into an enemy. Mao used this tactic time and again in politics.

Third, use such enemies to define your cause more clearly to the public, even framing it as a struggle of good against evil. Mao actually encouraged China’s disagreements with the Soviet Union and the United States; without clear- cut enemies, he believed, his people would lose any sense of what Chinese Communism meant. A sharply defined enemy is a far stronger argument for your side than all the words you could possibly put together.

Never let the presence of enemies upset or distress you—you are far better off with a declared opponent or two than not knowing where your real enemies lie.

The man of power welcomes conflict, using enemies to enhance his reputation as a surefooted fighter who can be relied upon in times of uncertainty.

Image: The Jaws of Ingratitude. Knowing what would happen if you put a finger in the mouth of a lion, you would stay clear of it. With friends you will have no such caution, and if you hire them, they will eat you alive with ingratitude.

Authority:

Know how to use enemies for your own profit. You must learn to grab a sword not by its blade, which would cut you, but by the handle, which allows you to defend yourself. The wise man profits more from his enemies, than a fool from his friends. 

(Baltasar Gracián, 1601-1658)

REVERSAL

Although it is generally best not to mix work with friendship, there are times when a friend can be used to greater effect than an enemy.

A man of power, for example, often has dirty work that has to be done, but for the sake of appearances it is generally preferable to have other people do it for him; friends often do this the best, since their affection for him makes them willing to take chances.

Also, if your plans go awry for some reason, you can use a friend as a convenient scapegoat.

This “fall of the favorite” was a trick often used by kings and sovereigns: They would let their closest friend at court take the fall for a mistake, since the public would not believe that they would deliberately sacrifice a friend for such a purpose.

Of course, after you play that card, you have lost your friend forever.

It is best, then, to reserve the scapegoat role for someone who is close to you but not too close.

Finally, the problem about working with friends is that it confuses the boundaries and distances that working requires.

But if both partners in the arrangement understand the dangers involved, a friend often can be employed to great effect.

You must never let your guard down in such a venture, however; always be on the lookout for any signs of emotional disturbance such as envy and ingratitude.

Nothing is stable in the realm of power, and even the closest of friends can be transformed into the worst of enemies.

Conclusion

I know that I have been pumping out China and 48 Laws of Power posts all week long, but I have a backlog that has accumulated with all the historical events of the last few months. Never the less, all these laws are great reading. Perhaps if you read a law here, and a law there, you can absorb the teachings in a slow and leisurely pace and generate benefit from them at your own speed, and on your own terms.

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The Sentinel by Arthur C. Clarke (Full Text)

This is the science fiction short story that eventually was made into the famous movie 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968) It’s a great read, and as much as I loved the movie, in many ways this short story was actually better. I hope that you all will enjoy it as much as I have.

THE SENTINEL

Arthur C. Clarke

1951 Avon Periodicals Inc.

The next time you see the full moon high in the south, look carefully at its right-hand edge and let your eye travel upward along the curve of the disk. Round about two o’clock you will notice a small, dark oval: anyone with normal eyesight can find it quite easily. It is the great walled plain,

one of the finest on the Moon, known as the Mare Crisium-the Sea of Crises. Three hundred miles in diameter, and almost completely surrounded by a ring of magnificent mountains, it had never been explored until we entered it in the late summer of 1996.

Our expedition was a large one. We had two heavy freighters which had flown our supplies and equipment from the main lunar base in the Mare Serenitatis, five hundred miles away. There were also three small rockets which were intended for short-range transport over regions which our surface vehicles couldn’t cross. Luckily, most of the Mare Crisiurn is very flat. There are none of the great crevasses so common and so dangerous elsewhere, and very few craters or mountains of any size. As far as we could tell, our powerful caterpillar tractors would have no difficulty in taking us wherever we wished to go.

I was geologist-or selenologist, if you want to be pedantic in charge of. the group exploring the southern region of the Mare. We had crossed a hundred miles of it in a week, skirting the foothills of the mountains along the shore of what was once the ancient sea, some thousand million years before. When life was beginning on Earth, it was already dying here. The waters were retreating down the flanks of those stupendous cliff s, retreating into the empty heart of the Moon. Over the land which we were crossing, the tideless ocean had once been half a mile deep, and now the only trace of moisture was the hoarfrost one could sometimes find in caves which the searing sunlight never penetrated.

We had begun our journey early in the slow lunar dawn, and still had almost a week of Earth-time before nightfall. Half a dozen times a day we would leave our vehicle and go outside in the spacesuits to hunt for interesting minerals, or to place markers for the guidance of future travelers. It was an uneventful routine. There is nothing hazardous or even particularly exciting about lunar exploration. We could live comfortably for a month in our pressurized tractors, and if we ran into trouble we could always radio for help and sit tight until one of the spaceships came to our rescue.

I said just now that there was nothing exciting about lunar exploration, but of course that isn’t true. One could never grow tired of those incredible mountains, so much more rugged than the gentle hills of Earth. We never knew, as we rounded the capes and promontories of that vanished sea, what new splendors would be revealed to us. The whole southern curve of the Mare Crisiurn is a vast delta where a score of rivers once found their way into the ocean, fed perhaps by the torrential rains that must have lashed the mountains in the brief volcanic age when the Moon was young.

Each of these ancient valleys was an invitation, challenging us to climb into the unknown uplands beyond. But we had a hundred miles still to cover, and could only look longingly at the heights which others must scale.

We kept Earth-time aboard the tractor, and precisely at 22.00 hours the final radio message would be sent out to Base and we would close down for the day. Outside, the rocks would still be burning beneath the almost vertical sun, but to us it was night until we awoke again eight hours later. Then one of us would prepare breakfast, there would be a great buzzing of electric razors, and someone would switch on the short-wave radio from Earth. Indeed, when the smell of frying sausages began to fill the cabin, it was sometimes hard to believe that we were not back on our own world – everything was so normal and homely, apart from the feeling of decreased weight and the unnatural slowness with which objects fell.

It was my turn to prepare breakfast in the corner of the main cabin that served as a galley. I can remember that moment quite vividly after all these years, for the radio had just played one of my favorite melodies, the old Welsh air, “David of the White, Rock.”

Our driver was already outside in his space-suit, inspecting our caterpillar treads. My assistant, Louis Garnett, was up forward in the control position, making some belated entries in yesterday’s log.

As I stood by the frying pan waiting, like any terrestrial housewife, for the sausages to brown, I let my gaze wander idly over the mountain walls which covered the whole of the southern horizon, marching out of sight to east and west below the curve of the Moon. They seemed only a mile or two from the tractor, but I knew that the nearest was twenty miles away. On the Moon, of course, there is no loss of detail with distance-none of that almost imperceptible haziness which softens and sometimes transfigures all far-off things on Earth.

Those mountains were ten thousand feet high, and they climbed steeply out of the plain as if ages ago some subterranean eruption had smashed them skyward through the molten crust. The base of even the nearest was hidden from sight by the steeply curving surface of the plain, for the Moon is a very little world, and from where I was standing the horizon was only two miles away.

I lifted my eyes toward the peaks which no man had ever climbed, the peaks which, before the coming of terrestrial life, had watched the retreating oceans sink sullenly into their graves, taking with them the hope and the morning promise of a world. The sunlight was beating against those ramparts with a glare that hurt the eyes, yet only a little way above them the stars were shining steadily in a sky blacker than a winter midnight on Earth.

I was turning away when my eye caught a metallic glitter high on the ridge of a great promontory thrusting out into the sea thirty miles to the west. It was a dimensionless point of light, as if a star had been clawed from the sky by one of those cruel peaks, and I imagined that some smooth rock surface was catching the sunlight and heliographing it straight into my eyes. Such things were not uncommon. When the Moon is in her second quarter, observers on Earth can sometimes see the great ranges in the Oceanus Procellarum burning with a blue-white iridescence as the sunlight flashes from their slopes and leaps again from world to world. But I was curious to know what kind of rock could be shining so brightly up there, and I climbed into the observation turret and swung our four inch telescope round to the west.

I could see just enough to tantalize me. Clear and sharp in the field of vision, the mountain peaks seemed only half a mile away, but whatever was catching the sunlight was still too small to be resolved. Yet it seemed to have an elusive symmetry, and the summit upon which it rested was curiously flat. I stared for a long time at that glittering enigma, straining my eyes into space, until presently a smell of burning from the galley told me that our breakfast sausages had made their quarter-million mile journey in vain. .

All that morning we argued our way across the Mare Crisium while the western mountains reared higher in the sky. Even when we were out prospecting in the space-suits, the discussion would continue over the radio. It was absolutely certain, my companions argued, that there had never been any form of intelligent life on the Moon. The only living things that had ever existed there were a few primitive plants and their slightly less degenerate ancestors. I knew that as well as anyone, but there are times when a scientist must not be afraid to make a fool of himself.

“Listen,” I said at last, “I’m going up there, if only for my own peace of mind. That mountain’s less than twelve thousand feet high -that’s only two thousand under Earth gravity-and I can make the trip in twenty hours at the outside. I’ve always wanted to go up into those hills, anyway, and this gives me an excellent excuse.”

“If you don’t break your neck,” said Garnett, “you’ll be the laughing-stock of the expedition when we get back to Base. That mountain will probably be called Wilson’s Folly from now on.”

“I won’t break my neck,” I said firmly. “Who was the first man to climb Pico and Helicon?” “But weren’t you rather younger in those days?” asked Louis gently.

“That,” I said with great dignity, “is as good a reason as any for going.”

We went to bed early that night, after driving the tractor to within half a mile of the promontory. Garnett was coming with me in the morning; he was a good climber, and had often been with me on such exploits before. Our driver was only too glad to be left in charge of the machine.

At first sight, those cliffs seemed completely unscalable, but to anyone with a good head for heights, climbing is easy on a world where all weights are only a sixth of their normal value. The real danger in lunar mountaineering lies in overconfidence; a six-hundred-foot drop on the Moon can kill you just as thoroughly as a. hundred-foot fall on Earth.

We made our first halt on a wide ledge about four thousand feet above the plain. Climbing had not been very difficult, but my limbs were stiff with the unaccustomed effort, and I was glad of the rest. We could still see the tractor as a tiny metal insect far down at the foot of the cliff, and we reported our progress to the driver before starting on the next ascent.

Inside our suits it was comfortably cool, for the refrigeration units were fighting the fierce sun and carrying away the body-heat of our exertions. We seldom spoke to each other, except to pass climbing instructions and to discuss our best plan of ascent. I do not know what Garnett was thinking, probably that this was the craziest goose-chase he had ever embarked upon. I more than half agreed with him, but the joy of climbing, the knowledge that no man had ever gone this way before and the exhilaration of the steadily widening landscape gave me all the reward I needed.

I don’t think I was particularly excited when I saw in front of us the wall of rock I had first inspected through the telescope from thirty miles away. It would level off about fifty feet above our heads, and there on the plateau would be the thing that had lured me over these barren wastes. It was, almost certainly, nothing more than a boulder splintered ages ago by a falling meteor, and with its cleavage planes still fresh and bright in this incorruptible, unchanging silence.

There were no hand-holds on the rock face, and we had to use a grapnel. My tired arms seemed to gain new strength as I swung the three-pronged metal anchor round my head and sent it sailing Lip toward the stars. The first time it broke loose and came falling slowly back when we pulled the rope. On the third attempt, the prongs gripped firmly and our combined weights could not shift it.

Garnett looked at me anxiously. I could tell that he wanted to go first, but I smiled back at him through the glass of my helmet and shook my head. Slowly, taking my time, I began the final ascent.

Even with my space-suit, I weighed only forty pounds here, so I pulled myself up hand over hand without bothering to use my feet. At the rim I paused and waved to my companion, then I scrambled over the edge and stood upright, staring ahead of me.

You must understand that until this very moment I had been almost completely convinced that there could be nothing strange or unusual for me to find here. Almost, but not quite; it was that haunting doubt that had driven me forward. Well, it was a doubt no longer, but the haunting had scarcely begun.

I was standing on a plateau perhaps a hundred feet across. It had once been smooth-too smooth to be natural-but falling meteors had pitted and scored its surface through immeasurable eons. It had been leveled to support a glittering, roughly pyramidal structure, twice as high as a man, that was set in the rock like a gigantic, many-faceted jewel.

Probably no emotion at all filled my mind in those first few seconds. Then I felt a great lifting of my heart, and a strange, inexpressible joy. For I loved the Moon, and now I knew that the creeping moss of Aristarchus and Eratosthenes was not the only life she had brought forth in her youth. The old, discredited dream of the first explorers was true. There had, after all, been a lunar civilization- and I was the first to find it. That I had come perhaps a hundred million years too late did not distress me; it was enough to have come at all.

My mind was beginning to function normally, to analyze and to ask questions. Was this a building, a shrine-or something for which my language had no name? If a building, then why was it erected in so uniquely inaccessible a spot? I wondered if it might be a temple, and I could picture the adepts of some strange priesthood calling on their gods to preserve them as the life of the Moon ebbed with the dying oceans, and calling on their gods in vain.

I took a dozen steps forward to examine the thing more closely, but some sense of caution kept me from going too near. I knew a little of archaeology, and tried to guess the cultural level of the civilization that must have smoothed this mountain and raised the glittering mirror surfaces that still dazzled my eyes.

The Egyptians could have done it, I thought, if their workmen had possessed whatever strange materials these far more ancient architects had used. Because of the thing’s smallness, it did not occur to me that I might be looking at the handiwork of a race more advanced than my own. The idea that the Moon had possessed intelligence at all was still almost too tremendous to grasp, and my pride would not let me take the final, humiliating plunge.

And then I noticed something that set the scalp crawling at the back of my neck-something so trivial and so innocent that many would never have noticed it at all. I have said that the plateau was scarred by meteors; it was also coated inches-deep with the cosmic dust that is always filtering down upon the surface of any world where there are no winds to disturb it. Yet the dust and the meteor scratches ended quite abruptly in a wide circle enclosing the little pyramid, as though an invisible wall was protecting it from the ravages of time and the slow but ceaseless bombardment from space.

There was someone shouting in my earphones, and I realized that Garnett had been calling me for some time. I walked unsteadily to the edge of the cliff and signaled him to join me, not trusting myself to speak. Then I went back toward that circle in the dust. I picked up a fragment of splintered rock and tossed it gently toward the shining enigma. If the pebble had vanished at that invisible barrier I should not have been surprised, but it seemed to hit a smooth, hemispherical surface and slide gently to the ground.

I knew then that I was looking at nothing that could be matched in the antiquity of my own race. This was not a building, but a machine, protecting itself with forces that had challenged Eternity. Those forces, whatever they might be, were still operating, and perhaps I had already come too close. I thought of all the radiations man had trapped and tamed in the past century. For all I knew, I might be as irrevocably doomed as if I had stepped into the deadly, silent aura of an unshielded atomic pile.

I remember turning then toward Garnett, who bad joined me and was now standing motionless at my side. He seemed quite oblivious to me, so I did not disturb him but walked to the edge of the cliff in an effort to marshal my thoughts. There below me lay the Mare Crisium-Sea of Crises, indeed-strange and weird to most men, but reassuringly familiar to me. I lifted my eyes toward the crescent Earth, lying in her cradle of stars, and I wondered what her clouds had covered when these unknown builders had finished their work. Was it the steaming jungle of the Carboniferous, the bleak shoreline over which the first amphibians must crawl to conquer the land-or, earlier still, the long loneliness before the coming of life?

Do not ask me why I did not guess the truth sooner-the truth, that seems so obvious now. In the first excitement of my discovery, I had assumed without question that this crystalline apparition had been built by some race belonging to the Moon’s remote past, but suddenly, and with overwhelming force, the belief came to me that it was as alien to the Moon as I myself.

In twenty years we had found no trace of life but a few degenerate plants. No lunar civilization, whatever its doom, could have left but a single token of its existence.

I looked at the shining pyramid again, and the more remote it seemed from anything that had to do with the Moon. And suddenly I felt myself shaking with a foolish, hysterical laughter, brought on by excitement and overexertion: for I had imagined that the little pyramid was speaking to me and was saying: “Sorry, I’m a stranger here myself.”

It has taken us twenty years to crack that invisible shield and to reach the machine inside those crystal walls. What we could not understand, we broke at last with the savage might of atomic power and now I have seen the fragments of the lovely, glittering thing I found up there on the mountain.

They are meaningless. The mechanisms-if indeed they are mechanisms-of the pyramid belong to a technology that lies far beyond our horizon, perhaps to the technology of para-physical forces.

The mystery haunts us all the more now that the other planets have been reached and we know that only Earth has ever been the home of intelligent life in our Universe. Nor could any lost civilization  of our own world have built that machine, for the thickness of the meteoric dust on the plateau has enabled us to measure its age. It was set there upon its mountain before life had emerged from the seas of Earth.

When our world was half its present age, something from the stars swept through the Solar System, left this token of its passage, and went again upon its way. Until we destroyed it, that machine was still fulfilling the purpose of its builders; and as to that purpose, here is my guess.

Nearly a hundred thousand million stars are turning in the circle of the Milky Way, and long ago other races on the worlds of other suns must have scaled and passed the heights that we have reached. Think of such civilizations, far back in time against the fading afterglow of Creation, masters of a universe so young that life as yet had come only to a handful of worlds. Theirs would have been a loneliness we cannot imagine, the loneliness of gods looking out across infinity and finding none to share their thoughts.

They must have searched the star-clusters as we have searched the planets. Everywhere there would be worlds, but they would be empty or peopled with crawling, mindless things. Such was our own Earth, the smoke of the great volcanoes still staining the skies, when that first ship of the peoples of the dawn came sliding in from the abyss beyond Pluto. It passed the frozen outer worlds, knowing that life could play no part in their destinies. It came to rest among the inner planets, warming themselves around the fire of the Sun and waiting for their stories to begin.

Those wanderers must have looked on Earth, circling safely in the narrow zone between fire and ice, and must have guessed that it was the favorite of the Sun’s children. Here, in the distant future, would be intelligence; but there were countless stars before -them still, and they might never come this way again.

So they left a sentinel, one of millions they have scattered throughout the Universe, watching over all worlds with the promise of life. It was a beacon that down the ages has been patiently signaling the fact that no one had discovered it.

Perhaps you understand now why that crystal pyramid was set upon the Moon instead of on the Earth. Its builders were not concerned with races still struggling up from savagery. They would be interested in our civilization only if we proved our fitness to survive -by crossing space and so escaping from the Earth, our cradle. That is the challenge that all intelligent races must meet, sooner or later. It is a double challenge, for it depends in turn upon the conquest of atomic energy and the last choice between life and death.

Once we had passed that crisis, it was only a matter of time before we found the pyramid and forced it open. Now its signals have ceased, and those whose duty it is will be turning their minds upon Earth. Perhaps they wish to help our infant civilization. But they must be very, very old, and the old are often insanely jealous of the young.

I can never look now at the Milky Way without wondering from which of those banked clouds of stars the emissaries are coming. If you will pardon so commonplace a simile, we have set off the fire-alarm and have nothing to do but to wait.

I do not think we will have to wait for long.

The End

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Law 12 from The 48 Laws of Power by Robert Greene; Use selective honesty and generosity to disarm your victim (Full Text)

I do not advocate following this law, but you all should be made well aware of it. When you are outside of your friends and family you enter a zone of questionable trust. You do need to be somewhat guarded in your public dealings as not everyone is a friend. No matter what they say. The world is filled with all kinds of people, all involved with all kinds of agendas.

Please take note that there are others that prefer to use this technique. Be wary.

LAW 12

USE SELECTIVE HONESTY AND GENEROSITY TO DISARM YOUR VICTIM

JUDGMENT

One sincere and honest move will cover over dozens of dishonest ones. Open-hearted gestures of honesty and generosity bring down the guard of even the most suspicious people. Once your selective honesty opens a hole in their armor, you can deceive and manipulate them at will. A timely gift— a Trojan horse—will serve the same purpose.

OBSERVANCE OF THE LAW

Sometime in 1926, a tall, dapperly dressed man paid a visit to Al Capone, the most feared gangster of his time.

Speaking with an elegant Continental accent, the man introduced himself as Count Victor Lustig.

He promised that if Capone gave him $50,000 he could double it.

Capone had more than enough funds to cover the “investment,” but he wasn’t in the habit of entrusting large sums to total strangers.

He looked the count over: Something about the man was different—his classy style, his manner—and so Capone decided to play along.

He counted out the bills personally and handed them to Lustig. “Okay, Count,” said Capone. “Double it in sixty days like you said.”

Lustig left with the money, put it in a safe-deposit box in Chicago, then headed to New York, where he had several other money- making schemes in progress.

The $50,000 remained in the bank box untouched.

Lustig made no effort to double it.

Two months later he returned to Chicago, took the money from the box, and paid Capone another visit.

He looked at the gangster’s stony- faced bodyguards, smiled apologetically, and said,

“Please accept my profound regrets, Mr. Capone. I’m sorry to report that the plan failed... I failed.”

Capone slowly stood up.

He glowered at Lustig, debating which part of the river to throw him in.

But the count reached into his coat pocket, withdrew the $50,000, and placed it on the desk.

“Here, sir, is your money, to the penny. Again, my sincere apologies. This is most embarrassing. Things didn’t work out the way I thought they would. I would have loved to have doubled your money for you and for myself—Lord knows I need it— but the plan just didn’t materialize.”

Capone sagged back into his chair, confused. “I know you’re a con man, Count,” said Capone.

“I knew it the moment you walked in here. I expected either one hundred thousand dollars or nothing. But this... getting my  money back ... well.” 

“Again my apologies, Mr. Capone,” said Lustig, as he picked up his hat and began to leave. “

My God! You’re honest!” yelled Capone.

“If you’re on the spot, here’s five to help you along.”

He counted out five one-thousand-dollar bills out of the $50,000. The count seemed stunned, bowed deeply, mumbled his thanks, and left, taking the money.

The $5,000 was what Lustig had been after all along.

FRANCESCO BORRI. COURTIER CHARLATAN

Francesco Giuseppe Borri of Milan, whose death in 1695 fell just within the seventeenth century ... was a forerunner of that special type of charlatanical adventurer, the courtier or “cavalier” impostor.... 

His real period of glory began after he moved to Amsterdam.

There he assumed the title of Medico Universale, maintained a great retinue, and drove about in a coach with six horses.... Patients streamed to him, and some invalids had themselves carried in sedan chairs all the way from Paris to his place in Amsterdam.

Borri took no payment for his consultations: He distributed great sums among the poor and was never known to receive any money through the post or bills of exchange.

As he continued to live with such splendor, nevertheless, it was presumed that he possessed the philosophers’ stone.

Suddenly this benefactor disappeared from Amsterdam. Then it was discovered that he had taken with him money and diamonds that had been placed in his charge.

THE POWER OF THE CHARLATAN, GRETE DE FRANCESCO, 1939

Interpretation

Count Victor Lustig, a man who spoke several languages and prided himself on his refinement and culture, was one of the great con artists of modem times.

He was known for his audacity, his fearlessness, and, most important, his knowledge of human psychology.

He could size up a man in minutes, discovering his weaknesses, and he had radar for suckers.

Lustig knew that most men build up defenses against crooks and other troublemakers.

The con artist’s job is to bring those defenses down.

One sure way to do this is through an act of apparent sincerity and honesty.

Who will distrust a person literally caught in the act of being honest?

Lustig used selective honesty many times, but with Capone he went a step further.

No normal con man would have dared such a con; he would have chosen his suckers for their meekness, for that look about them that says they will take their medicine without complaint.

Con Capone and you would spend the rest of your life (whatever remained of it) afraid.

But Lustig understood that a man like Capone spends his life mistrusting others.

No one around him is honest or generous, and being so much in the company of wolves is exhausting, even depressing.

A man like Capone yearns to be the recipient of an honest or generous gesture, to feel that not everyone has an angle or is out to rob him.

Lustig’s act of selective honesty disarmed Capone because it was so unexpected.

A con artist loves conflicting emotions like these, since the person caught up in them is so easily distracted and deceived.

Do not shy away from practicing this law on the Capones of the world.

With a well-timed gesture of honesty or generosity, you will have the most brutal and cynical beast in the kingdom eating out of your hand.

Everything turns gray when I don’t have at least one mark on the horizon. Life then seems empty and depressing. I cannot understand honest men. They lead desperate lives, full of boredom.

Count Victor Lustig, 1890-1947

KEYS TO POWER

The essence of deception is distraction.

Distracting the people you want to deceive gives you the time and space to do something they won’t notice.

An act of kindness, generosity, or honesty is often the most powerful form of distraction because it disarms other people’s suspicions.

It turns them into children, eagerly lapping up any kind of affectionate gesture.

In ancient China this was called “giving before you take”—the giving makes it hard for the other person to notice the taking.

It is a device with infinite practical uses.

Brazenly taking something from someone is dangerous, even for the powerful.

The victim will plot revenge.

It is also dangerous simply to ask for what you need, no matter how politely:

Unless the other person sees some gain for themselves, they may come to resent your neediness.

Learn to give before you take.

It softens the ground, takes the bite out of a future request, or simply creates a distraction.

And the giving can take many forms: an actual gift, a generous act, a kind favor, an “honest” admission—whatever it takes.

Selective honesty is best employed on your first encounter with someone.

We are all creatures of habit, and our first impressions last a long time.

If someone believes you are honest at the start of your relationship it takes a lot to convince them otherwise.

This gives you room to maneuver.

Jay Gould, like Al Capone, was a man who distrusted everyone.

By the time he was thirty-three he was already a multimillionaire, mostly through deception and strong-arming.

In the late 1860s, Gould invested heavily in the Erie Railroad, then discovered that the market had been flooded with a vast amount of phony stock certificates for the company.

He stood to lose a fortune and to suffer a lot of embarrassment.

In the midst of this crisis, a man named Lord John Gordon-Gordon offered to help.

Gordon-Gordon, a Scottish lord, had apparently made a small fortune investing in railroads.

By hiring some handwriting experts Gordon-Gordon was able to prove to Gould that the culprits for the phony stock certificates were actually several top executives with the Erie Railroad itself.

Gould was grateful.

Gordon- Gordon then proposed that he and Gould join forces to buy up a controlling interest in Erie.

Gould agreed.

For a while the venture appeared to prosper.

The two men were now good friends, and every time Gordon-Gordon came to Gould asking for money to buy more stock, Gould gave it to him.

In 1873, however, Gordon-Gordon suddenly dumped all of his stock, making a fortune but drastically lowering the value of Gould’s own holdings.

Then he disappeared from sight.

Upon investigation, Gould found out that Gordon-Gordon’s real name was John Crowningsfield, and that he was the bastard son of a merchant seaman and a London barmaid.

There had been many clues before then that Gordon-Gordon was a con man, but his initial act of honesty and support had so blinded Gould that it took the loss of millions for him to see through the scheme.

A single act of honesty is often not enough.

What is required is a reputation for honesty, built on a series of acts—but these can be quite inconsequential.

Once this reputation is established, as with first impressions, it is hard to shake.

In ancient China, Duke Wu of Chêng decided it was time to take over the increasingly powerful kingdom of Hu.

Telling no one of his plan, he married his daughter to Hu’s ruler.

He then called a council and asked his ministers,

“I am considering a military campaign. Which country should we invade?” 

As he had expected, one of his ministers replied, “Hu should be invaded.”

The duke seemed angry, and said,

“Hu is a sister state now. Why do you suggest invading her?” 

He had the minister executed for his impolitic remark.

The ruler of Hu heard about this, and considering other tokens of Wu’s honesty and the marriage with his daughter, he took no precautions to defend himself from Cheng.

A few weeks later, Chêng forces swept through Hu and took the country, never to relinquish it.

Honesty is one of the best ways to disarm the wary, but it is not the only one.

Any kind of noble, apparently selfless act will serve.

Perhaps the best such act, though, is one of generosity.

Few people can resist a gift, even from the most hardened enemy, which is why it is often the perfect way to disarm people.

A gift brings out the child in us, instantly lowering our defenses.

Although we often view other people’s actions in the most cynical light, we rarely see the Machiavellian element of a gift, which quite often hides ulterior motives.

A gift is the perfect object in which to hide a deceptive move.

Over three thousand years ago the ancient Greeks traveled across the sea to recapture the beautiful Helen, stolen away from them by Paris, and to destroy Paris’s city, Troy.

The siege lasted ten years, many heroes died, yet neither side had come close to victory.

One day, the prophet Calchas assembled the Greeks.

Image: The Trojan Horse. Your guile is hidden inside a magnificent gift that proves irresistible to your opponent. The walls open. Once inside, wreak havoc.

“Stop battering away at these walls!” he told them. “You must find some other way, some ruse. We cannot take Troy by force alone. We must find some cunning stratagem.”

The cunning Greek leader Odysseus then came up with the idea of building a giant wooden horse, hiding soldiers inside it, then offering it to the Trojans as a gift.

Neoptolemus, son of Achilles, was disgusted with this idea; it was unmanly.

Better for thousands to die on the battlefield than to gain victory so deceitfully.

But the soldiers, faced with a choice between another ten years of manliness, honor, and death, on the one hand and a quick victory on the other, chose the horse, which was promptly built.

The trick was successful and Troy fell.

One gift did more for the Greek cause than ten years of fighting.

Selective kindness should also be part of your arsenal of deception.

For years the ancient Romans had besieged the city of the Faliscans, always unsuccessfully.

One day, however, when the Roman general Camillus was encamped outside the city, he suddenly saw a man leading some children toward him.

The man was a Faliscan teacher, and the children, it turned out, were the sons and daughters of the noblest and wealthiest citizens of the town.

On the pretense of taking these children out for a walk, he had led them straight to the Romans, offering them as hostages in hopes of ingratiating himself with Camillus, the city’s enemy.

Camillus did not take the children hostage.

He stripped the teacher, tied his hands behind his back, gave each child a rod, and let them whip him all the way back to the city.

The gesture had an immediate effect on the Faliscans.

Had Camillus used the children as hostages, some in the city would have voted to surrender.

And even if the Faliscans had gone on fighting, their resistance would have been halfhearted.

Camillus’s refusal to take advantage of the situation broke down the Faliscans’ resistance, and they surrendered.

The general had calculated correctly.

And in any case he had had nothing to lose: He knew that the hostage ploy would not have ended the war, at least not right away.

By turning the situation around, he earned his enemy’s trust and respect, disarming them.

Selective kindness will often break down even the most stubborn foe: Aiming right for the heart, it corrodes the will to fight back.

Remember: By playing on people’s emotions, calculated acts of kindness can turn a Capone into a gullible child. As with any emotional approach, the tactic must be practiced with caution: If people see through it, their disappointed feelings of gratitude and warmth will become the most violent hatred and distrust. Unless you can make the gesture seem sincere and heartfelt, do not play with fire.

Authority:

When Duke Hsien of Chin was about to raid Yü, he presented to them a jade and a team of horses. When Earl Chih was about to raid Ch’ou- yu, he presented to them grand chariots. Hence the saying: “When you are about to take, you should give.” 

(Han-fei-tzu, Chinese philosopher, third century B.C.)

REVERSAL

When you have a history of deceit behind you, no amount of honesty, generosity, or kindness will fool people.

In fact it will only call attention to itself.

Once people have come to see you as deceitful, to act honest all of a sudden is simply suspicious.

In these cases it is better to play the rogue.

Count Lustig, pulling the biggest con of his career, was about to sell the Eiffel Tower to an unsuspecting industrialist who believed the government was auctioning it off for scrap metal.

The industrialist was prepared to hand over a huge sum of money to Lustig, who had successfully impersonated a government official.

At the last minute, however, the mark was suspicious.

Something about Lustig bothered him.

At the meeting in which he was to hand over the money, Lustig sensed his sudden distrust.

Leaning over to the industrialist, Lustig explained, in a low whisper, how low his salary was, how difficult his finances were, on and on.

After a few minutes of this, the industrialist realized that Lustig was asking for a bribe.

For the first time he relaxed.

Now he knew he could trust Lustig: Since all government officials were dishonest, Lustig had to be real.

The man forked over the money.

By acting dishonest, Lustig seemed the real McCoy.

In this case selective honesty would have had the opposite effect.

As the French diplomat Talleyrand grew older, his reputation as a master liar and deceiver spread.

At the Congress of Vienna (1814-1815), he would spin fabulous stories and make impossible remarks to people who knew he had to be lying.

His dishonesty had no purpose except to cloak the moments when he really was deceiving them.

One day, for example, among friends, Talleyrand said with apparent sincerity, “In business one ought to show one’s hand.”

No one who heard him could believe their ears: A man who never once in his life had shown his cards was telling other people to show theirs.

Tactics like this made it impossible to distinguish Talleyrand’s real deceptions from his fake ones.

By embracing his reputation for dishonesty, he preserved his ability to deceive.

Nothing in the realm of power is set in stone.

Overt deceptiveness will sometimes cover your tracks, even making you admired for the honesty of your dishonesty.

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Superiority by Arthur C. Clarke (Full Text)

Superiority

This is a full posting of the short story by Arthur C. Clarke. It is titled “Superiority”. “Superiority” is a science fiction short story by Arthur C. Clarke, first published in 1951. It depicts an arms race, and shows how the side which is more technologically advanced can be defeated, despite its apparent superiority, because of its own organizational flaws and its willingness to discard old technology without having fully perfected the new.

Please enjoy.

Arthur C. Clarke

IN MAKING THIS STATEMENT—which I do of my own free will—I wish first to make it perfectly clear that I am not in any way trying to gain sympathy, nor do I expect any mitigation of whatever sentence the Court may pronounce. I am writing this in an attempt to refute some of the lying reports broadcast over the prison radio and published in the papers I have been allowed to see. These have given an entirely false picture of the true cause of our defeat, and as the leader of my race’s armed forces at the cessation of hostilities I feel it my duty to protest against such libels upon those who served under me.

I also hope that this statement may explain the reasons for the application I have twice made to the Court, and will now induce it to grant a favor for which I can see no possible grounds of refusal.

The ultimate cause of our failure was a simple one: despite all statements to the contrary, it was not due to lack of bravery on the part of our men, or to any fault of the Fleet’s. We were defeated by one thing only—by the inferior science of our enemies. I repeat—by the inferior science of our enemies.

When the war opened we had no doubt of our ultimate victory. The combined fleets of our allies greatly exceeded in number and armament those which the enemy could muster against us, and in almost all branches of military science we were their superiors. We were sure that we could maintain this superiority. Our belief proved, alas, to be only too well founded.

At the opening of the war our main weapons were the long-range homing torpedo, dirigible ball-lightning and the various modifications of the Klydon beam. Every unit of the Fleet was equipped with these and though the enemy possessed similar weapons their installations were generally of lesser power. Moreover, we had behind us a far greater military Research Organization, and with this initial advantage we could not possibly lose.

The campaign proceeded according to plan until the Battle of the Five Suns. We won this, of course, but the opposition proved stronger than we had expected. It was realized that victory might be more difficult, and more delayed, than had first been imagined. A conference of supreme commanders was therefore called to discuss our future strategy.

Present for the first time at one of our war conferences was Professor-General Norden, the new Chief of the Research Staff, who had just been appointed to fill the gap left by the death of Malvar, our greatest scientist. Malvar’s leadership had been responsible, more than any other single factor, for the efficiency and power of our weapons. His loss was a very serious blow, but no one doubted the brilliance of his successor—though many of us disputed the wisdom of appointing a theoretical scientist to fill a post of such vital importance. But we had been overruled.

I can well remember the impression Norden made at that conference. The military advisers were worried, and as usual turned to the scientists for help. Would it be possible to improve our existing weapons, they asked, so that our present advantage could be increased still further?

Norden’s reply was quite unexpected. Malvar had often been asked such a question—and he had always done what we requested.

“Frankly, gentlemen,” said Norden, “I doubt it. Our existing weapons have practically reached finality. I don’t wish to criticize my predecessor, or the excellent work done by the Research Staff in the last few generations, but do you realize that there has been no basic change in armaments for over a century? It is, I am afraid, the result of a tradition that has become conservative. For too long, the Research Staff has devoted itself to perfecting old weapons instead of developing new ones. It is fortunate for us that our opponents have been no wiser: we cannot assume that this will always be so.”

Norden’s words left an uncomfortable impression, as he had no doubt intended. He quickly pressed home the attack.

“What we want are new weapons—weapons totally different from any that have been employed before. Such weapons can be made: it will take time, of course, but since assuming charge I have replaced some of the older scientists with young men and have directed research into several unexplored fields which show great promise. I believe, in fact, that a revolution in warfare may soon be upon us.”

We were skeptical. There was a bombastic tone in Norden’s voice that made us suspicious of his claims. We did not know, then, that he never promised anything that he had not already almost perfected in the laboratory. In the laboratory—that was the operative phrase.

Norden proved his case less than a month later, when he demonstrated the Sphere of Annihilation, which produced complete disintegration of matter over a radius of several hundred meters. We were intoxicated by the power of the new weapon, and were quite prepared to overlook one fundamental defect—the fact that it was a sphere and hence destroyed its rather complicated generating equipment at the instant of formation. This meant, of course, that it could not be used on warships but only on guided missiles, and a great program was started to convert all homing torpedoes to carry the new weapon. For the time being all further offensives were suspended.

We realize now that this was our first mistake. I still think that it was a natural one, for it seemed to us then that all our existing weapons had become obsolete overnight, and we already regarded them as almost primitive survivals. What we did not appreciate was the magnitude of the task we were attempting, and the length of time it would take to get the revolutionary super-weapon into battle. Nothing like this had happened for a hundred years and we had no previous experience to guide us.

The conversion problem proved far more difficult than anticipated. A new class of torpedo had to be designed, as the standard model was too small. This meant in turn that only the larger ships could launch the weapon, but we were prepared to accept this penalty. After six months, the heavy units of the Fleet were being equipped with the Sphere. Training maneuvers and tests had shown that it was operating satisfactorily and we were ready to take it into action. Norden was already being hailed as the architect of victory, and had half promised even more spectacular weapons.

Then two things happened. One of our battleships disappeared completely on a training flight, and an investigation showed that under certain conditions the ship’s long-range radar could trigger the Sphere immediately after it had been launched. The modification needed to overcome this defect was trivial, but it caused a delay of another month and was the source of much bad feeling between the naval staff and the scientists. We were ready for action again—when Norden announced that the radius of effectiveness of the Sphere had now been increased by ten, thus multiplying by a thousand the chances of destroying an enemy ship.

So the modifications started all over again, but everyone agreed that the delay would be worth it. Meanwhile, however, the enemy had been emboldened by the absence of further attacks and had made an unexpected onslaught. Our ships were short of torpedoes, since none had been coming from the factories, and were forced to retire. So we lost the systems of Kyrane and Floranus, and the planetary fortress of Rhamsandron.

It was an annoying but not a serious blow, for the recaptured systems had been unfriendly, and difficult to administer. We had no doubt that we could restore the position in the near future, as soon as the new weapon became operational.

These hopes were only partially fulfilled. When we renewed our offensive, we had to do so with fewer of the Spheres of Annihilation than had been planned, and this was one reason for our limited success. The other reason was more serious.

While we had been equipping as many of our ships as we could with the irresistible weapon, the enemy had been building feverishly. His ships were of the old pattern with the old weapons—but they now out-numbered ours. When we went into action, we found that the numbers ranged against us were often 100 percent greater than expected, causing target confusion among the automatic weapons and resulting in higher losses than anticipated. The enemy losses were higher still, for once a Sphere had reached its objective, destruction was certain, but the balance had not swung as far in our favor as we had hoped.

Moreover, while the main fleets had been engaged, the enemy had launched a daring attack on the lightly held systems of Eriston, Duranus, Carmanidora and Pharanidon—recapturing them all. We were thus faced with a threat only fifty light-years from our home planets.

There was much recrimination at the next meeting of the supreme commanders. Most of the complaints were addressed to Norden-Grand Admiral Taxaris in particular maintaining that thanks to our admittedly irresistible weapon we were now considerably worse off than before. We should, he claimed, have continued to build conventional ships, thus preventing the loss of our numerical superiority.

Norden was equally angry and called the naval staff ungrateful bunglers. But I could tell that he was worried—as indeed we all were—by the unexpected turn of events. He hinted that there might be a speedy way of remedying the situation.

We now know that Research had been working on the Battle Analyzer for many years, but at the time it came as a revelation to us and perhaps we were too easily swept off our feet. Norden’s argument, also, was seductively convincing. What did it matter, he said, if the enemy had twice as many ships as we—if the efficiency of ours could be doubled or even trebled? For decades the limiting factor in warfare had been not mechanical but biological—it had become more and more difficult for any single mind, or group of minds, to cope with the rapidly changing complexities of battle in three-dimensional space. Norden’s mathematicians had analyzed some of the classic engagements of the past, and had shown that even when we had been victorious we had often operated our units at much less than half of their theoretical efficiency.

The Battle Analyzer would change all this by replacing the operations staff with electronic calculators. The idea was not new, in theory, but until now it had been no more than a Utopian dream. Many of us found it difficult to believe that it was still anything but a dream: after we had run through several very complex dummy battles, however, we were convinced.

It was decided to install the Analyzer in four of our heaviest ships, so that each of the main fleets could be equipped with one. At this stage, the trouble began—though we did not know it until later.

The Analyzer contained just short of a million vacuum tubes and needed a team of five hundred technicians to maintain and operate it. It was quite impossible to accommodate the extra staff aboard a battleship, so each of the four units had to be accompanied by a converted liner to carry the technicians not on duty. Installation was also a very slow and tedious business, but by gigantic efforts it was completed in six months.

Then, to our dismay, we were confronted by another crisis. Nearly five thousand highly skilled men had been selected to serve the Analyzers and had been given an intensive course at the Technical Training Schools. At the end of seven months, 10 percent of them had had nervous breakdowns and only 40 per cent had qualified.

Once again, everyone started to blame everyone else. Norden, of course, said that the Research Staff could not be held responsible, and so incurred the enmity of the Personnel and Training Commands. It was finally decided that the only thing to do was to use two instead of four Analyzers and to bring the others into action as soon as men could be trained. There was little time to lose, for the enemy was still on the offensive and his morale was rising.

The first Analyzer fleet was ordered to recapture the system of Eriston. On the way, by one of the hazards of war, the liner carrying the technicians was struck by a roving mine. A warship would have survived, but the liner with its irreplaceable cargo was totally destroyed. So the operation had to be abandoned.

The other expedition was, at first, more successful. There was no doubt at all that the Analyzer fulfilled its designers’ claims, and the enemy was heavily defeated in the first engagements. He withdrew, leaving us in possession of Saphran, Leucon and Hexanerax. But his Intelligence Staff must have noted the change in our tactics and the inexplicable presence of a liner in the heart of our battlefleet. It must have noted, also, that our first fleet had been accompanied by a similar ship—and had withdrawn when it had been destroyed.

In the next engagement, the enemy used his superior numbers to launch an overwhelming attack on the Analyzer ship and its unarmed consort. The attack was made without regard to losses—both ships were, of course, very heavily protected—and it succeeded. The result was the virtual decapitation of the Fleet, since an effectual transfer to the old operational methods proved impossible. We disengaged under heavy fire, and so lost all our gains and also the systems of Lormyia, Ismarnus, Beronis, Alphanidon and Sideneus.

At this stage, Grand Admiral Taxaris expressed his disapproval of Norden by committing suicide, and I assumed supreme command.

The situation was now both serious and infuriating. With stubborn conservatism and complete lack of imagination, the enemy continued to advance with his old-fashioned and inefficient but now vastly more numerous ships. It was galling to realize that if we had only continued building, without seeking new weapons, we would have been in a far more advantageous position. There were many acrimonious conferences at which Norden defended the scientists while everyone else blamed them for all that had happened. The difficulty was that Norden had proved every one of his claims: he had a perfect excuse for all the disasters that had occurred. And we could not now turn back—the search for an irresistible weapon must go on. At first it had been a luxury that would shorten the war. Now it was a necessity if we were to end it victoriously.

We were on the defensive, and so was Norden. He was more than ever determined to reestablish his prestige and that of the Research Staff. But we had been twice disappointed, and would not make the same mistake again. No doubt Norden’s twenty thousand scientists would produce many further weapons: we would remain unimpressed.

We were wrong. The final weapon was something so fantastic that even now it seems difficult to believe that it ever existed. Its innocent, noncommittal name—The Exponential Field—gave no hint of its real potentialities. Some of Norden’s mathematicians had discovered it during a piece of entirely theoretical research into the properties of space, and to everyone’s great surprise their results were found to be physically realizable.

It seems very difficult to explain the operation of the Field to the layman. According to the technical description, it “produces an exponential condition of space, so that a finite distance in normal, linear space may become infinite in pseudo-space.” Norden gave an analogy which some of us found useful. It was as if one took a flat disk of rubber—representing a region of normal space—and then pulled its center out to infinity. The circumference of the disk would be unaltered—but its “diameter” would be infinite. That was the sort of thing the generator of the Field did to the space around it.

As an example, suppose that a ship carrying the generator was surrounded by a ring of hostile machines. If it switched on the Field, each of the enemy ships would think that it—and the ships on the far side of the circle—had suddenly receded into nothingness. Yet the circumference of the circle would be the same as before: only the journey to the center would be of infinite duration, for as one proceeded, distances would appear to become greater and greater as the “scale” of space altered.

It was a nightmare condition, but a very useful one. Nothing could reach a ship carrying the Field: it might be englobed by an enemy fleet yet would be as inaccessible as if it were at the other side of the Universe. Against this, of course, it could not fight back without switching off the Field, but this still left it at a very great advantage, not only in defense but in offense. For a ship fitted with the Field could approach an enemy fleet undetected and suddenly appear in its midst.

This time there seemed to be no flaws in the new weapon. Needless to say, we looked for all the possible objections before we committed ourselves again. Fortunately the equipment was fairly simple and did not require a large operating staff. After much debate, we decided to rush it into production, for we realized that time was running short and the war was going against us. We had now lost about the whole of our initial gains and enemy forces had made several raids into our own solar system.

We managed to hold off the enemy while the Fleet was reequipped and the new battle techniques were worked out. To use the Field operationally it was necessary to locate an enemy formation, set a course that would intercept it, and then switch on the generator for the calculated period of time. On releasing the Field again—if the calculations had been accurate—one would be in the enemy’s midst and could do great damage during the resulting confusion, retreating by the same route when necessary.

The first trial maneuvers proved satisfactory and the equipment seemed quite reliable. Numerous mock attacks were made and the crews became accustomed to the new technique. I was on one of the test flights and can vividly remember my impressions as the Field was switched on. The ships around us seemed to dwindle as if on the surface of an expanding bubble: in an instant they had vanished completely. So had the stars—but presently we could see that the Galaxy was still visible as a faint band of light around the ship. The virtual radius of our pseudo-space was not really infinite, but some hundred thousand light-years, and so the distance to the farthest stars of our system had not been greatly increased—though the nearest had of course totally disappeared. These training maneuvers, however, had to be canceled before they were completed, owing to a whole flock of minor technical troubles in various pieces of equipment, notably the communications circuits. These were annoying, but not important, though it was thought best to return to Base to clear them up.

At that moment the enemy made what was obviously intended to be a decisive attack against the fortress planet of Iton at the limits of our Solar System. The Fleet had to go into battle before repairs could be made.

The enemy must have believed that we had mastered the secret of invisibility—as in a sense we had. Our ships appeared suddenly out of no-where and inflicted tremendous damage—for a while. And then something quite baffling and inexplicable happened.

I was in command of the flagship Hircania when the trouble started. We had been operating as independent units, each against assigned objectives. Our detectors observed an enemy formation at medium range and the navigating officers measured its distance with great accuracy. We set course and switched on the generator.

The Exponential Field was released at the moment when we should have been passing through the center of the enemy group. To our consternation, we emerged into normal space at a distance of many hundred miles—and when we found the enemy, he had already found us. We retreated, and tried again. This time we were so far away from the enemy that he located us first.

Obviously, something was seriously wrong. We broke communicator silence and tried to contact the other ships of the Fleet to see if they had experienced the same trouble. Once again we failed—and this time the failure was beyond all reason, for the communication equipment appeared to be working perfectly. We could only assume, fantastic though it seemed, that the rest of the Fleet had been destroyed.

I do not wish to describe the scenes when the scattered units of the Fleet struggled back to Base. Our casualties had actually been negligible, but the ships were completely demoralized. Almost all had lost touch with one another and had found that their ranging equipment showed inexplicable errors. It was obvious that the Exponential Field was the cause of the troubles, despite the fact that they were only apparent when it was switched off.

The explanation came too late to do us any good, and Norden’s final discomfiture was small consolation for the virtual loss of the war. As I have explained, the Field generators produced a radial distortion of space, distances appearing greater and greater as one approached the center of the artificial pseudo-space. When the Field was switched off, conditions returned to normal.

But not quite. It was never possible to restore the initial state exactly. Switching the Field on and off was equivalent to an elongation and contraction of the ship carrying the generator, but there was a hysteretic effect, as it were, and the initial condition was never quite reproducible, owing to all the thousands of electrical changes and movements of mass aboard the ship while the Field was on. These asymmetries and distortions were cumulative, and though they seldom amounted to more than a fraction of one per cent, that was quite enough. It meant that the precision ranging equipment and the tuned circuits in the communication apparatus were thrown completely out of adjustment. Any single ship could never detect the change—only when it compared its equipment with that of another vessel, or tried to communicate with it, could it tell what had happened.

It is impossible to describe the resultant chaos. Not a single component of one ship could be expected with certainty to work aboard another. The very nuts and bolts were no longer interchangeable, and the supply position became quite impossible. Given time, we might even have overcome these difficulties, but the enemy ships were already attacking in thousands with weapons which now seemed centuries behind those that we had invented. Our magnificent Fleet, crippled by our own science, fought on as best it could until it was overwhelmed and forced to surrender. The ships fitted with the Field were still invulnerable, but as fighting units they were almost helpless. Every time they switched on their generators to escape from enemy attack, the permanent distortion of their equipment increased. In a month, it was all over.

THIS IS THE true story of our defeat, which I give without prejudice to my defense before this Court. I make it, as I have said, to counteract the libels that have been circulating against the men who fought under me, and to show where the true blame for our misfortunes lay.

Finally, my request, which as the Court will now realize I make in no frivolous manner and which I hope will therefore be granted.

The Court will be aware that the conditions under which we are housed and the constant surveillance to which we are subjected night and day are somewhat distressing. Yet I am not complaining of this: nor do I complain of the fact that shortage of accommodation has made it necessary to house us in pairs.

But I cannot be held responsible for my future actions if I am compelled any longer to share my cell with Professor Norden, late Chief of the Research Staff of my armed forces.

The End

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Law 16 from The 48 Laws of Power by Robert Greene; Use absence to increase respect and honor (Full Text)

This is going to be another one of my great ramblings; a post about absence, and about family and about life. I know that you all want a nice short article that you can skim read, but that’s just not me. Sorry.

“- Mr. Snelgrove: What's the meaning of this, Peggy Sue?

- Peggy Sue: Well, Mr Snelgrove, I happen to know that in the future I will not have the slightest use for algebra, and I speak from experience.”

Here we are going to mix a few things up.

It’s gonna be a little bit of Robert Greene making an educated point, some Metallicman history, and stories. It’s a little bit about food and time travel, and a movie titled “Peggy Sue got Married”. Um. Not your everyday internet fare.

“-  Michael Fitzsimmons: So are you going to marry Mr. Blue Impala and  graze around with all the other sheep for the rest of your life?

- Peggy Sue: No... I already did that.”

We will begin with this thought…

How do you judge your importance?

I’ve noted that many artists and book authors did their “great works” while impoverished. And it was until they were dead and gone that they were recognized. And maybe that is the key. Perhaps it’s human nature to only appreciate what we cannot have.

Many “Don Juan’s” in the MM audience can relate to the story that the girls that they liked the most were impossible to get, while those that he didn’t like were relatively easy to obtain. Of course, I do not advocate their methods, or desire for relentless sexual adventures, no matter how exciting and interesting. Nor do I advocate their idea of conquest. All that actually rather irritates me.

I am talking about what our value is.

Many men in the MM audience would respond. They would say “That is easy. It is what you do and how much money you make.” And I would argue that this is a shallow technique that is easily discarded at your first lay off. Is it really possible for you to go from being a “most valued employee” to “worthless” in a matter of a few minutes?

Now the ladies in the audience might retort that it’s your appearance in the eyes of society that measures your worth. And even with that, I have to pause and reflect. So if this is true, then one late payment on a bill, or the gossip by someone down the street would be a measure of your value.

I do not think so either.

I think that it has to do with the degree of your accessibility. Or, in other words, how accessible you are to those around you.

“- Peggy Sue: We had one glorious night together, someday you'll remember and write about it.

- Michael Fitzsimmons: Yeah, I can dig that. Bittersweet perfection. Dogs of lust on leashes of memory.”

Hold that thought…

This is a complete reprint of the Law #16 from the fine Robert Greene book titled “The 48 Laws of Power”. This particular law states that a person can use absence to increase respect and honor. It is fully reproduced here for free. It is in glorious HTML with translation buttons to fit your home language, and there are no fees, memberships, or costs to do so. Nor are there any advertisements. Enjoy.

Now, this is a technique that truly works, and sad to say, it took me a while to understand it.

LAW 16

USE ABSENCE TO INCREASE RESPECT AND HONOR

JUDGMENT

Too much circulation makes the price go down: The more you are seen and heard from, the more common you appear. If you are already established in a group, temporary withdrawal from it will make you more talked about, even more admired. You must learn when to leave. Create value through scarcity.

Value arises from scarcity. The things that we miss, those that hold value to us are the exactly the same things that are missing in our lives today. They are now valuable instead of commonplace.

TRANSGRESSION AND OBSERVANCE OF THE LAW

Sir Guillaume de Balaun was a troubadour who roamed the South of France in the Middle Ages, going from castle to castle, reciting poetry, and playing the perfect knight. At the castle of Javiac he met and fell in love with the beautiful lady of the house, Madame Guillelma de Javiac. He sang her his songs, recited his poetry, played chess with her, and little by little she in turn fell in love with him. Guillaume had a friend, Sir Pierre de Barjac, who traveled with him and who was also received at the castle. And Pierre too fell in love with a lady in Javiac, the gracious but temperamental Viernetta.

THE CAMEL AND THE FLOATING STICKS

The first man who saw a camel fled; The second ventured within distance; The third dared slip a halter round its head. Familiarity in this existence Makes all things tame, for what may seem Terrible or bizarre, when once our eyes Have had time to acclimatize, Becomes quite commonplace. Since I’m on this theme, I’ve heard of sentinels posted by the shore Who, spotting something far-away afloat, Couldn’t resist the shout: “A sail! A sail! A mighty man-of-war!” Five minutes later it’s a packet boat, And then a skiff, and then a bale, And finally some sticks bobbing about. I know of plenty such To whom this story appliesPeople whom distance magnifies, Who, close to, don’t amount to much.

-SELECTED FABLES, JEAN DE LA FONTAINE, 1621-1695

Then one day Pierre and Viernetta had a violent quarrel. The lady dismissed him, and he sought out his friend Guillaume to help heal the breach and get him back in her good graces. Guillaume was about to leave the castle for a while, but on his return, several weeks later, he worked his magic, and Pierre and the lady were reconciled. Pierre felt that his love had increased tenfold—that there was no stronger love, in fact, than the love that follows reconciliation. The stronger and longer the disagreement, he told Guillaume, the sweeter the feeling that comes with peace and rapprochement.

As a troubadour, Sir Guillaume prided himself on experiencing all the joys and sorrows of love. On hearing his friend’s talk, he too wanted know the bliss of reconciliation after a quarrel. He therefore feigned great anger with Lady Guillelma, stopped sending her love letters, and abruptly left the castle and stayed away, even during the festivals and hunts. This drove the young lady wild.

Guillelma sent messengers to Guillaume to find out what had happened, but he turned the messengers away. He thought all this would make her angry, forcing him to plead for reconciliation as Pierre had. Instead, however, his absence had the opposite effect: It made Guillelma love him all the more. Now the lady pursued her knight, sending messengers and love notes of her own. This was almost unheard of—a lady never pursued her troubadour. And Guillaume did not like it. Guillelma’s forwardness made him feel she had lost some of her dignity. Not only was he no longer sure of his plan, he was no longer sure of his lady.

Finally, after several months of not hearing from Guillaume, Guillelma gave up. She sent him no more messengers, and he began to wonder— perhaps she was angry? Perhaps the plan had worked after all? So much the better if she was. He would wait no more—it was time to reconcile. So he put on his best robe, decked the horse in its fanciest caparison, chose a magnificent helmet, and rode off to Javiac.

On hearing that her beloved had returned, Guillelma rushed to see him, knelt before him, dropped her veil to kiss him, and begged forgiveness for whatever slight had caused his anger. Imagine his confusion and despair— his plan had failed abysmally. She was not angry, she had never been angry, she was only deeper in love, and he would never experience the joy of reconciliation after a quarrel. Seeing her now, and still desperate to taste that joy, he decided to try one more time: He drove her away with harsh words and threatening gestures. She left, this time vowing never to see him again.

The next morning the troubadour regretted what he had done. He rode back to Javiac, but the lady would not receive him, and ordered her servants to chase him away, across the drawbridge and over the hill. Guillaume fled. Back in his chamber he collapsed and started to cry: He had made a terrible mistake. Over the next year, unable to see his lady, he experienced the absence, the terrible absence, that can only inflame love. He wrote one of his most beautiful poems, “My song ascends for mercy praying.” And he sent many letters to Guillelma, explaining what he had done, and begging forgiveness.

After a great deal of this, Lady Guillelma, remembering his beautiful songs, his handsome figure, and his skills in dancing and falconry, found herself yearning to have him back. As penance for his cruelty, she ordered him to remove the nail from the little finger of his right hand, and to send it to her along with a poem describing his miseries.

He did as she asked. Finally Guillaume de Balaun was able to taste the ultimate sensation—a reconciliation even surpassing that of his friend Pierre.

IIII MROSON IIII. COCK

While serving under the Duke Ai of Lu, T‘ien Jao, resenting his obscure position, said to his master, “I am going to wander far away like a snow goose. “What do you mean by that?” inquired the Duke. “Do you see the cock?” said T’ien Jao in reply. 

“Its crest is a symbol of civility; its powerful talons suggest strength; its daring to fight any enemy denotes courage; its instinct to invite others whenever food is obtained shows benevolence; and, last but not least, its punctuality in keeping the time through the night gives us an example of veracity. In spite. however, of these five virtues, the cock is daily killed to fill a dish on your table. 

Why? 

The reason is that it is found within our reach. On the other hand, the snow goose traverses in one flight a thousand li (kilometers). Resting in your garden, it preys on your fishes and turtles and pecks your millet. Though devoid of any of the cock’s five virtues, yet you prize this bird for the sake of its scarcity. This being so, I shall fly far like a snow goose.”

-ANCIENT CHINESE PARABLES, YU HSIU SEN, ED., 1974

Interpretation

Trying to discover the joys of reconciliation, Guillaume de Balaun inadvertently experienced the truth of the law of absence and presence. At the start of an affair, you need to heighten your presence in the eyes of the other. If you absent yourself too early, you may be forgotten. But once your lover’s emotions are engaged, and the feeling of love has crystallized, absence inflames and excites. Giving no reason for your absence excites even more: The other person assumes he or she is at fault. While you are away, the lover’s imagination takes flight, and a stimulated imagination cannot help but make love grow stronger. Conversely, the more Guillelma pursued Guillaume, the less he loved her—she had become too present, too accessible, leaving no room for his imagination and fancy, so that his feelings were suffocating. When she finally stopped sending messengers, he was able to breathe again, and to return to his plan.

What withdraws, what becomes scarce, suddenly seems to deserve our respect and honor. What stays too long, inundating us with its presence, makes us disdain it. In the Middle Ages, ladies were constantly putting their knights through trials of love, sending them on some long and arduous quest—all to create a pattern of absence and presence. Indeed, had Guillaume not left his lady in the first place, she might have been forced to send him away, creating an absence of her own.

Absence diminishes minor passions and inflames great ones, as the wind douses a candle and fans a fire.

-La Rochefoucauld, 1613-1680

OBSERVANCE OF THE LAW

For many centuries the Assyrians ruled upper Asia with an iron fist. In the eighth century B.C., however, the people of Medea (now northwestern Iran) revolted against them, and finally broke free.

Now the Medes had to establish a new government. Determined to avoid any form of despotism, they refused to give ultimate power to any one man, or to establish a monarchy. Without a leader, however, the country soon fell into chaos, and fractured into small kingdoms, with village fighting against village.

In one such village lived a man named Deioces, who began to make a name for himself for fair dealing and the ability to settle disputes.

He did this so successfully, in fact, that soon any legal conflict in the area was brought to him, and his power increased. Throughout the land, the law had fallen into disrepute—the judges were corrupt, and no one entrusted their cases to the courts any more, resorting to violence instead. When news spread of Deioces’ wisdom, incorruptibility, and unshakable impartiality, Medean villages far and wide turned to him to settle all manner of cases. Soon he became the sole arbiter of justice in the land.

At the height of his power, Deioces suddenly decided he had had enough. He would no longer sit in the chair of judgment, would hear no more suits, settle no more disputes between brother and brother, village and village.

Complaining that he was spending so much time dealing with other people’s problems that he had neglected his own affairs, he retired. The country once again descended into chaos. With the sudden withdrawal of a powerful arbiter like Deioces, crime increased, and contempt for the law was never greater. The Medes held a meeting of all the villages to decide how to get out of their predicament. “We cannot continue to live in this country under these conditions,” said one tribal leader. “Let us appoint one of our number to rule so that we can live under orderly government, rather than losing our homes altogether in the present chaos.”

And so, despite all that the Medes had suffered under the Assyrian despotism, they decided to set up a monarchy and name a king. And the man they most wanted to rule, of course, was the fair-minded Deioces. He was hard to convince, for he wanted nothing more to do with the villages’ in-fighting and bickering, but the Medes begged and pleaded—without him the country had descended into a state of lawlessness. Deioces finally agreed.

Yet he also imposed conditions. An enormous palace was to be constructed for him, he was to be provided with bodyguards, and a capital city was to be built from which he could rule. All of this was done, and Deioces settled into his palace. In the center of the capital, the palace was surrounded by walls, and completely inaccessible to ordinary people. Deioces then established the terms of his rule: Admission to his presence was forbidden. Communication with the king was only possible through messengers. No one in the royal court could see him more than once a week, and then only by permission.

Deioces ruled for fifty-three years, extended the Medean empire, and established the foundation for what would later be the Persian empire, under his great-great-grandson Cyrus. During Deioces’ reign, the people’s respect for him gradually turned into a form of worship: He was not a mere mortal, they believed, but the son of a god.

Interpretation

Deioces was a man of great ambition. He determined early on that the country needed a strong ruler, and that he was the man for the job.

In a land plagued with anarchy, the most powerful man is the judge and arbiter. So Deioces began his career by making his reputation as a man of impeccable fairness.

At the height of his power as a judge, however, Deioces realized the truth of the law of absence and presence: By serving so many clients, he had become too noticeable, too available, and had lost the respect he had earlier enjoyed. People were taking his services for granted. The only way to regain the veneration and power he wanted was to withdraw completely, and let the Medes taste what life was like without him. As he expected, they came begging for him to rule.

Once Deioces had discovered the truth of this law, he carried it to its ultimate realization. In the palace his people had built for him, none could see him except a few courtiers, and those only rarely. As Herodotus wrote, “There was a risk that if they saw him habitually, it might lead to jealousy and resentment, and plots would follow; but if nobody saw him, the legend would grow that he was a being of a different order from mere men.”

A man said to a Dervish: “Why do I not see you more often?” The Dervish replied, “Because the words ‘Why have you not been to see me?’ are sweeter to my ear than the words ‘Why have you come again?”’

-Mulla jami, quoted in ldries Shah’s Caravan of Dreams, 1968

KEYS TO POWER

Everything in the world depends on absence and presence. A strong presence will draw power and attention to you—you shine more brightly than those around you. But a point is inevitably reached where too much presence creates the opposite effect: The more you are seen and heard from, the more your value degrades. You become a habit. No matter how hard you try to be different, subtly, without your knowing why, people respect you less and less. At the right moment you must learn to withdraw yourself before they unconsciously push you away. It is a game of hide-and-seek.

The truth of this law can most easily be appreciated in matters of love and seduction. In the beginning stages of an affair, the lover’s absence stimulates your imagination, forming a sort of aura around him or her. But this aura fades when you know too much—when your imagination no longer has room to roam. The loved one becomes a person like anyone else, a person whose presence is taken for granted. This is why the seventeenth- century French courtesan Ninon de Lenclos advised constant feints at withdrawal from one’s lover. “Love never dies of starvation,” she wrote, “but often of indigestion.”

The moment you allow yourself to be treated like anyone else, it is too late—you are swallowed and digested. To prevent this you need to starve the other person of your presence. Force their respect by threatening them with the possibility that they will lose you for good; create a pattern of presence and absence.

Once you die, everything about you will seem different. You will be surrounded by an instant aura of respect. People will remember their criticisms of you, their arguments with you, and will be filled with regret and guilt. They are missing a presence that will never return. But you do not have to wait until you die: By completely withdrawing for a while, you create a kind of death before death. And when you come back, it will be as if you had come back from the dead—an air of resurrection will cling to you, and people will be relieved at your return. This is how Deioces made himself king.

Napoleon was recognizing the law of absence and presence when he said, “If I am often seen at the theater, people will cease to notice me.” Today, in a world inundated with presence through the flood of images, the game of withdrawal is all the more powerful. We rarely know when to withdraw anymore, and nothing seems private, so we are awed by anyone who is able to disappear by choice. Novelists J. D. Salinger and Thomas Pynchon have created cultlike followings by knowing when to disappear.

Another, more everyday side of this law, but one that demonstrates its truth even further, is the law of scarcity in the science of economics. By withdrawing something from the market, you create instant value. In seventeenth-century Holland, the upper classes wanted to make the tulip more than just a beautiful flower—they wanted it to be a kind of status symbol.

Making the flower scarce, indeed almost impossible to obtain, they sparked what was later called tulipomania. A single flower was now worth more than its weight in gold. In our own century, similarly, the art dealer Joseph Duveen insisted on making the paintings he sold as scarce and rare as possible. To keep their prices elevated and their status high, he bought up whole collections and stored them in his basement. The paintings that he sold became more than just paintings—they were fetish objects, their value increased by their rarity. “You can get all the pictures you want at fifty thousand dollars apiece—that’s easy,” he once said. “But to get pictures at a quarter of a million apiece—that wants doing!”

Image:

The Sun. It can only be appreciated by its absence.

The longer the days of rain, the more the sun is craved. But too many hot days and the sun overwhelms. Learn to keep yourself obscure and make people demand your return.

Extend the law of scarcity to your own skills. Make what you are offering the world rare and hard to find, and you instantly increase its value.

There always comes a moment when those in power overstay their welcome. We have grown tired of them, lost respect for them; we see them as no different from the rest of mankind, which is to say that we see them as rather worse, since we inevitably compare their current status in our eyes to their former one. There is an art to knowing when to retire. If it is done right, you regain the respect you had lost, and retain a part of your power.

The greatest ruler of the sixteenth century was Charles V. King of Spain, Hapsburg emperor, he governed an empire that at one point included much of Europe and the New World. Yet at the height of his power, in 1557, he retired to the monastery of Yuste.

All of Europe was captivated by his sudden withdrawal; people who had hated and feared him suddenly called him great, and he came to be seen as a saint. In more recent times, the film actress Greta Garbo was never more admired than when she retired, in 1941.

For some her absence came too soon—she was in her mid-thirties— but she wisely preferred to leave on her own terms, rather than waiting for her audience to grow tired of her.

Make yourself too available and the aura of power you have created around yourself will wear away. Turn the game around: Make yourself less accessible and you increase the value of your presence.

Authority:

Use absence to create respect and esteem. If presence diminishes fame, absence augments it.

A man who when absent is regarded as a lion becomes when present something common and ridiculous. Talents lose their luster if we become too familiar with them, for the outer shell of the mind is more readily seen than its rich inner kernel. Even the outstanding genius makes use of retirement so that men may honor him and so that the yearning aroused by his absence may cause him to be esteemed. 

-(Baltasar Gracián, 1601-1658)

REVERSAL

This law only applies once a certain level of power has been attained.

The need to withdraw only comes after you have established your presence; leave too early and you do not increase your respect, you are simply forgotten. When you are first entering onto the world’s stage, create an image that is recognizable, reproducible, and is seen everywhere. Until that status is attained, absence is dangerous—instead of fanning the flames, it will extinguish them.

In love and seduction, similarly, absence is only effective once you have surrounded the other with your image, been seen by him or her everywhere. Everything must remind your lover of your presence, so that when you do choose to be away, the lover will always be thinking of you, will always be seeing you in his or her mind’s eye.

Remember: In the beginning, make yourself not scarce but omnipresent. Only what is seen, appreciated, and loved will be missed in its absence.

Conclusion

Peggy Sue before the big event.
Peggy Sue faints at a high school reunion. When she wakes up, she finds herself in her own past, just before she finished school.

.

It took me a while to appreciate this law. I think that we came to take for granted what we have, and then when it is gone, we are often left surprised and disoriented. Imagine what the you today would act, if you went back in time to meet your family, and friends when you were just a teenage. What would it be like?

There is an old 1980’s movie titled “Peggy Sue Got Married”. In it, the main character goes back in time and relives her high school years. And there she meets people who are now long dead, and forgotten…

Peggy Sue Got Married
Peggy Sue Got Married

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I think that this movie resonates with many people simply because once we age, those familial associations are no longer there. It’s not just that time changes you, and that everything is different, it’s that all the old associations, and family are simply gone.

My father once took me to a funeral wake when I was about 17 years old. It was his cousin. He was a man who I may have met once or twice and who I would see in my grandparents house from time to time.

What is the difference between a wake and funeral?

The key difference between a wake and a funeral is that a wake is a time for visitation and commemoration of the dead, while a funeral is a formal ceremony which is conducted by an officiant. In many cases, both a wake and a funeral are held as part of a series of rituals.

We went inside and saw all these people who I did not know.

I ran into my Auntie and her children, my cousins. We said a few words and then that was it, but there was an event during the wake that I will never, ever forget.

He said…

“Look around. Look at all these people. In a few more years, they will all be dead. I will be dead. You will never see them again, and you will never see their families or visit with them. These people, these connections will all disappear. And life will go on, and you will make new families and new connections to take their place.

Polish Hill view of the church.
Polish Hill showing our church in the distance.
"Oh, Ma...Chanel No.5 Always Makes Me Think Of Home" - Peggy Sue                                  Blooeyz200111 August 2002             
                              
What a great movie!  Originally intended for Debra Winger, but Kathleen Turner is wonderful  as the title character Peggy Sue. It's a time-travel movie about a 42  year old woman who gets transported back in time to high school (circa  early 1960's). Who wouldn't love an opportunity like that, not to  mention being 18 again?? 

My favorite scene is when she walks back into  her house, & sees her mom young again, while that beautiful music  plays on the soundtrack. 

It's so touching & heartfelt. 

This movie  has it all. Great acting, comedy, drama, fantasy, & a good story.  Nicholas Cage can get annoying at times, but he felt this was the best  way to portray his character (Charlie). He gets to "sing" in this movie  too ("He Don't Love You"). Look for a very early performance by Jim  Carrey. The cast also includes Helen Hunt & Catherine Hicks (the mom  on the TV show "7th Heaven").

Now…

At the time, I didn’t really understand what my father was trying to say. I thought that he meant that over time everyone will die. I will never see them again.

Well, he said that, but he meant something deeper.

He was trying to say that once your relatives die, you will no longer have those family connections ever again. They will sever, and your little family will start to shrink. It will get smaller and smaller over time.

Peggy Sue Got Married (1986)
One of my favorite movies of all time!  
6 February 2003 | by chrisuab                                            
                                              
This movie is definitely in my top ten.  

One  reason is Kathleen Turner's acting.  She does a wonderful job throughout  the movie, even though she may look older than a teenager when she goes  back in time.  (However, have you noticed how teenagers in high school  through the years look younger and younger?  My mom's high school  yearbook appears to be filled with 30 year olds.)  

Another reason I love  the movie is that it makes my brain ponder on what I would do if I could go back to high school.  

Peggy revisiting her young mother, seeing her baby sister, and being able to see her grandparents again one last time is just a beautiful thing in itself.  

I guess I just like  reminiscing about my childhood, which is probably why I like this movie.   (Even though I'm a child of the 80's.)  Very few things bother me in  this movie.  And no, it's not Nicolas Cage's accent!  That didn't bother  me that much.  :)  

...

I recommend this to anyone who thinks about going to a high  school reunion or wishes they could go back in time to do some things  differently.                                      

The big thing about aging and watching people die isn’t about the end of their lives. But rather instead, how the loss of that relationship and all the associated family relations will affect your life.

“- Peggy Sue: I think I had a heart attack and died at the reunion!

- Richard Norvik: Well, you look great for a corpse.”

Oh, we see the elements of this.

We see the disappearance of special family or ethnic foods that we just cannot get at McDonald’s or Pantera Bread. And we don’t think about it. Years go by. And the years turn into decades. We don’t realize the value and importance that it held for us in our lives.

Polish Stuffed Cabbage (Golomki)
Polish Stuffed Cabbage (Golomki)

.

Maybe you all chuckle at this.

“- Peggy Sue: Grandpa, if you had a chance to go back and do it all differently, what would you have changed?

- Barney Alvorg: Well, I would have taken better care of my teeth.”

You say… “Well, you miss it, you can go ahead and make it yourself. Nothing is stopping you.” Yeah. It’s sort-of-true.

I can get a recipe off the internet. I can go order the special ingredients off the internet, and in a few weeks I can try my hand at making the dish myself. And I can go ahead and it it myself, or present my “creation” to my friends and family. Perhaps.

But this is the REAL WORLD.

Not a would-of, could-of, should-of what-if world of possibilities. Sure I can run for the President of the United States. Sure, I can try to swim the Pacific ocean and arrive in San Francisco. I can go ahead and make these dishes.

But it’s not the same.

There are entire branches of my family that I haven’t seen since High School. I have no idea who my relatives are, where they are or what they are doing. Time has severed my connections and let me drift and float in the wind.

Peggy Sue Got Married
Scene from the movie Peggie Sue Got Married (1986).

.

There was a time where I was pretty much related to everyone on “Polish Hill” in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. I could walk down the street and complete strangers would tell me to say “hi” to my one Uncle, or give me a message to take to my grandmother (my Busia). I could walk down a side road and then be pulled inside some distant relative’s house and given a bowl of soup and a sandwich with the family chatted in the kitchen.

I have come to miss that.

Polish Hill in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania USA.

It’s hard.

We all grow up. We all get married. We all get established and are busy with our jobs, our work and our careers. Life moves on.

But our past…

Over time gets buried under the “news” and the “new” events of the day.

Another view of Polish Hill.
Typical Polish Hill. This view is about one block from my Busia’s house.

And today…

…How many MM readers remember something like that? Is that what you have today? Is that still a part of our life, or is it all gone away?

Is it gone away?

Never to return.

Local bar photograph.
Inside a local bar on Polish Hill in Pittsburgh.
Delightful Romance About Reevaluation of Life                                  claudio_carvalho12 June 2005             
                              
In the reunion of  the twentieth-fifth anniversary of high school, the former popular  student Peggy Sue, who is facing a divorce of her husband Charlie Bodell  (Nicolas Cage), faints and wakes up in 1960. 

The experienced Peggy Sue  decides to change and improve her life in this new opportunity.

"Peggy  Sue Got Married" is a delightful and charming fantasy about  reevaluation and a second chance in life. 

The story is very beautiful,  the production is very careful and I am really surprised how underrated  this movie is in IMDb. I do not get tired of this film, and it is among  my favorite romances. Kathleen Turner is extremely beautiful in the lead  role, and watching this movie in 2005, it is a great chance to see  names like Jim Carrey, Joan Allen and Sofia Coppola twenty years ago in  the beginning of their careers.
Photo of Povitica Polish Holiday bread.
Povitica Polish Holiday bread. Polish cuisine is a style of cooking and food preparation originating in or widely popular in Poland. Polish cuisine has evolved over the centuries to become very eclectic due to Poland’s history and it shares many similarities with neighbouring German, Czech, Slovak and Silesian as well as Jewish culinary traditions. Polish-styled cooking in other cultures is often referred to as à la polonaise.

People take you for granted.

By going away, you make yourself indispensable.

Remember what it is like…

Peggy Sue Got Married
Peggy Sue Got Married
"The girl's gone, let's play poker!"                                  BumpyRide9 November 2004             
                              
I'm surprised by  the number of people on here who don't like this movie. Like a few of  the positive reviewers I'd have to say this is one of my favorite,  "contemporary classics." 

The story is exquisite, who wouldn't want to go  back to a time when things were a bit simpler and someone was there to  take care of you and make you feel safe? Whenever I stumble upon it, I  end up watching it. Too many scenes start the old water works for me.

Peggy  seeing her little sister for the first time, going into her old  bedroom, and hearing her grandmother's voice on the phone are all quite  touching.

Call me crazy but I just love the moment where Charlie takes Peggy down into the basement and confronts her about what is going  on. When he leaves, Peggy opens a music box, pulls out a cigarette and lights it.

Another special moment happens when Peggy smokes a joint and talks about what she'd like to be when she grows up, as she turns around and around under a starry sky.

This is quite a good movie, filled with many special performances and scenes along the way.

While the movie is about other things. Take notice in how the main character Peggy Sue reacts to meeting the family and friends who are now long gone.

People do not appreciate things until they are gone.

Comfortable as an old shoe...                                  
BeafyBear18 September 2003             
                              
This movie is  definitely on my Top 20 list of all time favorite movies. Whenever I  come across it while channel surfing, I end up watching it again-and I  hate watching movies that are edited for TV!

As others have  pointed out, it showcases so many talented actors.  Joan Allen is great  here, as is Catherine Hicks.  And the amazing Barbara Harris, whom I  adore for her work on the stage, is excellent and dead-on as Peggy's  mother.  Jim Carrey is here as well and surprise, he's overacting in  most of his scenes!  While I've never completely figured out why  Nicholas Cage was encouraged to employ the weird-ass voice that he did,  his performance winds up being very likeable.  Barry Miller is also  great as Richard.

The premise is cool.  Who among us wouldn't  want to have such and opportunity (OK, maybe not the passing out in  public part)?  As a person that grew up in the 60s, I'd love to return  and see some of the sights and sounds that filled my innocent,  pre-Internet world.  

And the scene when Peggy hears her Grandmother's voice on the phone makes me cry every time.

I likey!

Last comment…

Handles time travel movie in a very compelling and emotional way                                  squirrel_burst28 February 2015             
                              
There's something  about "Peggy Sue Got Married" that really stuck with me. It's like when  the premise and way the movie was made is written on paper, you think  "There's no way this is going to work" but then it does. 

I was really  surprised with how much this picture affected me emotionally.

Kathleen  Turner plays Peggy Sue Bodell, who is attending her 25-year high school  reunion with her daughter Beth (Helen Hunt). Peggy Sue married right  out of high school but now she and her husband, Charlie (Nicolas Cage)  have separated. 

It's awkward enough answering the same questions over and over to the people that haven't seen you in decades but then her husband shows up and things go from bad to worse. 

She is nevertheless  named "Prom Queen" and accepts the award, but when on stage, she faints.  

When she wakes up, she discovers that it's once again the spring of  1960. With her memories of the future, she tries to alter her past for  the better. The film follows her as she rediscovers who she was at the  time and tries to find a way to return to the present.

There's  something about this movie that really hits home. 

Traveling back in  time and altering the past is a desire that in a way, everyone has. 

Sure  people tell you that they wouldn't go back and fix their past mistakes  because "those mistakes made them who they are" but come on, we all know  the day you wake up in your high-schooler's body, the first thing  you're doing is buying Baseball cards to stash away, warning people  about 9/11 and meeting Elvis in person, before he gets fat. 

Peggy Sue seizes the opportunity to do that stuff right away, but then gets  side-tracked when she realizes that this trip back in time can be a very  emotional experience. 

With the body of a teenager and the mind of a mother, she reacts very differently to her own parents and realizes how  much she missed being a teenager, or being in the same house as her mother, father and sister, or her grandparents (who have in present day  been dead for some time). 

There's something really touching about that  and it makes you think back at your own teenage years; if you could go  back, who would you be nicer to, who would you appreciate more, who  would you stand up to? 

Yes it would be awesome to return to a time where  you could amass money and power, or change history for the better, but there is also something uniquely appealing about just being able to interact with the people from your own past and get a new perspective on what the world was like back then.

One of my favorite moments in  the film is when Peggy is talking to her then-boyfriend Charlie  (Nicholas Cage). 

This isn't the same guy as he is years later. He's a  nervous kid who is doing everything to impress her and is completely in  love with the woman. He's anxious and vulnerable too. 

Check out the  scene when Peggy, who now knows the man better than he does finds that  she is once again, falling in love with him. She tries to initiate sex  with him in his car, but the guy is so taken aback that he refuses and  kicks her out. Isn't that what would really happen if you were  confronted with someone that was 25 years older than you are, but was  disguised as someone your own age? 

It's little moments like that that  really make the movie because it doesn't feel contrived despite the  outlandish premise, it feels absolutely genuine.

Another element  that really helps make you buy into this whole situation are the  performances. With excellent costumes and makeup, we have Jim Carrey,  Nicolas Cage, Joan Allen, Catherine Hicks and others playing both adults  and teenagers and the effect isn't perfect, but the performances sell  them. Some of the people I was watching with found that Nicolas Cage as  Charlie had a pretty irritating voice when he was 18, but I found that  it was very believable that he would have a goofy, nervous voice when he  was younger. 

I'm pretty sure if I looked at any recordings of myself at  that age, I would have been pretty annoying too. The actor that really  needs to have the spotlight on her is Kathleen Turner, who does a  fantastic job. There's almost an implication that while inside the body  of her 18-year old self, her mind goes back and forth between the maturity of her older and younger self. She pulls it off not with words, but with subtle changes in her face. 

Any scene where Peggy Sue is  interacting with her mother contains many subtle nuances and although it seems impossible, the 32-year old actress convincingly plays a teenager. It's a spectacular performance and you're an aspiring  actor/actress you need to check it out and study this film so get  yourself a good DVD and start wearing out that fast forward and rewind  button.

This movie “Peggy Sue got Married” has scene after scene of “family mysteries” that you were completely oblivious to as a teenager, but recognize immediately as an adult.

Like when her mother is selling her jewellery …

Or when she sees that her boyfriend was trying really hard to audition to a talent scout and fails…

…all things that she had no knowledge of.

A typical view of Polish Hill.
A typical Polish Hill shop.

And now that my family is mostly dead and gone, the familial relationships are broken and the survivors are scattered all over the place, I too wish that I appreciated the treasures that the family bonds held. i too miss the past. Not so much the rotary telephones, the rabbit-eared television set, the crank-windows in the car, the free air hose for the tires int he gas station, or really, really, REALLY low price for a cup of coffee…

…I miss the people and the relationships that they represented to me. I miss that feeling of belonging. I miss that feeling of community. I miss that “membership” that being alone, in a far away land denies me.

We don’t appreciate things until we lose them.

Do you want more?

I have more posts in my 48 Laws of Power Index here…

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The man who sold the moon (full text) by Robert Heinlein

The primary story is based on a character who’s goal in life is to first visit the moon (being the first human) and then setting up a colony on the moon. Harriman (the character) uses is past business successes and his business savvy to convince his friends, his company, and complete nations of children to help back his venture, which is of the goal to fulfill a childhood fantasy instead of make money.

The Man Who Sold The Moon is one of Heinlein’s best works and that alone says a lot! Having been a Heinlein fan since Jr. High, I have to replace some of my favorites over the years because I reread them quite often. This I have replaced several times because paperbacks tend to wear out when they are read repeatedly. You don’t want to miss this story, whether you’re a fan or new to Heinlein, this book is great sci-fi! 

Heinlein uses his fiction to tell the reader things, not just a story, but to communicate political, social and technical ideas and to share his technological prognostications. The perspective is complex.

All of these stories have as their underlying themes the conflict between profit and social and technological progress and how morally-neutral or amoral economic interests can come into conflict with human-scale interests and a common understanding of right and wrong.

The Man Who Sold The Moon, is about a rich industrialist called D. D. Harriman. Harriman has a dream, which is to go to the Moon and found a colony there. To achieve this dream, he adopts a single-mindedness that leads him to compromise business ethics and even break the law.

Heinlein captures well here several themes about modern business, including its complexity: Harriman, as a successful industrialist of international note, must have a very expert grasp of law and corporate structures, finance and accounting, politics and international relations, and a degree of technical literacy in the enterprise itself. Heinlein also shows how there is often a thin line between a successful business and fraud, and the qualities required are virtually the same.

Harriman represents perfectly the morally-neutral capitalist who puts up or finds the money for a project and dominates and motivates those around him, even though he lacks detailed technical know-how himself. Harriman as a businessman is happy to abide by the letter of an agreement when this works in his favour, but not when it does not.

The price of success, therefore, can often be lapses of integrity and incidences of personal moral abasement. Eventually Harriman is outmanoeuvred by one of his investors, who makes clear he cannot go to the Moon until the venture is in profit and could be managed by somebody else in the event of his demise.

The Man who Sold the Moon

THE MAN WHO SOLD THE MOON

CHAPTER ONE

“YOU’VE GOT TO BE ABELIEVER!”

George Strong snorted at his partner’s declaration. “Delos, why don’t you give up? You’ve been singing this tune for years. Maybe someday men will get to the Moon, though I doubt it. In any case, you and I will never live to see it. The loss of the power satellite washes the matter up for our generation.”

D. D. Harriman grunted. “We won’t see it if we sit on our fat behinds and don’t do anything to make it happen. But we can make it happen.” “Question number one: how? Question number two: why?”

“‘Why?’ The man asks ‘why.’ George, isn’t there anything in your soul but discounts, and dividends? Didn’t you ever sit with a girl on a soft summer night and stare up at the Moon and wonder what was there?”

“Yeah, I did once. I caught a cold.”

Harriman asked the Almighty why he had been delivered into the hands of the Philistines. He then turned back to his partner. “I could tell you why, the real ‘why,’ but you wouldn’t understand me. You want to know why in terms of cash, don’t you? You want to know how Harriman & Strong and Harriman Enterprises can show a profit, don’t you?”

“Yes,” admitted Strong, “and don’t give me any guff about tourist trade and fabulous lunar jewels. I’ve had it.”

“You ask me to show figures on a brand-new type of enterprise, knowing I can’t. It’s like asking the Wright brothers at Kitty Hawk to estimate how much money Curtiss-Wright Corporation would someday make out of building airplanes. I’ll put it another way, You didn’t want us to go into plastic houses, did you? If you had had your way we would still be back in Kansas City, subdividing cow pastures and showing rentals.”

Strong shrugged.

“How much has New World Homes made to date?”

Strong looked absent-minded while exercising the talent he brought to the partnership. “Uh … $172,946,004.62, after taxes, to the end of the last fiscal year. The running estimate to date is—”

“Never mind. What was our share in the take?”

“Well, uh, the partnership, exclusive of the piece you took personally and then sold to me later, has benefited from New World Homes during the same period by $1 3,010,437.20, ahead of personal taxes. Delos, this double taxation has got to stop. Penalizing thrift is a sure way to run this country straight into—”

“Forget it, forget it! How much have we made out of Skyblast Freight and Antipodes Transways?” Strong told him.

“And yet I had to threaten you with bodily harm to get you to put up a dime to buy control of the injector patent. You said rockets were a passing fad.”

“We were lucky,” objected Strong. “You had no way of knowing that there would be a big uranium strike in Australia. Without it, the Skyways group would have left us in the red. For that matter New World Homes would have failed, too, if the roadtowns hadn’t come along and given us a market out from under local building codes.”

“Nuts on both points. Fast transportation will pay; it always has. As for New World, when ten million families need new houses and we can sell ‘em cheap, they’ll buy. They won’t let building codes stop them, not permanently. We gambled on a certainty. Think back, George: what ventures have we lost money on and what ones have paid off? Everyone of my crack- brain ideas has made money, hasn’t it? And the only times we’ve lost our ante was on conservative, blue-chip investments.”

“But we’ve made money on some conservative deals, too,” protested Strong.

“Not enough to pay for your yacht. Be fair about it, George; the Andes Development Company, the integrating pantograph patent, every one of my wildcat schemes I’ve had to drag you into

—and every one of them paid.”

“I’ve had to sweat blood to make them pay,” Strong grumbled.

“That’s why we are partners. I get a wildcat by the tail; you harness him and put him to work. Now we go to the Moon—and you’ll make it pay.” “Speak for yourself. I’m not going to the Moon.”

“I am.”

“Hummph! Delos, granting that we have gotten rich by speculating on your hunches, it’s a steel-clad fact that if you keep on gambling you lose your shirt. There’s an old saw about the pitcher that went once too often to the well.”

“Damn it, George—I’m going to the Moon! If you won’t back me up, let’s liquidate and I’ll do it alone.” Strong drummed on his desk top. “Now, Delos, nobody said anything about not backing you up.”   “Fish or cut bait. Now is the opportunity and my mind’s made up. I’m going to be the Man in the Moon.” “Well … let’s get going. We’ll be late to the meeting.”

As they left their joint office, Strong, always penny conscious, was careful to switch off the light. Harriman had seen him do so a thousand times; this time he commented. “George, how about a light switch that turns off automatically when you leave a room?”

“Hmm—but suppose someone were left in the room?”

“Well… hitch it to stay on only when someone was in the room—key the switch to the human body’s heat radiation, maybe.” “Too expensive and too complicated.”

“Needn’t be. I’ll turn the idea over to Ferguson to fiddle with. It should be no larger than the present light switch and cheap enough so that the power saved in a year will pay for it.” “How would it work?” asked Strong.

“How should I know? I’m no engineer; that’s for Ferguson and the other educated laddies.”

Strong objected, “It’s no good commercially. Switching off a light when you leave a room is a matter of temperament. I’ve got it; you haven’t. If a man hasn’t got it, you can’t interest him in such a switch.”

“You can if power continues to be rationed. There is a power shortage now; and there will be a bigger one.” “Just temporary. This meeting will straighten it out.”

“George, there is nothing in this world so permanent as a temporary emergency. The switch will sell.” Strong took out a notebook and stylus. “I’ll call Ferguson in about it tomorrow.”

Harriman forgot the matter, never to think of it again. They had reached the roof; he waved to a taxi, then turned to Strong. “How much could we realize if we unloaded our holdings in

Roadways and in Belt Transport Corporation—yes, and in New World Homes?”

“Huh? Have you gone crazy?”

“Probably. But I’m going to need all the cash you can shake loose for me. Roadways and Belt Transport are no good anyhow; we should have unloaded earlier.” “You are crazy! It’s the one really conservative venture you’ve sponsored.”

“But it wasn’t conservative when I sponsored it. Believe me, George, roadtowns are on their way out. They are growing moribund, just as the railroads did. In a hundred years there won’t be a one left on the continent. What’s the formula for making money, George?”

“Buy low and sell high.”

“That’s only half of it… your half. We’ve got to guess which way things are moving, give them a boost, and see that we are cut in on the ground floor. Liquidate that stuff, George; I’ll need money to operate.” The taxi landed; they got in and took off.

The taxi delivered them to the roof of the Hemisphere Power Building they went to the power syndicate’s board room, as far below ground as the landing platform was above—in those days, despite years of peace, tycoons habitually came to rest at spots relatively immune to atom bombs. The room did not seem like a bomb shelter; it appeared to be a chamber in a luxurious penthouse, for a “view window” back of the chairman’s end of the table looked out high above the city, in convincing, live stereo, relayed from the roof.

The other directors were there before them. Dixon nodded as they came in, glanced at his watch finger and said, “Well, gentlemen, our bad boy is here, we may as well begin.” He took the chairman’s seat and rapped for order.

“The minutes of the last meeting are on your pads as usual. Signal when ready.” Harriman glanced at the summary before him and at once flipped a switch on the table top; a small green light flashed on at his place. Most of the directors did the same.

“Who’s holding up the procession?” inquired Harriman, looking around. “Oh—you, George. Get a move on.”

“I like to check the figures,” his partner answered testily, then flipped his own switch. Alarger green light showed in front of Chainnan Dixon, who then pressed a button; a transparency, sticking an inch or two above the table top in front of him lit up with the word RECORDING.

“Operations report,” said Dixon and touched another switch. Afemale voice came out from nowhere. Harriman followed the report from the next sheet of paper at his place. Thirteen Curie-type power piles were now in operation, up five from the last meeting. The Susquehanna and Charleston piles had taken over the load previously borrowed from Atlantic Roadcity and the roadways of that city were now up to normal speed. It was expected that the Chicago-Angeles road could be restored to speed during the next fortnight. Power would continue to be rationed but the crisis was over.

All very interesting but of no direct interest to Harriman. The power crisis that had been caused by the explosion of the power satellite was being satisfactorily met—very good, but Harriman’s interest in it lay in the fact that the cause of interplanetary travel had thereby received a setback from which it might not recover.

When the Harper-Erickson isotopic artificial fuels had been developed three years before it had seemed that, in addition to solving the dilemma of an impossibly dangerous power source which was also utterly necessary to the economic life of the continent, an easy means had been found to achieve interplanetary travel.

The Arizona power pile had been installed in one of the largest of the Antipodes rockets, the rocket powered with isotopic fuel created in the power pile itself, and the whole thing was placed in an orbit around the Earth. Amuch smaller rocket had shuttled between satellite and Earth, carrying supplies to the staff of the power pile, bringing back synthetic radioactive fuel for the power-hungry technology of Earth.

As a director of the power syndicate Harriman had backed the power satellite—with a private ax to grind: he expected to power a Moon ship with fuel manufactured in the power satellite and thus to achieve the first trip to the Moon almost at once. He had not even attempted to stir the Department of Defense out of its sleep; he wanted no government subsidy—the job was  a cinch; anybody could do it—and Harriman would do it. He had the ship; shortly he would have the fuel.

The ship had been a freighter of his own Antipodes line, her chem-fuel motors replaced, her wings removed. She still waited, ready for fuel—the recommissioned Santa Maria, nee City of Brisbane.

But the fuel was slow in coming. Fuel had to be eannarked for the shuttle rocket; the power needs of a rationed continent came next—and those needs grew faster than the power  satellite could turn out fuel. Far from being ready to supply him for a “useless” Moon trip, the syndicate had seized on the safe but less efficient low temperature uranium-salts and heavy water, Curie-type power piles as a means of using uranium directly to meet the ever growing need for power, rather than build and launch more satellites.

Unfortunately the Curie piles did not provide the fierce star-interior conditions necessary to breeding the isotopic fuels needed for an atomic-powered rocket. Harriman had reluctantly come around to the notion that he would have to use political pressure to squeeze the necessary priority for the fuels he wanted for the Santa Maria.

Then the power satellite had blown up.

Harriman was stirred out of his brown study by Dixon’s voice. “The operations report seems satisfactory, gentlemen. If there is no objection, it will be recorded as accepted. You will note that in the next ninety days we will be back up to the power level which existed before we were forced to close down the Arizona pile.”

“But with no provision for future needs,” pointed out Harriman. “There have been a lot of babies born while we have been sitting here.” “Is that an objection to accepting the report, D.D.?”

“No.”

“Very well. Now the public relations report—let me call attention to the first item, gentlemen. The vice-president in charge recommends a schedule of annuities, benefits, scholarships and so forth for dependents of the staff of the power satellite and of the pilot of the Charon: see appendix ‘C’.”

Adirector across from Harriman—Phineas Morgan, chairman of the food trust, Cuisine, Incorporated—protested, “What is this, Ed? Too bad they were killed of course, but we paid them skyhigh wages and carried their insurance to boot. Why the charity?”

Harriman grunted. “Pay it—I so move. It’s peanuts. ‘Do not bind the mouths of the kine who tread the grain.’” “I wouldn’t call better than nine hundred thousand ‘peanuts,’” protested Morgan.

“Just a minute, gentlemen—” It was the vice-president in charge of public relations, himself a director. “If you’ll look at the breakdown, Mr. Morgan, you will see that eighty-five percent of the appropriation will be used to publicize the gifts.”

Morgan squinted at the figures. “Oh—why didn’t you say so? Well, I suppose the gifts can be considered unavoidable overhead, but it’s a bad precedent.” “Without them we have nothing to publicize.”

“Yes, but—”

Dixon rapped smartly. “Mr. Harriman has moved acceptance. Please signal your desires.” The tally board glowed green; even Morgan, after hesitation, okayed the allotment. “We have a related item next,” said Dixon. “AMrs.—uh, Garfield, through her attorneys, alleges that we are responsible for the congenital crippled condition of her fourth child. The putative facts are that her child was being born just as the satellite exploded and that Mrs. Garfield was then on the meridian underneath the satellite. She wants the court to award her half a million.”

Morgan looked at Harriman. “Delos, I suppose that you will say to settle out of court.” “Don’t be silly. We fight it.”

Dixon looked around, surprised. “Why, D.D.? It’s my guess we could settle for ten or fifteen thousand—and that was what I was about to recommend. I’m surprised that the legal department referred it to publicity.”

“It’s obvious why; it’s loaded with high explosive. But we should fight, regardless of bad publicity. It’s not like the last case; Mrs. Garfield and her brat are not our people. And any dumb

fool knows you can’t mark a baby by radioactivity at birth; you have to get at the germ plasm of the previous generation at least. In the third place, if we let this get by, we’ll be sued for every double-yolked egg that’s laid from now on. This calls for an open allotment for defense and not one damned cent for compromise.”

“It might be very expensive,” observed Dixon.

“It’ll be more expensive not to fight. If we have to, we should buy the judge.”

The public relations chief whispered to Dixon, then announced, “I support Mr. Harriman’s view. That’s my department’s recommendation.”

It was approved. “The next item,” Dixon went on, “is a whole sheaf of suits arising out of slowing down the roadcities to divert power during the crisis. They alleged loss of business, loss of time, loss of this and that, but they are all based on the same issue. The most touchy, perhaps, is a stockholder’s suit which claims that Roadways and this company are so  interlocked that the decision to divert the power was not done in the interests of the stockholders of Roadways. Delos, this is your pidgin; want to speak on it?”

“Forget it.” “Why?”

“Those are shotgun suits. This corporation is not responsible; I saw to it that Roadways volunteered to sell the power because I anticipated this. And the directorates don’t interlock; not on paper, they don’t. That’s why dummies were born. Forget it—for every suit you’ve got there, Roadways has a dozen. We’ll beat them.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Well—” Harriman lounged back and hung a knee over the arm of his chair. “—a good many years ago I was a Western Union messenger boy. While waiting around the office I read everything I could lay hands on, including the contract on the back of the telegram forms. Remember those? They used to come in big pads of yellow paper; by writing a message on the face of the form you accepted the contract in the fine print on the backT only most people didn’t realize that. Do you know what that contract obhgated the company to do?”

“Send a telegram, I suppose.”

“It didn’t promise a durn thing. The company offered to attempt to deliver the message, by camel caravan or snail back, or some equally streamlined method, if convenient, but in event of failure, the company was not responsible. I read that fine print until I knew it by heart. It was the loveliest piece of prose I had ever seen. Since then all my contracts have been worded on the same principle. Anybody who sues Roadways will find that Roadways can’t be sued on the element of time, because time is not of the essence. In the event of complete non- performance—which hasn’t happened yet— Roadways is financially responsible only for freight charges or the price of the personal transportation tickets. So forget it.”

Morgan sat up. “D.D., suppose I decided to run up to my country place tonight, by the roadway, and there was a failure of some sort so that I didn’t get there until tomorrow? You mean to say Roadways is not liable?”

Harriman grinned. “Roadways is not liable even if you starve to death on the trip. Better use your copter.” He turned back to Dixon. “I move that we stall these suits and let Roadways carry the ball for us.”

“The regular agenda being completed,” Dixon announced later, “time is allotted for our colleague, Mr. Harriman, to speak on a subject of his own choosing. He has not listed a subject in advance, but we will listen until it is your pleasure to adjourn.”

Morgan looked sourly at Harriman. “I move we adjourn.”

Harriman grinned. “For two cents I’d second that and let you die of curiosity.” The motion failed for want of a second. Harriman stood up. “Mr. Chairman, friends—” He then looked at Morgan. “—and associates. As you know, I am interested in space travel.”                     Dixon looked at him sharply. “Not that again, Delos! If I weren’t in the chair, I’d move to adjourn myself.”

“‘That again’,” agreed Harriman. “Now and forever. Hear me out. Three years ago, when we were crowded into moving the Arizona power pile out into space, it looked as if we had a bonus in the shape of interplanetary travel. Some of you here joined with me in forming Spaceways, Incorporated, for experimentation, exploration—and exploitation.

“Space was conquered; rockets that could establish orbits around the globe could be modified to get to the Moon—and from there, anywhere! It was just a matter of doing it. The problems remaining were financial—and political.

“In fact, the real engineering problems of space travel have been solved since World World II. Conquering space has long been a matter of money and politics. But it did seem that the Harper-Erickson process, with its concomitant of a round-the-globe rocket and a practical economical rocket fuel, had at last made it a very present thing, so close indeed that I did not object when the early allotments of fuel from the satellite were earmarked for industrial power.”

He looked around. “I shouldn’t have kept quiet. I should have squawked and brought pressure and made a hairy nuisance of myself until you allotted fuel to get rid of me. For now we have missed our best chance. The satellite is gone; the source of fuel is gone. Even the shuttle rocket is gone. We are back where we were in 19 50. Therefore—”

He paused again. “Therefore—I propose that we build a space ship and send it to the Moon!”                                                Dixon broke the silence. “Delos, have you come unzipped? You just said that it was no longer possible. Now you say to build one.”

“I didn’t say it was impossible; I said we had missed our best chance. The time is overripe for space travel. This globe grows more crowded every day. In spite of technical advances the daily food intake on this planet is lower than it was thirty years ago—and we get 46 new babies every minute, 6;,ooo every day, 25,ooo,ooo every year. Our race is about to burst forth to the planets; if we’ve got the initiative Cod promised an oyster we will help it along!

“Yes, we missed our best chance-but the engineering details can be solved. The real question is who’s going to foot the bill? That is why I address you gentlemen, for right here in this room is the financial capital of this planet.”

Morgan stood up. “Mr. Chairman, if all company business is finished, I ask to be excused.”

Dixon nodded. Harriman said, “So long, Phineas. Don’t let me keep you. Now, as I was saying, it’s a money problem and here is where the money is. I move we finance a trip to the Moon.”

The proposal produced no special excitement; these men knew Harriman. Presently Dixon said, “Is there a second to D.D.’s proposal?”

“Just a minute, Mr. Chairman—” It was Jack Entenza, president of Two-Continents Amusement Corporation. “I want to ask Delos some questions.” He turned to Harriman. “D.D., you know I strung along when you set up Spaceways. It seemed like a cheap venture and possibly profitable in educational and scientific values—I never did fall for space liners plying between planets; that’s fantastic. I don’t mind playing along with your dreams to a moderate extent, but how do you propose to get to the Moon? As you say, you are fresh out of fuel.”

Harriman was still grinning. “Don’t kid me, Jack, I know why you came along. You weren’t interested in science; you’ve never contributed a dime to science. You expected a monopoly on pix and television for your chain. Well, you’ll get ‘em, if you stick with me—otherwise I’ll sign up ‘Recreations, Unlimited’; they’ll pay just to have you in the eye.”

Entenza looked at him suspiciously. “What will it cost me?”                                                    

“Your other shirt, your eye teeth, and your wife’s wedding ring—unless ‘Recreations’ will pay more.” “Damn you, Delos, you’re crookeder than a dog’s hind leg.”

“From you, Jack, that’s a compliment. We’ll do business. Now as to how I’m going to get to the Moon, that’s a silly question. There’s not a man in here who can cope with anything more complicated in the way of machinery than a knife and fork. You can’t tell a left-handed monkey wrench from a reaction engine, yet you ask me for blue prints of a space ship.

“Well, I’ll tell you how I’ll get to the Moon. I’ll hire the proper brain boys, give them everything they want, see to it that they have all the money they can use, sweet talk them into long hours

—then stand back and watch them produce. I’ll run it like the Manhattan Project—most of you remember the A-bomb job; shucks, some of you can remember the Mississippi Bubble. The

chap that headed up the Manhattan Project didn’t know a neutron from Uncle George—but he got results. They solved that trick four ways. That’s why I’m not worried about fuel; we’ll get a fuel. We’ll get several fuels.”

Dixon said, “Suppose it works? Seems to me you’re asking us to bankrupt the company for an exploit with no real value, aside from pure science, and a one-shot entertainment exploitation. I’m not against you—I wouldn’t mind putting in ten, fifteen thousand to support a worthy venture—but I can’t see the thing as a business proposition.”

Harriman leaned on his fingertips and stared down the long table. “Ten or fifteen thousand gum drops! Dan, I mean to get into you for a couple of megabucks at least—and before we’re through you’ll be hollering for more stock. This is the greatest real estate venture since the Pope carved up the New World. Don’t ask me what we’ll make a profit on; I can’t itemize the assets—but I can lump them. The assets are a planet—a whole planet, Dan, that’s never been touched. And more planets beyond it. If we can’t figure out ways to swindle a few fast  bucks out of a sweet set-up like that then you and I had better both go on relief. It’s like having Manhattan Island offered to you for twenty-four dollars and a case of whiskey.”

Dixon grunted. “You make it sound like the chance of a lifetime.”

“Chance of a lifetime, nuts! This is’ the greatest chance in all history. It’s raining soup; grab yourself a bucket.”

Next to Entenza sat Gaston P. Jones, director of Trans-America and half a dozen other banks, one of the richest men in the room. He carefully removed two inches of cigar ash, then said dryly, “Mr. Harriman, I will sell you all of my interest in the Moon, present and future, for fifty cents.”

Harriman looked delighted. “Sold!”

Entenza had been pulling at his lower lip and listening with a brooding expression on his face. Now he spoke up. “Just a minute, Mr. Jones—I’ll give you a dollar for it.” “Dollar fifty,” answered Harriman.

“Two dollars,” Entenza answered slowly. “Five!”

They edged each other up. At ten dollars Entenza let Harriman have it and sat back, still looking thoughtful. Harriman looked happily around. “Which one of you thieves is a lawyer?” he demanded. The remark was rhetorical; out of seventeen directors the normal percentage—eleven, to be exact—were lawyers. “Hey, Tony,” he continued, “draw me up an instrument right now that will tie down this transaction so that it couldn’t be broken before the Throne of God. All of Mr. Jones’ interests, rights, title, natural interest, future interests, interests held directly   or through ownership of stock, presently held or to be acquired, and so forth and so forth. Put lots of Latin in it. The idea is that every interest in the Moon that Mr. Jones now has or may acquire is mine-for a ten spot, cash in hand paid.” Harriman slapped a bill down on the table. “That right, Mr. Jones?”

Jones smiled briefly. “That’s right, young fellow.” He pocketed the bill. “I’ll frame this for my grandchildren—to show them how easy it is to make money.” Entenza’s eyes darted from Jones to Harriman.

“Good!” said Harriman. “Gentlemen, Mr. Jones has set a market price for one human being’s interest in our satellite. With around three billion persons on this globe that sets a price on the Moon of thirty billion dollars.” He hauled out a wad of money. “Any more suckers? I’m buying every share that’s offered, ten bucks a copy.”

“I’ll pay twenty!” Entenza rapped out.

Harriman looked at him sorrowfully. “Jack—don’t do that! We’re on the same team. Let’s take the shares together, at ten.”                                   

Dixon pounded for order. “Gentlemen, please conduct such transactions after the meeting is adjourned. Is there a second to Mr. Harriman’s motion?” Gaston Jones said, “I owe it to Mr. Harriman to second his motion, without prejudice. Let’s get on with a vote.”

No one objected; the vote was taken. It went eleven to three against Harriman—Harriman, Strong, and Entenza for; all others against. Harriman popped up before anyone could move to adjourn and said, “I expected that. My real purpose is this: since the company is no longer interested in space travel, will it do me the courtesy of selling me what I may need of patents, processes, facilities, and so forth now held by the company but relating to space travel and not relating to the production of power on this planet? Our brief honeymoon with the power satellite built up a backlog; I want to use it. Nothing formal—just a vote that it is the policy of the company to assist me in any way not inconsistent with the primary interest of the company. How about it, gentlemen? It’ll get me out of your hair.”

Jones studied his cigar again. “I see no reason why we should not accommodate him, gentlemen … and I speak as the perfect disinterested party.”                                                       

“I think we can do it, Delos,” agreed Dixon, “only we won’t sell you anything, we’ll lend it to you. Then, if you happen to hit the jackpot, the company still retains an interest. Has anyone any objection?” he said to the room at large.

There was none; the matter was recorded as company policy and the meeting was adjourned. Harriman stopped to whisper with Entenza and, finally, to make an appointment. Gaston Jones stood near the door, speaking privately with Chairman Dixon. He beckoned to Strong, Harriman’s partner. “George, may I ask a personal question?”

“I don’t guarantee to answer. Go ahead.”

“You’ve always struck me as a level-headed man. Tell me-why do you string along with Harriman? Why, the man’s mad as a hatter.”                                                                  

Strong looked sheepish. “I ought to deny that, he’s my friend … but I can’t. But dawggone it! Every time Delos has a wild hunch, it turns out to be the real thing. I hate to string along—it

makes me nervous—but I’ve learned to trust his hunches rather than another man’s sworn financial report.”

Jones cocked one brow. “The Midas touch, eh?” “You could call it that.”

“Well, remember what happened to King Midas—in the long run. Good day, gentlemen.”    Harriman had left Entenza; Strong joined him. Dixon stood staring at them, his face very thoughtful.

CHAPTER TWO

HARRIMAN’S HOME had been built at the time when everyone who could was decentralizing and going underground. Above ground there was a perfect little Cape Cod cottage—the clapboards of which concealed armor plate— and most delightful, skillfully landscaped grounds; below ground there was four or five times as much floorspace, immune to anything but  a direct hit and possessing an independent air supply with reserves for one thousand hours. During the Crazy Years the conventional wall surrounding the grounds had been replaced  by a wall which looked the same but which would stop anything short of a broaching tank—nor were the gates weak points; their gadgets were as personally loyal as a well-trained dog.

Despite its fortress-like character the house was comfortable. It was also very expensive to keep up. Harriman did not mind the expense; Charlotte liked the house and it gave her something to do. When they were first married she had lived uncomplainingly in a cramped flat over a

grocery store; if Charlotte now liked to play house in a castle, Harriman did not mind.

But he was again starting a shoe-string venture; the few thousand per month of ready cash represented by the household expenses might, at some point in the game, mean the difference between success and the sheriff’s bailiffs. That night at dinner, after the servants fetched the coffee, and port, he took up the matter.

“My dear, I’ve been wondering how you would like a few months in Florida.”

His wife stared at him. “Florida? Delos, is your mind wandering? Florida is unbearable at this time of the year.” “Switzerland, then. Pick your own spot. Take a real vacation, as long as you like.”                                   

“Delos, you are up to something.”

Harriman sighed. Being “up to something” was the unnameable and unforgivable crime for which any American male could be indicted, tried, convicted, and sentenced in one breath. He wondered how things had gotten rigged so that the male half of the race must always behave to suit feminine rules and feminine logic, like a snotty-nosed school boy in front of a stern teacher.

“In a way, perhaps. We’ve both agreed that this house is a bit of a white elephant. I was thinking of closing it, possibly even of disposing of the land— it’s worth more now than when we bought it. Then, when we get around to it, we could build something more modern and a little less like a bombproof.”

Mrs. Harriman was temporarily diverted. “Well, I have thought it might be nice to build another place, Delos—say a little chalet tucked away in the mountains, nothing ostentatious, not more than two servants, or three. But we won’t close this place until it’s built, Delos—after all, one must live somewhere.”

“I was not thinking of building right away,” he answered cautiously. “Why not? We’re not getting any younger, Delos; if we are to enjoy the good things of life we had better not make delays. You needn’t worry about it; I’ll manage everything.”

Harriman turned over in his mind the possibility of letting her build to keep her busy. If he earmarked the cash for her “little chalet,” she would live in a hotel nearby wherever she decided to build it—and he could sell this monstrosity they were sitting in. With the nearest roadcity now less than ten miles away, the land should bring more than Charlotte’s new house would cost and he would be rid of the monthly drain on his pocketbook.

“Perhaps you are right,” he agreed. “But suppose you do build at once; you won’t be living here; you’ll be supervising every detail of the new place. I say we should unload this place; it’s eating its head off in taxes, upkeep, and running expenses.”

She shook her head. “Utterly out of the question, Delos. This is my home.” He ground out an almost unsmoked cigar. “I’m sorry, Charlotte, but you can’t have it both ways. If you build, you can’t stay here. If you stay here, we’ll close these below-ground catacombs, fire about a dozen of the parasites I keep stumbling over, and live in the cottage on the surface. I’m cutting expenses.”

“Discharge the servants? Delos, if you think that I will undertake to make a home for you without a proper staff, you can just—”

“Stop it.” He stood up and threw his napkin down. “It doesn’t take a squad of servants to make a home. When we were first married you had no servants—and you washed and ironed my shirts in the bargain. But we had a home then. This place is owned by that staff you speak of. Well, we’re getting rid of them, all but the cook and a handy man.”

She did not seem to hear. “Delos! sit down and behave yourself. Now what’s all this about cutting expenses? Are you in some sort of trouble? Are you? Answer me!” He sat down wearily and answered, “Does a man have to be in trouble to want to cut out unnecessary expenses?”

“In your case, yes. Now what is it? Don’t try to evade me.”

“Now see here, Charlotte, we agreed a long time ago that I would keep business matters in the office. As for the house, we simply don’t need a house this size. It isn’t as if we had a passel of kids to fill up—”

“Oh! Blaming me for that again!”

“Now see here, Charlotte,” he wearily began again, “I never did blame you and I’m not blaming you now. All I ever did was suggest that we both see a doctor and find out what the trouble was we didn’t have any kids. And for twenty years you’ve been making me pay for that one remark. But that’s all over and done with now; I was simply making the point that two people don’t fill up twenty-two rooms. I’ll pay a reasonable price for a new house, if you want it, and give you an ample household allowance.” He started to say how much, then decided not to.  “Or you can close this place and live in the cottage above. It’s just that we are going to quit squandering money—for a while.”

She grabbed the last phrase. “‘For a while.’ What’s going on, Delos? What are you going to squander money on?” When he did not answer she went on. “Very well, if you won’t tell me, I’ll call George. He will tell me.”

“Don’t do that, Charlotte. I’m warning you. I’ll—”

“You’ll what!” She studied his face. “I don’t need to talk to George; I can tell by looking at you. You’ve got the same look on your face you had when you came home and told me that you had sunk all our money in those crazy rockets.”

“Charlotte, that’s not fair. Skyways paid off. It’s made us a mint of money.”

“That’s beside the point. I know why you’re acting so strangely; you’ve got that old trip-to-the-Moon madness again. Well, I won’t stand for it, do you hear? I’ll stop you; I don’t bave to put up with it. I’m going right down in the morning and see Mr. Kamens and find out what has to be done to make you behave yourself.” The cords of her neck jerked as she spoke.

He waited, gathering his temper before going on. “Charlotte, you have no real cause for complaint. No matter what happens to me, your future is taken care of.” “Do you think I want to be a widow?”

He looked thoughtfully at her. “I wonder.”

“Why— Why, you heartless beast.” She stood up. “We’ll say no more about it; do you mind?” She left without waiting for an answer.

His “man” was waiting for him when he got to his room. Jenkins got up hastily and started drawing Harriman’s bath. “Beat it,” Harriman grunted. “I can undress myself.” “You require nothing more tonight, sir?”

“Nothing. But don’t go unless you feel like it. Sit down and pour yourself a drink. Ed, how long you been married?” “Don’t mind if I do.” The servant helped himself. “Twenty-three years, come May, sir.”

“How’s it been, if you don’t mind me asking?” –                                                   

“Not bad. Of course there have been times—”                                                        

“I know what you mean. Ed, if you weren’t working for me, what would you be doing?”

“Well, the wife and I have talked many times of opening a little restaurant, nothing pretentious, but good. Aplace where a gentleman could enjoy a quiet meal of good food.” “Stag, eh?”

“No, not entirely, sir—but there would be a parlor’ for gentlemen only. Not even waitresses, I’d tend that room myself.” “Better look around for locations, Ed. You’re practically in business.”

CHAPTER THREE

STRONG ENTERED THEIR JOINT OFFICES the next morning at a precise nine o’clock, as usual. He was startled to find Harriman there before him. For Harriman to fail to show up at all meant nothing; for him to beat the clerks in was significant.

Harriman was busy with a terrestrial globe and a book—the current Nautical Almanac, Strong observed. Harriman barely glanced up. “Morning, George. Say, who’ve we got a line to in Brazil?”

“Why?”

“I need some trained seals who speak Portuguese, that’s why. And some who speak Spanish, too. Not to mention three or four dozen scattered around in this country. I’ve come across something very, very interesting. Look here… according to these tables the Moon only swings about twentyeight, just short of twenty-nine degrees north and south of the equator.” He held  a pencil against the globe and spun it. “Like that. That suggest anything?”

“No. Except that you’re getting pencil marks on a sixty dollar globe.”

“And you an old real estate operator! What does a man own when he buys a parcel of land?” “That depends on the deed. Usually mineral rights and other subsurface rights are-“

“Never mind that. Suppose he buys the works, without splitting the rights: how far down does he own? How far up does he own?”

“Well, he owns a wedge down to the center of the Earth. That was settled in the slant-drilling and off-set oil lease cases. Theoretically he used to own the space above the land, too, out

indefinitely, but that was modified by a series of cases after the commercial airlines came in—and a good thing, for us, too, or we would have to pay tolls every time one of our rockets took off for Australia.”

“No, no, no, George! you didn’t read those cases right. Right of passage was established—but ownership of the space above the land remained unchanged. And even right of passage was not absolute; you can build a thousand-foot tower on your own land right where airplanes, or rockets, or whatever, have been in the habit of passing and the ships will thereafter have to go above it, with no kick back on you. Remember how we had to lease the air south of Hughes Field to insure that our approach wasn’t built up?”

Strong looked thoughtful. “Yes. I see your point. The ancient principle of land ownership remains undisturbed—down to the center of the Earth, up to infinity. But what of it? It’s a purely theoretical matter. You’re not planning to pay tolls to operate those spaceships you’re always talking about, are you?” He grudged a smile at his own wit.

“Not on your tintype. Another matter entirely. George-who owns the Moon?” Strong’s jaw dropped, literally. “Delos, you’re joking.”

“I am not. I’ll ask you again: if basic law says that a man owns the wedge of sky above his farm out to infinity, who owns the Moon? Take a look at this globe and tell me.” Strong looked. “But it can’t mean anything, Delos. Earth laws wouldn’t apply to the Moon.”

“They apply here and that’s where I am worrying about it. The Moon stays constantly over a slice of Earth bounded by latitude twenty-nine north and the same distance south; if one man owned all that belt of Earth—it’s roughly the tropical zone-then he’d own the Moon, too, wouldn’t he? By all the theories of real property ownership that our courts pay any attention to. And, by direct derivation, according to the sort of logic that lawyers like, the various owners of that belt of land have title-good vendable title—to the Moon somehow lodged collectively in them. The fact that the distribution of the title is a little vague wouldn’t bother a lawyer; they grow fat on just such distributed titles every time a will is probated.”

“It’s fantastic!”

“George, when are you going to learn that ‘fantastic’ is a notion that doesn’t bother a lawyer?” “You’re not planning to try to buy the entire tropical zone-that’s what you would have to do.”

“No,” Harriman said slowly, “but it might not be a bad idea to buy right, title and interest in the Moon, as it may appear, from each of the sovereign countries in that belt. If I thought I could keep it quiet and not run the market up, I might try it. You can buy a thing awful cheap from a man if he thinks it’s worthless and wants to sell before you regain your senses.

“But that’s not the plan,” he went on. “George, I want corporations— local corporations—in every one of those countries. I want the legislatures of each of those countries to grant franchises to its local corporation for lunar exploration, exploitation, et cetera, and the right to claim lunar soil on behalf of the country—with fee simple, naturally, being handed on a silver platter to the patriotic corporation that thought up the idea. And I want all this done quietly, so that the bribes won’t go too high. We’ll own the corporations, of course, which is why I need a flock of trained seals. There is going to be one hell of a fight one of these days over who owns the Moon; I want the deck stacked so that we win no matter how the cards are dealt.”

“It will be ridiculously expensive, Delos. And you don’t even know that you will ever get to the Moon, much less that it will be worth anything after you get there.”

“We’ll get there! It’ll be more expensive not to establish these claims. Anyhow it need not be very expensive; the proper use of bribe money is a homoeopathic art—you use it as a catalyst. Back in the middle of the last century four men went from California to Washington with $40,000; it was all they had. Afew weeks later they were broke-but Congress had awarded them a billion dollars’ worth of railroad right of way. The trick is not to run up the market.”

Strong shook his head. “Your title wouldn’t be any good anyhow. The Moon doesn’t stay in one place; it passes over owned land certainly—but so does a migrating goose.”                 

“And nobody has title to a migrating bird. I get your point—but the Moon always stays over that one belt. If you move a boulder in your garden, do you lose title to it? Is it still real estate? Do

the title laws still stand? This is like that group of real estate cases involving wandering islands in the Mississippi, George—the land moved as the river cut new channels, but somebody

always owned it. In this case I plan to see to it that we are the ‘somebody.’”

Strong puckered his brow. “I seem to recall that some of those island-andriparian cases were decided one way and some another.” “We’ll pick the decisions that suit us. That’s why lawyers’ wives have mink coats. Come on, George; let’s get busy.”

“On what?”   “Raising the money.”

“Oh.” Strong looked relieved. “I thought you were planning to use our money.”

“I am. But it won’t be nearly enough. We’ll use our money for the senior financing to get things moving; in the meantime we’ve got to work out ways to keep the money rolling in.” He pressed a switch at his desk; the face of Saul Kamens, their legal chief of staff, sprang out at him. “Hey, Saul, can you slide in for a p0w-wow?”

“WThatever it is, just tell them ‘no,’” answered the attorney. “I’ll fix it.”                        

“Good. Now come on in—they’re moving Hell and I’ve got an option on the first ten loads.”

Kamens showed up in his own good time. Some minutes later Harriman had explained his notion for claiming the Moon ahead of setting foot on it. “Besides those dummy corporations,” he went on, “we need an agency that can receive contributions without having to admit any financial interest on the part of the contributor—like the National Geographic Society.”

Kamens shook his head. “You can’t buy the National Geographic Society.” “Damn it, who said we were going to? We’ll set up our own.”

“That’s what I started to say.”

“Good. As I see it, we need at least one tax-free, non-profit corporation headed up by the right people-we’ll hang on to voting control, of course. We’ll probably need more than one; we’ll set them up as we need them. And we’ve got to have at least one new ordinary corporation, not tax-free— but it won’t show a profit until we are ready. The idea is to let the nonprofit corporations have all of the prestige and all of the publicity—and the other gets all of the profits, if and when. We swap assets around between corporations, always for perfectly valid reasons, so that the non-profit corporations pay the expenses as we go along. Come to think about it, we had better have at least two ordinary corporations, so that we can let one of them go through bankruptcy if we find it necessary to shake out the water. That’s the general sketch. Get busy and fix it up so that it’s legal, will you?”

Kamens said, “You know, Delos, it would be a lot more honest if you did it at the point of a gun.” “Alawyer talks to me of honesty! Never mind, Saul; I’m not actually going to cheat anyone-“ “Humph!”

“—and I’m just going to make a trip to the Moon. That’s what everybody will be paying for; that’s what they’ll get. Now fix it up so that it’s legal, that’s a good boy.”

“I’m reminded of something the elder Vanderbilt’s lawyer said to the old man under similar circumstances: ‘It’s beautiful the way it is; why spoil it by making it legal?’ Okeh, brother gonoph, I’ll rig your trap. Anything else?”

“Sure. Stick around, you might have some ideas. George, ask Montgomery to come in, will you?” Montgomery, Harriman’s publicity chief, had two virtues in his employer’s eyes: he was personally loyal to Harriman, and, secondly, he was quite capable of planning a campaign to convince the public that Lady Godiva wore a Caresse-brand girdle during her famous ride

or that Hercules attributed his strength to Crunchies for breakfast. He arrived with a large portfolio under his arm. “Glad you sent for me, Chief. Get a load of this—” He spread the folder open on Harriman’s desk and began displaying sketches and layouts. “Kinsky’s work—is that boy hot!” Harriman closed the portfolio. “What outfit is it for?”

“Huh? New World Homes.”

“I don’t want to see it; we’re dumping New World Homes. Wait a minute-don’t start to bawl. Have the boys go through with it; I want the price kept up while we unload. But open your ears to another matter.” He explained rapidly the new enterprise.

Presently Montgomery was nodding. “When do we start and how much do we spend?”

“Right away and spend what you need to. Don’t get chicken about expenses; this is the biggest thing we’ve ever tackled.” Strong flinched; Harriman went on, “Have insomnia over it tonight; see me tomorrow and we’ll kick it around.”

“Wait a see, Chief. How are you going to sew up all those franchises from the, uh—the Moon states, those countries the Moon passes over, while a big publicity campaign is going on about a trip to the Moon and how big a thing it is for everybody? Aren’t you about to paint yourself into a corner?”

“Do I look stupid? We’ll get the franchise before you hand out so much as a filler—you’ll get ‘em, you and Kamens. That’s your first job.” “Hmmm… .” Montgomery chewed a thumb nail. “Well, all right—I can see some angles. How soon do we have to sew it up?”                

“I give you six weeks. Otherwise just mail your resignation in, written on the skin off your back.”

“I’ll write it right now, if you’ll help me by holding a mirror.”

“Damn it, Monty, I know you can’t do it in six weeks. But make it fast; we can’t take a cent in to keep the thing going until you sew up those franchises. If you dilly-dally, we’ll all starve-and we won’t get to the Moon, either.”

Strong said, “D.D., why fiddle with those trick claims from a bunch of moth-eaten tropical countries? If you are dead set on going to the Moon, let’s call Ferguson in and get on with the matter.”

“I like your direct approach, George,” Harriman said, frowning. “Mmmm back about i 84; or ‘46 an eager-beaver American army officer captured California. You know what the State Department did?”

“They made him hand it back. Seems he hadn’t touched second base, or something. So they had to go to the trouble of capturing it all over again a few months later. Now I don’t want that to happen to us. It’s not enough just to set foot on the Moon and claim it; we’ve got to validate that claim in terrestrial courts—or we’re in for a peck of trouble. Eh, Saul?”

Kamens nodded. “Remember what happened to Columbus.”            “Exactly. We aren’t going to let ourselves be rooked the way Columbus was.”

Montgomery spat out some thumb nail. “But, Chief—you know damn well those banana-state claims won’t be worth two cents after I do tie them up. Why not get a franchise right from the

U.N. and settle the matter? I’d as lief tackle that as tackle two dozen cockeyed legislatures. In fact I’ve got an angle already—we work it through the Security Council and—”

“Keep working on that angle; we’ll use it later. You don’t appreciate the full mechanics of the scheme, Monty. Of course those claims are worth nothing—except nuisance value. But their nuisance value is all important. Listen: we get to the Moon, or appear about to. Every one of those countries puts up a squawk; we goose them into it through the dummy corporations   they have enfranchised. Where do they squawk? To the U.N., of course. Now the big countries on this globe, the rich and important ones, are all in the northern temperate zone. They see what the claims are based on and they take a frenzied look at the globe. Sure enough, the Moon does not pass over a one of them. The biggest country of all—Russia-doesn’t own a spadeful of dirt south of twenty-nine north. So they reject all the claims.

“Or do they?” Harriman went on. “The U.S. balks. The Moon passes over Florida and the southern part of Texas. Washington is in a tizzy. Should they back up the tropical countries and support the traditional theory of land title or should they throw their weight to the idea that the Moon belongs to everyone? Or should the United States try to claim the whole thing, seeing as how it was Americans who actually got there first?

“At this point we creep out from under cover. It seems that the Moon ship was owned and the expenses paid by a non-profit corporation chartered by the U.N. itself—” “Hold it,” interrupted Strong. “I didn’t know that the U.N. could create corporations?”

“You’ll find it can,” his partner answered. “How about it, Saul?” Kamens nodded. “Anyway,” Harriman continued, “I’ve already got the corporation. I had it set up several years ago. It can do most anything of an educational or scientific nature-and brother, that covers a lot of ground! Back to the point—this corporation, the creature of the U.N., asks its parent to declare the    lunar colony autonomous territory, under the protection of the U.N. We won’t ask for outright membership at first because we want to keep it simple—”

“Simple, he calls it!” said Montgomery.

“Simple. This new colony will be a de facto sovereign state, holding title to the entire Moon, and—listen closely!—capable of buying, selling, passing laws, issuing title to land, setting up monopolies, collecting tariffs, et cetera without end. And we own it.”

“The reason we get all this is because the major states in the U.N. can’t think up a claim that sounds as legal as the claim made by the tropical states, they can’t agree among themselves as to how to split up the swag if they were to attempt brute force and the other major states aren’t willing to see the United States claim the whole thing. They’ll take the easy way out of their dilemma by appearing to retain title in the U.N. itself. The real title, the title controlling all economic and legal matters, will revert to us. Now do you see my point, Monty?”

Montgomery grinned. “Damned if I know if it’s necessary, Chief, but I love it. It’s beautiful.”                                                                                                                                      “Well, I don’t think so,” Strong grumbled. “Delos, I’ve seen you rig some complicated deals—some of them so devious that they turned even my stomach—but this one is the worst yet. I

think you’ve been carried away by the pleasure you get out of cooking up involved deals in which somebody gets double-crossed.”

Harriman puffed hard on his cigar before answering, “I don’t give a damn, George. Call it chicanery, call it anything you want to. I’m going to the Moon! If I have to manipulate a million people to accomplish it, I’ll do it.”

“But it’s not necessary to do it this way.” “Well, how would you do it?”

“Me? I’d set up a straightforward corporation. I’d get a resolution in Congress making my corporation the chosen instrument of the United States—” “Bribery?”

“Not necessarily. Influence and pressure ought to be enough. Then I would set about raising the money and make the trip.” “And the United States would then own the Moon?”

“Naturally,” Strong answered a little stiffly.

Harriman got up and began pacing. “You don’t see it, George, you don’t see it. The Moon was not meant to be owned by a single country, even the United States.” “It was meant to be owned by you, I suppose.”

“Well, if I own it—for a short while—I won’t misuse it and I’ll take care that others don’t. Damnation, nationalism should stop at the stratosphere. Can you see what would happen if the United States lays claim to the Moon? The other nations won’t recognize the claim. It will become a permanent bone of contention in the Security Council—just when we were beginning   to get straightened out to the point where a man could do business planning without having his elbow jogged by a war every few years. The other nations—quite rightfully—will be scared to death of the United States. They will be able to look up in the sky any night and see the main atom-bomb rocket base of the United States staring down the backs of their necks. Are   they going to hold still for it? No, sirree—they are going to try to clip off a piece of the Moon for their own national use. The Moon is too big to hold, all at once. There will be other bases established there and presently there will be the worst war this planet has ever seen—and we’ll be to blame.

“No, it’s got to be an arrangement that everybody will hold still for—and that’s why we’ve got to plan it, think of all the angles, and be devious about it until we are in a position to make it work.

“Anyhow, George, if we claim it in the name of the United States, do you know where we will be, as business men?” “In the driver’s seat,” answered Strong.

“In a pig’s eye! We’ll be dealt right out of the game. The Department of National Defense will say, ‘Thank you, Mr. Harriman. Thank you, Mr. Strong. We are taking over in the interests of

national security; you can go home now.’ And that’s just what we would have to do—go home and wait for the next atom war.

“I’m not going to do it, George. I’m not going to let the brass hats muscle in. I’m going to set up a lunar colony and then nurse it along until it is big enough to stand on its own feet. I’m telling you—all of you!—this is the biggest thing for the human race since the discovery of fire. Handled right, it can mean a new and braver world. Handle it wrong and it’s a one-way ticket to Armageddon. It’s coming, it’s coming soon, whether we touch it or not. But I plan to be the Man in the Moon myself—and give it my personal attention to see that it’s handled right.”

He paused. Strong said, “Through with your sermon, Delos?”

“No, I’m not,” Harriman denied testily. “You don’t see this thing the right way. Do you know what we may find up there?” He swung his arm in an arc toward the ceiling. “People!” “On the Moon?” said Kamens.

“Why not on the Moon?” whispered Montgomery to Strong.

“No, not on the Moon—at least I’d be amazed if we dug down and found anybody under that airless shell. The Moon has had its day; I was speaking of the other planets—Mars and Venus and the satellites of Jupiter. Even maybe out at the stars themselves. Suppose we do find people? Think what it will mean to us. We’ve been alone, all alone, the only intelligent race in the only world we know. We haven’t even been able to talk with dogs or apes. Any answers we got we had to think up by ourselves, like deserted orphans. But suppose we find people, intelligent people, who have done some thinking in their own way. We wouldn’t be alone any more! We could look up at the stars and never be afraid again.”

He finished, seeming a little tired and even a little ashamed of his outburst, like a man surprised in a private act. He stood facing them, searching their faces. “Gee whiz, Chief,” said Montgomery, “I can use that. How about it?”

“Think you can remember it?”                

“Don’t need to—I flipped on your ‘silent steno.” “Well, damn your eyes!”

“We’ll put it on video—in a play I think.”                                                                     

Harriman smiled almost boyishly. “I’ve never acted, but if you think it’ll do any good, I’m game.”

“Oh, no, not you, Chief,” Montgomery answered in horrified tones. “You’re not the type. I’ll use Basil Wilkes-Booth, I think. With his organlike voice and that beautiful archangel face, he’ll really send ‘em.”

Harriman glanced down at his paunch and said gruffly, “O.K.—back to business. Now about money. In the first place we can go after straight donations to one of the non-profit corporations, just like endowments for colleges. Hit the upper brackets, where tax deductions really matter. How much do you think we can raise that way?”

“Very little,” Strong opined. “That cow is about milked dry.”

“It’s never milked dry, as long as there are rich men around who would rather make gifts than pay taxes. How much will a man pay to have a crater on the Moon named after him?”  “I thought they all had names?” remarked the lawyer.

“Lots of them don’t—and we have the whole back face that’s not touched yet. We won’t try to put down an estimate today; we’ll just list it. Monty, I want an angle to squeeze dimes out of the school kids, too. Forty million school kids ‘at a dime a head is $4,000,000.00—we can use that.”

“Why stop at a dime?” asked Monty. “If you get a kid really interested he’ll scrape together a dollar.”    “Yes, but what do we offer him for it? Aside from the honor of taking part in a noble venture and so forth?”

“Mmmm… .” Montgomery used up more thumb nail. “Suppose we go after both the dimes and the dollars. For a dime he gets a card saying that he’s a member of the Moonbeam club—” “No, the ‘Junior Spacemen’.”

“O.K., the Moonbeams will be girls—and don’t forget to rope the Boy Scouts and Girl Scouts into it, too. We give each kid a card; when he kicks in another dime, we punch it. When he’s punched out a dollar, we give him a certificate, suitable for framing, with his name and some process engraving, and on the back a picture of the Moon.”

“On the front,” answered Harriman. “Do it in one print job; it’s cheaper and it’ll look better. We give him something else, too, a steelclad guarantee that his name will be on the rolls of the Junior Pioneers of the Moon, which same will be placed in a monument to be erected on the Moon at the landing site of the first Moon ship—in microfilm, of course; we have to watch weight.”

“Fine!” agreed Montgomery. “Want to swap jobs, Chief? V/hen he gets up to ten dollars we give him a genuine, solid gold-plated shooting star pin ~nd he’s a senior Pioneer, with the right to vote or something or other. And his name goes outside of the monument—microengraved on a platinum strip.”

Strong looked as if he had bitten a lemon. “What happens when he reaches a hundred dollars?” he asked.

“Why, then,” Montgomery answered happily, “we give him another card and he can start over. Don’t worry about it, Mr. Strong—if any kid goes that high, he’ll have his reward. Probably we will take him on an inspection tour of the ship before it takes off and give him, absolutely free, a picture of himself standing in front of it, with the pilot’s own signature signed across the bottom by some female clerk.”

“Chiseling from kids. Bah!”

“Not at all,” answered Montgomery in hurt tones. “Intangibles are the most honest merchandise anyone can sell. They are always worth whatever you are willing to pay for them and they never wear out. You can take them to your grave untarnished.”

“Hmmmph!”

Harriman listened to this, smiling and saying nothing. Kamens cleared his throat. “If you two ghouls are through cannibalizing the youth of the land, I’ve another idea.” “Spill it.”

“George, you collect stamps, don’t you?” “Yes.”

“How much would a cover be worth which had been to the Moon and been cancelled there?” “Huh? But you couldn’t, you know.”

“I think we could get our Moon ship declared a legal post office substation without too much trouble. What would it be worth?” “Uh, that depends on how rare they are.”

“There must be some optimum number which will fetch a maximum return. Can you estimate it?”

Strong got a faraway look in his eye, then took out an old-fashioned pencil and commenced to figure. Harriman went on, “Saul, my minor success in buying a share in the Moon from Jones went to my head. How about selling building lots on the Moon?”

“Let’s keep this serious, Delos. You can’t do that until you’ve landed there.”

“I am serious. I know you are thinking of that ruling back in the ‘forties that such land would have to be staked out and accurately described. I want to sell land on the Moon. You figure out  a way to make it legal. I’ll sell the whole Moon, if I can—surface rights, mineral rights, anything.”

“Suppose they want to occupy it?”

“Fine. The more the merrier. I’d like to point out, too, that we’ll be in a position to assess taxes on what we have sold. If they don’t use it and won’t pay taxes, it reverts to us. Now you figure out how to offer it, without going to jail. You may have to advertise it abroad, then plan to peddle it personally in this country, like Irish Sweepstakes tickets.”

Kamens looked thoughtful. “We could incorporate the land company in Panama and advertise by video and radio from Mexico. Do you really think you can sell the stuff?” “You can sell snowballs in Greenland,” put in Montgomery. “It’s a matter of promotion.”

Harriman added, “Did you ever read about the Florida land boom, Saul? People bought lots they had never seen and sold them at tripled prices without ever having laid eyes on them. Sometimes a parcel would change hands a dozen times before anyone got around to finding out that the stuff was ten-foot deep in water. We can offer bargains better than that—an acre,  a guaranteed dry acre with plenty of sunshine, for maybe ten dollars—or a thousand acres at a dollar an acre. Who’s going to turn down a bargain like that? Particularly after the rumor  gets around that the Moon is believed to be loaded with uranium?”

“Is it?”

“How should I know? When the boom sags a little we will announce the selected location of Luna City—and it will just happen to work out that the land around the site is still available for sale. Don’t worry, Saul, if it’s real estate, George and I can sell it. Why, down in the Ozarks, where the land stands on edge, we used to sell both sides of the same acre.” Harriman looked thoughtful. “I think we’ll reserve mineral rights—there just might actually be uranium there!”

Kamens chuckled. “Delos, you are a kid at heart. Just a great big, overgrown, lovable—juvenile delinquent.” Strong straightened up. “I make it half a million,” he said.

“Half a million what?” asked Harriman.

“For the cancelled philatelic covers, of course. That’s what we were talking about. Five thousand is my best estimate of the number that could be placed with serious collectors and with dealers. Even then we will have to discount them to a syndicate and hold back until the ship is built and the trip looks like a probability.”

“Okay,” agreed Harriman. “You handle it. I’ll just note that we can tap you for an extra half million toward the end.” “Don’t I get a commission?” asked Kamens. “I thought of it.”

“You get a rising vote of thanks—and ten acres on the Moon. Now what other sources of revenue can we hit?” “Don’t you plan to sell stock?” asked Kamens.

“I was coming to that. Of course-but no preferred stock; we don’t want to be forced through a reorganization. Participating common, non-voting—” “Sounds like another banana-state corporation to me.”

“Naturally—but I want some of it on the New York Exchange, and you’ll have to work that out with the Securities Exchange Commission somehow. Not too much of it—that’s our show case and we’ll have to keep it active and moving up.”

“Wouldn’t you rather I swam the Hellespont?”                      

“Don’t be like that, Saul. It beats chasing ambulances, doesn’t it?” “I’m not sure.”

“Well, that’s what I want you—wups!” The screen on Harriman’s desk had come to life. Agirl said, “Mr. Harriman, Mr. Dixon is here. He has no appointment but he says that you want to see him.”

“I thought I had that thing shut off,” muttered Harriman, then pressed his key and said, “O.K., show him in.” “Very well, sir—oh, Mr. Harriman, Mr. Entenza came in just this second.”

“Look who’s talking,” said Kamens.                                                                                                                                            Dixon came in with Entenza behind him. He sat down, looked around, started to speak, then checked himself. He looked around again, especially at Entenza. “Go ahead, Dan,” Harriman encouraged him. “‘Tain’t nobody here at all but just us chickens.”

Dixon made up his mind. “I’ve decided to come in with you, D.D.,” he announced. “As an act of faith I went to the trouble of getting this.” He took a formal-looking instrument from his pocket and displayed it. It was a sale of lunar rights, from Phineas Morgan to Dixon, phrased in exactly the same fashion as that which Jones had granted to Harriman.

Entenza looked startled, then dipped into his own inner coat pocket. Out came three more sales contracts of the same sort, each from a director of the power syndicate. Harriman cocked an eyebrow at them. “Jack sees you and raises you two, Dan. You want to call?”

Dixon smiled ruefully. “I can just see him.” He added two more to the pile, grinned and offered his hand to Entenza.

“Looks like a stand off.” Harriman decided to say nothing just yet about seven telestated contracts now locked in his desk—after going to bed the night before he had been quite busy on the phone almost till midnight. “Jack, how much did you pay for those things?”

“Standish held out for a thousand; the others were cheap.”                                     

“Damn it, I warned you not to run the price up. Standish will gossip. How about you, Dan?” “I got them at satisfactory prices.”

“So you won’t talk, eh? Never mind—gentlemen, how serious are you about this? How much money did you bring with you?” Entenza looked to Dixon, who answered, “How much does it take?”

“How much can you raise?” demanded Harriman.                                       Dixon shrugged. “We’re getting no place. Let’s use figures. Ahundred thousand.”

Harriman sniffed. “I take it what you really want is to reserve a seat on the first regularly scheduled Moon ship. I’ll sell it to you at that price.” “Let’s quit sparring, Delos. How much?”

Harriman’s face remained calm but he thought furiously. He was caught short, with too little information—he had not even talked figures with his chief engineer as yet. Confound it! Why had he left that phone hooked in? “Dan, as I warned you, it will cost you at least a million just to sit down in this game.”

“So I thought. How much will it take to stay in the game?” “All you’ve got.”                                                    

“Don’t be silly, Delos. I’ve got more than you have.”

Harriman lit a cigar, his only sign of agitation. “Suppose you match us, dollar for dollar.” “For which I get two shares?”

“Okay, okay, you chuck in a buck whenever each of us does—share and share alike. But I run things.”

“You run the operations,” agreed Dixon. “Very well, I’ll put up a million now and match you as necessary. You have no objection to me having my own auditor, of course.” “When have I ever cheated you, Dan?”

“Never and there is no need to start.”                                                                          

“Have it your own way—but be damned sure you send a man who can keep his mouth shut.” “He’ll keep quiet. I keep his heart in a jar in my safe.”

Harriman was thinking about the extent of Dixon’s assets. “We just might let you buy in with a second share later, Dan. This operation will be expensive.” Dixon fitted his finger tips carefully together. “We’ll meet that question when we come to it. I don’t believe in letting an enterprise fold up for lack of capital.” “Good.” Harriman turned to Entenza. “You heard what Dan had to say, Jack. Do you like the terms?”

Entenza’s forehead was covered with sweat. “I can’t raise a million that fast.”

“That’s all right, Jack. We don’t need it this morning. Your note is good; you can take your time liquidating.”

“But you said a million is just the beginning. I can’t match you indefinitely; you’ve got to place a limit on it. I’ve got my family to consider.” “No annuities, Jack? No monies transferred in an irrevocable trust?”

“That’s not the point. You’ll be able to squeeze me-freeze me out.”

Harriman waited for Dixon to say something. Dixon finally said, “We wouldn’t squeeze you, Jack—as long as you could prove you had converted every asset you hold. We would let you stay in on a pro rata basis.”

Harriman nodded. “That’s right, Jack.” He was thinking that any shrinkage in Entenza’s share would give himself and Strong a clear voting majority.           Strong had been thinking of something of the same nature, for he spoke up suddenly, “I don’t like this. Four equal partners—we can be deadlocked too easily.” Dixon shrugged. “I refuse to worry about it. I am in this because I am betting that Delos can manage to make it profitable.”

“We’ll get to the Moon, Dan!”

“I didn’t say that. I am betting that you will show a profit whether we get to the Moon or not. Yesterday evening I spent looking over the public records of several of your companies; they were very interesting. I suggest we resolve any possible deadlock by giving the Director—that’s you, Delos— the power to settle ties. Satisfactory, Entenza?”

“Oh, sure!”

Harriman was worried but tried not to show it. He did not trust Dixon, even bearing gifts. He stood up suddenly. “I’ve got to run, gentlemen. I leave you to Mr. Strong and Mr. Kamens.  Come along, Monty.” Kamens, he was sure, would not spill anything prematurely, even to nominal full partners. As for Strong—George, he knew, had not even let his left hand know how many fingers there were on his right.

He dismissed Montgomery outside the door of the partners’ personal office and went across the hall. Andrew Ferguson, chief engineer of Harriman Enterprises, looked up as he came in. “Howdy, Boss. Say, Mr. Strong gave me an interesting idea for a light switch this morning. It did not seem practical at first but—”

“Skip it. Let one of the boys have it and forget it. You know the line we are on now.” “There have been rumors,” Ferguson answered cautiously.

“Fire the man that brought you the rumor. No-send him on a special mission to Tibet and keep him there until we are through. Well, let’s get on with it. I want you to build a Moon ship as quickly as possible.”

Ferguson threw one leg over the arm of his chair, took out a pen knife and began grooming his nails. “You say that like it was an order to build a privy.”                                          

“Why not? There have been theoretically adequate fuels since way back in ‘49. You get together the team to design it and the gang to build it; you build it—I pay the bills. What could be

simpler?”

Ferguson stared at the ceiling. “‘Adequate fuels—’” he repeated dreamily.

“So I said. The figures show that hydrogen and oxygen are enough to get a step rocket to the Moon and back—it’s just a matter of proper design.”

“‘Proper design,’ he says,” Ferguson went on ifl the same gentle voice, then suddenly swung around, jabbed the knife into the scarred desk top and bellowed, “What do you know about proper design? Where do I get the steels? What do I use for a throat liner? How in the hell do I burn enough tons of your crazy mix per second to keep from wasting all my power breaking loose? How can I get a decent mass-ratio with a step rocket? Why in the hell didn’t you let me build a proper ship when we had the fuel?”

Harriman waited for him to quiet down, then said, “What do we do about it, Andy?”

“Hmmm… . I was thinking about it as I lay abed last night—and my old lady is sore as hell at you; I had to finish the night on the couch. In the first place, Mr. Harriman, the proper way to tackle this is to get a research appropriation from the Department of National Defense. Then you—”

“Damn it, Andy, you stick to engineering and let me handle the political and financial end of it. I don’t want your advice.”

“Damn it, Delos, don’t go off half-cocked. This is engineering I’m talking about. The government owns a whole mass of former art about rocketry—all classified. Without a government contract you can’t even get a peek at it.”

“It can’t amount to very much. What can a government rocket do that a Skyways rocket can’t do? You told me yourself that Federal rocketry no longer amounted to anything.” Ferguson looked supercilious. “I am afraid I can’t explain it in lay terms. You will have to take it for granted that we need those government research reports. There’s no sense in

spending thousands of dollars in doing work that has already been done.”

“Spend the thousands.” “Maybe millions.”

“Spend the millions. Don’t be afraid to spend money. Andy, I don’t want this to be a military job.” He considered elaborating to the engineer the involved politics back of his decision, thought better of it. “How bad do you actually need that government stuff? Can’t you get the same results by hiring engineers who used to work for the government? Or even hire them away from the government right now?”

Ferguson pursed his lips. “If you insist on hampering me, how can you expect me to get results?”

“I am not hampering you. I am telling you that this is not a government project. If you won’t attempt to cope with it on those terms, let me know now, so that I can find somebody who will.” Ferguson started playing mumblety-peg on his desk top. When he got to “noses”—and missed—he said quietly, “I mind a boy who used to work for the government at White Sands. He

was a very smart lad indeed-design chief of section.”

“You mean he might head up your team?” “That was the notion.”

“What’s his name? Where is he? Who’s he working for?”

“Well, as it happened, when the government closed down White Sands, it seemed a shame to me that a good boy should be out of a job, so I placed him with Skyways. He’s maintenance chief engineer out on the Coast.”

“Maintenance? What a hell of a job for a creative man! But you mean he’s working for us now? Get him on the screen. No—call the coast and have them send him here in a special rocket; we’ll all have lunch together.”

“As it happens,” Ferguson said quietly, “I got up last night and called him—that’s what annoyed the Missus. He’s waiting outside. Coster—Bob Coster.” Aslow grin spread over Harriman’s face. “Andy! You black-hearted old scoundrel, why did you pretend to balk?”

“I wasn’t pretending. I like it here, Mr. Harriman. Just as long as you don’t interfere, I’ll do my job. Now my notion is this: we’ll make young Coster chief engineer of the project and give him his head. I won’t joggle his elbow; I’ll just read the reports. Then you leave him alone, d’you hear me? Nothing makes a good technical man angrier than to have some incompetent nitwit with a check book telling him how to do his job.”

“Suits. And I don’t want a penny-pinching old fool slowing him down, either. Mind you don’t interfere with him, either, or I’ll jerk the rug out from under you. Do we understand each other?”  “I think we do.”

“Then get him in here.”

Apparently Ferguson’s concept of a “lad” was about age thirty-five, for such Harriman judged Coster to be. He was tall, lean, and quietly eager. Harriman braced him immediately after shaking hands with, “Bob, can you build a rocket that will go to the Moon?”

Coster took it without blinking. “Do you have a source of X-fuel?” he countered, giving the rocket man’s usual shorthand for the isotope fuel formerly produced by the power satellite. Coster remained perfectly quiet for several seconds, then answered, “I can put an unmanned messenger rocket on the face of the Moon.”                                                          

“Not good enough. I want it to go there, land, and come back. Whether it lands here under power or by atmosphere braking is unimportant.”                                                            

It appeared that Coster never answered promptly; Harriman had the fancy that he could hear wheels turning over in the man’s head. “That would be a very expensive job.”           “Who asked you how much it would cost? Can you do it?”

“I could try.”

“Try, hell. Do you think you can do it? Would you bet your shirt on it? Would you be willing to risk your neck in the attempt? If you don’t believe in yourself, man, you’ll always lose.” “How much will you risk, sir? I told you this would be expensive-and I doubt if you have any idea how expensive.”                                                                                           “And I told you not to worry about money. Spend what you need; it’s my job to pay the bills. Can you do it?”

“I can do it. I’ll let you know later how much it will cost and how long it will take.”

“Good. Start getting your team together. Where are we going to do this, Andy?” he added, turning to Ferguson. “Australia?” “No.” It was Coster who answered. “It can’t be Australia; I want a mountain catapult. That will save us one step-combination.” “How big a mountain?” asked Harriman~ “Will Pikes Peak do?”

“It ought to be in the Andes,” objected Ferguson. “The mountains are taller and closer to the equator. After all, we own facilities there—or the Andes Development Company does.”

“Do as you like, Bob,” Harriman told Coster. “I would prefer Pikes Peak, but it’s up to you.” He was thinking that there were tremendous business advantages to locating Earth’s space port ~ i inside the United States—and he could visualize the advertising advantage of having Moon ships blast off from the top of Pikes Peak, in plain view of everyone for hundreds of miles to the East.

“I’ll let you know.”

“Now about salary. Forget whatever it was we were paying you; how much do you want?” Coster actually gestured, waving the subject away. “I’ll work for coffee and cakes.”   “Don’t be silly.”

“Let me finish. Coffee and cakes and one other thing: I get to make the trip.

Harriman blinked. “Well, I can understand that,” he said slowly. “In the meantime I’ll put you on a drawing account.” He added, “Better calculate for a three-man ship, unless you are a pilot.”

“I’m not.”

“Three men, then. You see, I’m going along, too.”

CHAPTER FOUR

“AGOOD THING YOU DECIDED to come in, Dan,” Harriman was saying, “or you would find yourself out of a job. I’m going to put an awful crimp in the power company before I’m through with this.”

Dixon buttered a roll. “Really? How?”

“We’ll set up high-temperature piles, like the Arizona job, just like the one that blew up, around the corner on the far face of the Moon. We’ll remote-control them; if one explodes it won’t matter. And I’ll breed more X-fuel in a week than the company turned out in three months. Nothing personal about it; it’s just that I want a source of fuel for interplanetary liners. If we can’t get good stuff here, we’ll have to make it on the Moon.”

“Interesting. But where do you propose to get the uranium for six piles? The last I heard the Atomic Energy Commission had the prospective supply earmarked twenty years ahead.” “Uranium? Don’t be silly; we’ll get it on the Moon.”

“On the Moon? Is there uranium on the Moon?”                              

“Didn’t you know? I thought that was why you decided to join up with me?” “No, I didn’t know,” Dixon said deliberately. “What proof have you?”

“Me? I’m no scientist, but it’s a well-understood fact. Spectroscopy, or something. Catch one of the professors. But don’t go showing too much interest; we aren’t ready to show our hand.” Harriman stood up. “I’ve got to run, or I’ll miss the shuttle for Rotterdam. Thanks for the lunch.” He grabbed his hat and left.

Harriman stood up. “Suit yourself, Mynheer van der Velde. I’m giving you and your colleagues a chance to hedge your bets. Your geologists all agree that diamonds result from volcanic action. What do you think we will find there?” He dropped a large photograph of the Moon on the Hollander’s desk.

The diamond merchant looked impassively at the pictured planet, pockmarked by a thousand giant craters. “If you get there, Mr. Harriman.”

Harriman swept up the picture. “We’ll get there. And we’ll find diamonds—though I would be the first to admit that it may be twenty years or even forty before there is a big enough strike to matter. I’ve come to you because I believe that the worst villain in our social body is a man who introduces a major new economic factor without planning his innovation in such a way as  to permit peaceful adjustment. I don’t like panics. But all I can do is warn you. Good day.”

“Sit down, Mr. Harriman. I’m always confused when a man explains how he is going to do me good. Suppose you tell me instead how this is going to do you good? Then we can discuss

how to protect the world market against a sudden influx of diamonds from the Moon.”

Harriman sat down.

Harriman liked the Low Countries. He was delighted to locate a dog-drawn milk cart whose young master wore real wooden shoes; he happily took pictures and tipped the child heavily, unaware that the set-up was arranged for tourists. He visited several other diamond merchants but without speaking of the Moon. Among other purchases he found a brooch for Charlotte— a peace offering.

Then he took a taxi to London, planted a story with the representatives of the diamond syndicate there, arranged with his London solicitors to be insured by Lloyd’s of London through a dummy, against a successful Moon flight, and called his home office. He listened to numerous reports, especially those concerning Montgomery, and found that Montgomery was in New Delhi. He called him there, spoke with him at length, then hurried to the port just in time to catch his ship. He was in Colorado the next morning.

At Peterson Field, east of Colorado Springs, he had trouble getting through the gate, even though it was now his domain, under lease. Of course he could have called Coster and gotten it straightened out at once, but he wanted to look around before seeing Coster. Fortunately the head guard knew him by sight; he got in and wandered around for an hour or more, a tn- colored badge pinned to his coat to give him freedom.

The machine shop was moderately busy, so was the foundry … but most of the shops were almost deserted. Harriman left the shops, went into the main engineering building. The drafting room and the loft were fairly active, as was the computation section. But there were unoccupied desks in the structures group and a churchlike quiet in the metals group and in the adjoining metallurgical laboratory. He was about to cross over into the chemicals and materials annex when Coster suddenly showed up.

“Mr. Harriman! I just heard you were here.”

“Spies everywhere,” remarked Harriman. “I didn’t want to disturb you.” “Not at all. Let’s go up to my office.”

Settled there a few moments later Harriman asked, “Well—how’s it going?” Coster frowned. “All right, I guess.”

Harriman noted that the engineer’s desk baskets were piled high with papers which spilled over onto the desk. Before Harriman could answer, Coster’s desk phone lit up and a feminine voice said sweetly, “Mr. Coster— Mr. Morgenstern is calling.”

“Tell him I’m busy.”

After a short wait the girl answered in a troubled voice, “He says he’s just got to speak to you, sir.” Coster looked annoyed. “Excuse me a moment, Mr. Harriman—O.K., put him on.”

The girl was replaced by a man who said, “Oh there you are-what was the hold up? Look, Chief, we’re in a jam about these trucks. Every one of them that we leased needs an overhaul and now it turns out that the White Fleet company won’t do anything about it—they’re sticking to the fine print in the contract. Now the way I see it, we’d do better to cancel the contract and do business with Peak City Transport. They have a scheme that looks good to me. They guarantee to—”

“Take care of it,” snapped Coster. “You made the contract and you have authority to cancel. You know that.”          

“Yes, but Chief, I figured this would be something you would want to pass on personally. It involves policy and—” “Take care of it! I don’t give a damn what you do as long as we have transportation when we need it.” He switched off. “Who is that man?” inquired Harriman.

“Who? Oh, that’s Morgenstern, Claude Morgenstem.” “Not his name—what does he do?”

“He’s one of my assistants—buildings, grounds, and transportation.” “Fire him!”

Coster looked stubborn. Before he could answer a secretary came in and stood insistently at his elbow with a sheaf of papers. He frowned, initialed them, and sent her out. “Oh, I don’t mean that as an order,” Harriman added, “but I do mean it as serious advice. I won’t give orders in your backyard,—but will you listen to a few minutes of advice?” “Naturally,” Coster agreed stiffly.

“Mmm … this your first job as top boss?” Coster hesitated, then admitted it.

“I hired you on Ferguson’s belief that you were the engineer most likely to build a successful Moon ship. I’ve had no reason to change my mind. But top administration ain’t engineering, and maybe I can show you a few tricks there, if you’ll let me.” He waited. “I’m not criticizing,” he added. “Top bossing is like sex; until you’ve had it, you don’t know about it.” Harriman had the mental reservation that if the boy would not take advice, he would suddenly be out of a job, whether Ferguson liked it or not.

Coster drummed on his desk. “I don’t know what’s wrong and that’s a fact. It seems as if I can’t turn anything over to anybody and have it done properly. I feel as if I were swimming in quicksand.”

“Done much engineering lately?”                                                                  

“I try to.” Coster waved at another desk in the corner. “I work there, late at night.”

“That’s no good. I hired you as an engineer. Bob, this setup is all wrong. The joint ought to be jumping—and it’s not. Your office ought to be quiet as a grave. Instead your office is jumping and the plant looks like a graveyard.”

Coster buried his face in his hands, then looked up. “I know it. I know what needs to be done-but every time I try to tackle a technical problem some bloody fool wants me to make a decision about trucks—or telephones—or some damn thing. I’m sorry, Mr. Harriman. I thought I could do it.” Harriman said very gently, “Don’t let it throw you, Bob. You haven’t had much sleep lately, have you? Tell you what—we’ll put over a fast one on Ferguson. I’ll take that desk you’re at for a few days and build you a set-up to protect you against such things. I want that brain of yours thinking about reaction vectors and fuel efficiencies and design stresses, not about contracts for trucks.” Harriman stepped to the door, looked around the outer office and spotted a man who might or might not be the office’s chief clerk. “Hey, you! C’mere.”

The man looked startled, got up, came to the door and said, “Yes?”

“I want that desk in the corner and all the stuff that’s on it moved to an empty office on this floor, right away.” The clerk raised his eyebrows. “And who are you, if I may ask?”

“Damn it—”

“Do as he tells you, Weber,” Coster put in.

“I want it done inside of twenty minutes,” added Harriman. “Jump!” He turned back to Coster’s other desk, punched the phone, and presently was speaking to the main offices of Skyways. “Jim, is your boy Jock Berkeley around? Put him on leave and send him to me, at Peterson Field, right away, special trip. I want the ship he comes in to raise ground ten minutes after we sign off. Send his gear after him.” Harriman listened for a moment, then answered, “No, your organization won’t fall apart if you lose Jock— or, if it does, maybe we’ve been paying the wrong man the top salary .

“Okay, okay, you’re entitled to one swift kick at my tail the next time you catch up with me but send Jock. So long.”

He supervised getting Coster and his other desk moved into another office, saw to it that the phone in the new office was disconnected, and, as an afterthought, had a couch moved in there, too. “We’ll install a projector, and a drafting machine and bookcases and other junk like that tonight,” he told Coster. “Just make a list of anything you need—to work on engineering. And call me if you want anything.” He went back to the nominal chiefengineer’s office and got happily to work trying to figure where the organization stood and what was wrong with it.

Some four hours later he took Berkeley in to meet Coster. The chief engineer was asleep at his desk, head cradled on his arms. Harriman started to back out, but Coster roused. “Oh! Sorry,” he said, blushing, “I must have dozed off.”

“That’s why I brought you the couch,” said Harriman. “It’s more restful. Bob, meet Jock Berkeley. He’s your new slave. You remain chief engineer and top, undisputed boss. Jock is Lord High Everything Else. From now on you’ve got absolutely nothing to worry about—except for the little detail of building a Moon ship.”

They shook hands. “Just one thing I ask, Mr. Coster,” Berkeley said seriously, “bypass me all you want to-you’ll have to run the technical show—but for God’s sake record it so I’ll know what’s going on. I’m going to have a switch placed on your desk that will operate a sealed recorder at my desk.”

“Fine!” Coster was looking, Harriman thought, younger already.

“And if you want something that is not technical, don’t do it yourself. Just flip a switch and whistle; it’ll get done!” Berkeley glanced at Harriman. “The Boss says he wants to talk with you about the real job. I’ll leave you and get busy.” He left.

Harriman sat down; Coster followed suit and said, “Whew!” “Feel better?”

“I like the looks of that fellow Berkeley.”

“That’s good; he’s your twin brother from now on. Stop worrying; I’ve used him before. You’ll think you’re living in a well-run hospital. By the way, where do you live?” “At a boarding house in the Springs.”

“That’s ridiculous. And you don’t even have a place here to sleep?” Harriman reached over to Coster’s desk, got through to Berkeley. “Jock—get a suite for Mr. Coster at the Broadmoor, under a phony name.”

“Right.”

“And have this stretch along here adjacent to his office fitted out as an apartment.” “Right. Tonight.”

“Now, Bob, about the Moon ship. Where do we stand?”

They spent the next two hours contentedly running over the details of the problem, as Coster had laid them out. Admittedly very little work had been done since the field was leased but Coster had accomplished considerable theoretical work and computation before he had gotten swamped in administrative details. Harriman, though no engineer and certainly not a mathematician outside the primitive arithmetic of money, had for so long devoured everything he could find about space travel that he was able to follow most of what Coster showed him.

“I don’t see anything here about your mountain catapult,” he said presently. Coster looked vexed. “Oh, that! Mr. Harriman, I spoke too quickly.”

“Huh? How come? I’ve had Montgomery’s boys drawing up beautiful pictures of what things will look like when we are running regular trips. I intend to make Colorado Springs the spaceport capital of the world. We hold the franchise of the old cog railroad now; what’s the hitch?”

“Well, it’s both time and money.” “Forget money. That’s my pidgin.”

“Time then. I still think an electric gun is the best way to get the initial acceleration for a chem-powered ship. Like this—” He began to sketch rapidly. “It enables you to omit the first step- rocket stage, which is bigger than all the others put together and is terribly inefficient, as it has such a poor mass-ratio. But what do you have to do to get it? You can’t build a tower, not a tower a couple of miles high, strong enough to take the thrusts—not this year, anyway. So you have to use a mountain. Pikes Peak is as good as any; it’s accessible, at least.

“But what do you have to do to use it? First, a tunnel in through the side, from Manitou to just under the peak, and big enough to take the loaded ship—” “Lower it down from the top,” suggested Harriman.

Coster answered, “I thought of that. Elevators two miles high for loaded space ships aren’t exactly built out of string, in fact they aren’t built out of any available materials. It’s possible to gimmick the catapult itself so that the accelerating coils can be reversed and timed differently to do the job, but believe me, Mr. Harrima; it will throw you into other engineering problems quite as great … such as a giant railroad up to the top of the ship. And it still leaves you with the shaft of the catapult itself to be dug. It can’t be as small as the ship, not like a gun barrel for a bullet. It’s got to be considerably larger; you don’t compress a column of air two miles high with impunity. Oh, a mountain catapult could be built, but it might take ten years—or longer.”

“Then forget it. We’ll build it for the future but not for this flight. No, wait—how about a surface catapult. We scoot up the side of the mountain and curve it up at the end?”                 “Quite frankly, I think something like that is what will eventually be used. But, as of today, it just creates new problems. Even if we could devise an electric gun in which you could make

that last curve—we can’t, at present— the ship would have to be designed for terrific side stresses and all the additional weight would be parasitic so far as our main purpose is

concerned, the design of a rocket ship.”

“Well, Bob, what is your solution?”                                                    Coster frowned. “Go back to what we know how to do—build a step rocket.”

CHAPTER FIVE

“MONTY—”

“Yeah, Chief?”

“Have you ever heard this song?” Harriman hummed, “The Moon belongs to everyone; the best things in life are free—,” then sang it, badly off key. “Can’t say as I ever have.” “It was before your time. I want it dug out again. I want it revivcd, plugged until Hell wouldn’t have it, and on everybody’s lips.”

 “O.K.” Montgomery took out his memorandum pad. “When do you want it to reach its top?”                                      

Harriman considered. “In, say, about three months. Then I want the first phrase picked up and used in advertising slogans.” “Acinch.”

“How are things in Florida, Monty?”

“I thought we were going to have to buy the whole damned legislature until we got the rumor spread around that Los Angeles had contracted to have a City-Limits-of-Los-Angeles sign planted on the Moon for publicity pix. Then they came around.”

“Good.” Harriman pondered. “You know, that’s not a bad idea. How much do you think the Chamber of Commerce of Los Angeles would pay for such a picture?” Montgomery made another note. “I’ll look into it.”

“I suppose you are about ready to crank up Texas, now that Florida is loaded?” “Most any time now. We’re spreading a few snide rumors first.”

Headline from Dallas-Fort Worth Banner: “THE MOON BELONGS TO TEXAS!!!”

“—and that’s all for tonight, kiddies. Don’t forget to send in those box tops, or reasonable facsimiles. Remember—first prize is a thousand-acre ranch on the Moon itself, free and clear; the second prize is a six-foot scale model of the actual Moon ship, and there are fifty, count them, fifty third prizes, each a saddle-trained Shetland pony. Your hundred word composition ‘Why I want to go to the Moon’ will be judged for sincerity and originality, not on literary merit. Send those boxtops to Uncle Taffy, Box 214, Juarez, Old Mexico.”

Harriman was shown into the office of the president of the Moka-Coka Company (“Only a Moke is truly a coke”—~ “Drink the Cola drink with the Lift”). He paused at the door, some twenty feet from the president’s desk and quickly pinned a two-inch wide button to his lapel.

Patterson Griggs looked up. “Well, this is really an honor, D.D. Do come in and—” The soft-drink executive stopped suddenly, his expression changed. “What are you doing wearing that?” he snapped. “Trying to annoy me?”

“That” was the two-inch disc; Harriman unpinned it and put it in his pocket. It was a celluloid advertising pin, in plain yellow; printed on it in black, almost covering it, was a simple 6+, the trademark of Moka-Coka’s only serious rival.

“No,” answered Harriman, “though I don’t blame you for being irritated. I see half the school kids in the country wearing these silly buttons. But I came to give you a friendly tip, not to annoy you.”

“What do you mean?”

“When I paused at your door that pin on my lapel was just the size—to you, standing at your desk—as the full Moon looks when you are standing in your garden, looking up at it. You didn’t have any trouble reading what was on the pin, did you? I know you didn’t; you yelled at me before either one of us stirred.”

“What about it?”

“How would you feel—and what would the effect be on your sales—if there was ‘six-plus’ written across the face of the Moon instead of just on a school kid’s sweater?” Griggs thought about it, then said, “D.D., don’t make poor jokes. I’ve had a bad day.”

“I’m not joking. As you have probably heard around the St~reet, I’m behind this Moon trip venture. Between ourselves, Pat, it’s quite an expensive undertaking, even for me. Afew days ago  a man came to me—you’ll pardon me if I don’t mention names? You can figure it out. Anyhow, this man represented a client who wanted to buy the advertising concession for the Moon.  He knew we weren’t sure of success; but he said his client would take the risk.

“At first I couldn’t figure out what he was talking about; he set me straight. Then I thought he was kidding. Then I was shocked. Look at this—” Harriman took out a large sheet of paper  and spread it on Griggs’ desk. “You see the equipment is set up anywhere near the center of the Moon, as we see it. Eighteen pyrotechnics rockets shoot out in eighteen directions, like the spokes of a wheel, but to carefully calculated distances. They hit and the bombs they carry go off, spreading finely divided carbon black for calculated distances. There’s no air on the Moon, you know, Pat—a fine powder will throw just as easily as a javelin. Here’s your result.” He turned the paper over; on the back there was a picture of the Moon, printed lightly. Overlaying it, in black, heavy print was:

“So it is that outfit—those poisoners!”

“No, no, I didn’t say so! But it illustrates the point; six-plus is only two symbols; it can be spread large enough to be read on the face of the Moon.” Griggs stared at the horrid advertisement. “I don’t believe it will work!”

“Areliable pyrotechnics firm has guaranteed that it will—provided I can deliver their equipment to the spot. After all, Pat, it doesn’t take much of a pyrotechnics rocket to go a long distance on the Moon. Why, you could throw a baseball a couple of miles yourself—low gravity, you know.”

“People would never stand for it. It’s sacrilege!”                                                                

Harriman looked sad. “I wish you were right. But they stand for skywriting—and video commercials.”

Griggs chewed his lip. “Well, I don’t see why you come to me with it,” he exploded. “You know damn well the name of my product won’t go on the face of the Moon. The letters would be too small to read.”

Harriman nodded. “That’s exactly why I came to you. Pat, this isn’t just a business venture to me; it’s my heart and soul. It just made me sick to think of somebody actually wanting to use the face of the Moon for advertising. As you say, it’s sacrilege. But somehow, these jackals found out I was pressed for cash. They came to me when they knew I would have to listen.

“I put them off. I promised them an answer on Thursday. Then I went home and lay awake about it. After a while I thought of you.” “Me?”

“You. You and your company. After all, you’ve got a good product and you need legitimate advertising for it. It occurred to me that there are more ways to use the Moon in advertising than   by defacing it. Now just suppose that your company bought the same concession, but with the public-spirited promise of never letting it be used. Suppose you featured that fact in your ads? Suppose you ran pictures of a boy and girl, sitting out under the Moon, sharing a bottle of Moke? Suppose Moke was the only soft drink carried on the first trip to the Moon? But I   don’t have to tell you how to do it.” He glanced at his watch finger. “I’ve got to run and I don’t want to rush you. If you want to do business just leave word at my office by noon tomorrow and I’ll have our man Montgomery get in touch with your advertising chief.”

The head of the big newspaper chain kept him waiting the minimum time reserved for tycoons and cabinet members. Again Harriman stopped at the threshold of a large office and fixed  a disc to his lapel.

“Howdy, Delos,” the publisher said, “how’s the traffic in green cheese today?” He then caught sight of the button and frowned. “If that is a joke, it is in poor taste.” Harriman pocketed the disc; it displayed not 6+, but the hammer-and-sickle.

“No,” he said, “it’s not a joke; it’s a nightmare. Colonel, you and I are among the few people in this country who realize that communism is still a menace.”

Sometime later they were talking as chummily as if the Colonel’s chain had not obstructed the Moon venture since its inception. The publisher waved a cigar at his desk. “How did you come by those plans? Steal them?”

“They were copied,” Harriman answered with narrow truth. “But they aren’t important. The important thing is to get there first; we can’t risk having an enemy rocket base on the Moon. For years I’ve had a recurrent nightmare of waking up and seeing headlines that the Russians had landed on the Moon and declared the Lunar Soviet—say thirteen men and two female scientists—and had petitioned for entrance into the U.S.S.R.—and the petition had, of course, been graciously granted by the Supreme Soviet. I used to wake up and tremble. I don’t  know that they would actually go through with painting a hammer and sickle on the face of the Moon, but it’s consistent with their psychology. Look at those enormous posters they are always hanging up.”

The publisher bit down hard on his cigar. “We’ll see what we can work out. Is there any way you can speed up your take-off?”

CHAPTER SIX

“MR. HARRIMAN?”

“Yes?”

“That Mr. LeCroix is here again.” “Tell him I can’t see him.”

“Yes, sir—uh, Mr. Harriman, he did not mention it the other day but he says he is a rocket pilot.” “Send him around to Skyways. I don’t hire pilots.”

Aman’s face crowded into the screen, displacing Harriman’s reception secretary. “Mr. Harriman—I’m Leslie LeCroix, relief pilot of the Charon.” “I don’t care if you are the Angel Gab— Did you say Charon?”

“I said Charon. And I’ve got to talk to you.” “Come in.”

Harriman greeted his visitor, offered him tobacco, then looked him over with interest. The Charon, shuttle rocket to the lost power satellite, had been the nearest thing to a space ship the world had yet seen. Its pilot, lost in the same explosion that had destroyed the satellite and the Charon had been the first, in a way, of the coming breed of spacemen.

Harriman wondered how it had escaped his attention that the Charon had alternating pilots. He had known it, of course—but somehow he had forgotten to take the fact into account. He had written off the power satellite, its shuttle rocket and everything about it, ceased to think about them. He now looked at LeCroix with curiosity.

He saw a small, neat man with a thin, intelligent face, and the big, competent hands of a jockey. LeCroix returned his inspection without embarrassment. He seemed calm and utterly sure of himself.

“Well, Captain LeCroix?”    “You are building a Moon ship.” “Who says so?”

“AMoon ship is being built. The boys all say you are behind it.” “Yes?”

“I want to pilot it.” “Why should you?”

“I’m the best man for it.”                                                                                           Harriman paused to let out a cloud of tobacco smoke. “If you can prove that, the billet is yours.” “It’s a deal.” LeCroix stood up. “I’ll leave my nameand address outside.”

“Wait a minute. I said ‘if.’ Let’s talk. I’m going along on this trip myself; I want to know more about you before I trust my neck to you.”

They discussed Moon flight, interplanetary travel, rocketry, what they might find on the Moon. Gradually Harriman warmed up, as he found another spirit so like his own, so obsessed with the Wonderful Dream. Subconsciously he had already accepted LeCroix; the conversation began to assume that it would be a joint venture.

After a long time Harriman said, “This is fun, Les, but I’ve got to do a few chores yet today, or none of us will get to the Moon. You go on out to Peterson Field and get acquainted with Bob Coster—I’ll call him. If the pair of you can manage to get along, we’ll talk contract.” He scribbled a chit and handed it to LeCroix. “Give this to Miss Perkins as you go out and she’ll put you on the payroll.”

“That can wait.” “Man’s got to eat.”

LeCroix accepted it but did not leave. “There’s one thing I don’t understand, Mr. Harriman.” “Huh?”

“Why are you planning on a chemically powered ship? Not that I object; I’ll herd her. But why do it the hard way? I know you had the City of Brisbane refitted for X-fuel—”

Harriman stared at him. “Are you off your nut, Les? You’re asking why pigs don’t have wings—there isn’t any X-fuel and there won’t be any more until we make some ourselves—on the Moon.”

“Who told you that?” “What do you mean?”

“The way I heard it, the Atomic Energy Commission allocated X-fuel, under treaty, to several other countries—and some of them weren’t prepared to make use of it. But they got it just the same. What happened to it?”

“Oh, that! Sure, Les, several of the little outfits in Central America and South America were cut in for a slice of pie for political reasons, even though they had no way to eat it. Agood thing, too—we bought it back and used it to ease the immediate power shortage.” Harriman frowned. “You’re right, though. I should have grabbed some of the stuff then.”

“Are you sure it’s all gone?”

“Why, of course, I’m— No, I’m not. I’ll look into it. G’bye, Les.”

His contacts were able to account for every pound of X-fuel in short order—save for Costa Rica’s allotment. That nation had declined to sell back its supply because its power plant, suitable for X-fuel, had been almost finished at the time of the disaster. Another inquiry disclosed that the power plant had never been finished.

Montgomery was even then in Managua; Nicaragua had had a change in administration and Montgomery was making certain that the special position of the local Moon corporation was protected. Harriman sent him a coded message to proceed to San Jose, locate X-fuel, buy it and ship it back—at any cost. He then went to see the chairman of the Atomic Energy Commission.

That official was apparently glad to see him and anxious to be affable. Harriman got around to explaining that he wanted a license to do experimental work in isotopes—X-fuel, to be precise.

“This should be brought up through the usual channels, Mr. Harriman.” “It will be. This is a preliminary inquiry. I want to know your reactions.”

“After all, I am not the only commissioner … and we almost always follow the recommendations of our technical branch.” “Don’t fence with me, Carl. You know dern well you control a working majority. Off the record, what do you say?”         “Well, D.D.—off the record—you can’t get any X-fuel, so why get a license?”

“Let me worry about that.”

“Mmmm . . we weren’t required by law to follow every millicurie of X-fuel, since it isn’t classed as potentially suitable for mass weapons. Just the same, we knew what happened to it. There’s none available.”

Harriman kept quiet.

“In the second place, you can have an X-fuel license, if you wish—for any purpose but rocket fuel.” “Why the restriction?”

“You are building a Moon ship, aren’t you?” “Me?”

“Don’t you fence with me, D.D. It’s my business to know things. You can’t use X-fuel for rockets, even if you can find it—which you can’t.” The chairman went to a vault back of his desk and returned with a quarto volume, which he laid in front of Harriman. It was titled: Theoretical Investigation into the Stability of Several Radioisotopic Fuels—With Notes on the Charon-Power- Satellite Disaster. The cover had a serial number and was stamped: SECRET.

Harriman pushed it away. “I’ve got no business looking at that—and I wouldn’t understand it if I did.”                                               

The chairman grinned. “Very well, I’ll tell you what’s in it. I’m deliberately tying your hands, D.D., by trusting you with a defense secret—” “I won’t have it, I tell you!”

“Don’t try to power a space ship with X-fuel, D.D. It’s a lovely fuel— but it may go off like a firecracker anywhere out in space. That report tells why.”

“Confound it, we ran the Charon for nearly three years!”

“You were lucky. It is the official—but utterly confidential—opinion of the government that the Charon set off the power satellite, rather than the satellite setting off the Charon. We had thought it was the other way around at first, and of course it could have been, but there was the disturbing matter of the radar records. It seemed as if the ship had gone up a split second before the satellite. So we made an intensive theoretical investigation. X-fuel is too dangerous for rockets.”

“That’s ridiculous! For every pound burned in the Charon there were at least a hundred pounds used in power plants on the surface. How come they didn’t explode?”

“It’s a matter of shielding. Arocket necessarily uses less shielding than a stationary plant, but the worst feature is that it operates out in space. The disaster is presumed to have been triggered by primary cosmic radiation. If you like, I’ll call in one of the mathematical physicists to elucidate.”

Harriman shook his head. “You know I don’t speak the language.” He considered. “I suppose that’s all there is to it?”

“I’m afraid so. I’m really sorry.” Harriman got up to leave. “Uh, one more thing, D.D.—you weren’t thinking of approaching any of my subordinate colleagues, were you?” “Of course not. Why should I?”

“I’m glad to hear it. You know, Mr. Harriman, some of our staff may not be the most brilliant scientists in the world—it’s very hard to keep a first-class scientist happy in the conditions of government service. But there is one thing I am sure of; all of them are utterly incorruptible. Knowing that, I would take it as a personal affront if anyone tried to influence one of my people

—a very personal affront.”

“So?”

“Yes. By the way, I used to box light-heavyweight in college. I’ve kept it up.”

“Hmmm … well, I never went to college. But I play a fair game of poker.” Harriman suddenly grinned. “I won’t tamper with your boys, Carl. It would be too much like offering a bribe to a starving man. Well, so long.”

When Harriman got back to his office he called in one of his confidential clerks. “Take another coded message to Mr. Montgomery. Tell him to ship the stuff to Panama City, rather than to the States.” He started to dictate another message to Coster, intending to tell him to stop work on the Pioneer, whose skeleton was already reaching skyward on the Colorado prairie,   and shift to the Santa Maria, formerly the City of Brisbane.

He thought better of it. Take-off would have to be outside the United States; with the Atomic Energy Commission acting stuffy, it would not do to try to move the Santa Maria: it would give the show away.

Nor could she be moved without refitting her for chem-powered flight. No, he would have another ship of the Brisbane class taken out of service and sent to Panama, and the power plant of the Santa Maria could be disassembled and shipped there, too. Coster could have the new ship ready in six weeks, maybe sooner … and he, Coster, and LeCroix would start for the Moon!

The devil with worries over primary cosmic rays! The Charon operated for three years, didn’t she? They would make the trip, they would prove it could be done, then, if safer fuels were needed, there would be the incentive to dig them out. The important thing was to do it, make the trip. If Columbus had waited for decent ships, we’d all still be in Europe. Aman had to take some chances or he never got anywhere.

Contentedly he started drafting the messages that would get the new scheme underway. He was intercupted by a secretary. “Mr. Harriman, Mr. Montgomery wants to speak to you.” “Eh? Has he gotten my code already?”

“I don’t know, sir.” “Well, put him on.”

Montgomery had not received the second message. But he had news for Harriman:Costa Rica had sold all its X-fuel to the English Ministry of Power, soon after the disaster. There was not an ounce of it left, neither in Costa Rica, nor in England.

Harriman sat and moped for several minutes after Montgomery had cleared the screen. Then he called Coster. “Bob? Is LeCroix there?” “Right here-we were about to go out to dinner together. Here he is, now.”

“Howdy, Les. Les, that was a good brain storm of yours, but it didn’t work. Somebody stole the baby.” “Eh? Oh, I get you. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t ever waste time being sorry. We’ll go ahead as originally planned. We’ll get there!” “Sure we will.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

FROM THE JUNE ISSUE of Popular Technics magazine: “URANIUM PROSPECTING ON THE MOON—A Fact Article about a soon-to-come Major Industry.” From HOLIDAY: “Honeymoon on the Moon—A Discussion of the Miracle Resort that your children will enjoy, as told to our travel editor.”

From the American Sunday Magazine: “DIAMONDS ON THE MOON?—AWorld Famous Scientist Shows Why Diamonds Must Be Common As Pebbles in the Lunar Craters.”

“Of course, Clem, I don’t know anything about electronics, but here is the way it was explained to me. You can hold the beam of a television broadcast down to a degree or so these days, can’t you?”

“Yes—if you use a big enough reflector.”

“You’ll have plenty of elbow room. Now Earth covers a space two degrees wide, as seen from the Moon. Sure, it’s quite a distance away, but you’d have no power losses and absolutely perfect and unchanging conditions for transmission. Once you made your set-up, it wouldn’t be any more expensive than broadcasting from the top of a mountain here, and a derned sight less expensive than keeping copters in the air from coast to coast, the way you’re having to do now.”

“It’s a fantastic scheme, Delos.”

“What’s fantastic about it? Getting to the Moon is my worry, not yours. Once we are there, there’s going to be television back to Earth, you can bet your shirt on that. It’s a natural set-up for line-of-sight transmission. If you aren’t interested, I’ll have to find someone who is.”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t interested.”

“Well, make up your mind. Here’s another thing, Clem—I don’t want to go sticking my nose into your business, but haven’t you had a certain amount of trouble since you lost the use of the power satellite as a relay station?”

“You know the answer; don’t needle me. Expenses have gone out of sight without any improvement in revenue.” “That wasn’t quite what I meant. How about censorship?”

The television executive threw up his hands. “Don’t say that word! How anybody expects a man to stay in business with every two-bit wowser in the country claiming a veto over wLhat we can say and can’t say and what we can show and what we can’t show—it’s enough to make you throw up. The whole principle is wrong; it’s like demanding that grown men live on skim milk because the baby can’t eat steak. If I were able to lay my hands on those confounded, prurient-minded, slimy—”

“Easy! Easy!” Harriman interrupted. “Did it ever occur to you that there is absolutely no way to interfere with a telecast from the Moon—and that boards of censorship on Earth won’t have

jurisdiction in any case?”

“What? Say that again.”

“LIFE goes to the Moon.’ LIFE-TIME Inc. is proud to announce that arrangements have been completed to bring LIFE’S readers a personally conducted tour of the first trip to our satellite. In place of the usual weekly feature ‘LIFE Goes to a Party’ there will commence, immediately after the return of the first successful—”

“ASSURANCE FOR THE NEW AGE”

(An excerpt from an advertisement of the North Atlantic Mutual Insurance and Liability Company)

“—the same looking-to-the-future that protected our policy-holders after the Chicago Fire, after the San Francisco Fire, after every disaster since the War of 1812, now reaches out to insure you from unexpected loss even on the Moon—”

“THE UNBOUNDED FRONTIERS OF TECHNOLOGY”

“When the Moon ship Pioneer climbs skyward on a ladder of flame, twenty-seven essential devices in her ‘innards’ will be powered by especiallyengineered DELTAbatteries—” “Mr. Harriman, could you come out to the field?”

“What’s up, Bob?”          

“Trouble,” Coster answered briefly. “What sort of trouble?”

Coster hesitated. “I’d rather not talk about it by screen. If you can’t come, maybe Les and I had better come there.” “I’ll be there this evening.”

When Harriman got there he saw that LeCroix’s impassive face concealed bitterness, Coster looked stubborn and defensive. He waited until the three were alone in Coster’s workroom before he spoke. “Let’s have it, boys.”

LeCroix looked at Coster. The engineer chewed his lip and said, “Mr. Harriman, you know the stages this design has been through.” “More or less.”

“We had to give up the catapult idea. Then we had this—” Coster rummaged on his desk, pulled out a perspective treatment of a four-step rocket, large but rather graceful.”Theoretically it was a possibility; practically it cut things too fine. By the time the stress group boys and the auxiliary group and the control group got through adding things we were forced to come to this

—” He hauled out another sketch; it was basically like the first, but squattier, almost pyramidal. “We added a fifth stage as a ring around the fourth stage. We even managed to save some weight by using most of the auxiliary and control equipment for the fourth stage to control the fifth stage. And it still had enough sectional density to punch through the atmosphere with no important drag, even if it was clumsy.”

Harriman nodded. “You know, Bob, we’re going to have to get away from the step rocket idea before we set up a schedule run to the Moon.” “I don’t see how you can avoid it with chem-powered rockets.”

“If you had a decent catapult you could put a single-stage chem-powered rocket into an orbit around the Earth, couldn’t you?” “Sure.”

“That’s what we’ll do. Then it will refuel in that orbit.”

“The old space-station set-up. I suppose that makes sense-in fact I know it does. Only the ship wouldn’t refuel and continue on to the Moon. The economical thing would be to have special ships that never landed anywhere make the jump from there to another fueling station around the Moon. Then—”

LeCroix displayed a most unusual impatience. “AJ1 that doesn’t mean anything now. Get on with the story, Bob.” “Right,” agreed Harriman.

“Well, this model should have done it. And, damn it, it still should do it.” Harriman looked puzzled. “But, Bob, that’s the approved design, isn’t it? That’s what you’ve got two-thirds built right out there on the field.”

“Yes.” Coster looked stricken. “But it won’t do it. It won’t work.” “Why not?”

“Because I’ve had to add in too much dead weight, that’s why. Mr. Harriman, you aren’t an engineer; you’ve no idea how fast the performance falls off when you have to clutter up a ship with anything but fuel and power plant. Take the landing arrangements for the fifth-stage power ring. You use that stage for a minute and a half, then you throw it away. But you don’t dare take a chance of it falling on Wichita or Kansas City. We have to include a parachute sequence. Even then we have to plan on tracking it by radar and cutting the shrouds by radio control when it’s over empty countryside and not too high. That means more weight, besides the parachute. By the time we are through, we don’t get a net addition of a mile a second out of that stage. It’s not enough.”

Harriman stirred in his chair. “Looks like we made a mistake in trying to launch it from the States. Suppose we took off from someplace unpopulated, say the Brazil coast, and let the booster stages fall in the Atlantic; how much would that save you?”

Coster looked off in the distance, then took out a slide rule. “Might work.” “How much of a chore will it be to move the ship, at this stage?”

“Well … it would have to be disassembled completely; nothing less would do. I can’t give you a cost estimate off hand, but it would be expensive.”    “How long would it take?”                                                                                                                                                                   “Hmm…shucks, Mr. Harriman, I can’t answer off hand. Two years— eighteen months, with luck. We’d have to prepare a site. We’d have to build shops.”

Harriman thought about it, although he knew the answer in his heart. His shoe string, big as it was, was stretched to the danger point. He couldn’t keep up the promotion, on talk alone, for another two years; he had to have a successful flight and soon—or the whole jerry-built financial structure would burst. “No good, Bob.”

“I was afraid of that. Well, I tried to add still a sixth stage.” He held up another sketch. “You see that monstrosity? I reached the point of diminishing returns. The final effective velocity is actually less with this abortion than with the five-step job.”

“Does that mean you are whipped, Bob? You can’t build a Moon ship?” “No, I—”

LeCroix said suddenly, “Clear out Kansas.” “Eh?” asked Harriman.

“Clear everybody out of Kansas and Eastern Colorado. Let the fifth and fourth sections fall anywhere in that area. The third section falls in the Atlantic; the second section goes into a permanent orbit—and the ship itself goes on to the Moon. You could do it if you didn’t have to waste weight on the parachuting of the fifth and fourth sections. Ask Bob.”

“So? How about it, Bob?”

“That’s what I said before. It was the parasitic penalties that whipped us. The basic design is all right.”

“Hmmm… somebody hand me an Atlas.” Harriman looked up Kansas and Colorado, did some rough figuring. He stared off into space, looking surprisingly, for the moment, as Coster did when the engineer was thinking about his own work. Finally he said, “It won’t work.”

“Why not?”

“Money. I told you not to worry about money—for the ship. But it would cost upward of six or seven million dollars to evacuate that area even for a day. We’d have to settle nuisance suits out of hand; we couldn’t wait. And there would be a few diehards who just couldn’t move anyhow.”

LeCroix said savagely, “If the crazy fools won’t move, let them take their chances.”

“I know how you feel, Les. But this project is too big to hide and too big to move. Unless we protect the bystanders we’ll be shut down by court order and force. I can’t buy all the judges in two states. Some of them wouldn’t be for sale.”

“It was a nice try, Les,” consoled Coster.                                  

“I thought it might be an answer for all of us,” the pilot answered.

Harriman said, “You were starting to mention another solution, Bob?” Coster looked embarrassed. “You know the plans for the ship itself—a three-man job, space and supplies for three.”

“Yes. What are you driving at?”

“It doesn’t have to be three men. Split the first step into two parts, cut the ship down to the bare minimum for one man and jettison the remainder. That’s the only way I see to make this basic design work.” He got out another sketch. “See? One man and supplies for less than a week. No airlock— the pilot stays in his pressure suit. No galley. No bunks. The bare minimum to keep one man alive for a maximum of two hundred hours. It will work.”

“It will work,” repeated LeCroix, looking at Coster.

Harriman looked at the sketch with an odd, sick feeling at his stomach. Yes, no doubt it would work—and for the purposes of the promotion it did not matter whether one man or three  went to the Moon and returned. Just to do it was enough; he was dead certain that one successful flight would cause money to roll in so that there would be capital to develop to the point of practical, passenger-carrying ships.

The Wright brothers had started with less.

“If that is what I have to put up with, I suppose I have to,” he said slowly. Coster looked relieved. “Fine! But there is one more hitch. You know the conditions under which I agreed to tackle this job—I was to go along. Now Les here waves a contract under my nose and says he has to be the pilot.”

“It’s not just that,” LeCroix countered. “You’re no pilot, Bob. You’ll kill yourself and ruin the whole enterprise, just through bull-headed stubbornness.”

“I’ll learn to fly it. After all, I designed it. Look here, Mr. Harriman, I hate to let you in for a suit—Les says he will sue-but my contract antedates his. I intend to enforce it.” “Don’t listen to him, Mr. Harriman. Let him do the suing. I’ll fly that ship and bring her back. He’ll wreck it.”

“Either I go or I don’t build the ship,” Coster said flatly.

Harriman motioned both of them to keep quiet. “Easy, easy, both of you. You can both sue me if it gives you any pleasure. Bob, don’t talk nonsense; at this stage I can hire other engineers to finish the job. You tell me it has to be just one man.”

“That’s right.”     “You’re looking at him.” They both stared.

“Shut your jaws,” Harriman snapped. “What’s funny about that? You both knew I meant to go. You don’t think I went to all this trouble just to give you two a ride to the Moon, do you? I intend to go. What’s wrong with me as a pilot? I’m in good health, my eyesight is all right, I’m still smart enough to learn what I have to learn. If I have to drive my own buggy, I’ll do it. I won’t step aside for anybody, not anybody, d’you hear me?”

Coster got his breath first. “Boss, you don’t know what you are saying.” Two hours later they were still wrangling. Most of the time Harriman had stubbornly sat still, refusing to answer their arguments. At last he went out of the room for a few minutes, on the usual pretext. When he came back in he said, “Bob, what do you weigh?”

“Me? Alittle over two hundred.”                             

“Close to two twenty, I’d judge. Les, what do you weigh?” “One twenty-six.”

“Bob, design the ship for a net load of one hundred and twenty-six pounds.” “Huh? Now wait a minute, Mr. Harriman—”                                         

“Shut up! If I can’t learn to be a pilot in six weeks, neither can you.”          “But I’ve got the mathematics and the basic knowledge to—”

“Shut up I said! Les has spent as long learning his profession as you have learning yours. Can he become an engineer in six weeks? Then what gave you the conceit to think that you can learn his job in that time? I’m not going to have you wrecking my ship to satisfy your swollen ego. Anyhow, you gave out the real key to it when you were discussing the design. The real limiting factor is the actual weight of the passenger or passengers, isn’t it? Everything—everything works in proportion to that one mass. Right?”

“Yes, but—” “Right or wrong?”

“Well … yes, that’s right. I just wanted—”

“The smaller man can live on less water, he breathes less air, he occunies less space. Les goes.” Harriman walked over and put a hand on Coster’s shoulder. “Don’t take it hard, son. It can’t be any worse on you than it is on me. This trip has got to succeed—and that means you and I have got to give up the honor of being the first man on the Moon. But I promise you   this: we’ll go on the second trip, we’ll go with Les as our private chauffeur. It will be the first of a lot of passenger trips. Look, Bob-you can be a big man in this game, if you’ll play along  now. How would you like to be chief engineer of the first lunar colony?”

Coster managed to grin. “It might not be so bad.”

“You’d like it. Living on the Moon will be an engineering problem; you and I have talked about it. How’d you like to put your theories to work? Build the first city? Build the big observatory we’ll found there? Look around and know that you were the man who had done it?”

Coster was definitely adjusting himself to it. “You make it sound good. Say, what will you be doing?”

“Me? Well, maybe I’ll be the first mayor of Luna City.” It was a new thought to him; he savored it. “The Honorable Delos David Harriman, Mayor of Luna City. Say, I like that! You know, I’ve never held any sort of public office; I’ve just owned things.” He looked around. “Everything settled?”

“I guess so,” Coster said slowly. Suddenly he stuck his hand out at LeCroix. “You fly her, Les; I’ll build her.”

LeCroix grabbed his hand. “It’s a deal. And you and the Boss get busy and start making plans for the next job-big enough for all of us.”

“Right!”

Harriman put his hand on top of theirs. “That’s the way I like to hear you talk. We’ll stick together and we’ll found Luna City together.” “I think we ought to call it “Harriman,” LeCroix said seriously.

“Nope, I’ve thought of it as Luna City ever since I was a kid; Luna City it’s going to be. Maybe we’ll put Harriman Square in the middle of it,” he added. “I’ll mark it that way in the plans,” agreed Coster.

Harriman left at once. Despite the solution he was terribly depressed and did not want his two colleagues to see it. It had been a Pyrrhic victory; he had saved the enterprise but he felt like an animal who has gnawed off his own leg to escape a trap.

CHAPTER EIGHT

STRONG WAS ALONE in the offices of the partnership when he got a call from Dixon. “George, I was looking for D.D. Is he there?” “No, he’s back in Washington—something about clearances. I expect him back soon.”

“Hmmm… . Entenza and I want to see him. We’re coming over.” They arrived shortly. Entenza was quite evidently very much worked up over something; Dixon looked sleekly impassive as usual. After greetings Dixon waited a moment, then said, “Jack, you had some business to transact, didn’t you?”

Entenza jumped, then snatched a draft from his pocket.

“Oh, yes! George, I’m not going to have to pro-rate after all. Here’s my payment to bring my share up to full payment to date.” Strong accepted it. “I know that Delos will be pleased.” He tucked it in a drawer.                                                          “Well,” said Dixon sharply, “aren’t you going to receipt for it?”

“If Jack wants a receipt. The cancelled draft will serve.” However, Strong wrote out a receipt without further comment; Entenza accepted it. They waited a while. Presently Dixon said, “George, you’re in this pretty deep, aren’t you?”

“Possibly.”               

“Want to hedge your bets?”

“How?”

“Well, candidly, I want to protect myself. Want to sell one half of one. percent of your share?”

Strong thought about it. In fact he was worried—worried sick. The presence of Dixon’s auditor had forced them to keep on a cash basis—and only Strong knew how close to the line that had forced the partners. “Why do you want it?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t use it to interfere with Delos’s operations. He’s our man; we’re backing him. But I would feel a lot safer if I had the right to call a halt if he tried to commit us to something we couldn’t pay for. You know Delos; he’s an incurable optimist. We ought to have some sort of a brake on him.”

Strong thought about it. The thing that hurt him was that he agreed with everything Dixon said; he had stood by and watched while Delos dissipated two fortunes, painfully built up through the years. D.D. no longer seemed to care. Why, only this morning he had refused even to look at a report on the H & S automatic household switch—after dumping it on Strong.

Dixon leaned forward. “Name a price, George. I’ll be generous.” Strong squared his stooped shoulders. “I’ll sell—”

“Good!”

“—if Delos okays it. Not otherwise.”                                                                                                                                       Dixon muttered something. Enteuza snorted. The conversation might have gone acrimoniously further, had not Harriman walked in.

No one said anything about the proposal to Strong. Strong inquired about the trip; Harriman pressed a thumb and finger together. “All in the groove! But it gets more expensive to do business in Washington every day.” He turned to the others. “How’s tricks? Any special meaning to the assemblage? Are we in executive session?”

Dixon turned to Entenza. “Tell him, Jack.”                                     

Entenza faced Harriman. “What do you mean by selling television rights?” Harriman cocked a brow. “And why not?”

“Because you promised them to me, that’s why. That’s the original agreement; I’ve got it in writing.”

“Better take another look at the agreement, Jack. And don’t go off halfcocked. You have the exploitation rights for radio, television, and other amusement and special feature ventures in connection with the first trip to the Moon. You’ve still got ‘em. Including broadcasts from the ship, provided we are able to make any.” He decided that this was not a good time to mention that weight considerations had already made the latter impossible; the Pioneer would carry no electronic equipment of any sort not needed in astrogation. “What I sold was the franchise  to erect a-television station on the Moon, later. By the way, it wasn’t even an exclusive franchise, although Clem Haggerty thinks it is. If you want to buy one yourself, we can accommodate you.”

“Buy it! Why you—”                                                                                                                                                                 “Wups! Or you can have it free, if you can get Dixon and George to agree that you are entitled to it. I won’t be a tightwad. Anything else?” Dixon cut in. “Just where do we stand now, Delos?”

“Gentlemen, you can take it for granted that the Pioneer will leave on schedule—next Wednesday. And now, if you will excuse me, I’m on my way to Peterson Field.”

After he had left his three associates sat in silence for some time, Entenza muttering to himself, Dixon apparently thinking, and Strong just waiting. Presently Dixon said, “How about that fractional share, George?”

“You didn’t see fit to mention it to Delos.”

“I see.” Dixon carefully deposited an ash. “He’s a strange man, isn’t he?” Strong shifted around. “Yes.” “How long have you known him?”

“Let me see—he came to work for me in—” “He worked for you?”

“For several months. Then we set up our first company.” Strong thought back about it. “I suppose he had a power complex, even then.” “No,” Dixon said carefully. “No, I wouldn’t call it a power complex. It’s more of a Messiah complex.”

Entenza looked up. “He’s a crooked son of a bitch, that’s what he is!”

Strong looked at him mildly. “I’d rather you wouldn’t talk about him that way. I’d really rather you wouldn’t.”

“Stow it, Jack,” ordered Dixon. “You might force George to take a poke at you. One of the odd things about him,” went on Dixon, “is that he seems to be able to inspire an almost feudal loyalty. Take yourself. I know you are cleaned out, George-yet you won’t let me rescue you. That goes beyond logic; it’s personal.”

Strong nodded. “He’s an odd man. Sometimes I think he’s the last of the Robber Barons.”

Dixon shook his head. “Not the last. The last of them opened up the American West. He’s the first of the new Robber Barons—and you and I won’t see the end of it. Do you ever read Carlyle?”

Strong nodded again. “I see what you mean, the ‘Hero’ theory, but I don’t necessarily agree with it.”

“There’s something to it, though,” Dixon answered. “Truthfully, I don’t think Delos knows what he is doing. He’s setting up a new imperialism.

There’ll be the devil to pay before it’s cleaned up.” He stood up. “Maybe we should have waited. Maybe we should have balked him—if we could have. Well, it’s done. We’re on the merry- go-round and we can’t get off. I hope we enjoy the ride.. Come on, Jack.”

CHAPTER NINE

THE COLORADO p~ArRIE was growin’~ dusky. The Sun was behind the peak and the broad white face of Luna, full and round, was rising in the east. In the middle of Peterson Field the Pioneer thrust toward the sky. Abarbedwire fence, a thousand yards from its base in all directions, held back the crowds. Just inside the barrier guards patrolled restlessly. More guards circulated through the crowd. Inside the fence, close to it, trunks and trailers for camera, sound, and television equipment were parked and, at the far ends of cables, remote-control pick- ups were located both near and far from the ship on all sides. There were other trucks near the ship and a stir of organized activity.

Harriman waited in Coster’s office; Coster himself was out on the field, and Dixon and Entenza had a room to themselves. LeCroix, still in a drugged sleep, was in the bedroom of Coster’s on-the-job living quarters.

There was a stir and a challenge outside the door. Harriman opened it a crack. “If that’s another reporter, tell him ‘no.’ Send him to Mr. Montgomery across the way. Captain LeCroix will grant no unauthorized interviews.”

“Delos! Let me in.”                                                                         

“Oh—you, George. Come in. We’ve been hounded to death.”                 

Strong came in and handed Harriman a large and heavy handbag. “Here it is.” “Here is what?”

“The cancelled covers for the philatelic syndicate. You forgot them. That’s half a million dollars, Delos,” he complained. “If I hadn’t noticed them in your coat locker we’d have been in the soup.”

Harriman composed his features. “George, you’re a brick, that’s what you are.” “Shall I put them in the ship myself?” Strong said anxiously.

“Huh? No, no. Les will handle them.” He glanced at his watch. “We’re about to waken him. I’ll take charge of the covers.” He took the bag and added, “Don’t come in now. You’ll have a chance to say goodbye on the field.”

Harriman went next door, shut the door behind him, waited for the nurse to give the sleeping pilot a counteracting stimulant by injection, then chased her out. When he turned around the pilot was sitting up, rubbing his eyes. “How do you feel, Les?”

“Fine. So this is it.”

“Yup. And we’re all rooting for you, boy. Look, you’ve got to go out and face them in a couple of minutes. Everything is ready—but I’ve got a couple of things I’ve got to say to you.” “Yes?”

“See this bag?” Harriman rapidly explained what it was and what it signified.  LeCroix looked dismayed. “But I can’t take it, Delos; It’s all figured to the last ounce.”

“Who said you were going to take it? Of course you can’t; it must weigh sixty, seventy pounds. I just plain forgot it. Now here’s what we do: for the time being I’ll just hide it in here—” Harriman stuffed the bag far back into a clothes closet. “When you land, I’ll be right on your tail. Then we pull a sleight-of-hand trick and you fetch it out of the ship.”

LeCroix shook his head ruefully. “Delos, you beat me. Well, I’m in no mood to argue.”

“I’m glad you’re not; otherwise I’d go to jail for a measly half million dollars. We’ve already spent that money. Anyhow, it doesn’t matter,” he went on. “Nobody but you and me will know it— and the stamp collectors will get their money’s worth.” He looked at the younger man as if anxious for his approval.

“Okay, okay,” LeCroix answered. “Why should I care what happens to a stamp collector—tonight? Let’s get going.”

“One more thing,” said Harriman and took out a small cloth bag. “This you take with you—and the weight has been figured in. I saw to it. Now here is what you do with it.” He gave detailed and very earnest instructions.

LeCroix was puzzled. “Do I hear you straight? I let it be found—then I tell the exact truth about what happened?” “That’s right.”

“Okay.” LeCroix zipped the little bag into a pocket of his coveralls. “Let’s get out to the field. H-hour minus twenty-one minutes already.”

Strong joined Harriman in the control blockhouse after LeCroix had gone up inside the ship. “Did they get aboard?” he demanded anxiously. “LeCroix wasn’t carrying anything.” “Oh, sure,” said Harriman. “I sent them ahead. Better take your place. The ready flare has already gone up.”

Dixon, Entenza, the Governor of Colorado, the Vice-President of the United States, and a round dozen of V.I.P.’s were already seated at periscopes, mounted in slits, on a balcony above the control level. Strong and Harriman climbed a ladder and took the two remaining chairs.

Harriman began to sweat and realized he was trembling. Through his periscope out in front he could see the ship; from below he could hear Coster’s voice, nervously checking departure station reports. Muted through a speaker by him was a running commentary of one of the newscasters reporting the show. Harriman himself was the—well, the admiral, he decided—of the operation, but there was nothing more he could do, but wait, watch, and try to pray.

Asecond flare arched up in the sky, burst into red and green. Five minutes.

The seconds oozed away. At minus two minutes Harriman realized that he could not stand to watch through a tiny slit; he had to be outside, take part in it himself—he had to. He climbed down, hurried to the exit of the blockhouse. Coster glanced around, looked startled, but did not try to stop him; Coster could not leave his post no matter what happened. Harriman elbowed the guard aside and went outdoors.

To the east the ship towered skyward, her slender pyramid sharp black against the full Moon. He waited. And waited.

What had gone wrong? There had remained less than two minutes when he had come out; he was sure of that—yet there she stood, silent, dark, unmoving. There was not a sound, save the distant ululation of sirens warning the spectators behind the distant fence. Harriman felt his own heart stop, his breath dry up in his throat. Something had failed. Failure.

Asingle flare rocket burst from the top of the blockhouse; a flame licked at the base of the ship.

It spread, there was a pad of white fire around the base. Slowly, almost lumberingly, the Pioneer lifted, seemed to hover for a moment, balanced on a pillar of fire-then reached for the sky with acceleration so great that she was above him almost at once, overhead at the zenith, a dazzling circle of flame. So quickly was she above, rather than out in front, that it seemed as if she were arching back over him and must surely fall on him. Instinctively and futilely he threw a hand in front of his face.

The sound reached him.

Not as sound—it was a white noise, a roar in all frequencies, sonic, subsonic, supersonic, so incredibly loaded with energy that it struck him in the chest. He heard it with his teeth and with his bones as well as with his ears. He crouched his knees, bracing against it.

Following the sound at the snail’s pace of a hurricane came the backwash of the splash. It ripped at his clothing, tore his breath from his lips. He stumbled blindly back, trying to reach the lee of the concrete building, was knocked down.

He picked himself up coughing and strangling and remembered to look at the sky. Straight overhead was a dwindling star. Then it was gone. He went into the blockhouse.

The room was a babble of high-tension, purposeful confusion. Harriman’s ears, still ringing, heard a speaker blare, “Spot One! Spot One to blockhouse! Step five loose on schedule— ship and step five showing separate blips—” and Coster’s voice, high and angry, cutting in with, “Get Track One! Have they picked up step five yet? Are they tracking it?”

In the background the news commentator was still blowing his top. “Agreat day, folks, a great day! The mighty Pioneer, climbing like an angel of the Lord, flaming sword at hand, is even now on her glorious way to our sister planet. Most of you have seen her departure on your screens; I wish you could have seen it as I did, arching up into the evening sky, bearing her precious load of—”

“Shut that thing off!” ordered Coster, then to the visitors on the observation platform, “And pipe down up there! Quiet!”

The Vice-President of the United States jerked his head around, closed his mouth. He remembered to smile. The other V.I.P.’s shut up, then resumed again in muted whispers. Agirl’s voice cut through the silence, “Track One to Blockhouse—step five tracking high, plus two.” There was a stir in the corner. There a large canvas hood shielded a heavy sheet of Plexiglass from direct light. The sheet was mounted vertically and was edge-lighted; it displayed a coordinate map of Colorado and Kansas in fine white lines; the cities and towns glowed red. Unevacuated farms were tiny warning dots of red light.

Aman behind the transparent map touched it with a grease pencil; the reported location of step five shone out. In front of the map screen a youngish man sat quietly in a chair, a pear- shaped switch in his hand, his thumb lightly resting on the button. He was a bombardier, borrowed from the Air Forces; when he pressed the switch, a radio-controlled circuit in step five should cause the shrouds of step five’s landing ‘chute to be cut and let it plummet to Earth. He was working from radar reports aloi~e with no fancy computing bombsight to think for him. He was working almost by instinct— or, rather, by the accumulated subconscious knowledge of his trade, integrating in his brain the meager data spread before him, deciding where the tons of step five would land if he were to press his switch at any particular instant. He seemed unworried.

“Spot One to Blockhouse!” came a man’s voice again. “Step four free on schedule,” and almost immediately following, a deeper voice echoed, “Track Two, tracking step four, instantaneous altitude nine-five-one miles, predicted vector.”

No one paid any attention to Harriman.

Under the hood the observed trajectory of step five grew in shining dots of grease, near to, but not on, the dotted line of its predicted path. Reaching out from each location dot was drawn  a line at right angles, the reported altitude for that location.

The quiet man watching the display suddenly pressed down hard on his switch. He then stood up, stretched, and said, “Anybody got a cigaret?” “Track Two!” he was answered. “Step four

—first impact prediction—forty miles west of Charleston, South Carolina.”

“Repeat!” yelled Coster.                                                                                                          

The speaker blared out again without pause, “Correction, correction— forty miles east, repeat east.”

Coster sighed. The sigh was cut short by a report. “Spot One to Blockhouse—step three free, minus five seconds,” and a talker at Coster’s control desk called out, “Mr. Coster, Mister Coster—Palomar Observatory wants to talk to you.”

“Tell ‘em to go—no, tell ‘em to wait.” Immediately another voice cut in with, “Track One, auxiliary range Fox—Step one about to strike near Dodge City, Kansas~” “How near?”

There was no answer. Presently the voice of Track One proper said, “Impact reported approximately fifteen miles southwest of Dodge City.” “Casualties?”

Spot One broke in before Track One could answer, “Step two free, step two free-the ship is now on its own.” “Mr. Coster—please, Mr. Coster—”

And a totally new voice: “Spot Two to Blockhouse-we are now tracking the ship. Stand by for reported distances and bearings. Stand by—”

“Track Two to Blockhouse-step four will definitely land in Atlantic, estimated point of impact oh-five-seven miles east of Charleston bearing ohnine-three. I will repeat—” Coster looked around irritably. “Isn’t there any drinking water anywhere in this dump?”

“Mr. Coster, please-Palomar says they’ve just got to talk to you.”                                                                   

Harriman eased over to the door and stepped out. He suddenly felt very much let down, utterly weary, and depressed.

The field looked strange without the ship. He had watched it grow; now suddenly it was gone. The Moon, still rising, seemed oblivious—and space travel was as remote a dream as it had been in his boyhood.

There were several tiny figures prowling around, the flash apron where the ship had stood—souvenir hunters, he thought contemptuously. Someone came up to him in the gloom. “Mr. Harriman?”

“Eh?”

“Hopkins—with the A.P. How about a statement?” “Uh? No, no comment. I’m bushed.”

“Oh, now, just a word. How does it feel to have backed the first successful Moon flight—if it is successful.”

“It will be successful.” He thought a moment, then squared his tired shoulders and said, “Tell them that this is the beginning of the human race’s greatest era. Tell them that every one of them will have a chance to follow in Captain LeCroix’s footsteps, seek out new planets, wrest a home for themselves in new lands. Tell them that this means new frontiers, a shot in the arm for prosperity. It means—” He ran down. “That’s all tonight. I’m whipped, son. Leave me alone, will you?”

Presently Coster came out, followed by the V.I.P.’s. Harriman went up to Coster. “Everything all right?”                                                                

“Sure. Why shouldn’t it be? Track three followed him out to the limit of range-all in the groove.” Coster added, “Step five killed a cow when it grounded.”

“Forget it—we’ll have steak for breakfast.” Harriman then had to make conversation with the Governor and the Vice-President, had to escort them out to their ship. Dixon and Entenza left together, less formally; at last Coster and Harriman were alone save for subordinates too junior to constitute a strain and for guards to protect them from the crowds. “Where you headed, Bob?”

“Up to the Broadmoor and about a week’s sleep. How about you?”

“if you don’t mind, I’ll doss down in your apartment.” “Help yourself. Sleepy pills in the bathroom.”

“I won’t need them.” They had a drink together in Coster’s quarters, talked aimlessly, then Coster ordered a copter cab and went to the hotel. Harriman went to bed, got up, read a day-old copy of the Denver Post filled with pictures of the Pioneer, finally gave up and took two of Coster’s sleeping capsules.

CHAPTER TEN

SOMEONE WAS SHAKING HIM. “Mr. Harriman! Wake up—Mr. Caster is on the screen.”

“Huh? Wazza? Oh, all right.” He got up and padded to the phone. Caster was :ooking tousie-headea and excited. “Hey, Boss—he made it!” “Huh? What do you mean?”

“Palomar just called me. They saw the mark and now they’ve spotted the ship itself. He—”              

“Wait a minute, Bob. Slow up. He can’t be there yet. He just left last night.”                                    

Coster looked disconcerted. “What’s the matter, Mr. Harriman? Don’t you feel well? He left Wednesday.”

Vaguely, Harriman began to be oriented. No, the take-off had not been the night before—fuzzily he recalled a drive up into the mountains, a day spent dozing in the sun, some sort of a party at which he had drunk too much. What day was today? He didn’t know. If LeCroix had landed on the Moon, then—never mind. “It’s all right, Bob-I was half asleep. I guess I dreamed the take-off all over again. Now tell me the news, slowly.”

Coster started over. “LeCroix has landed, just west of Archimedes crater. They can see his ship, from Palomar. Say that was a great stunt you thought up, marking the spot with carbon black. Les must have covered two acres with it. They say it shines out like a billboard, through the Big Eye.”

“Maybe we ought to run down and have a look. No—later,” he amended. “We’ll be busy.”                                                                        

 “I don’t see what more we can do, Mr. Harriman. We’ve got twelve of our best ballistic computers calculating possible routes for you now.”

Harriman started to tell the man to put on another twelve, switched off the screen instead. He was still at Peterson Field, with one of Skyways’ best stratoships waiting for him outside, waiting to take him to whatever point on the globe LeCroix might ground. LeCroix was in the upper stratosphere, had been there for more than twenty-four hours. The pilot was slowly, cautiously wearing out his terminal velocity, dissipating the incredible kinetic energy as shock wave and radiant heat.

They had tracked him by radar around the globe and around again—and again … yet there was no way of knowing just where and what sort of landing the pilot would choose to risk. Harriman listened to the running radar reports and cursed the fact that they had elected to save the weight of radio equipment.

The radar figures started coming closer together. The voice broke off and started again: “He’s in his landing glide!”

“Tell the field to get ready!” shouted Harriman. He held his breath and waited. After endless seconds another voice cut in with, “The Moon ship is now landing. It will ground somewhere west of Chihuahua in Old Mexico.”

Harriman started for the door at a run.

Coached by radio en route, Harriman’s pilot spotted the Pioneer incredibly small against the desert sand. He put his own ship quite close to it, in a beautiful landing. Harriman was fumbling at the cabin door before the ship was fairly stopped.

LeCroix was sitting on the ground, resting his back against a skid of his ship and enjoying the shade of its stubby triangular wings. Apaisano sheepherder stood facing him, open- mouthed. As Harriman trotted out and lumbered toward him LeCroix stood up, flipped a cigaret butt away and said, “Hi, Boss!”

“Les!” The older man threw his arms around the younger. “It’s good to see you, boy.”

“It’s good to see you. Pedro here doesn’t speak my language.” LeCroix glanced around; there was no one else nearby but the pilot of Harriman’s ship. “Where’s the gang? Where’s Bob?”

“I didn’t wait. They’ll surely be along in a few minutes—hey, there they come now!” It was another stratoship, plunging in to a landing. Harriman turned to his pilot. “Bill—go over and meet them.”

“Huh? They’ll come, never fear.” “Do as I say.”

“You’re the doctor.” The pilot trudged through the sand, his back expressing disapproval. LeCroix looked puzzled. “Quick, Les—help me with this.”

“This” was the five thousand cancelled envelopes which were supposed to have been to the Moon. They got them out of Harriman’s stratoship and into the Moon ship, there to be stowed in an empty food locker, while their actions were still shielded from the later arrivals by the bulk of the strataship. “Whew!” said Harriman. “That was close. Half a million dollars. We need  it, Les.”

“Sure, but look, Mr. Harriman, the di—”

“Sssh! The others are coming. How about the other business? Ready with your act?” “Yes. But I was trying to tell you—”

“Quiet!”

It was not their colleagues; it was a shipload of reporters, camera men, mike men, commentators, technicians. They swarmed over them.

Harriman waved to them jauntily. “Help yourselves, boys. Get a lot of pictures. Climb through the ship. Make yourselves at home. Look at anything you want to. But go easy on Captain LeCroix—he’s tired.”

Another ship had landed, this time with Caster, Dixon and Strong. Entenza showed up in his own chartered ship and began bossing the TV, pix, and radio men, in the course of which he almost had a fight with an unauthorized camera crew. Alarge copter transport grounded and spilled out nearly a platoon of khaki-clad Mexican troops. Fom somewhere—out of the sand apparently—several dozen native peasants showed up. Harriman broke away from reporters, held a quick and expensive discussion with the captain of the local troops and a degree of order was restored in time to save the Pioneer from being picked to pieces.

“Just let that be!” It was LeCroix’s voice, from inside the Pioneer. Harriman waited and listened. “None of your business!” the pilot’s voice went on, rising higher, “and put them back!” Harriman pushed his way to the door of the ship. “What’s the trouble, Les?”                                                                                                                                                         Inside the cramped cabin, hardly large enough for a TVbooth, three men stood, LeCroix and two reporters. All three men looked angry. “What’s the trouble, Les?” Harriman repeated. LeCroix was holding a small cloth bag which appeared to be empty. Scattered on the pilot’s acceleration rest between him and the reporters were several small, dully brilliant stones. A

reporter held one such stone up to the light.

“These guys were poking their noses into things that didn’t concern them,” LeCroix said angrily.    The reporter looked at the stone said, “You told us to look at what we liked, didn’t you, Mr. Harriman?” “Yes.”

“Your pilot here-” He jerked a thumb at LeCroix. “—apparently didn’t expect us to find these. He had them hidden in the pads of his chair.”

“What of it?”             “They’re diamonds.”    “What makes you think so?” “They’re diamonds all right.”

Harriman stopped and unwrapped a cigar. Presently he said, “Those diamonds were where you found them because I put them there.” Aflashlight went off behind Harriman; a voice said, “Hold the rock up higher, Jeff.”                                                                            

The reporter called Jeff obliged, then said, “That seems an odd thing to do, Mr. Harriman.”

“I was interested in the effect of outer space radiations on raw diamonds. On my orders Captain LeCroix placed that sack of diamonds in the ship.”                                 

Jeff whistled thoughtfully. “You know, Mr. Harriman, if you did not have that explanation, I’d think LeCroix had found the rocks on the Moon and was trying to hold out on you.” “Print that and you will be sued for libel. I have every confidence in Captain LeCroix. Now give me the diamonds.”

Jeff’s eyebrows went up. “But not confidence enough in him to let him keep them,.maybe?” “Give me the stones. Then get out.”

Harriman got LeCroix away from the reporters as quickly as possible and into Harriman’s own ship. “That’s all for now,” he told the news and pictures people. “See us at Peterson Field.” Once the ship raised ground he turned to LeCroix. “You did a beautiful job, Les.”

“That reporter named Jeff must be sort of confused.”                                                     

“Eh? Oh, that. No, I mean the flight. You did it. You’re head man on this planet.”          

LeCroix shrugged it off. “Bob built a good ship. It was a cinch. Now about those diamonds—”

“Forget the diamonds. You’ve done your part. We placed those rocks in the ship; now we tell everybody we did—truthful as can be. It’s not our fault if they don’t believe us.” “But Mr. Harriman—”

“What?”

LeCroix unzipped a pocket in his coveralls, hauled out a soiled handkerchief, knotted into a bag. He untied it—and spilled into Harriman’s hands many more diamonds than had been displayed in the ship—larger, finer diamonds.

Harriman stared at them. He began to chuckle. Presently he shoved them back at LeCroix. “Keep them.” “I figure they belong to all of us.”

“Well, keep them for us, then. And keep your mouth shut about them. No, wait.” He picked out two large stones. “I’ll have rings made from these two, one for you, one for me. But keep your mouth shut, or they won’t be worth anything, except as curiosities.”

It was quite true, he thought. Long ago the diamond syndicate had realized that diamonds in plentiful supply were worth little more than glass, except for industrial uses. Earth had more than enough for that, more than enough for jewels. If Moon diamonds were literally “common as pebbles” then they were just that—pebbles.

Not worth the expense of bringing them to earth. But now take uranium. If that were plentiful— Harriman sat back and indulged in daydreaming. Presently LeCroix said softly, “You know, Boss, it’s wonderful there.”

“Eh? Where?”

“Why, on the Moon of course. I’m going back. I’m going back just as soon as I can. We’ve got to get busy on the new ship.” “Sure, sure! And this time we’ll build one big enough for all of us. This time I go, too!”

“You bet.”

“Les—” The older man spoke almost diffidently. “What does it look like when you look back and see the Earth?”

“Huh? It looks like— It looks—” LeCroix stopped. “Hell’s bells, Boss, there isn’t any way to tell you. It’s wonderful, that’s all. The sky is black and—well, wait until you see the pictures I took. Better .yet, wait and see it yourself.”

Harriman nodded. “But it’s hard to wait.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN                       “FIELDS OF DIAMONDS ON THE MOONU!”

“BILLIONAIRE BACKER DENIES DIAMOND STORY Says Jewels Taken Into Space for Science Reasons” “MOON DIAMONDS: HOAXOR FACT?”

“—but consider this, friends of the invisible audience: why would anyone take diamonds to the moon? Every ounce of that ship and its cargo was calculated; diamonds would not be   taken along without reason. Many scientific authorities have pronounced Mr. Harriman’s professed reason an absurdity. It is easy to guess that diamonds might be taken along for the purpose of ‘salting’ the Moon, so to speak, with earthly jewels, with the intention of convincing us that diamonds exist on the Moon—but Mr. Harriman, his pilot Captain LeCroix, and everyone connected with the enterprise have sworn from the beginning that the diamonds did not come from the Moon. But it is an absolute certainty that the diamonds were in the space ship when it landed. Cut it how you will; this reporter is going to try to buy some lunar diamond mining stock—”

Strong was, as usual, already in the office when Harriman came in. Before the partners could speak, the screen called out, “Mr. Harriman, Rotterdam calling.” “Tell them to go plant a tulip.”

“Mr. van der Velde is waiting, Mr. Harriman.” “Okay.”

Harriman let the Hollander talk, then said, “Mr. van der Velde, the statements attributed to me are absolutely correct. I put those diamonds the reporters saw into the ship before it took off. They were mined right here on Earth. In fact I bought them when I came over to see you; I can prove it.”

“But Mr. Harriman—”

“Suit yourself. There may be more diamonds on the Moon than you can run and jump over. I don’t guarantee it. But I do guarantee that those diamonds the newspapers are talking about came from Earth.”

“Mr. Harriman, why would you send diamonds to the Moon? Perhaps you intended to fool us, no?”

“Have it your own way. But I’ve said all along that those diamonds came from Earth. Now see here: you took an option—an option on an option, so to speak. If you want to make the second payment on that option and keep it in force, the deadline is nine o’clock Thursday, New York time, as specified in the contract. Make up your mind.”

He switched off and found his partner looking at him sourly. “What’s eating you?”                                               

“I wondered about those diamonds, too, Delos. So I’ve been looking through the weight schedule of the Pioneer.” “Didn’t know you were interested in engineering.”

“I can read figures.”

“Well, you found it, didn’t you? Schedule F-i 7-c, two ounces, allocated to me personally.” “I found it. It sticks out like a sore thumb. But I didn’t find something else.”         

Harriman felt a ‘cold chill in his stomach. “What?”                                                         

“I didn’t find a schedule for the cancelled covers.” Strong stared at him.                        

“It must be there. Let me see that weight schedule.”

“It’s not there, Delos. You know, I thought it was funny when you insisted on going to meet Captain LeCroix by yourself. What happened, Delos? Did you sneak them aboard?” He continued to stare while Harriman fidgeted. “We’ve put over some sharp business deals—but this will be the first time that anyone can say that the firm of Harriman and Strong has cheated.”

“George—I would cheat, lie, steal, beg, bribe—do anything to accomplish what we have accomplished.”                                                           

Harriman got up and paced the room. “We had to have that money, or the ship would never have taken off. We’re cleaned out. You know that, don’t you?” Strong nodded. “But those covers should have gone to the Moon. That’s what we contracted to do.”

“I just forgot it. Then it was too late to figure the weight in. But it doesn’t matter. I figured that if the trip was a failure, if LeCroix cracked up, nobody would know or care that the covers hadn’t gone. And I knew if he made it, it wouldn’t matter; we’d have plenty of money. And we will, George, we will!”

“We’ve got to pay the money back.”

“Now? Give me time, George. Everybody concerned is ‘happy the way it is. Wait until we recover our stake; then I’ll buy every one of those covers back—out of my own pocket. That’s a promise.”

Strong continued to sit. Harriman stopped in front of him. “I ask you, George, is it worth while to wreck an enterprise of this size for a purely theoretical point?” Strong sighed and said, “When the time comes, use the firm’s money.”

“That’s the spirit! But I’ll use my own, I promise you.”           

“No, the firm’s money. If we’re in it together, we’re in it together.” “O.K., if that’s the way you want it.”

Harriman turned back to his desk. Neither of the two partners had anything to say for a long while. Presently Dixon and Entenza were announced. “Well, Jack,” said Harriman. “Feel better now?”

“No thanks to you. I had to fight for what I did put on the air—and some of it was pirated as it was. Delos, there should have been a television pick-up in the ship.”     “Don’t fret about it. As I told you, we couldn’t spare the weight this time. But there will be the next trip, and the next. Your concession is going to be worth a pile of money.” Dixon cleared his throat. “That’s what we came to see you about, Delos. What are your plans?”

“Plans? We go right ahead. Les and Coster and I make the next trip. We set up a permanent base. Maybe Coster stays behind. The third trip we send a real colony—nuclear engineers, miners, hydroponics experts, communications engineers. We’ll found Luna City, first city on another planet.”

Dixon looked thoughtful. “And when does this begin to pay off?”

“What do you mean by ‘pay off’? Do you want your capital back, or do you want to begin to see some return on your investment? I can cut it either way.” Entenza was about to say that he wanted his investment back; Dixon cut in first, “Profits, naturally. The investment is already made.”

“Fine!”

“But I don’t see how you expect profits. Certainly, LeCroix made the trip and got back safely. There is honor for all of us. But where are the royalties?”           “Give the crop time to ripen, Dan. Do I look worried? What are our assets?” Harriman ticked them off on his fingers. “Royalties on pictures, television, radio—.” “Those things go to Jack.”

“Take a look at the agreement. He has the concession, but he pays the firm—that’s all of us—for them.”          

Dixon said, “Shut up, Jack!” before Entenza could speak, then added, “What else? That won’t pull us out of the red.”

“Endorsements galore. Monty’s boys are working on that. Royalties from the greatest best seller yet—I’ve got a ghost writer and a stenographer following LeCroix around this very minute. Afranchise for the first and only space line-“

“From whom?”

“We’ll get it. Kamens and Montgomery are in Paris now, working on it. I’m joining them this afternoon. And we’ll tie down that franchise with a franchise from the other end, just as soon   as we can get a permanent colony there, no matter how small. It will be the autonomous state of Luna, under the protection of the United Nations—and no ship will land or take off in its territory without its permission. Besides that we’ll have the right to franchise a dozen other companies for various purposes—and tax them, too—just as soon as we set up the Municipal Corporation of the City of Luna under the laws of the State of Luna. We’ll sell everything but vacuum— we’ll even sell vacuum, for experimental purposes. And don’t forgct—we’ll still have  a big chunk of real estate, sovereign title in us—as a state-and not yet sold. The Moon is big.”

“Your ideas are rather big, too, Delos,” Dixon said dryly. “But what actually happens next?”

“First we get title confirmed by the U.N. The Security Council is now in secret session; the Assembly meets tonight. Things will be popping; that’s why I’ve got to be there. When the United Nations decides—as it will!— that its own non-profit corporation has the only real claim to the Moon, then I get busy. The poor little weak non-profit corporation is going to grant a number   of things to some real honest-to-god corporations with hair on their chests—in return for help in setting up a physics research lab, an astronomical observatory, a lunography institute    and some other perfectly proper nonprofit enterprises. That’s our interim pitch until we get a permanent colony with its own laws. Then we-“

Dixon gestured impatiently. “Never mind the legal shenanigans, Delos. I’ve known you long enough to know that you can figure out such angles. What do we actually have to do next?” “Huh? We’ve got to build another ship, a bigger one. Not actually bigger, but effectively bigger. Coster has started the design of a surface catapult— it will reach from Manitou Springs to

the top of Pikes Peak. With it we can put a ship in free orbit around the Earth. Then we’ll use such a ship to fuel more ships—it amounts to a space station, like the power station. It adds

up to a way to get there on chemical power without having to throw away nine-tenths of your ship to do it.”

“Sounds expensive.”

“It will be. But don’t worry; we’ve got a couple of dozen piddling little things to keep the money coming in while we get set up on a commercial basis, then we sell stock. We- sold stock before; now we’ll sell a thousand dollars’ worth where we sold ten before.”

“And you think that will carry you through until the enterprise as a whole is on a paying basis? Face it, Delos, the thing as a whole doesn’t pay off until you have ships plying between here and the Moon on a paying basis, figured in freight and passenger charges. That means customers, with cash. What is there on the Moon to ship—and who pays for it?”

“Dan, don’t you believe there will be? If not, why are you here?”

“I believe in it, Delos—or I believe in you. But what’s your time schedule? What’s your budget? What’s your prospective commodity? And please don’t mention diamonds; I think I understand that caper.”

Harriman chewed his cigar for a few moments. “There’s one valuable commodity we’ll start shipping at once.” “What?”

“Knowledge.”

Entenza snorted. Strong looked puzzled. Dixon nodded. “I’ll buy that. Knowledge is always worth something—to the man who knows how to exploit it. And I’ll agree that the Moon is a place to find new knowledge. I’ll assume that you can make the next trip pay off. What’s your budget and your time table for that?”

Harriman did not answer. Strong searched his face closely. To him Harriman’s poker face was as revealing as large print—he decided that his partner had been crowded into a corner. He waited, nervous but ready to back Harriman’s play. Dixon went on, “From the way you describe it, Delos, I judge that you don’t have money enough for your next step—and you don’t know where you will get it. I believe in you, Delos—and I told you at the start that I did not believe in letting a new business die of anemia. I’m ready to buy in with a fifth share.”

Harriman stared. “Look,” he said bluntly, “you own Jack’s share now, don’t you?” “I wouldn’t say that.”

“You vote it. It sticks out all over.”                 

Entenza said, “That’s not true. I’m independent. I—”

“Jack, you’re a damn liar,” Harriman said dispassionately. “Dan, you’ve got fifty percent now. Under the present rules I decide deadlocks, which gives me control as long as George sticks by me. If we sell you another share, you vote three-fifths—and are boss. Is that the deal you are looking for?”

“Delos, as I told you, I have confidence in you.”

“But you’d feel happier with the whip hand. Well, I won’t do it. I’ll let space travel—real space travel, with established runs—wait another twenty years before I’ll turn loose. I’ll let us all go broke and let us live on glory before I’ll turn loose. You’ll have to think up another scheme.”

Dixon said nothing. Harriman got up and began to pace. He stopped in front of Dixon. “Dan, if you really understood what this is all about, I’d let you have control. But you don’t. You see   this is just another way to money and to power. I’m perfectly willing to let you vultures get rich—but I keep control. I’m going to see this thing developed, not milked. The human race is heading out to the stars—and this adventure is going to present new problems compared with which atomic power was a kid’s toy. Unless the whole matter is handled carefully, it will be fouled up. You’ll foul it up, Dan, if I let you have the deciding vote in it—because you don’t understand it.”

He caught his breath and went on, “Take safety for instance. Do you know why I let LeCroix take that ship out instead of taking it myself? Do you think I was afraid? No! I wanted it to come back—safely. I didn’t want space travel getting another set-back. Do you know why we have to have a monopoly, for a few years at least? Because every so-and-so and his brother is   going to want to build a Moon ship, now that they know it can be done. Remember the first days of ocean flying? After Lindbergh did it, every so-called pilot who could lay hands on a crate took off for some over-water point. Some of them even took their kids along. And most of them landed in the drink. Airplanes get a reputation for being dangerous. Afew years after that   the airlines got so hungry for quick money in a highly competitive field that you couldn’t pick up a paper without seeing headlines about another airliner crash.

“That’s not going to happen to space travel! I’m not going to let it happen.

Space ships are too big and too expensive; if they get a reputation for being unsafe as well, we might as well have stayed in bed. I run things.” He stopped. Dixon waited and then said, “I said I believed in you, Delos. How much money do you need?”

“Eh? On what terms?”       

“Your note.”                         

“My note? Did you say my note?”

“I’d want security, of course.”

Harriman swore. “I knew there was a hitch in it. Dan, you know everything I’ve got is tied up in this venture.” “You have insurance. You have quite a lot of insurance, I know.”

“Yes, but that’s all made out to my wife.”

“I seem to have heard you say something about that sort of thing to Jack Entenza,” Dixon said. “Come, now—if I know your tax-happy sort, you have at least one irrevocable trust, or paid- up annuities, or something, to keep Mrs. Harriman out of the poor house.”

Harriman thought fiercely about it. “When’s the call date on this note?” “In the sweet bye and bye. I want a no-bankruptcy clause, of course.” “Why? Such a clause has no legal validity.”                                     

“It would be valid with you, wouldn’t it?”

“Mmm … yes. Yes, it would.”

“Then get out your policies and see how big a note you can write.” Harriman looked at him, turned abruptly and went to his safe. He came back with quite a stack of long, stiff folders. They added them up together; it was an amazingly large sum—for those days. Dixon then consulted a memorandum taken from his pocket and said, “One seems to be missing— a rather  large one. ANorth Atlantic Mutual policy, I think.”

Harriman glared at him. “Am I going to have to fire every confidential clerk in my force?”

“No,” Dixon said mildly, “I don’t get my information from your staff. Harriman went back to the safe, got the policy and added it to the pile. Strong spoke up, “Do you want mine, Mr. Dixon?” “No,” answered Dixon, “that won’t be necessary.” He started stuffing the policies in his pocket. “I’ll keep these, Delos, and attend to keeping up the premiums. I’ll bill you of course. You

can send the note and the changeof-beneficiary forms to my office. Here’s your draft.” He took out another slip of paper; it was the draft—already made out in the amount of the policies.

Harriman looked at it. “Sometimes,” he said slowly, “I wonder who’s kidding who?” He tossed the draft over to Strong. “O.K., George, take care of it. I’m off to Paris, boys. Wish me luck.” He strode out as jauntily as a fox terrier.

Strong looked from the closed door to Dixon, then at the note. “I ought to tear this thing up!”                       

“Don’t do it,” advised Dixon. “You see, I really do believe in him.” He added, “Ever read Carl Sandburg, George?” “I’m not much of a reader.”

“Try him some time. He tells a story about a man who started a rumor that they had struck oil in hell. Pretty soon everybody has left for hell, to get in on the boom. The man who started the rumor watches them all go, then scratches his head and says to himself that there just might be something in it, after all. So he left for hell, too.”

Strong waited, finally said, “I don’t get the point.”

“The point is that I just want to be ready to protect myself if necessary, George—and so should you. Delos might begin believing his own rumors. Diamonds! Come, Jack.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

THE ENSUING MONTHS were as busy as the period before the flight of the Pioneer (now honorably retired to the Smithsonian Institution). One engineering staff and great gangs of men were working on the catapult, two more staffs were busy with two new ships; the Mayflower, and the Colonial; a third ship was on the drafting tables. Ferguson was chief engineer for all  of this; Coster, still buffered by Jock Berkeley, was engineering consultant, working where and as he chose. Colorado Springs was a boom town; the Denver-Trinidad roadcity  settlements spread out at the Springs until they surrounded Peterson Field.

Harriman was as busy as a cat with two tails. The constantly expanding exploitation and promotion took eight full days a week of his time, but, by working Kamens and Montgomery almost to ulcers and by doing without sleep himself, he created frequent opportunities to run out to Colorado and talk things over with Caster.

Luna City, it was decided, would be founded on the very next trip. The Mayflower was planned for a pay-load not only of seven passengers, but with air, water and food to carry four of them over to the next trip; they would live in an aluminum Quonset-type hut, sealed, pressurized, and buried under the loose soil of Luna until—and assuming—they were succored.

The choice of the four extra passengers gave rise to another contest, another publicity exploitation—and more sale of stock. Harriman insisted that they be two married couples, over the united objections of scientific organizations everywhere. He gave in only to the extent of agreeing that there was no objection to all four being scientists, providing they constituted two married couples. This gave rise to several hasty marriages—and some divorces, after the choices were announced.

The Mayflower was the maximum size that calculations showed would be capable of getting into a free orbit around the Earth from the boost of the catapult, plus the blast of her own engines. Before she took off, four other ships, quite as large, would precede her. But they were not space ships; they were mere tankers—nameless. The most finicky of ballistic calculations, the most precise of launchings, would place them in the same orbit at the same spot. There the Mayflower would rendezvous and accept their remaining fuel.

This was the trickiest part of the entire project. If the four tankers could be placed close enough together, LeCroix, using a tiny maneuvering reserve, could bring his new ship to them. If not—well, it gets very lonely out in Space.

Serious thought was given to placing pilots in the tankers and accepting as a penalty the use of enough fuel from one tanker to permit a get-away boat, a life boat with wings, to decelerate, reach the atmosphere and brake to a landing. Caster found a cheaper way.

Aradar pilot, whose ancestor was the proximity fuse and whose immediate parents could be found in the homing devices of guided missiles, was given the task of bringing the tankers together. The first tanker would not be so equipped, but th~ second tanker through its robot would smell out the first and home on it with a pint-sized rocket engine, using the smallest of vectors to bring them together. The third would home on the first two and the fourth on the group.

LeCroix shouid have no trouble-if the scheme worked. CHAPTER THIRTEEN

STRONG WANTED TO SHOW HARRIMAN the sales reports on the H & S automatic household switch; Harriman brushed them aside.

Strong shoved them back under his nose. “You’d better start taking an interest in such things, Delos. Somebody around this office had better start seeing to it that some money comes in

—some money that belongs to us, personally-or you’ll be selling apples on a street corner.”

Harriman leaned back and clasped his hands back of his head. “George, how can you talk that way on a day like this? Is there no poetry in your soul? Didn’t you hear what I said when I came in? The rendezvous worked. Tankers one and two are as close together as Siamese twins. We’ll be leaving within the week.”

“That’s as may be. Business has to go on.”                                      

“You keep it going; I’ve got a date. When did Dixon say he would be over?” “He’s due now.”

“Good!” Harriman bit the end off a cigar and went on, “You know, George, I’m not sorry I didn’t get to make the first trip. Now I’ve still got it t~ do. I’m as expectant as a bridegroom—and as happy.” He started to hum.

Dixon came in without Entenza, a situation that had obtained since the day Dixon had dropped the pretence that he controlled only one share. He shook hands. “You heard the news, Dan?”

“George told me.”

“This is it-or almost. Aweek from now, more or less, I’ll be on the Moon. I can hardly believe it.”                 

Dixon sat down silently. Harriman went on, “Aren’t you even going to congratulate me? Man, this is a great dayl” Dixon said, “D.D., why are you going?”

“Huh? Don’t ask foolish questions. This is what I ~have been working toward.”

“It’s not a foolish question. I asked why you were going. The four colonists have an obvious reason, and each is a selected specialist observer as well. LeCroix is the pilot. Coster is the man who is designing the permanent colony. But why are you going? What’s your function?”

“My function? Why, I’m the guy who runs things. Shucks, I’m going to run for mayor when I get there. Have a cigar, friend—the name’s Harriman. Don’t forget to vote.” He grinned. Dixon did not smile. “I did not know you planned on staying.”

Harriman looked sheepish. “Well, that’s still up in the air. If we get the shelter built in a hurry, we may save enough in the way of supplies to let me sort of lay over until the next trip. You wouldn’t begrudge me that, would you?”

Dixon looked him in the eye. “Delos, I can’t let you go at all.”

Harriman was too startled to talk at first. At last he managed to say, “Don’t joke, Dan. I’m going. You can’t stop me. Nothing on Earth can stop me.” Dixon shook his head. “I can’t permit it, Delos. I’ve got too much sunk in this. If you go and anything happens to you, I lose it all.”

“That’s silly. You and George would just carry on, that’s all.” “Ask George.”

Strong had nothing to say. He did not seem anxious to meet Harriman’s eyes. Dixon went on, “Don’t try to kid your way out of it, Delos. This venture is you and you are this venture. If you get killed, the whole thing folds up. I don’t say space travel folds up; I think you’ve already given that a boost that will carry it along even with lesser men in your shoes. But as for this venture—our company—it will fold up. George and I will have to liquidate at about half a cent on the dollar. It would take sale of patent rights to get that much. The tangible assets aren’t worth anything.”

“Damn it, it’s the intangibles we sell. You knew that all along.”

“You are the intangible asset, Delos. You are the goose that lays the golden eggs. I want you to stick around until you’ve laid them. You must not risk your neck in space flight until you  have this thing on a profit-making basis, so that any competent manager, such as George or myself, thereafter can keep it solvent. I mean it, Delos. I’ve got too much in it to see you risk it in a joy ride.”

Harriman stood up and pressed his fingers down on the edge of his desk. He was breathing hard. “You can’t stop me!” he said slowly and forcefully. “Not all the forces of heaven or hell can stop me.”

Dixon answered quietly, “I’m sorry, Delos. But I can stop you and I will. I can tie up that ship out there.” “Try it! I own as many lawyers as you do—and better ones!”

“I think you will find that you are not as popular in American courts as you once were-not since the United States found out it didn’t own the Moon after all.” “Try it, I tell you. I’ll break you and I’ll take your shares away from you, too.”

“Easy, Delos! I’ve no doubt you have some scheme whereby you could milk the basic company right away from George and me if you decided to. But it won’t be necessary. Nor will it be necessary to tie up the ship. I want the flight to take place as much as you do. But you won’t be on it, because you will decide not to go.”

“I will, eh? Do I look crazy from where you sit?” “No, on the contrary.”

“Then why won’t I go?”                                                

“Because of your note that I hold. I want to collect it.”         

“What? There’s no due date.”                                              

“No. But I want to be sure to collect it.”                                

“Why, you dumb fool, if I get killed you collect it sooner than ever.”

“Do I? You are mistaken, Delos. If you are killed-on a flight to the Moon—I collect nothing. I know; I’ve checked with every one of the companies underwriting you. Most of them have escape clauses covering experimental vehicles that date back to early aviation. In any case all of them will cancel and fight it out in court if you set foot inside that ship.”

“You put them up to this!”

“Calm down, Delos. You’ll be bursting a blood vessel. Certainly I queried them, but I was legitimately looking after my own interests. I don’t want to collect on that note-not now, not by your death. I want you to pay it back out of your own earnings, by staj’ing here and nursing this company through till it’s stable.”

Harriman chucked his cigar, almost unsmoked and badly chewed, at a waste basket. He missed. “I don’t give a hoot if you lose on it. If you hadn’t stirred them up, they’d have paid without a quiver.”

“But it did dig up a weak point in your plans, Delos. If space travel is to be a success, insurance will have to reach out and cover the insured anywhere.” “Confound it, one of them does now—N. A. Mutual.”

“I’ve seen their ad and I’ve looked over what they claim to offer. It’s just window dressing, with the usual escape clause. No, insurance will have to be revamped, all sorts of insurance.” Harriman looked thoughtful. “I’ll look into it. George, call Kamens. Maybe we’ll have to float our own company.”

“Never mind Kamens,” objected Dixon. “The point is you can’t go on this trip. You have too many details of that sort to watch and plan for and nurse along.”                                    Harriman looked back at him. “You haven’t gotten it through your head, Dan, that I’m going! Tie up the ship if you can. If you put sheriffs around it, I’ll have goons there to toss them aside.” Dixon looked pained. “I hate to mention this point, Delos, but I am afraid you will be stopped even if I drop dead.”

“How?” “Your wife.”

“What’s she got to do with it?”

“She’s ready to sue for separate maintenance right now—she’s found out about this insurance thing. When she hears about this present plan, she’ll force you into court and force an accounting of your assets.”

“You put her up to it!”

Dixon hesitated. He knew that Entenza had spilled the beans to Mrs. Harriman—maliciously. Yet there seemed no point in adding to a personal feud. “She’s bright enough to have done some investigating on her own account. I won’t deny I’ve talked to her—but she sent for me.”

“I’ll fight both of you!” Harriman stomped to a window, stood looking out—it was a real window; he liked to look at the sky.

Dixon came over and put a hand on his shoulder, saying softly, “Don’t take it this way, Delos. Nobody’s trying to keep you from your dream. But you can’t go just yet; you can’t let us down. We’ve stuck with you this far; you owe it to us to stick with us until it’s done.”

Harriman did not answer; Dixon went on, “If you don’t feel any loyalty toward me, how about George? He’s stuck with you against me, when it hurt him, when he thought you were ruining him—and you surely were, unless you finish this job. How about George, Delos? Are you going to let him down, too?”

Harriman swung around, ignoring Dixon and facing Strong. “What about it, George? Do you think I should stay behind?”  Strong rubbed his hands and chewed his lip. Finally he looked up. “It’s all right with me, Delos. You do what you think is best.”

Harriman stood looking at him for a long moment, his face working as if he were going to cry. Then he said huskily, “Okay, you rats. Okay. I’ll stay behind.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

IT WAS ONE OF THOSE GLORIOUS EVENINGS so common in the Pikes Peak region, after a day in which the sky has been well scrubbed by thunderstorms. The track of the catapult crawled in a straight line up the face of the mountain, whole shoulders having been carved away to permit it. At the temporary space port, still raw from construction, Harriman, in company with visiting notables, was saying good-bye to the passengers and crew of the Mayflower.

The crowds came right up to the rail of the catapult. There was no need to keep them back from the ship; the jets would not blast until she was high over the peak. Only the ship itself was guarded, the ship and the gleaming rails.

Dixon and Strong, together for company and mutual support, hung back at the edge of the area roped off for passengers and officials. They watched Harriman jollying those about to  leave: “Good-bye, Doctor. Keep an eye on him, Janet. Don’t let him go looking for Moon Maidens.” They saw him engage Coster in private conversation, then clap the younger man on the back.

“Keeps his chin up, doesn’t he?” whispered Dixon.                                “Maybe we should have let him go,” answered Strong.                               “Eh? Nonsense! We’ve got to have him. Anyway, his place in history is secure.”

“He doesn’t care about history,” Strong answered seriously, “he just wants to go to the Moon.”                    “Well, confound it—he can go to the Moon … as soon as he gets his job done. After all, it’s his job. He made it.” “I know.”

Harriman turned around, saw them, started toward them. They shut up. “Don’t duck,” he said jovially. “It’s all right. I’ll go on the next trip. By then I plan to have it running itself. You’ll see.” He turned back toward the Mayflower. “Quite a sight, isn’t she?”

The outer door was closed; ready lights winked along the track and from the control tower. Asiren sounded. Harriman moved a step or two closer.

“There she goes!”

It was a shout from the whole crowd. The great ship started slowly, softly up the track, gathered speed, and shot toward the distant peak. She was already tiny by the time she curved up the face and burst into the sky.

She hung there a split second, then a plume of light exploded from her tail. Her jets had fired.

Then she was a shining light in the sky, a ball of flame, then—nothing. She was gone, upward and outward, to her rendezvous with her tankers.                                                     The crowd had pushed to the west end of the platform as the ship swarmed up the mountain. Harriman had stayed where he was, nor had Dixon and Strong followed the crowd. The

three were alone, Harriman most alone for he did not seem aware that the others were near him. He was watching the sky.

Strong was watching him. Presently Strong barely whispered to Dixon, “Do you read the Bible?” “Some.”

“He looks as Moses must have looked, when he gazed out over the promised land.”

Harriman dropped his eyes from the sky and saw them. “You guys still here?” he said. “Come on—there’s work to be done.”

The End

I hope that you enjoyed this post. I have other posts that cover many other stories in my Fictional Index. You can go there using this link…

Fictional Stories

Articles & Links

You’ll not find any big banners or popups here talking about cookies and privacy notices. There are no ads on this site (aside from the hosting ads – a necessary evil). Functionally and fundamentally, I just don’t make money off of this blog. It is NOT monetized. Finally, I don’t track you because I just don’t care to.

To go to the MAIN Index;

Master Index

.

  • You can start reading the articles by going HERE.
  • You can visit the Index Page HERE to explore by article subject.
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  • You can find out more about the author HERE.
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Tryptamines I Have Known And Loved: The Chemistry Continues (full HTML) By Alexander and Ann Shulgin

A lot of people didn’t receive this book as well, they felt it was lacking in comparison to Pihkal. I would disagree. There was less overall information but were also talking about a completely different class of drugs. The stories at the beginning were awesome, as they were in Pihkal. The chemistry and bioassays in the back were also awesome. Great book, if you like the Shulgins.

Introduction

Most humans are unable to see the universe as it actually is. Our bodies have evolved to help us hunt, live and procreate. Not to probe the mysteries of the universe.

As such, our brains have evolved to take the sensory inputs from our five (6) senses and present to us a certain kind of reality.

This reality is not the true reality.

To see the true reality, you need to step out of the body and take a good hard look around.

That’s pretty difficult for most people.

There are other methods, many of which involve altering how the brain interprets the sensory stimulus to it. One of the most common methods is through the use of drugs.

Here we look at some tryptamines that can alter the way the brain functions, and thus might be able to present some kind of distortion of reality that could very well provide a glimpse into the way the universe actually works.

trypt-amine    \ 'trip-ta-,men \    n. [tryptophan fr. tryptic, fr. trypsin, fr. Gk. tryein, to wear down (from its occurence in pancreatic juice as a proteolytic enzyme) + amine fr. NL ammonia]    1: A naturally occurring compound found in both the animal and plant kingdoms. It is an endogenous component of the human brain.    2: Any of a series of compounds containing the tryptamine skeleton, and modified by chemical constituents at appropriate positions in the molecule.

Disclaimer

I do not advocate use of any kinds of drugs to explore the true reality that we inhabit. This information is provided for educational purposes only.

COPYRIGHT NOTICE

The Copyright for Part 1 of TiHKAL has been reserved in all forms and it may not be distributed.

Part 2 of TiHKAL may be distributed for non-commercial reproduction provided that the introductory material, copyright notice, cautionary notice and ordering information remain attached.

CAUTIONARY NOTE: READ BEFORE PROCEEDING

I would like to take a moment to reiterate that at the present time restrictive laws are in force in the United States and it is very difficult for researchers to abide by the regulations which govern efforts to obtain legal approval to do work with these compounds in human beings….. No one who is lacking legal authorization should attempt the synthesis of any of the compounds described in these files, with the intent to give them to man. To do so is to risk legal action which might lead to the tragic ruination of a life. It should also be noted that any person anywhere who experiments on himself, or on another human being, with any of the drugs described herein, without being familiar with that drug’s action and aware of the physical and/or mental disturbance or harm it might cause, is acting irresponsibly and immorally, whether or not he is doing so within the bounds of the law.

ABOUT THIS HTML VERSION OF TiHKAL

This HTML version of TiHKAL was created by Bo Lawler with the help of Erowid. The content was generously provided in electronic format by the Authors.

The 2D figures were created using IsisDraw and Adobe Photoshop. Additional molecule images suitable for use with the Chime browser plug-in were created by Liquis and are used with his permission. If you have any comments on this HTML version of the text, please contact Bo.

ORDERING INFORMATION

The first half of TiHKAL is an excellent commentary on the Shulgin’s personal experiences with tryptamines. It also contains a complete cross-index into the chemicals of the second half. Purchasing a copy is highly recommended. The book may be ordered through Transform Press, for $28.50 ($24.50 + $4 p&h). Box 13675, Berkeley, CA 94701. (510)934-4930 (voice), (510)934-5999 (fax). California residents please add $2.02 State sales tax.


INDEX TO THE TRYPTAMINES

#SUBSTANCECHEMICAL NAME
1AL-LAD6-Allyl-N,N-diethyl-NL
2DBTN,N-Dibutyl-T
3DETN,N-Diethyl-T
4DIPTN,N-Diisopropyl-T
5alpha,O-DMS5-Methyoxy-alpha-methyl-T
6DMTN,N-Dimethyl-T
72,alpha-DMT2,alpha-Dimethyl-T
8alpha,N-DMTalpha,N-Dimethyl-T
9DPTN,N-Dipropyl-T
10EIPTN-Ethyl-N-isopropyl-T
11alpha-ETalpha-Ethyl-T
12ETH-LAD6,N,N-Triethyl-NL
13Harmaline3,4-Dihydro-7-methoxy-1-methyl-C
14Harmine7-Methyoxy-1-methyl-C
154-HO-DBTN,N-Dibutyl-4-hydroxy-T
164-HO-DETN,N-Diethyl-4-hydroxy-T
174-HO-DIPTN,N-Diisopropyl-4-hydroxy-T
184-HO-DMTN,N-Dimethyl-4-hydroxy-T
195-HO-DMTN,N-Dimethyl-5-hydroxy-T
204-HO-DPTN,N-Dipropyl-4-hydroxy-T
214-HO-METN-Ethyl-4-hydroxy-N-methyl-T
224-HO-MIPT4-Hydroxy-N-isopropyl-N-methyl-T
234-HO-MPT4-Hydroxy-N-methyl-N-propyl-T
244-HO-pyr-T4-Hydroxy-N,N-tetramethylene-T
25IbogaineA complexly substituted-T
26LSDN,N-Diethyl-L
27MBTN-Butyl-N-methyl-T
284,5-MDO-DIPTN,N-Diisopropyl-4,5-methylenedioxy-T
295,6-MDO-DIPTN,N-Diisopropyl-5,6-methylenedioxy-T
304,5-MDO-DMTN,N-Dimethyl-4,5-methylenedioxy-T
315,6-MDO-DMTN,N-Dimethyl-5,6-methylenedioxy-T
325,6-MDO-MIPTN-Isopropyl-N-methyl-5,6-methylenedioxy-T
332-Me-DETN,N-Diethyl-2-methyl-T
342-Me-DMT2,N,N-Trimethyl-T
35MelatoninN-Acetyl-5-methoxy-T
365-MeO-DETN,N-Diethyl-5-methoxy-T
375-MeO-DIPTN,N-Diisopropyl-5-methoxy-T
385-MeO-DMT5-Methoxy-N,N-dimethyl-T
394-MeO-MIPTN-Isopropyl-4-methoxy-N-methyl-T
405-MeO-MIPTN-Isopropyl-5-methoxy-N-methyl-T
415,6-MeO-MIPT5,6-Dimethoxy-N-isopropyl-N-methyl-T
425-MeO-NMT5-Methoxy-N-methyl-T
435-MeO-pyr-T5-Methoxy-N,N-tetramethylene-T
446-MeO-THH6-Methoxy-1-methyl-1,2,3,4-tetrahydro-C
455-MeO-TMT5-Methoxy-2,N,N-trimethyl-T
465-MeS-DMTN,N-Dimethyl-5-methylthio-T
47MIPTN-Isopropyl-N-methyl-T
48alpha-MTalpha-Methyl-T
49NETN-Ethyl-T
50NMTN-Methyl-T
51PRO-LAD6-Propyl-NL
52pyr-TN,N-Tetramethylene-T
53TTryptamine
54Tetrahydroharmine7-Methoxy-1-methyl-1,2,3,4-tetrahydro-C
55alpha,N,O-TMSalpha,N-Dimethyl-5-methoxy-T
 
..Shulgin Rating Scale

OTHER PiHKAL RELATED FILES

I hope that you enjoyed this post, if you want more…

I have other posts that might interest you in my MAJestic Index here…

MAJestic

Articles & Links

You’ll not find any big banners or popups here talking about cookies and privacy notices. There are no ads on this site (aside from the hosting ads – a necessary evil). Functionally and fundamentally, I just don’t make money off of this blog. It is NOT monetized. Finally, I don’t track you because I just don’t care to.

To go to the MAIN Index;

Master Index

.

  • You can start reading the articles by going HERE.
  • You can visit the Index Page HERE to explore by article subject.
  • You can also ask the author some questions. You can go HERE .
  • You can find out more about the author HERE.
  • If you have concerns or complaints, you can go HERE.
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Please kindly help me out in this effort. There is a lot of effort that goes into this disclosure. I could use all the financial support that anyone could provide. Thank you very much.

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PIHKAL (full HTML) by Alexander Shulgin

PIHKAL (Phenethylamines I Have Known And Loved) is a unique book written by renowned psychopharmacologist Alexander Shulgin and his wife Ann Shulgin. This book gives details of their research and investigations into the use of psychedelic drugs for the study of the human mind, and is also a love story.

phen-ethyl-amine    \fen-'eth-al-a-,men\    n. [phenyl fr. F. phène, fr. Gk. phainein, to show (from its occurrence in illuminating gas)+ ethyl (+ yl) + amine fr. NL ammonia]    1: A naturally occurring compound found in both the animal and plant kingdoms. It is an endogenous component of the human brain.    2: Any of a series of compounds containing the phenethylamine skeleton, and modified by chemical constituents at appropriate positions in the molecule.

Introduction

Our human bodies and our human brains have evolved in such a way that we cannot see the full scope of what our universe and our reality actually looks like. Instead, we see what we need to survive on the earth and what we need to procreate. That’s it.

Unfortunately, it hampers our development. Not only scientifically, but spiritually as well.

There are techniques on how to “expand” or alter the way our mind interprets the sensory inputs to our brain. Most of which involve various kinds of drugs. These drugs come at a risk, for while they are able to alter the way that the sensory inputs are interpreted, they might give a distorted view of the universe. One that is just as distorted as we normally see in our day to day life.

Alexander Shulgin spent his life as a researcher / scientist for the CIA developing, designing and creating all sorts of drugs that alter the way that the brain interprets senses and works. These drugs were considered a dangerous asset by the United States government, and for the longest time banned the publication of the information.

Here is the free-to-distribute part of his book in conjunction with the Erowid Online Book website.

Disclaimer

I do not advocate the use of any types of drugs in any way other than for medical and therapeutic purposes. This information is provided for study purposes only.

COPYRIGHT NOTICE

The Copyright for Part 1 of PiHKAL has been reserved in all forms and it may not be distributed.

Part 2 of PiHKAL may be distributed for non-commercial reproduction provided that the introductory information, copyright notice, cautionary notice and ordering information remain attached.

CAUTIONARY NOTE: READ BEFORE PROCEEDING

At the present time, restrictive laws are in force in the United States and it is very difficult for researchers to abide by the regulations which govern efforts to obtain legal approval to do work with these compounds in human beings….

No one who is lacking legal authorization should attempt the synthesis of any of the compounds described in these files, with the intent to give them to man.

To do so is to risk legal action which might lead to the tragic ruination of a life. It should also be noted that any person anywhere who experiments on himself, or on another human being, with any of the drugs described herin, without being familiar with that drug’s action and aware of the physical and/or mental disturbance or harm it might cause, is acting irresponsibly and immorally, whether or not he is doing so within the bounds of the law. — Alexander T. Shulgin

ABOUT THIS HTML VERSION OF PiHKAL

This is the online version of the second half of the book “PiHKAL: A Chemical Love Story” by Alexander and Ann Shulgin.

It is presented with the express permission of the authors in order to spread the factual information as widely as possible and make it permanently available in the public domain.

It was originally transcribed into ASCII by Simson Garfinkle and was coverted into HTML by Lamont Granquist.

Any comments or corrections about the HTML version should be sent to Erowid. They can also forward serious and appropriate comments to the author if they are e-mailed.

Bolded entries indicate those substances that have been more popular or more available than others since 1991.

ORDERING INFORMATION

The first half of PiHKAL is an excellent commentary on the Shulgin’s personal experiences with phenethylamines. It is highly recommended and well worth purchasing the book.

Purchasing the book also gets you a far more complete cross-index into the chemicals described in the second half. If you are seriously interested in the chemistry contained in these files, you should order a copy.

The book may be ordered through Transform Press, for $22.95 ($18.95 + $4 p&h U.S., $8 p&h overseas). Box 13675, Berkeley, CA 94701. (510)934-4930 (voice), (510)934-5999 (fax). California residents please add $1.56 State sales tax.

Shulgin Rating Scale

PLUS / MINUS (+/-) The level of effectiveness of a drug that indicates a threshold action. If a higher dosage produces a greater response, then the plus/minus (+/-) was valid. If a higher dosage produces nothing, then this was a false positive.

PLUS ONE (+) The drug is quite certainly active. The chronology can be determined with some accuracy, but the nature of the drug’s effects are not yet apparent.

PLUS TWO (++) Both the chronology and the nature of the action of a drug are unmistakably apparent. But you still have some choice as to whether you will accept the adventure, or rather just continue with your ordinary day’s plans (if you are an experienced researcher, that is). The effects can be allowed a predominant role, or they may be repressed and made secondary to other chosen activities.

PLUS THREE (+++) Not only are the chronology and the nature of a drug’s action quite clear, but ignoring its action is no longer an option. The subject is totally engaged in the experience, for better or worse.

PLUS FOUR (++++) A rare and precious transcendental state, which has been called a ‘peak experience’, a ‘religious experience,’ ‘divine transformation,’ a ‘state of Samadhi’ and many other names in other cultures. It is not connected to the +1, +2, and +3 of the measuring of a drug’s intensity. It is a state of bliss, a participation mystique, a connectedness with both the interior and exterior universes, which has come about after the ingestion of a psychedelic drug, but which is not necessarily repeatable with a subsequent ingestion of that same drug. If a drug (or technique or process) were ever to be discovered which would consistently produce a plus four experience in all human beings, it is conceivable that it would signal the ultimate evolution, and perhaps the end of, the human experiment.


INDEX TO THE PHENETHYLAMINES

#SUBSTANCECHEMICAL NAME
1AEMalpha-Ethyl-3,4,5-trimethoxy-PEA
2AL4-Allyloxy-3,5-dimethoxy-PEA
3ALEPH4-Methylthio-2,5-dimethoxy-A
4ALEPH-24-Ethylthio-2,5-dimethoxy-A
5ALEPH-44-Isopropylthio-2,5-dimethoxy-A
6ALEPH-64-Phenylthio-2,5-dimethoxy-A
7ALEPH-74-Propylthio-2,5-dimethoxy-A
8ARIADNE2,5-Dimethoxy-alpha-ethyl-4-methyl-PEA
9ASB3,4-Diethoxy-5-methoxy-PEA
10B4-Butoxy-3,5-dimethoxy-PEA
11BEATRICE2,5-Dimethoxy-4,N-dimethyl-A
12BIS-TOM2,5-Bismethylthio-4-methyl-A
13BOB4-Bromo-2,5,beta-trimethoxy-PEA
14BOD2,5,beta-Trimethoxy-4-methyl-PEA
15BOHbeta-Methoxy-3,4-methylenedioxy-PEA
16BOHD2,5-Dimethoxy-beta-hydroxy-4-methyl-PEA
17BOM3,4,5,beta-Tetramethoxy-PEA
184-Br-3,5-DMA4-Bromo-3,5-dimethoxy-A
192-Br-4,5-MDA2-Bromo-4,5-methylenedioxy-A
202C-B4-Bromo-2,5-dimethoxy-PEA
213C-BZ4-Benzyloxy-3,5-dimethoxy-A
222C-C4-Chloro-2,5-dimethoxy-PEA
232C-D4-Methyl-2,5-dimethoxy-PEA
242C-E4-Ethyl-2,5-dimethoxy-PEA
253C-E4-Ethoxy-3,5-dimethoxy-A
262C-F4-Fluoro-2,5-dimethoxy-PEA
272C-G3,4-Dimethyl-2,5-dimethoxy-PEA
282C-G-33,4-Trimethylene-2,5-dimethoxy-PEA
292C-G-43,4-Tetramethylene-2,5-dimethoxy-PEA
302C-G-53,4-Norbornyl-2,5-dimethoxy-PEA
312C-G-N1,4-Dimethoxynaphthyl-2-ethylamine
322C-H2,5-Dimethoxy-PEA
332C-I4-Iodo-2,5-dimethoxy-PEA
342C-N4-Nitro-2,5-dimethoxy-PEA
352C-O-44-Isopropoxy-2,5-dimethoxy-PEA
362C-P4-Propyl-2,5-dimethoxy-PEA
37CPM4-Cyclopropylmethoxy-3,5-dimethoxy-PEA
382C-SE4-Methylseleno-2,5-dimethoxy-PEA
392C-T4-Methylthio-2,5-dimethoxy-PEA
402C-T-24-Ethylthio-2,5-dimethoxy-PEA
412C-T-44-Isopropylthio-2,5-dimethoxy-PEA
42psi-2C-T-44-Isopropylthio-2,6-dimethoxy-PEA
432C-T-74-Propylthio-2,5-dimethoxy-PEA
442C-T-84-Cyclopropylmethylthio-2,5-dimethoxy-PEA
452C-T-94-(t)-Butylthio-2,5-dimethoxy-PEA
462C-T-134-(2-Methoxyethylthio)-2,5-dimethoxy-PEA
472C-T-154-Cyclopropylthio-2,5-dimethoxy-PEA
482C-T-174-(s)-Butylthio-2,5-dimethoxy-PEA
492C-T-214-(2-Fluoroethylthio)-2,5-dimethoxy-PEA
504-D4-Trideuteromethyl-3,5-dimethoxy-PEA
51beta-Dbeta,beta-Dideutero-3,4,5-trimethoxy-PEA
52DESOXY4-Methyl-3,5-Dimethoxy-PEA
532,4-DMA2,4-Dimethoxy-A
542,5-DMA2,5-Dimethoxy-A
553,4-DMA3,4-Dimethoxy-A
56DMCPA2-(2,5-Dimethoxy-4-methylphenyl)-cyclopropylamine
57DME3,4-Dimethoxy-beta-hydroxy-PEA
58DMMDA2,5-Dimethoxy-3,4-methylenedioxy-A
59DMMDA-22,3-Dimethoxy-4,5-methylenedioxy-A
60DMPEA3,4-Dimethoxy-PEA
61DOAM4-Amyl-2,5-dimethoxy-A
62DOB4-Bromo-2,5-dimethoxy-A
63DOBU4-Butyl-2,5-dimethoxy-A
64DOC4-Chloro-2,5-dimethoxy-A
65DOEF4-(2-Fluoroethyl)-2,5-dimethoxy-A
66DOET4-Ethyl-2,5-dimethoxy-A
67DOI4-Iodo-2,5-dimethoxy-A
68DOM (STP)4-Methyl-2,5-dimethoxy-A
69psi-DOM4-Methyl-2,6-dimethoxy-A
70DON4-Nitro-2,5-dimethoxy-A
71DOPR4-Propyl-2,5-dimethoxy-A
72E4-Ethoxy-3,5-dimethoxy-PEA
73EEE2,4,5-Triethoxy-A
74EEM2,4-Diethoxy-5-methoxy-A
75EME2,5-Diethoxy-4-methoxy-A
76EMM2-Ethoxy-4,5-dimethoxy-A
77ETHYL-JN,alpha-diethyl-3,4-methylenedioxy-PEA
78ETHYL-KN-Ethyl-alpha-propyl-3,4-methylenedioxy-PEA
79F-2Benzofuran-2-methyl-5-methoxy-6-(2-aminopropane)
80F-22Benzofuran-2,2-dimethyl-5-methoxy-6-(2-aminopropane)
81FLEAN-Hydroxy-N-methyl-3,4-methylenedioxy-A
82G-33,4-Trimethylene-2,5-dimethoxy-A
83G-43,4-Tetramethylene-2,5-dimethoxy-A
84G-53,4-Norbornyl-2,5-dimethoxy-A
85GANESHA3,4-Dimethyl-2,5-dimethoxy-A
86G-N1,4-Dimethoxynaphthyl-2-isopropylamine
87HOT-22,5-Dimethoxy-N-hydroxy-4-ethylthio-PEA
88HOT-72,5-Dimethoxy-N-hydroxy-4-(n)-propylthio-PEA
89HOT-172,5-Dimethoxy-N-hydroxy-4-(s)-butylthio-PEA
90IDNNA2,5-Dimethoxy-N,N-dimethyl-4-iodo-A
91IM2,3,4-Trimethoxy-PEA
92IP3,5-Dimethoxy-4-isopropoxy-PEA
93IRIS5-Ethoxy-2-methoxy-4-methyl-A
94Jalpha-Ethyl-3,4-methylenedioxy-PEA
95LOPHOPHINE3-Methoxy-4,5-methylenedioxy-PEA
96M3,4,5-Trimethoxy-PEA
974-MA4-Methoxy-A
98MADAM-62,N-Dimethyl-4,5-methylenedioxy-A
99MAL3,5-Dimethoxy-4-methallyloxy-PEA
100MDA3,4-Methylenedioxy-A
101MDALN-Allyl-3,4-methylenedioxy-A
102MDBUN-Butyl-3,4-methylenedioxy-A
103MDBZN-Benzyl-3,4-methylenedioxy-A
104MDCPMN-Cyclopropylmethyl-3,4-methylenedioxy-A
105MDDMN,N-Dimethyl-3,4-methylenedioxy-A
106MDEN-Ethyl-3,4-methylenedioxy-A
107MDHOETN-(2-Hydroxyethyl)-3,4-methylenedioxy-A
108MDIPN-Isopropyl-3,4-methylenedioxy-A
109MDMAN-Methyl-3,4-methylenedioxy-A
110MDMCN-Methyl-3,4-ethylenedioxy-A
111MDMEON-Methoxy-3,4-methylenedioxy-A
112MDMEOETN-(2-Methoxyethyl)-3,4-methylenedioxy-A
113MDMPalpha,alpha,N-Trimethyl-3,4-methylenedioxy-PEA
114MDOHN-Hydroxy-3,4-methylenedioxy-A
115MDPEA3,4-Methylenedioxy-PEA
116MDPHalpha,alpha-Dimethyl-3,4-methylenedioxy-PEA
117MDPLN-Propargyl-3,4-methylenedioxy-A
118MDPRN-Propyl-3,4-methylenedioxy-A
119ME3,4-Dimethoxy-5-ethoxy-PEA
120MEDA3-methoxy-4,5-Ethylenedioxy-A [Erowid corrected]
121MEE2-Methoxy-4,5-diethoxy-A
122MEM2,5-Dimethoxy-4-ethoxy-A
123MEPEA3-Methoxy-4-ethoxy-PEA
124META-DOB5-Bromo-2,4-dimethoxy-A
125META-DOT5-Methylthio-2,4-dimethoxy-A
126METHYL-DMAN-Methyl-2,5-dimethoxy-A
127METHYL-DOB4-Bromo-2,5-dimethoxy-N-methyl-A
128METHYL-JN-Methyl-alpha-ethyl-3,4-methylenedioxy-PEA
129METHYL-KN-Methyl-alpha-propyl-3,4-methylenedioxy-PEA
130METHYL-MAN-Methyl-4-methoxy-A
131METHYL-MMDA-2N-Methyl-2-methoxy-4,5-methylenedioxy-A
132MMDA3-Methoxy-4,5-methylenedioxy-A
133MMDA-22-Methoxy-4,5-methylenedioxy-A
134MMDA-3a2-Methoxy-3,4-methylenedioxy-A
135MMDA-3b4-Methoxy-2,3-methylenedioxy-A
136MME2,4-Dimethoxy-5-ethoxy-A
137MP3,4-Dimethoxy-5-propoxy-PEA
138MPM2,5-Dimethoxy-4-propoxy-A
139ORTHO-DOT2-Methylthio-4,5-dimethoxy-A
140P3,5-Dimethoxy-4-propoxy-PEA
141PE3,5-Dimethoxy-4-phenethyloxy-PEA
142PEAPEA
143PROPYNYL4-Propynyloxy-3,5-dimethoxy-PEA
144SB3,5-Diethoxy-4-methoxy-PEA
145TA2,3,4,5-Tetramethoxy-A
1463-TASB4-Ethoxy-3-ethylthio-5-methoxy-PEA
1474-TASB3-Ethoxy-4-ethylthio-5-methoxy-PEA
1485-TASB3,4-Diethoxy-5-methylthio-PEA
149TB4-Thiobutoxy-3,5-dimethoxy-PEA
1503-TE4-Ethoxy-5-methoxy-3-methylthio-PEA
1514-TE3,5-Dimethoxy-4-ethylthio-PEA
1522-TIM2-Methylthio-3,4-dimethoxy-PEA
1533-TIM3-Methylthio-2,4-dimethoxy-PEA
1544-TIM4-Methylthio-2,3-dimethoxy-PEA
1553-TM3-Methylthio-4,5-dimethoxy-PEA
1564-TM4-Methylthio-3,5-dimethoxy-PEA
157TMA3,4,5-Trimethoxy-A
158TMA-22,4,5-Trimethoxy-A
159TMA-32,3,4-Trimethoxy-A
160TMA-42,3,5-Trimethoxy-A
161TMA-52,3,6-Trimethoxy-A
162TMA-62,4,6-Trimethoxy-A
1633-TME4,5-Dimethoxy-3-ethylthio-PEA
1644-TME3-Ethoxy-5-methoxy-4-methylthio-PEA
1655-TME3-Ethoxy-4-methoxy-5-methylthio-PEA
1662T-MMDA-3a2-Methylthio-3,4-methylenedioxy-A
1674T-MMDA-24,5-Thiomethyleneoxy-2-methoxy-A
168TMPEA2,4,5-Trimethoxy-PEA
1692-TOET4-Ethyl-5-methoxy-2-methylthio-A
1705-TOET4-Ethyl-2-methoxy-5-methylthio-A
1712-TOM5-Methoxy-4-methyl-2-methylthio-A
1725-TOM2-Methoxy-4-methyl-5-methylthio-A
173TOMSO2-Methoxy-4-methyl-5-methylsulfinyl-A
174TP4-Propylthio-3,5-dimethoxy-PEA
175TRIS3,4,5-Triethoxy-PEA
1763-TSB3-Ethoxy-5-ethylthio-4-methoxy-PEA
1774-TSB3,5-Diethoxy-4-methylthio-PEA
1783-T-TRIS4,5-Diethoxy-3-ethylthio-PEA
1794-T-TRIS3,5-Diethoxy-4-ethylthio-PEA
Appendix B: Glossary

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Have spacesuit – will travel (full text) by Robert Heinlein

“Have Spacesuit – Will Travel” is a great story that is in the same class as “Farmer in the Sky”. Which are both fictional stories that are perhaps some of his best. All have a great sense of awe and adventure and excitement about space and exploration that existed back in the 1950’s and 1960’s.

Have Spacesuit – Will Travel

Chapter 1

You see, I had this space suit. How it happened was this way:

“Dad,” I said, “I want to go to the Moon.”

“Certainly,” he answered and looked back at his book. It was Jerome K. Jerome’s Three Men in a Boat, which he must know by heart.  I said, “Dad, please! I’m serious.”

This time he closed the book on a finger and said gently, “I said it was all right. Go ahead.” “Yes … but how?”

“Eh?” He looked mildly surprised. “Why, that’s your problem, Clifford.”

Dad was like that. The time I told him I wanted to buy a bicycle he said, “Go right ahead,” without even glancing up-so I had gone to the money basket in the dining room, intending to take enough for a bicycle. But there had been only eleven dollars and forty-three cents in it, so about a thousand miles of mowed lawns later I bought a bicycle. I hadn’t said anymore to Dad because if money wasn’t in the basket, it wasn’t anywhere; Dad didn’t bother with banks-just the money basket and one next to it marked “UNCLE SAM,” the contents of which he bundled up and mailed to the government once a year. This caused the Internal Revenue Service considerable headache and once they sent a man to remonstrate with him.

First the man demanded, then he pleaded. “But, Dr. Russell, we know your background. You’ve no excuse for not keeping proper records.” “But I do,” Dad told him. “Up here.” He tapped his forehead.

“The law requires written records.”

“Look again,” Dad advised him. “The law can’t even require a man to read and write. More coffee?”

The man tried to get Dad to pay by check or money order. Dad read him the fine print on a dollar bill, the part about “legal tender for all debts, public and private.” In a despairing effort to get something out of the trip he asked Dad please not to fill in the space marked “occupation” with “Spy.”

“Why not?”

“What? Why, because you aren’t-and it upsets people.” “Have you checked with the F.B.I.?”

“Eh? No.”

“They probably wouldn’t answer. But you’ve been very polite. I’ll mark it ‘Unemployed Spy.’ Okay?”

The tax man almost forgot his brief case. Nothing fazed Dad, he meant what he said, he wouldn’t argue and he never gave in. So when he told me I could go to the Moon but the means were up to me, he meant just that. I could go tomorrow-provided I could wangle a billet in a space ship.

But he added meditatively, “There must be a number of ways to get to the Moon, son. Better check ‘em all. Reminds me of this passage I’m reading. They’re trying to open a tin of pineapple and Harris has left the can opener back in London. They try several ways.” He started to read aloud and I sneaked out-I had heard that passage five hundred times. Well, three hundred.

I went to my workshop in the barn and thought about ways. One way was to go to the Air Academy at Colorado Springs-if I got an appointment, if I graduated, if I managed to get picked for the Federation Space Corps, there was a chance that someday I would be ordered to Lunar Base, or at least one of the satellite stations.

Another way was to study engineering, get a job in jet propulsion, and buck for a spot that would get me sent to the Moon. Dozens, maybe hundreds, of engineers had been to the Moon, or were still there-for all sorts of work: electronics, cryogenics, metallurgy, ceramics, air conditioning, as well as rocket engineering.

Oh, yes! Out of a million engineers a handful got picked for the Moon. Shucks, I rarely got picked even playing post office.

Or a man could be an M.D., or a lawyer, or geologist, or toolmaker, and wind up on the Moon at a fat salary-provided they wanted him and nobody else. I didn’t care about salary-but how do you arrange to be number one in your specialty?

And there was the straightforward way: trundle in a wheelbarrow of money and buy a ticket.

This I would never manage-I had eighty-seven cents at that moment -but it had caused me to think about it steadily. Of the boys in our school half admitted that they wanted to space, half pretended not to care, knowing how feeble the chances were-plus a handful of creeps who wouldn’t leave Earth for any reason. But we talked about it and some of us were determined to go. I didn’t break into a rash until American Express and Thos. Cook & Son announced tourist excursions.

I saw their ads in National Geographic while waiting to have my teeth cleaned. After that I never was the same.

The idea that any rich man could simply lay cash on the line and go was more than I could stand. I just had to go. I would never be able to pay for it-or, at least, that was so far in the future there was no use thinking about it. So what could I do to be sent?

You see stories about boys, poor-but-honest, who go to the top because they’re smarter than anyone in the county, maybe the state. But they’re not talking about me. I was in the top quarter of my graduating class but they do not give scholarships to M.I.T. for that-not from Centerville High. I am stating a fact; our high school isn’t very good. It’s great to go to-we’re league champions in basketball and our square-dance team is state runner-up and we have a swell sock hop every Wednesday. Lots of school spirit.

But not much studying.

The emphasis is on what our principal, Mr. Hanley, calls “preparation for life” rather than on trigonometry. Maybe it does prepare you for life; it certainly doesn’t prepare you for CalTech.   I didn’t find this out myself. Sophomore year I brought home a questionnaire cooked up by our group project in “Family Living” in social studies. One question read: “How is your family

council organized?”

At dinner I said, “Dad, how is our family council organized?” Mother said, “Don’t disturb your father, dear.”

Dad said, “Eh? Let me see that.”

He read it, then told me to fetch my textbooks. I had not brought them home, so he sent me to school to get them. Fortunately the building was open-rehearsals for the Fall Blow-Out. Dad rarely gave orders but when he did he expected results.

I had a swell course that semester-social study, commercial arithmetic, applied English (the class had picked “slogan writing” which was fun), handicrafts (we were building sets for the Blow-Out), and gym-which was basketball practice for me; I wasn’t tall enough for first team but a reliable substitute gets his varsity letter his senior year. All in all, I was doing well in school and knew it.

Dad read all my textbooks that night; he is a fast reader. In social study I reported that our family was an informal democracy; it got by-the class was arguing whether the chairmanship of  a council should rotate or be elective, and whether a grandparent living in the home was eligible. We decided that a grandparent was a member but should not be chairman, then we formed committees to draw up a constitution for an ideal family organization, which we would present to our families as the project’s findings.

Dad was around school a good bit the next few days, which worried me -when parents get overactive they are always up to something.

The following Saturday evening Dad called me into his study. He had a stack of textbooks on his desk and a chart of Centerville High School’s curriculum, from American Folk Dancing to Life Sciences. Marked on it was my course, not only for that semester but for junior and senior years the way my faculty advisor and I had planned it.

Dad stared at me like a gentle grasshopper and said mildly, “Kip, do you intend to go to college?” “Huh? Why, certainly, Dad!”

“With what?”

I hesitated. I knew it cost money. While there had been times when dollar bills spilled out of the basket onto the floor, usually it wouldn’t take long to count what was in it. “Uh, maybe I’ll get a scholarship. Or I could work my way.”

He nodded. “No doubt … if you want to. Money problems can always be solved by a man not frightened by them. But when I said, ‘With what?’ I was talking about up here.” He tapped his skull.

I simply stared. “Why, I’ll graduate from high school, Dad. That’ll get me into college.”

“So it will. Into our State University, or the State Aggie, or State Normal. But, Kip, do you know that they are flunking out 40 per cent of each freshman class?” “I wouldn’t flunk!”

“Perhaps not. But you will if you tackle any serious subject-engineering, or science, or pre-med. You would, that is to say, if your preparation were based on this.” He waved a hand at the curriculum.

I felt shocked. “Why, Dad, Center is a swell school.” I remembered things they had told us in P.T.A. Auxiliary. “It’s run along the latest, most scientific lines, approved by psychologists, and-“

“-and paying excellent salaries,” he interrupted, “for a staff highly trained in modern pedagogy. Study projects emphasize practical human problems to orient the child in democratic social living, to fit him for the vital, meaningful tests of adult life in our complex modern culture. Excuse me, son; I’ve talked with Mr. Hanley. Mr. Hanley is sincere-and to achieve these noble purposes we are spending more per student than is any other state save California and New York.”

“Well … what’s wrong with that?” “What’s a dangling participle?”

I didn’t answer. He went on, “Why did Van Buren fail of re-election? How do you extract the cube root of eighty-seven?”

Van Buren had been a president; that was all I remembered. But I could answer the other one. “If you want a cube root, you look in a table in the back of the book.”

Dad sighed. “Kip, do you think that table was brought down from on high by an archangel?” He shook his head sadly. “It’s my fault, not yours. I should have looked into this years ago-but I had assumed, simply because you liked to read and were quick at figures and clever with your hands, that you were getting an education.”

“You think I’m not?”

“I know you are not. Son, Centerville High is a delightful place, well equipped, smoothly administered, beautifully kept. Not a ‘blackboard jungle,’ oh, no!-I think you kids love the place. You should. But this-” Dad slapped the curriculum chart angrily. “Twaddle! Beetle tracking! Occupational therapy for morons!”

I didn’t know what to say. Dad sat and brooded. At last he said, “The law declares that you must attend school until you are eighteen or have graduated from high school.” “Yes, sir.”

“The school you are in is a waste of time. The toughest course we can pick won’t stretch your mind. But it’s either this school, or send you away.”  I said, “Doesn’t that cost a lot of money?”

He ignored my question. “I don’t favor boarding schools, a teen-ager belongs with his family. Oh, a tough prep school back east can drill you so that you can enter Stanford, or Yale, or any of the best-but you can pick up false standards, too-nutty ideas about money and social position and the right tailor. It took me years to get rid of ones I acquired that way. Your mother

and I did not pick a small town for your boyhood unpurposefully. So you’ll stay in Centerville High.”

I looked relieved.

“Nevertheless you intend to go to college. Do you intend to become a professional man? Or will you look for snap courses in more elaborate ways to make bayberry candles? Son, your life is yours, to do with as you wish. But if you have any thought of going to a good university and studying anything of importance, then we must consider how to make best use of your next three years.”

“Why, gosh, Dad, of course I want to go to a good-“ “See me when you’ve thought it over. Good night.”

I did for a week. And, you know, I began to see that Dad was right. Our project in “Family Living” was twaddle. What did those kids know about running a family? Or Miss Finchley?- unmarried and no kids. The class decided unanimously that every child should have a room of his own, and be given an allowance “to teach him to handle money.” Great stuff … but how about the Quinlan family, nine kids in a five-room house? Let’s not be foolish.

Commercial arithmetic wasn’t silly but it was a waste of time. I read the book through the first week; after that I was bored.

Dad switched me to algebra, Spanish, general science, English grammar and composition; the only thing unchanged was gym. I didn’t have it too tough catching up; even those courses were watered down. Nevertheless, I started to learn, for Dad threw a lot of books at me and said, “Clifford, you would be studying these if you were not in overgrown kindergarten. If you soak up what is in them, you should be able to pass College Entrance Board Examinations. Possibly.”

After that he left me alone; he meant it when he said that it was my choice. I almost bogged down-those books were hard, not the predigested pap I got in school. Anybody who thinks that studying Latin by himself is a snap should try it.

I got discouraged and nearly quit-then I got mad and leaned into it. After a while I found that Latin was making Spanish easier and vice versa. When Miss Hernandez, my Spanish teacher, found out I was studying Latin, she began tutoring me. I not only worked my way through Virgil, I learned to speak Spanish like a Mexicano.

Algebra and plane geometry were all the math our school offered; I went ahead on my own with advanced algebra and solid geometry and trigonometry and might have stopped so far as College Boards were concerned-but math is worse than peanuts. Analytical geometry seems pure Greek until you see what they’re driving at-then, if you know algebra, it bursts on you  and you race through the rest of the book. Glorious!

I had to sample calculus and when I got interested in electronics I needed vector analysis. General science was the only science course the school had and pretty general it was, too- about Sunday supplement level. But when you read about chemistry and physics you want to do it, too. The barn was mine and I had a chem lab and a darkroom and an electronics bench and, for a while, a ham station. Mother was perturbed when I blew out the windows and set fire to the barn-just a small fire-but Dad was not. He simply suggested that I not manufacture explosives in a frame building.

When I took the College Boards my senior year I passed them.

It was early March my senior year that I told Dad I wanted to go to the Moon. The idea had been made acute by the announcement of commercial flights but I had been “space happy” ever since the day they announced that the Federation Space Corps had established a lunar base. Or earlier. I told Dad about my decision because I felt that he would know the answer. You see. Dad always found ways to do anything he decided to do.

When I was little we lived lots of places-Washington, New York/Los Angeles, I don’t know where-usually in hotel apartments. Dad was always flying somewhere and when he was home

there were visitors; I never saw him much. Then we moved to Centerville and he was always home, his nose in a book or working at his desk. When people wanted to see him they had  to come to him. I remember once, when the money basket was empty, Dad told Mother that “a royalty was due.” I hung around that day because I had never seen a king (I was eight) and when a visitor showed up I was disappointed because he didn’t wear a crown. There was money in the basket the next day so I decided that he had been incognito (I was reading The Little Lame Prince) and had tossed Dad a purse of gold-it was at least a year before I found out that a “royalty” could be money from a patent or a book or business stock, and some of  the glamour went out of life. But this visitor, though not king, thought he could make Dad do what he wanted rather than what Dad wanted:

“Dr. Russell, I concede that Washington has an atrocious climate. But you will have air-conditioned offices.” “With clocks, no doubt. And secretaries. And soundproofing.”

“Anything you want. Doctor.”

“The point is, Mr. Secretary, I don’t want them. This household has no clocks. Nor calendars. Once I had a large income and a larger ulcer; I now have a small income and no ulcer. I stay here.”

“But the job needs you.”

“The need is not mutual. Do have some more meat loaf.”

Since Dad did not want to go to the Moon, the problem was mine. I got down college catalogs I had collected and started listing engineering schools. I had no idea how I could pay tuition or even eat-but the first thing was to get myself accepted by a tough school with a reputation.

If not, I could enlist in the Air Force and try for an appointment. If I missed, I could become an enlisted specialist in electronics; Lunar Base used radar and astrar techs. One way or another, I was going.

Next morning at breakfast Dad was hidden behind the New York Times while Mother read the Herald-Trib. I had the Centerville Clarion but it’s fit only for wrapping salami. Dad looked over his paper at me. “Clifford, here’s something in your line.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t grunt; that is an uncouth privilege of seniors. This.” He handed it to me. It was a soap ad.

It announced that tired old gimmick, a gigantic super-colossal prize contest. This one promised a thousand prizes down to a last hundred, each of which was a year’s supply of Skyway Soap.

Then I spilled cornflakes in my lap. The first prize was- “-AN ALL-EXPENSE TRIP TO THE MOON!!!”

That’s the way it read, with three exclamation points-only to me there were a dozen, with bursting bombs and a heavenly choir.

Just complete this sentence in twenty-five words or less: “I use Skyway Soap because …” (And send in the usual soap wrapper or reasonable facsimile.)

There was more about”-joint management of American Express and Thos. Cook-” and “-with the cooperation of the United States Air Force-” and a list of lesser prizes. But all I saw, while milk and soggy cereal soaked my pants, was: “-TRIP TO THE MOON!!!”

First I went sky-high with excitement … then as far down with depression. I didn’t win contests-why, if I bought a box of Cracker Jack, I’d get one they forgot to put a prize in. I had been cured of matching pennies. If I ever-

“Stop it,” said Dad. I shut up.

“There is no such thing as luck; there is only adequate or inadequate preparation to cope with a statistical universe. Do you intend to enter this?” “Do I!”

“I assume that to be affirmative. Very well, make a systematic effort.”

I did and Dad was helpful-he didn’t just offer me more meat loaf. But he saw to it I didn’t go to pieces; I finished school and sent off applications for college and kept my job-I was working after school that semester at Charton’s Pharmacy-soda jerk, but also learning about pharmacy. Mr. Charton was too conscientious to let me touch anything but packaged items, but I learned-materia medica and nomenclature and what various antibiotics were for and why you had to be careful. That led into organic chemistry and biochemistry and he lent me Walker, Boyd and Asimov- biochemistry makes atomic physics look simple, but presently it begins to make sense.

Mr. Charton was an old widower and pharmacology was his life. He hinted that someone would have to carry on the pharmacy someday- some young fellow with a degree in pharmacy and devotion to the profession. He said that he might be able to help such a person get through school. If he had suggested that I could someday run the dispensary at Lunar Base, I might have taken the bait. I explained that I was dead set on spacing, and engineering looked like my one chance.

He didn’t laugh. He said I was probably right-but that I shouldn’t forget that wherever Man went, to the Moon, on Mars, or the farthest stars, pharmacists and dispensaries would go along. Then he dug out books for me on space medicine-Strughold and Haber and Stapp and others. “I once had ideas along that line. Kip,” he said quietly, “but now it’s too late.”

Even though Mr. Charton was not really interested in anything but drugs, we sold everything that drugstores sell, from bicycle tires to home permanent kits. Including soap, of course.

We were selling darned little Skyway Soap; Centerville is conservative about new brands-I’ll bet some of them made their own soap. But when I showed up for work that day I had to tell Mr. Charton about it. He dug out two dust-covered boxes and put them on the counter. Then he phoned his jobber in Springfield.

He really did right by me. He marked Skyway Soap down almost to cost and pushed it-and he almost always got the wrappers before he let the customer go. Me, I stacked a pyramid of Skyway Soap on each end of the fountain and every coke was accompanied by a spiel for good old Skyway, the soap that washes cleaner, is packed with vitamins, and improves your chances of Heaven, not to mention its rich creamy lather, finer ingredients, and refusal to take the Fifth Amendment. Oh, I was shameless! Anybody who got away without buying was deaf or fast on his feet.

If he bought soap without leaving the wrappers with me he was a magician. Adults I talked out of it; kids, if I had to, I paid a penny for each wrapper. If they brought in wrappers from around town, I paid a dime a dozen and threw in a cone. The rules permitted a contestant to submit any number of entries as long as each was written on a Skyway Soap wrapper or reasonable facsimile.

I considered photographing one and turning out facsimiles by the gross, but Dad advised me not to. “It is within the rules, Kip, but I’ve never yet known a skunk to be welcome at a picnic.” So I used soap. And I sent in wrappers with slogans:

“I use Skyway Soap because- it makes me feel so clean.”

highway or byway, there’s no soap like Skyway!” its quality is sky-high.”

it is pure as the Milky Way.”

it is pure as Interstellar Space.”

it leaves me fresh as a rain-swept sky.”

And so on endlessly, until I tasted soap in my dreams. Not just my own slogans either; Dad thought them up, and so did Mother and Mr. Charton. I kept a notebook and wrote them down in school or at work or in the middle of the night. I came home one evening and found that Dad had set up a card file for me and after that I kept them alphabetically to avoid repeating. A good thing, too, for toward the last I sent in as many as a hundred a day. Postage mounted, not to mention having to buy some wrappers.

Other kids in town were in the contest and probably some adults, but they didn’t have the production line I had. I’d leave work at ten o’clock, hurry home with the day’s slogans and wrappers, pick up more slogans from Dad and Mother, then use a rubber stamp on the inside of each wrapper: “I use Skyway Soap because-” with my name and address. As I typed, Dad filled out file cards. Each morning I mailed the bunch on my way to school.

I got laughed at but the adults most inclined to kid me were quickest to let me have their wrappers.

All but one, an oaf called “Ace” Quiggle. I shouldn’t class Ace as an adult; he was an over-age juvenile delinquent. I guess every town has at least one Ace. He hadn’t finished Centerville High, a distinction since Mr. Hanley believed in promoting everybody “to keep age groups together.” As far back as I remember Ace hung around Main Street, sometimes working, mostly not.

He specialized in “wit.” He was at our fountain one day, using up two dollars’ worth of space and time for one thirty-five-cent malt. I had just persuaded old Mrs. Jenkins to buy a dozen cakes and had relieved her of the wrappers. As she left, Ace picked one off my counter display and said, “You’re selling these. Space Cadet?”

“That’s right, Ace. You’ll never find such a bargain again.”

“You expect to go to the Moon, just selling soap, Captain? Or should I say ‘Commodore’? Yuk yuk yukkity yuk!” That’s how Ace laughed, like a comic strip. “I’m trying,” I said politely. “How about some?”

“You’re sure it’s good soap?” “Positive.”

“Well, I’ll tell you. Just to help you out-I’ll buy one bar.”

Aplunger. But this might be the winning wrapper. “Sure thing, Ace. Thanks a lot.” I took his money, he slipped the cake into his pocket and started to leave. “Just a second, Ace. The wrapper. Please?”

He stopped. “Oh, yes.” He took out the bar, peeled it, held up the wrapper. “You want this?” “Yes, Ace. Thanks.”

“Well, I’ll show you how to get the best use of it.” He reached across to the cigar lighter on the tobacco counter and set fire to it, lit a cigarette with it, let the wrapper bum almost to his fingers, dropped it and stepped on it.

Mr. Charton watched from the window of the dispensary.

Ace grinned. “Okay, Space Cadet?”

I was gripping the ice-cream scoop. But I answered, “Perfectly okay, Ace. It’s your soap.” Mr. Charton came out and said, “I’ll take the fountain, Kip. There’s a package to deliver.”

That was almost the only wrapper I missed. The contest ended May 1 and both Dad and Mr. Charton decided to stock up and cleaned out the last case in the store. It was almost eleven before I had them written up, then Mr. Charton drove me to Springfield to get them postmarked before midnight.

I had sent in five thousand seven hundred and eighty-two slogans. I doubt if Centerville was ever so scrubbed.

The results were announced on the Fourth of July. I chewed my nails to the elbows in those nine weeks. Oh, other things happened. I graduated and Dad and Mother gave me a watch and we paraded past Mr. Hanley and got our diplomas. It felt good, even though what Dad had persuaded me to learn beat what I learned at dear old Center six ways from zero. Before  that was Sneak Day and Class Honeymoon and Senior Prom and the Class Play and the Junior-Senior Picnic and all the things they do to keep the animals quiet. Mr. Charton let me off early if I asked, but I didn’t ask often as my mind wasn’t on it and I wasn’t going steady anyhow. I had been earlier in the year, but she-Elaine McMurty-wanted to talk boys and clothes and   I wanted to talk space and engineering so she put me back into circulation.

After graduation I worked for Mr. Charton full time. I still didn’t know how I was going to college. I didn’t think about it; I just dished sundaes and held my breath until the Fourth of July.

It was to be on television at 8 P.M. We had a TV-a black and white flatimage job-but it hadn’t been turned on in months; after I built it I lost interest. I dug it out, set it up in the living room and tested the picture. I killed a couple of hours adjusting it, then spent the rest of the day chewing nails. I couldn’t eat dinner. By seven-thirty I was in front of the set, not-watching a comedy team and fiddling with my file cards. Dad came in, looked sharply at me, and said, “Take a grip on yourself, Kip. Let me remind you again that the chances are against you.”

I gulped. “I know, Dad.”

“Furthermore, in the long run it won’t matter. Aman almost always gets what he wants badly enough. I am sure you will get to the Moon someday, one way or another.” “Yes, sir. I just wish they would get it over with.”

“They will. Coming, Emma?”

“Right away, dearest,” Mother called back. She came in, patted my hand and sat down. Dad settled back. “Reminds me of election nights.”

Mother said, “I’m glad you’re no longer up to your ears in that.” “Oh, come now, sweetheart, you enjoyed every campaign.” Mother sniffed.

The comics went back where comics go, cigarettes did a cancan, then dived into their packs while a soothing voice assured us that carcinogenous factors were unknown in Coronets, the safe, Safe, SAFE smoke with the true tobacco flavor. The program cut to the local station; we were treated to a thrilling view of Center Lumber & Hardware and I started pulling hairs out of the back of my hand.

The screen filled with soap bubbles; a quartet sang that this was the Skyway Hour, as if we didn’t know. Then the screen went blank and sound cut off and I swallowed my stomach. The screen lighted up with: “Network Difficulty-Do Not Adjust Your Sets.”

I yelped, “Oh, they can’t do that! They can’t!” Dad said, “Stop it, Clifford.”

I shut up. Mother said, “Now, dearest, he’s just a boy.”

Dad said, “He is not a boy; he is a man. Kip, how do you expect to face a firing squad calmly if this upsets you?” I mumbled; he said, “Speak up.” I said I hadn’t really planned on facing one.

“You may need to, someday. This is good practice. Try the Springfield channel; you may get a skip image.” I tried, but all I got was snow and the sound was like two cats in a sack. I jumped back to our local station.

“-jor General Bryce Gilmore, United States Air Force, our guest tonight, who will explain to us, later in this program, some hitherto unreleased pictures of Federation Lunar Base and the infant Luna City, the fastest growing little city on the Moon. Immediately after announcing the winners we will attempt a television linkage with Lunar Base, through the cooperation of the Space Corps of the-“

I took a deep breath and tried to slow my heartbeat, the way you steady down for a free-throw in a tie game. The gabble dragged on while celebrities were introduced, the contest rules were explained, an improbably sweet young couple explained to each other why they always used Skyway Soap. My own sales talks were better.

At last they got to it. Eight girls paraded out; each held a big card over her head. The M.C. said in an awestruck voice: “And now … and now -the winning Skyway slogan for the … FREE TRIP TO THE MOON!”

I couldn’t breathe.

The girls sang, “I like Skyway Soap because-” and went on, each turning her card as a word reached her: “-it … is … as … pure … as … the … sky … itself!”

I was fumbling cards. I thought I recognized it but couldn’t be sure- not after more than five thousand slogans. Then I found it-and checked the cards the girls were holding. “Dad! Mother! I’ve won, I’ve won!”

“Hold it, Kip!” Dad snapped. “Stop it.” Mother said, “Oh, dear!”

I heard the M.C. saying, “-present the lucky winner, Mrs. Xenia Donahue, of Great Falls, Montana… . Mrs. Donahue!”

To a fanfare a little dumpy woman teetered out. I read the cards again. They still matched the one in my hand. I said, “Dad, what happened? That’s my slogan.” “You didn’t listen.”

“They’ve cheated me!” “Be quiet and listen,”

“-as we explained earlier, in the event of duplicate entries, priority goes to the one postmarked first. Any remaining tie is settled by time of arrival at the contest office. Our winning slogan was submitted by eleven contestants. To them go the first eleven prizes. Tonight we have with us the six top winners-for the trip to the Moon, the weekend in a satellite space station, the jet flight around the world, the flight to Antarctica, the-“

“Beaten by a postmark. Apostmark!”

“-sorry we can’t have every one of the winners with us tonight. To the rest this comes as a surprise.” The M.C. looked at his watch. “Right this minute, in a thousand homes across the land … right this second- there is a lucky knock on a lucky door of some loyal friend of Skyway-“

There was a knock on our door.

I fell over my feet. Dad answered. There were three men, an enormous crate, and a Western Union messenger singing about Skyway Soap. Somebody said, “Is this where Clifford Russell lives?”

Dad said, “Yes.”

“Will you sign for this?” “What is it?”

“It just says ‘This Side Up.’ Where do you want it?”

Dad passed the receipt to me and I signed, somehow. Dad said, “Will you put it in the living room, please?” They did and left and I got a hammer and sidecutters. It looked like a coffin and I could have used one.

I got the top off. Alot of packing got all over Mother’s rugs. At last we were down to it. It was a space suit.

Not much, as space suits go these days. It was an obsolete model that Skyway Soap had bought as surplus material-the tenth-to-hundredth prizes were all space suits. But it was a real one, made by Goodyear, with air conditioning by York and auxiliary equipment by General Electric. Its instruction manual and maintenance-and-service log were with it and it had racked  up more than eight hundred hours in rigging the second satellite station.

I felt better. This was no phony, this was no toy. It had been out in space, even if I had not. But would!-someday. I’d learn to use it and someday I’d wear it on the naked face of the Moon. Dad said, “Maybe we’d better carry this to your workshop. Eh, Kip?”

Mother said, “There’s no rush, dearest. Don’t you want to try it on, Clifford?”

I certainly did. Dad and I compromised by toting the crate and packing out to the barn. When we came back, a reporter from the Clarion was there with a photographer-the paper had known I was a winner before I did, which didn’t seem right.

They wanted pictures and I didn’t mind.

I had an awful time getting into it-dressing in an upper berth is a cinch by comparison. The photographer said, “Just a minute, kid. I’ve seen ‘em do it at Wright Field. Mind some advice?” “Uh? No. I mean, yes, tell me.”

“You slide in like an Eskimo climbing into a kayak. Then wiggle your right arm in-“

It was fairly easy that way, opening front gaskets wide and sitting down in it, though I almost dislocated a shoulder. There were straps to adjust for size but we didn’t bother; he stuffed me into it, zippered the gaskets, helped me to my feet and shut the helmet.

It didn’t have air bottles and I had to live on the air inside while he got three shots. By then I knew that the suit had seen service; it smelled like dirty socks. I was glad to get the helmet off. Just the same, it made me feel good to wear it. Like a spacer.

They left and presently we went to bed, leaving the suit in the living room. About midnight I cat-footed down and tried it on again.

The next morning I moved it out to my shop before I went to work. Mr. Charton was diplomatic; he just said he’d like to see my space suit when I had time. Everybody knew about it-my picture was on the front page of the Clarion along with the Pikes Peak Hill Climb and the holiday fatalities. The story had been played for laughs, but I didn’t mind. I had never really believed I would win-and I had an honest-to-goodness space suit, which was more than my classmates had.

That afternoon Dad brought me a special delivery letter from Skyway Soap. It enclosed a property title to one suit, pressure, serial number so-and-so, ex-US-AF. The letter started with congratulations and thanks but the last paragraphs meant something:

Skyway Soap realizes that your prize may not be of immediate use to you. Therefore, as mentioned in paragraph 4 (a) of the rules. Skyway offers to redeem it for a cash premium of five hundred dollars ($500.00). To avail yourself of this privilege you should return the pressure suit via express collect to Goodyear Corporation (Special Appliances Division, attn: Salvage), Akron, Ohio, on or before the 15th of September.

Skyway Soap hopes that you have enjoyed our Grand Contest as much as we have enjoyed having you and hopes that you will retain your prize long enough to appear with it on your local television station in a special Skyway Jubilee program. Afee of fifty dollars ($50.00) will be paid for this appearance. Your station manager will be in touch with you. We hope that you will  be our guest.

All good wishes from Skyway, the Soap as Pure as the Sky Itself. I handed it to Dad. He read it and handed it back.

I said, “I suppose I should.”

He said, “I see no harm. Television leaves no external scars.”

“Oh, that. Sure, it’s easy money. But I meant I really ought to sell the suit back to them.” I should have felt happy since I needed money, while I needed a space suit the way a pig needs a

pipe organ. But I didn’t, even though I had never had five hundred dollars in my life.

“Son, any statement that starts ‘I really ought to-‘ is suspect. It means you haven’t analyzed your motives.” “But five hundred dollars is tuition for a semester, almost.”

“Which has nothing to do with the case. Find out what you want to do, then do it. Never talk yourself into doing something you don’t want. Think it over.” He said good-bye and left.

I decided it was foolish to burn my bridges before I crossed them. The space suit was mine until the middle of September even if I did the sensible thing-by then I might be tired of it.

But I didn’t get tired of it; a space suit is a marvelous piece of machinery-a little space station with everything miniaturized. Mine was a chrome-plated helmet and shoulder yoke which merged into a body of silicone, asbestos, and glass-fiber cloth. This hide was stiff except at the joints. They were the same rugged material but were “constant volume” -when you bent a knee a bellows arrangement increased the volume over the knee cap as much as the space back of the knee was squeezed. Without this a man wouldn’t be able to move; the pressure inside, which can add up to several tons, would hold him rigid as a statue. These volume compensators were covered with dural armor; even the finger joints had little dural plates over the knuckles.

It had a heavy glass-fiber belt with clips for tools, and there were the straps to adjust for height and weight. There was a back pack, now empty, for air bottles, and zippered pockets inside and out, for batteries and such.

The helmet swung back, taking a bib out of the yoke with it, and the front opened with two gasketed zippers; this left a door you could wiggle into. With helmet clamped and zippers closed  it was impossible to open the suit with pressure inside.

Switches were mounted on the shoulder yoke and on the helmet; the helmet was monstrous. It contained a drinking tank, pill dispensers six on each side, a chin plate on the right to switch radio from “receive” to “send,” another on the left to increase or decrease flow of air, an automatic polarizer for the face lens, microphone and earphones, space for radio circuits in  a bulge back of the head, and an instrument board arched over the head. The instrument dials read backwards because they were reflected in an inside mirror in front of the wearer’s forehead at an effective fourteen inches from the eyes.

Above the lens or window there were twin headlights. On top were two antennas, a spike for broadcast and a horn that squirted microwaves like a gun-you aimed it by facing the receiving station. The horn antenna was armored except for its open end.

This sounds as crowded as a lady’s purse but everything was beautifully compact; your head didn’t touch anything when you looked out the lens. But you could tip your head back and  see reflected instruments, or tilt it down and turn it to work chin controls, or simply turn your neck for water nipple or pills. In all remaining space sponge-rubber padding kept you from banging your head no matter what. My suit was like a fine car, its helmet like a Swiss watch. But its air bottles were missing; so was radio gear except for built-in antennas; radar beacon and emergency radar target were gone, pockets inside and out were empty, and there were no tools on the belt. The manual told what it ought to have-it was like a stripped car.

I decided I just had to make it work right.

First I swabbed it out with Clorox to kill the locker-room odor. Then I got to work on the air system.

It’s a good thing they included that manual; most of what I thought I knew about space suits was wrong.

Aman uses around three pounds of oxygen a day-pounds mass, not pounds per square inch. You’d think a man could carry oxygen for a month, especially out in space where mass has no weight, or on the Moon where three pounds weigh only half a pound. Well, that’s okay for space stations or ships or frogmen; they run air through soda lime to take out carbon dioxide, and breathe it again. But not space suits.

Even today people talk about “the bitter cold of outer space”-but space is vacuum and if vacuum were cold, how could a Thermos jug keep hot coffee hot? Vacuum is nothing-it has no temperature, it just insulates.

Three-fourths of your food turns into heat-a lot of heat, enough each day to melt fifty pounds of ice and more. Sounds preposterous, doesn’t it? But when you have a roaring fire in the furnace, you are cooling your body; even in the winter you keep a room about thirty degrees cooler than your body. When you turn up a furnace’s thermostat, you are picking a more comfortable rate for cooling. Your body makes so much heat you have to get rid of it, exactly as you have to cool a car’s engine.

Of course, if you do it too fast, say in a sub-zero wind, you can freeze- but the usual problem in a space suit is to keep from being boiled like a lobster. You’ve got vacuum all around you and it’s hard to get rid of heat.

Some radiates away but not enough, and if you are in sunlight, you pick up still more-this is why space ships are polished like mirrors. So what can you do?

Well, you can’t carry fifty-pound blocks of ice. You get rid of heat the way you do on Earth, by convection and evaporation-you keep air moving over you to evaporate sweat and cool you off. Oh, they’ll learn to build space suits that recycle like a space ship but today the practical way is to let used air escape from the suit, flushing away sweat and carbon dioxide and excess heat-while wasting most of the oxygen.

There are other problems. The fifteen pounds per square inch around you includes three pounds of oxygen pressure. Your lungs can get along on less than half that, but only an Indian from the high Andes is likely to he comfortable on less than two pounds oxygen pressure. Nine-tenths of a pound is the limit. Any less than nine-tenths of a pound won’t force oxygen into blood-this is about the pressure at the top of Mount Everest.

Most people suffer from hypoxia (oxygen shortage) long before this, so better use two p.s.i. of oxygen. Mix an inert gas with it, because pure oxygen can cause a sore throat or make you drunk or even cause terrible cramps. Don’t use nitrogen (which you’ve breathed all your life) because it will bubble in your blood if pressure drops and cripple you with “bends.” Use helium which doesn’t. It gives you a squeaky voice, but who cares?

You can die from oxygen shortage, be poisoned by too much oxygen, be crippled by nitrogen, drown in or be acid-poisoned by carbon dioxide, or dehydrate and run a killing fever. When I finished reading that manual I didn’t see how anybody could stay alive anywhere, much less in a space suit.

But a space suit was in front of me that had protected a man for hundreds of hours in empty space.

Here is how you beat those dangers. Carry steel bottles on your back; they hold “air” (oxygen and helium) at a hundred and fifty atmospheres, over 2000 pounds per square inch; you   draw from them through a reduction valve down to 150 p.s.i. and through still another reduction valve, a “demand” type which keeps pressure in your helmet at three to five pounds per square inch-two pounds of it oxygen. Put a silicone-rubber collar around your neck and put tiny holes in it, so that the pressure in the body of your suit is less, the air movement still faster; then evaporation and cooling will be increased while the effort of bending is decreased. Add exhaust valves, one at each wrist and ankle-these have to pass water as well as gas   because you may be ankle deep in sweat.

The bottles are big and clumsy, weighing around sixty pounds apiece, and each holds only about five mass pounds of air even at that enormous pressure; instead of a month’s supply you will have only a few hours-my suit was rated at eight hours for the bottles it used to have. But you will be okay for those hours-if everything works right. You can stretch time, for you don’t die from overheating very fast and can stand too much carbon dioxide even longer-but let your oxygen run out and you die in about seven minutes. Which gets us back where we started-it takes oxygen to stay alive.

To make darn sure that you’re getting enough (your nose can’t tell) you clip a little photoelectric cell to your ear and let it see the color of your blood; the redness of the blood measures the oxygen it carries. Hook this to a galvanometer. If its needle gets into the danger zone, start saying your prayers.

I went to Springfield on my day off, taking the suit’s hose fittings, and shopped. I picked up, second hand, two thirty-inch steel bottles from a welding shop-and got myself disliked by insisting on a pressure test. I took them home on the bus, stopped at Pring’s Garage and arranged to buy air at fifty atmospheres. Higher pressures, or oxygen or helium, I could get from the Springfield airport, but I didn’t need them yet.

When I got home I closed the suit, empty, and pumped it with a bicycle pump to two atmospheres absolute, or one relative, which gave me a test load of almost four to one compared with space conditions. Then I tackled the bottles. They needed to be mirror bright, since you can’t afford to let them pick up heat from the Sun. I stripped and scraped and wire-brushed, and buffed and polished, preparatory to nickel-plating.

Next morning, Oscar the Mechanical Man was limp as a pair of long johns.

Getting that old suit not just airtight but helium-tight was the worst headache. Air isn’t bad but the helium molecule is so small and agile that it migrates right through ordinary rubber-and   I wanted this job to be right, not just good enough to perform at home but okay for space. The gaskets were shot and there were slow leaks almost impossible to find.

I had to get new silicone-rubber gaskets and patching compound and tissue from Goodyear; small-town hardware stores don’t handle such things. I wrote a letter explaining what I wanted and why-and they didn’t even charge me. They sent me some mimeographed sheets elaborating on the manual.

It still wasn’t easy. But there came a day when I pumped Oscar full of pure helium at two atmospheres absolute. Aweek later he was still tight as a six-ply tire.

That day I wore Oscar as a self-contained environment. I had already worn him many hours without the helmet, working around the shop, handling tools while hampered by his gauntlets, getting height and size adjustments right. It was like breaking in new ice skates and after a while I was hardly aware I had it on-once I came to supper in it. Dad said nothing and Mother has the social restraint of an ambassador; I discovered my mistake when I picked up my napkin.

Now I wasted helium to the air, mounted bottles charged with air, and suited them. Then I clamped the helmet and dogged the safety catches.

Air sighed softly into the helmet, its flow through the demand valve regulated by the rise and fall of my chest-I could reset it to speed up or slow down by the chin control. I did so, watching the gauge in the mirror and letting it mount until I had twenty pounds absolute inside. That gave me five pounds more than the pressure around me, which was as near as I could come   to space conditions without being in space.

I could feel the suit swell and the joints no longer felt loose and easy. I balanced the cycle at five pounds differential and tried to move- And almost fell over. I had to grab the workbench. Suited up, with bottles on my back, I weighed more than twice what I do stripped. Besides that, although the joints were constant-volume, the suit didn’t work as freely under pressure.

Dress yourself in heavy fishing waders, put on an overcoat and boxing gloves and a bucket over your head, then have somebody strap two sacks of cement across your shoulders and

you will know what a space suit feels like under one gravity.

But ten minutes later I was handling myself fairly well and in half an hour I felt as if I had worn one all my life. The distributed weight wasn’t too great (and I knew it wouldn’t amount to much on the Moon). The joints were just a case of getting used to more effort. I had had more trouble learning to swim.

It was a blistering day: I went outside and looked at the Sun. The polarizer cut the glare and I was able to look at it. I looked away; polarizing eased off and I could see around me.

I stayed cool. The air, cooled by semi-adiabatic expansion (it said in the manual), cooled my head and flowed on through the suit, washing away body heat and used air through the exhaust valves. The manual said that heating elements rarely cut in, since the usual problem was to get rid of heat; I decided to get dry ice and force a test of thermostat and heater.

I tried everything I could think of. Acreek runs back of our place and beyond is a pasture. I sloshed through the stream, lost my footing and fell -the worst trouble was that I could never see where I was putting my feet. Once I was down I lay there a while, half floating but mostly covered. I didn’t get wet, I didn’t get hot, I didn’t get cold, and my breathing was as easy as ever even though water shimmered over my helmet.

I scrambled heavily up the bank and fell again, striking my helmet against a rock. No damage, Oscar was built to take it. I pulled my knees under me, got up, and crossed the pasture, stumbling on rough ground but not falling. There was a haystack there and I dug into it until I was buried.

Cool fresh air … no trouble, no sweat.

After three hours I took it off. The suit had relief arrangements like any pilot’s outfit but I hadn’t rigged it yet, so I had come out before my air was gone. When I hung it in the rack I had built,   I patted the shoulder yoke. “Oscar, you’re all right,” I told it. “You and I are partners. We’re going places.” I would have sneered at five thousand dollars for Oscar.

While Oscar was taking his pressure tests I worked on his electrical and electronic gear. I didn’t bother with a radar target or beacon; the first is childishly simple, the second is fiendishly expensive. But I did want radio for the space-operations band of the spectrum-the antennas suited only those wavelengths. I could have built an ordinary walkie-talkie and hung it

outside-but I would have been kidding myself with a wrong frequency and gear that might not stand vacuum. Changes in pressure and temperature and humidity do funny things to electronic circuits; that is why the radio was housed inside the helmet.

The manual gave circuit diagrams, so I got busy. The audio and modulating circuits were no problem, just battery-operated transistor circuitry which I could make plenty small enough.   But the microwave part- It was a two-headed calf, each with transmitter and receiver-one centimeter wavelength for the horn and three octaves lower at eight centimeters for the spike in a harmonic relationship, one crystal controlling both. This gave more signal on broadcast and better aiming when squirting out the horn and also meant that only part of the rig had to be switched in changing antennas. The output of a variable-frequency oscillator was added to the crystal frequency in tuning the receiver. The circuitry was simple-on paper.

But microwave circuitry is never easy; it takes precision machining and a slip of a tool can foul up the impedance and ruin a mathematically calculated resonance.

Well, I tried. Synthetic precision crystals are cheap from surplus houses and some transistors and other components I could vandalize from my own gear. And I made it work, after the fussiest pray-and-try-again I have ever done. But the consarned thing simply would not fit into the helmet.

Call it a moral victory-I’ve never done better work.

I finally bought one, precision made and embedded in plastic, from the same firm that sold me the crystal. Like the suit it was made for, it was obsolete and I paid a price so low that I merely screamed. By then I would have mortgaged my soul-I wanted that suit to work.

The only thing that complicated the rest of the electrical gear was that everything had to be either “fail-safe” or “no-fail”; a man in a space suit can’t pull into the next garage if something goes wrong-the stuff has to keep on working or he becomes a vital statistic. That was why the helmet had twin headlights; the second cut in if the first failed-even the peanut lights for the dials over my head were twins. I didn’t take short cuts; every duplicate circuit I kept duplicate and tested to make sure that automatic changeover always worked.

Mr. Charton insisted on filling the manual’s list on those items a drugstore stocks-maltose and dextrose and amino tablets, vitamins, dexedrine, dramamine, aspirin, antibiotics, antihistamines, codeine, almost any pill a man can take to help him past a hump that might kill him. He got Doc Kennedy to write prescriptions so that I could stock Oscar without breaking laws.

When I got through Oscar was in as good shape as he had ever been in Satellite Two. It had been more fun than the time I helped Jake Bixby turn his heap into a hotrod.

But summer was ending and it was time I pulled out of my daydream. I still did not know where I was going to school, or how-or if. I had saved money but it wasn’t nearly enough. I had spent a little on postage and soap wrappers but I got that back and more by one fifteen-minute appearance on television and I hadn’t spent a dime on girls since March- too busy. Oscar cost surprisingly little; repairing Oscar had been mostly sweat and screwdriver. Seven dollars out of every ten I had earned was sitting in the money basket.

But it wasn’t enough.

I realized glumly that I was going to have to sell Oscar to get through the first semester. But how would I get through the rest of the year? Joe Valiant the all-American boy always shows up on the campus with fifty cents and a heart of gold, then in the last Chapter is tapped for Skull-and-Bones and has money in the bank. But I wasn’t Joe Valiant, not by eight decimal places. Did it make sense to start if I was going to have to drop out about Christmas? Wouldn’t it be smarter to stay out a year and get acquainted with a pick and shovel?

Did I have a choice? The only school I was sure of was State U. -and there was a row about professors being fired and talk that State U. might lose its accredited standing. Wouldn’t it be comical to spend years slaving for a degree and then have it be worthless because your school wasn’t recognized?

State U. wasn’t better than a “B” school in engineering even before this fracas.

Rensselaer and CalTech turned me down the same day-one with a printed form, the other with a polite letter saying it was impossible to accept all qualified applicants.

Little things were getting my goat, too. The only virtue of that television show was the fifty bucks. Aperson looks foolish wearing a space suit in a television studio and our announcer milked it for laughs, rapping the helmet and asking me if I was still in there. Very funny. He asked me what I wanted with a space suit and when I tried to answer he switched off the mike in my suit and patched in a tape with nonsense about space pirates and flying saucers. Half the people in town thought it was my voice.

It wouldn’t have been hard to live down if Ace Quiggle hadn’t turned up. He had been missing all summer, in jail maybe, but the day after the show he took a seat at the fountain, stared at me and said in a loud whisper, “Say, ain’t you the famous space pirate and television star?”

I said, “What’ll you have, Ace?”

“Gosh! Could I have your autograph? I ain’t never seen a real live space pirate before!” “Give me your order, Ace. Or let someone else use that stool.”

“Achoc malt. Commodore-and leave out the soap.”

Ace’s “wit” went on every time he showed up. It was a dreadfully hot summer and easy to get tempery. The Friday before Labor Day weekend the store’s cooling system went sour, we couldn’t get a repairman and I spent three bad hours fixing it, ruining my second-best pants and getting myself reeking. I was back at the fountain and wishing I could go home for a bath when Ace swaggered in, greeting me loudly with “Why, if it isn’t Commander Comet, the Scourge of the Spaceways! Where’s your blaster gun, Commander? Ain’t you afraid the Galactic Emperor will make you stay in after school for running around bare-nekkid? Yuk yuk yukkity yuk!”

Acouple of girls at the fountain giggled. “Lay off, Ace,” I said wearily. “It’s a hot day.”

“That’s why you’re not wearing your rubber underwear?” The girls giggled again.

Ace smirked. He went on: “Junior, seein’ you got that clown suit, why don’t you put it to work? Run an ad in the Clarion: ‘Have Space Suit-Will Travel.’ Yukkity yuk! Or you could hire out as a scarecrow.”

The girls snickered. I counted ten, then again in Spanish, and in Latin, and said tensely, “Ace, just tell me what you’ll have.” “My usual. And snap it up-I’ve got a date on Mars.”

Mr. Charton came out from behind his counter, sat down and asked me to mix him a lime cooler, so I served him first. It stopped the flow of wit and probably saved Ace’s life. The boss and I were alone shortly after. He said quietly, “Kip, a reverence for life does not require a man to respect Nature’s obvious mistakes.”

“Sir?”

“You need not serve Quiggle again. I don’t want his trade.” “Oh, I don’t mind. He’s harmless.”

“I wonder how harmless such people are? To what extent civilization is retarded by the laughing jackasses, the empty-minded belittlers? Go home; you’ll want to make an early start tomorrow.”

I had been invited to the Lake of the Forest for the long Labor Day weekend by Jake Bixby’s parents. I wanted to go, not only to get away from the heat but also to chew things over with Jake. But I answered, “Shucks, Mr. Charton, I ought not to leave you stuck.”

“The town will be deserted over the holiday; I may not open the fountain. Enjoy yourself. This summer has worn you a bit fine. Kip.”  I let myself be persuaded but I stayed until closing and swept up. Then I walked home, doing some hard thinking.

The party was over and it was time to put away my toys. Even the village half-wit knew that I had no sensible excuse to have a space suit. Not that I cared what Ace thought … but I did   have no use for it-and I needed money. Even if Stanford and M.I.T. and Carnegie and the rest turned me down, I was going to start this semester. State U. wasn’t the best-but neither was   I and I had learned that more depended on the student than on the school.

Mother had gone to bed and Dad was reading. I said hello and went to the barn, intending to strip my gear off Oscar, pack him into his case, address it, and in the morning phone the express office to pick it up. He’d be gone before I was back from the Lake of the Forest. Quick and clean.

He was hanging on his rack and it seemed to me that he grinned hello. Nonsense, of course. I went over and patted his shoulder. “Well, old fellow, you’ve been a real chum and it’s been nice knowing you. See you on the Moon-I hope.”

But Oscar wasn’t going to the Moon. Oscar was going to Akron, Ohio, to “Salvage.” They were going to unscrew parts they could use and throw the rest of him on the junk pile. My mouth felt dry.

(“It’s okay, pal,” Oscar answered.)

See that? Out of my silly head! Oscar didn’t really speak; I had let my imagination run wild too long. So I quit patting him, hauled the crate out and took a wrench from his belt to remove the gas bottles.

I stopped.

Both bottles were charged, one with oxygen, one with oxy-helium. I had wasted money to do so because I wanted, just once, to try a spaceman’s mix. The batteries were fresh and power packs were charged.

“Oscar,” I said softly, “we’re going to take a last walk together. Okay?” (“Swell!”)

I made it a dress rehearsal-water in the drinking tank, pill dispensers loaded, first-aid kit inside, vacuum-proof duplicate (I hoped it was vacuum-proof) in an outside pocket. All tools on belt, all lanyards tied so that tools wouldn’t float away in free fall. Everything.

Then I heated up a circuit that the F.C.C. would have squelched had they noticed, a radio link I had salvaged out of my effort to build a radio for Oscar, and had modified as a test rig for Oscar’s ears and to let me check the aiming of the directional antenna. It was hooked in with an echo circuit that would answer back if I called it-a thing I had bread hoarded out of an old Webcor wire recorder, vintage 1950.

Then I climbed into Oscar and buttoned up. “Tight?” (“Tight!”)

I glanced at the reflected dials, noticed the blood-color reading, reduced pressure until Oscar almost collapsed. At nearly sea-level pressure I was in no danger from hypoxia; the trick was to avoid too much oxygen.

We started to leave when I remembered something. “Just a second, Oscar.” I wrote a note to my folks, telling them that I was going to get up early and catch the first bus to the lake. I could write while suited up now, I could even thread a needle. I stuck the note under the kitchen door.

Then we crossed the creek into the pasture. I didn’t stumble in wading; I was used to Oscar now, sure-footed as a goat.

Out in the field I keyed my talkie and said, “Junebug, calling Peewee. Come in, Peewee.” Seconds later my recorded voice came back: ” ‘Junebug, calling Peewee. Come in, Peewee.’”

I shifted to the horn antenna and tried again. It wasn’t easy to aim in the dark but it was okay. Then I shifted back to spike antenna and went on calling Peewee while moving across the pasture and pretending that I was on Venus and had to stay in touch with base because it was unknown terrain and unbreathable atmosphere. Everything worked perfectly and if it had been Venus, I would have been all right.

Two lights moved across the southern sky, planes I thought, or maybe helis. Just the sort of thing yokels like to report as “flying saucers.” I watched them, then moved behind a little rise that would tend to spoil reception and called Peewee. Peewee answered and I shut up; it gets dull talking to an idiot circuit which can only echo what you say to it.

Then I heard: “Peewee to Junebug! Answer!”

I thought I had been monitored and was in trouble-then decided that some ham had picked me up. “Junebug here. I read you. Who are you?” The test rig echoed my words.

Then the new voice shrilled, “Peewee here! Home me in!”

This was silly. But I found myself saying, “Junebug to Peewee, shift to directional frequency at one centimeter—and keep talking, keep talking!” I shifted to the horn antenna. “Junebug, I read you. Fix me. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven—”

“You’re due south of me, about forty degrees. Who are you?” It must be one of those lights. It had to be.

But I didn’t have time to figure it out. Aspace ship almost landed on me.

Chapter 4

I said “space ship,” not “rocket ship.” It made no noise but a whoosh and there weren’t any flaming jets-it seemed to move by clean living and righteous thoughts.

I was too busy keeping from being squashed to worry about details. Aspace suit in one gravity is no track suit; it’s a good thing I had practiced. The ship sat down where I had just been, occupying more than its share of pasture, a big black shape.

The other one whooshed down, too, just as a door opened in the first. Light poured through the door; two figures spilled out and started to run. One moved like a cat; the other moved clumsily and slowly-handicapped by a space suit. S’help me, a person in a space suit does look silly. This one was less than five feet tall and looked like the Gingerbread Man.

Abig trouble with a suit is your limited angle of vision. I was trying to watch both of them and did not see the second ship open. The first figure stopped, waiting for the one in the space suit to catch up, then suddenly collapsed-just a gasping sound, “Eeeah!”-and clunk.

You can tell the sound of pain. I ran to the spot at a lumbering dogtrot, leaned over and tried to see what was wrong, tilting my helmet to bring the beam of my headlight onto the ground. Abug-eyed monster-

That’s not fair but it was my first thought. I couldn’t believe it and would have pinched myself except that it isn’t practical when suited up.

An unprejudiced mind (which mine wasn’t) would have said that this monster was rather pretty. It was small, not more than half my size, and its curves were graceful, not as a girl is but more like a leopard, although it wasn’t shaped like either one. I couldn’t grasp its shape-I didn’t have any pattern to fit it to; it wouldn’t add up.

But I could see that it was hurt. Its body was quivering like a frightened rabbit. It had enormous eyes, open but milky and featureless, as if nictitating membranes were across them. What appeared to be its mouth-

That’s as far as I got. Something hit me in the spine, right between the gas bottles.

I woke up on a bare floor, staring at a ceiling. It took several moments to recall what had happened and then I shied away because it was so darn silly. I had been out for a walk in Oscar

… and then a space ship had landed … and a bug-eyed-

I sat up suddenly as I realized that Oscar was gone. Alight cheerful voice said, “Hi, there!”

I snapped my head around. Akid about ten years old was seated on the floor, leaning against a wall. He-I corrected myself. Boys don’t usually clutch rag dolls. This kid was the age when the difference doesn’t show much and was dressed in shirt, shorts and dirty tennis shoes, and had short hair, so I didn’t have much to go on but the rag dolly.

“Hi, yourself,” I answered. “What are we doing here?” “I’m surviving. I don’t know about you.”

“Huh?”

“Surviving. Pushing my breath in and out. Conserving my strength. There’s nothing else to do at the moment; they’ve got us locked in.”

I looked around. The room was about ten feet across, four-sided but wedge-shaped, and nothing in it but us. I couldn’t see a door; if we weren’t locked, we might as well be. “Who locked us in?”

“Them. Space pirates. And him.” “Space pirates? Don’t be silly!”

The kid shrugged. “Just my name for them. But better not think they’re silly if you want to keep on surviving. Are you ‘Junebug’?”

“Huh? You sound like a junebug yourself. Space pirates, my aunt!” I was worried and very confused and this nonsense didn’t help. Where was Oscar? And where was I? “No, no, not a junebug but ‘Junebug’-a radio call. You see, I’m Peewee.”

I said to myself, Kip old pal, walk slowly to the nearest hospital and give yourself up. When a radio rig you wired yourself starts looking like a skinny little girl with a rag doll, you’ve flipped. It’s going to be wet packs and tranquilizers and no excitement for you-you’ve blown every fuse.

“You’re ‘Peewee’?”

“That’s what I’m called-I’m relaxed about it. You see, I heard, ‘Junebug, calling Peewee,’ and decided that Daddy had found out about the spot I was in and had alerted people to help me land. But if you aren’t ‘Junebug,’ you wouldn’t know about that. Who are you?”

“Wait a minute, I am ‘Junebug.’ I mean I was using that call. But I’m Clifford Russell-‘Kip’ they call me.” “How do you do. Kip?” she said politely.

“And howdy to you, Peewee. Uh, are you a boy or a girl?”

Peewee looked disgusted. “I’ll make you regret that remark. I realize I am undersized for my age but I’m actually eleven, going on twelve. There’s no need to be rude. In another five years   I expect to be quite a dish-you’ll probably beg me for every dance.”

At the moment I would as soon have danced with a kitchen stool, but I had things on my mind and didn’t want a useless argument. “Sorry, Peewee. I’m still groggy. You mean you were in that first ship?”

Again she looked miffed. “I was piloting it.”

Sedation every night and a long course of psychoanalysis. At my age. “You were-piloting?”

“You surely don’t think the Mother Thing could? She wouldn’t fit their controls. She curled up beside me and coached. But if you think it’s easy, when you’ve never piloted anything but a Cessna with your Daddy at your elbow and never made any kind of landing, then think again. I did very well!-and your landing instructions weren’t too specific. What have they done with the Mother Thing?”

“The what?”

“You don’t know? Oh, dear!”

“Wait a minute, Peewee. Let’s get on the same frequency. I’m ‘Junebug’ all right and I homed you in-and if you think that’s easy, to have a voice out of nowhere demand emergency landing instructions, you better think again, too. Anyhow, a ship landed and another ship landed right after it and a door opened in the first ship and a guy in a space suit jumped out-“

“That was I.”

“-and something else jumped out-“ “The Mother Thing.”

“Only she didn’t get far. She gave a screech and flopped. I went to see what the trouble was and something hit me. The next thing I know you’re saying, ‘Hi, there.’ ” I wondered if I ought to tell her that the rest, including her, was likely a morphine dream because I was probably lying in a hospital with my spine in a cast.

Peewee nodded thoughtfully. “They must have blasted you at low power, or you wouldn’t be here. Well, they caught you and they caught me, so they almost certainly caught her. Oh, dear!   I do hope they didn’t hurt her.”

“She looked like she was dying.”

“As if she were dying,” Peewee corrected me. “Subjunctive. I rather doubt it; she’s awfully hard to kill-and they wouldn’t kill her except to keep her from escaping; they need her alive.” “Why? And why do you call her ‘the Mother Thing’?”

“One at a time, Kip. She’s the Mother Thing because … well, because she is, that’s all. You’ll know, when you meet her. As to why they wouldn’t kill her, it’s because she’s worth more as  a hostage than as a corpse-the same reason the kept me alive. Although she’s worth incredibly more than I am-they’d write me off without a blink if I became inconvenient. Or you. But since she was alive when you saw her, then it’s logical that she’s a prisoner again. Maybe right next door. That makes me feel much better.”

It didn’t make me feel better. “Yes, but where’s here?”

Peewee glanced at a Mickey Mouse watch, frowned and said, “Almost halfway to the Moon, I’d say.” “What?!”

“Of course I don’t know. But it makes sense that they would go back to their nearest base; that’s where the Mother Thing and I scrammed from.” “You’re telling me we’re in that ship?”

“Either the one I swiped or the other one. Where did you think you were, Kip? Where else could you be?” “Amental hospital.”

She looked big-eyed and then grinned. “Why, Kip, surely your grip on reality is not that weak?” “I’m not sure about anything. Space pirates-Mother Things.”

She frowned and bit her thumb. “I suppose it must be confusing. But trust your ears and eyes. My grip on reality is quite strong, I assure you- you see, I’m a genius.” She made it a statement, not a boast, and somehow I was not inclined to doubt the claim, even though it came from a skinny-shanked kid with a rag doll in her arms.

But I didn’t see how it was going to help.

Peewee went on: ” ‘Space pirates’ … mmm. Call them what you wish. Their actions are piratical and they operate in space-you name them. As for the Mother Thing … wait until you meet her.”

“What’s she doing in this hullabaloo?”

“Well, it’s complicated. She had better explain it. She’s a cop and she was after them-“ “Acop?”

“I’m afraid that is another semantic inadequacy. The Mother Thing knows what we mean by cop and I think she finds the idea bewildering if not impossible. But what would you call a person who hunts down miscreants? Acop, no?”

“Acop, yes, I guess.”

“So would I.” She looked again at her watch. “But right now I think we had better hang on. We ought to be at halfway point in a few minutes- and a skew-flip is disconcerting even if you are strapped down.”

I had read about skew-flip turn-overs, but only as a theoretical maneuver; I had never heard of a ship that could do one. If this was a ship. The floor felt as solid as concrete and as motionless. “I don’t see anything to hang on to.”

“Not much, I’m afraid. But if we sit down in the narrowest part and push against each other, I think we can brace enough not to slide around. But let’s hurry; my watch might be slow.” We sat on the floor in the narrow part where the angled walls were about five feet apart. We faced each other and pushed our shoes against each other, each of us bracing like an

Alpinist inching his way up a rock chimney-my socks against her tennis shoes, rather, for my shoes were still on my workbench, so far as I knew. I wondered if they had simply dumped

Oscar in the pasture and if Dad would find him.

“Push hard, Kip, and brace your hands against the deck.”

I did so. “How do you know when they’ll turn over, Peewee?”

“I haven’t been unconscious-they just tripped me and carried me inside-so I know when we took off. If we assume that the Moon is their destination, as it probably is, and if we assume one gravity the whole jump -which can’t be far off; my weight feels normal. Doesn’t yours?”

I considered it. “I think so.”

“Then it probably is, even though my own sense of weight may be distorted from being on the Moon. If those assumptions are correct, then it is almost exactly a three-and-a-half-hour trip and-” Peewee looked at her watch. “-E.T.A. should be nine-thirty in the morning and turn-over at seven-forty-five. Any moment now.”

“Is it that late?” I looked at my watch. “Why, I’ve got a quarter of two.”

“You’re on your zone time. I’m on Moon time-Greenwich time, that is. Oh, oh! Here we go!”

The floor tilted, swerved, and swooped like a roller coaster, and my semicircular canals did a samba. Things steadied down as I pulled out of acute dizziness. “You all right?” asked Peewee.

I managed to focus my eyes. “Uh, I think so. It felt like a one-and-a-half gainer into a dry pool.”

“This pilot does it faster than I dared to. It doesn’t really hurt, after your eyes uncross. But that settles it. We’re headed for the Moon. We’ll be there in an hour and three quarters.”

I still couldn’t believe it. “Peewee? What kind of a ship can gun at one gee all the way to the Moon? They been keeping it secret? And what were you doing on the Moon anyhow? And why were you stealing a ship?”

She sighed and spoke to her doll. “He’s a quiz kid, Madame Pompadour. Kip, how can I answer three questions at once? This is a flying saucer, and-“ “Flying saucer! Now I’ve heard everything.”

“It’s rude to interrupt. Call it anything you like; there’s nothing official about the term. Actually it’s shaped more like a loaf of pumpernickel, an oblate spheroid. That’s a shape defined-“

“I know what an oblate spheroid is,” I snapped. I was tired and upset from too many things, from a cranky air conditioner that had ruined a good pair of pants to being knocked out while on an errand of mercy. Not to mention Ace Quiggle. I was beginning to think that little girls who were geniuses ought to have the grace not to show it.

“No need to be brisk,” she said reprovingly. “I am aware that people have called everything from weather balloons to street lights ‘flying saucers.’ But it is my considered opinion-by Occam’s Razor-that-“

“Whose razor?”

“Occam’s. Least hypothesis. Don’t you know anything about logic?” “Not much.”

“Well … I suspected that about every five-hundredth ‘saucer sighting’ was a ship like this. It adds up. As for what I was doing on the Moon-” She stopped and grinned. “I’m a pest.”

I didn’t argue it.

“Along time ago when my Daddy was a boy, the Hayden Planetarium took reservations for trips to the Moon. It was just a publicity gag, like that silly soap contest recently, but Daddy got his name on the list. Now, years and years later, they are letting people go to the Moon-and sure enough, the Hayden people turned the list over to American Express- and American Express notified the applicants they could locate that they would be given preference.”

“So your father took you to the Moon?”

“Oh, heavens, no! Daddy filled out that form when he was only a boy. Now he is just about the biggest man at the Institute for Advanced Study and hasn’t time for such pleasures. And Mama wouldn’t go if you paid her. So I said I would. Daddy said ‘No!’ and Mama said Good gracious, no!’ … and so I went. I can be an awful nuisance when I put my mind on it,” she said proudly. “I have talent for it. Daddy says I’m an amoral little wretch.”

“Uh, do you suppose he might be right?”

“Oh, I’m sure he is. He understands me, whereas Mama throws up her hands and says she can’t cope. I was perfectly beastly and unbearable for two whole weeks and at last Daddy said ‘For Blank’s sake let her go! -maybe we’ll collect her insurance!’ So I did.”

“Mmmmm … that still doesn’t explain why you are here.”

“Oh, that. I was poking around where I shouldn’t, doing things they told us not to. I always get around; it’s very educational. So they grabbed me. They would rather have Daddy but they hope to swap me for him. I couldn’t let that happen, so I had to escape.”

I muttered, ” The butler did it.’ “ “What?”

“Your story has as many holes as the last Chapter of most whodunits.” “Oh. But I assure you it is the simple-oh, oh! here we go again!”

All that happened was that the lighting changed from white to blue. There weren’t any light fixtures; the whole ceiling glowed. We were still sprawled on the floor. I started to get up-and found I couldn’t.

I felt as if I had just finished a cross-country race, too weak to do anything but breathe. Blue light can’t do that; it’s merely wavelengths 4300 to 5100 angstroms and sunlight is loaded with it. But whatever they used with the blue light made us as limp as wet string.

Peewee was struggling to tell me something. “If … they’re coming for us … don’t resist … and … above all-“ The blue light changed to white. The narrow wall started to slide aside.

Peewee looked scared and made a great effort. “-above all … don’t antagonize … him.”

Two men came in, shoved Peewee aside, strapped my wrists and ankles and ran another strap around my middle, binding my arms. I started to come out of it-not like flipping a switch, as I still didn’t have energy enough to lick a stamp. I wanted to bash their heads but I stood as much chance as a butterfly has of hefting a bar bell.

They carried me out. I started to protest. “Say, where are you guys taking me? What do you think you’re doing? I’ll have you arrested. I’ll—”

“Shaddap,” said one. He was a skinny runt, fifty or older, and looked as if he never smiled. The other was fat and younger, with a petulant babyish mouth and a dimple in his chin; he looked as if he could laugh if he weren’t worried. He was worrying now.

“Tim, this can get us in trouble. We ought to space him-we ought to space both of ‘em-and tell him it was an accident. We can say they got out and tried to escape through the lock. He won’t know the dif-“

“Shaddap,” answered Tim with no inflection. He added, “You want trouble with him? You want to chew space?” “But-“

“Shaddap.”

They carried me around a curved corridor, into an inner room and dumped me on the floor.

I was face up but it took time to realize this must be the control room. It didn’t look like anything any human would design as a control room, which wasn’t surprising as no human had. Then I saw him.

Peewee needn’t have warned me; I didn’t want to antagonize him.

The little guy was tough and dangerous, the fat guy was mean and murderous; they were cherubs compared with him. If I had had my strength I would have fought those two any way they liked; I don’t think I’m too afraid of any human as long as the odds aren’t impossible.

But not him.

He wasn’t human but that wasn’t what hurt. Elephants aren’t human but they are very nice people. He was built more like a human than an elephant is but that was no help-I mean he stood erect and had feet at one end and a head at the other. He was no more than five feet tall but that didn’t help either; he dominated us the way a man dominates a horse. The torso part was as long as mine; his shortness came from very squat legs, with feet (I guess you would call them feet) which bulged out, almost disc-like. They made squashy, sucking sounds when he moved. When he stood still a tail, or third leg, extruded and turned him into a tripod-he didn’t need to sit down and I doubt if he could.

Short legs did not make him slow. His movements were blurringly fast, like a striking snake. Does this mean a better nervous system and more efficient muscles? Or a native planet with higher gravity?

His arms looked like snakes-they had more joints than ours. He had two sets, one pair where his waist should have been and another set under his head. No shoulders. I couldn’t count his fingers, or digit tendrils; they never held still. He wasn’t dressed except for a belt below and above the middle arms which carried whatever such a thing carries in place of money and keys. His skin was purplish brown and looked oily.

Whatever he was, he was not the same race as the Mother Thing.

He had a faint sweetish musky odor. Any crowded room smells worse on a hot day, but if I ever whiff that odor again, my skin will crawl and I’ll be tongue-tied with fright.

I didn’t take in these details instantly; at first all I could see was his face. A“face” is all I can call it. I haven’t described it yet because I’m afraid I’ll get the shakes. But I will, so that if you ever see one, you’ll shoot first, before your bones turn to jelly.

No nose. He was an oxygen breather but where the air went in and out I couldn’t say-some of it through the mouth, for he could talk. The mouth was the second worst part of him; in place of jawbone and chin he had mandibles that opened sideways as well as down, gaping in three irregular sides. There were rows of tiny teeth but no tongue that I could see; instead the mouth was rimmed with cilia as long as angleworms. They never stopped squirming.

I said the mouth was “second worst”; he had eyes. They were big and bulging and protected by horny ridges, two on the front of his head, set wide apart. They scanned. They scanned like radar, swinging up and down and back and forth. He never looked at you and yet was always looking at you.

When he turned around, I saw a third eye in back. I think he scanned his whole surroundings at all times, like a radar warning system.

What kind of brain can put together everything in all directions at once? I doubt if a human brain could, even if there were any way to feed in the data. He didn’t seem to have room in his head to stack much of a brain, but maybe he didn’t keep it there. Come to think of it, humans wear their brains in an exposed position; there may be better ways.

But he certainly had a brain. He pinned me down like a beetle and squeezed out what he wanted. He didn’t have to stop to brainwash me; he questioned and I gave, for an endless time-  it seemed more like days than hours. He spoke English badly but understandably. His labials were all alike-“buy” and “pie” and “vie” sounded the same. His gutturals were harsh and   his dentals had a clucking quality. But I could usually understand and when I didn’t, he didn’t threaten or punish; he just tried again. He had no expression in his speech.

He kept at it until he had found out who I was and what I did and as much of what I knew as interested him. He asked questions about how I happened to be where I was and dressed the way I was when I was picked up. I couldn’t tell whether he liked the answers or not.

He had trouble understanding what a “soda jerk” was and, while he learned about the Skyway Soap contest, he never seemed to understand why it took place. But I found that there were  a lot of things I didn’t know either-such as how many people there are on Earth and how many tons of protein we produce each year.

After endless time he had all he wanted and said, “Take it out.” The stooges had been waiting. The fat boy gulped and said, “Space him?”

He acted as if killing me or not were like saving a piece of string. “No. It is ignorant and untrained, but I may have use for it later. Put it back in the pen.” “Yes, boss.”

They dragged me out. In the corridor Fatty said, “Let’s untie his feet and make him walk.” Skinny said, “Shaddap.”

Peewee was just inside the entrance panel but didn’t move, so I guess she had had another dose of that blue-light effect. They stepped over her and dumped me. Skinny chopped me on the side of the neck to stun me. When I came to, they were gone, I was unstrapped, and Peewee was sitting by me. She said anxiously, “Pretty bad?”

“Uh, yeah,” I agreed, and shivered. “I feel ninety years old.”

“It helps if you don’t look at him-especially his eyes. Rest a while and you’ll feel better.” She glanced at her watch. “It’s only forty-five minutes till we land. You probably won’t be disturbed before then.”

“Huh?” I sat up. “I was in there only an hour?” “Alittle less. But it seems forever. I know.”

“I feel like a squeezed orange.” I frowned, remembering something. “Peewee, I wasn’t too scared when they came for me. I was going to demand to be turned loose and insist on explanations. But I never asked him a question, not one.”

“You never will. I tried. But your will just drains out. Like a rabbit in front of a snake.” “Yes.”

“Kip, do you see why I had to take just any chance to get away? You didn’t seem to believe my story-do you believe it now?” “Uh, yes. I believe it.”

“Thanks. I always say I’m too proud to care what people think, but I’m not, really. I had to get back to Daddy and tell him … because he’s the only one in the entire world who would simply believe me, no matter how crazy it sounded.”

“I see. I guess I see. But how did you happen to wind up in Centerville?” “Centerville?”

“Where I live. Where ‘Junebug’ called ‘Peewee.’ “

“Oh. I never meant to go there. I meant to land in New Jersey, in Princeton if possible, because I had to find Daddy.” “Well, you sure missed your aim.”

“Can you do better? I would have done all right but I had my elbow joggled. Those things aren’t hard to fly; you just aim and push for where you want to go, not like the complicated things they do about rocket ships. And I had the Mother Thing to coach me. But I had to slow down going into the atmosphere and compensate for Earth’s spin and I didn’t know quite how. I found myself too far west and they were chasing me and I didn’t know what to do … and then I heard you on the space-operations band and thought everything was all right-and there I was.” She spread her hands. “I’m sorry, Kip.”

“Well, you landed it. They say any landing you walk away from is a good one.” “But I’m sorry I got you mixed up in it.”

“Uh … don’t worry about that. It looks like somebody has to get mixed up in it. Peewee … what’s he up to?” “They, you mean.”

“Huh? I don’t think the other two amount to anything. He is the one.”

“I didn’t mean Tim and Jock-they’re just people gone bad. I meant them-him and others like him.”

I wasn’t at my sharpest-I had been knocked out three times and was shy a night’s sleep and more confusing things had happened than in all my life. but until Peewee pointed it out I hadn’t considered that there could be more than one like him-one seemed more than enough.

But if there was one, then there were thousands-maybe millions or billions. I felt my stomach twist and wanted to hide. “You’ve seen others?” “No. Just him. But the Mother Thing told me.”

“Ugh! Peewee … what are they up to?”

“Haven’t you guessed? They’re moving in on us.” My collar felt tight, even though it was open. “How?” “I don’t know.”

“You mean they’re going to kill us off and take over Earth?” She hesitated. “It might not be anything that nice.”

“Uh … make slaves of us?”

“You’re getting warmer. Kip-I think they eat meat.”

I swallowed. “You have the jolliest ideas, for a little girl.” “You think I like it? That’s why I had to tell Daddy.”

There didn’t seem to be anything to say. It was an old, old fear for human beings. Dad had told me about an invasion-from-Mars radio broadcast when he was a kid-pure fiction but it had scared people silly. But people didn’t believe in it now; ever since we got to the Moon and circled Mars and Venus everybody seemed to agree that we weren’t going to find life anywhere.

Now here it was, in our laps. “Peewee? Are these things Martians? Or from Venus?”

She shook her head. “They’re not from anywhere close. The Mother Thing tried to tell me, but we ran into a difficulty of understanding.”

“Inside the Solar System?”

“That was part of the difficulty. Both yes and no.” “It can’t be both.”

“You ask her.”

“I’d like to.” I hesitated, then blurted, “I don’t care where they’re from -we can shoot them down … if we don’t have to look at them!” “Oh, I hope so!”

“It figures. You say these are flying saucers … real saucer sightings, I mean; not weather balloons. If so, they have been scouting us for years. Therefore they aren’t sure of themselves, even if they do look horrible enough to curdle milk. Otherwise they would have moved in at once the way we would on a bunch of animals. But they haven’t. That means we can kill them-if we go about it right.”

She nodded eagerly. “I hope so. I hoped Daddy would see a way. But-” She frowned. “-we don’t know much about them … and Daddy always warned me not to be cocksure when data was incomplete. ‘Don’t make so much stew from one oyster, Peewee,’ he always says.”

“But I’ll bet we’re right. Say, who is your Daddy? And what’s your full name?”

“Why, Daddy is Professor Reisfeld. And my name is Patricia Wynant Reisfeld. Isn’t that awful? Better call me Peewee.” “Professor Reisfeld- What does he teach?”

“Huh? You don’t know? You don’t know about Daddy’s Nobel Prize? Or anything?” “I’m just a country boy, Peewee. Sorry.”

“You must be. Daddy doesn’t teach anything. He thinks. He thinks better than anybody … except me, possibly. He’s the synthesist. Everybody else specializes. Daddy knows everything and puts the pieces together.”

Maybe so, but I hadn’t heard of him. It sounded like a good idea … but it would take an awfully smart man-if I had found out anything, it was that they could print it faster than I could study it. Professor Reisfeld must have three heads. Five.

“Wait till you meet him,” she added, glancing at her watch. “Kip, I think we had better get braced. We’ll be landing in a few minutes … and he won’t care how he shakes up passengers.” So we crowded into the narrow end and braced each other. We waited. After a bit the ship shook itself and the floor tilted. There was a slight bump and things got steady and suddenly I

felt very light. Peewee pulled her feet under her and stood up. “Well, we’re on the Moon.”

Chapter 5

When I was a kid, we used to pretend we were making the first landing on the Moon. Then I gave up romantic notions and realized that I would have to go about it another way. But I never thought I would get there penned up, unable to see out, like a mouse in a shoe box.

The only thing that proved I was on the Moon was my weight. High gravity can be managed anywhere, with centrifuges. Low gravity is another matter; on Earth the most you can squeeze out is a few seconds going off a high board, or by parachute delay, or stunts in a plane.

If low gravity goes on and on, then wherever you are, you are not on Earth. Well, I wasn’t on Mars; it had to be the Moon.

On the Moon I should weigh a little over twenty-five pounds. It felt about so-I felt light enough to walk on a lawn and not bend the grass.

For a few minutes I simply exulted in it, forgetting him and the trouble we were in, just heel-and-toe around the room, getting the wonderful feel of it, bouncing a little and bumping my head against the ceiling and feeling how slowly, slowly, slowly I settled back to the floor. Peewee sat down, shrugged her shoulders and gave a little smile, an annoyingly patronizing one. The “Old Moon-Hand”-all of two weeks more of it than I had had.

Low gravity has its disconcerting tricks. Your feet have hardly any traction and they fly out from under you. I had to learn with muscles and reflexes what I had known only intellectually: that when weight goes down, mass and inertia do not. To change direction, even in walking, you have to lean the way you would to round a turn on a board track- and even then if you don’t have traction (which I didn’t in socks on a smooth floor) your feet go out from under you.

Afall doesn’t hurt much in one-sixth gravity but Peewee giggled. I sat up and said, “Go and laugh, smartie. You can afford to-you’ve got tennis shoes.” “I’m sorry. But you looked silly, hanging there like a slow-motion picture and grabbing air.”

“No doubt. Very funny.”

“I said I was sorry. Look, you can borrow my shoes.”

I looked at her feet, then at mine, and snorted. “Gee, thanks!”

“Well … you could cut the heels out, or something. It wouldn’t bother me. Nothing ever does. Where are your shoes. Kip?” “Uh, about a quarter-million miles away-unless we got off at the wrong stop.”

“Oh. Well, you won’t need them much, here.”

“Yeah.” I chewed my lip, thinking about “here” and no longer interested in games with gravity. “Peewee? What do we do now?” “About what?”

“About him.”

“Nothing. What can we do?” “Then what do we do?” “Sleep.”

“Huh?”

“Sleep. ‘Sleep, that knits up the ravell’d sleave of care.’ ‘Tired Nature’s sweet restorer, balmy sleep.’ ‘Blessings on him who invented sleep, the mantle that covers all human thoughts.’ “ “Quit showing off and talk sense!”

“I am talking sense. At the moment we’re as helpless as goldfish. We’re simply trying to survive-and the first principle of survival is not to worry about the impossible and concentrate on what’s possible. I’m hungry and thirsty and uncomfortable and very, very tired … and all I can do about it is sleep. So if you will kindly keep quiet, that’s what I’ll do.”

“I can take a hint. No need to snap at me.”

“I’m sorry. But I get cross as two sticks when I’m tired and Daddy says I’m simply frightful before breakfast.” She curled up in a little ball and tucked that filthy rag doll under her chin. “G’night, Kip.”

“Good night, Peewee.”

I thought of something and started to speak … and saw that she was asleep. She was breathing softly and her face had smoothed out and no longer looked alert and smart-alecky. Her upper lip pooched out in a baby pout and she looked like a dirty-faced cherub. There were streaks where she had apparently cried and not wiped it away. But she had never let me see her crying.

Kip, I said to myself, you get yourself into the darndest things; this is much worse than bringing home a stray pup or a kitten. But I had to take care of her … or die trying.

Well, maybe I would. Die trying, I mean. It didn’t look as if I were any great shakes even taking care of myself.

I yawned, then yawned again. Maybe the shrimp had more sense than I had, at that. I was more tired than I had ever been, and hungry and thirsty and not comfortable other ways. I thought about banging on the door panel and trying to attract the fat one or his skinny partner. But that would wake Peewee-and it might antagonize him.

So I sprawled on my back the way I nap on the living-room rug at home. I found that a hard floor does not require any one sleeping position on the Moon; one-sixth gravity is a better mattress than all the foam rubber ever made-that fussy princess in Hans Christian Andersen’s story would have had no complaints.

I want to sleep at once.

It was the wildest space opera I had ever seen, loaded with dragons and Arcturian maidens and knights in shining space armor and shuttling between King Arthur’s Court and the Dead Sea Bottoms of Barsoom. I didn’t mind that but I did mind the announcer. He had the voice of Ace Quiggle and the face of him. He leaned out of the screen and leered, those wormy cilia writhing. “Will Beowulf conquer the Dragon? Will Tristan return to Iseult? Will Peewee find her dolly? Tune in this channel tomorrow night and in the meantime, wake up and hurry to your neighborhood druggist for a cake of Skyway’s Kwikbrite Armor Polish, the better polish used by the better knights sans peur et sans reproche. Wake up!” He shoved a snaky arm out of  the screen and grabbed my shoulder.

I woke up.

“Wake up,” Peewee was saying, shaking my shoulder. “Please wake up, Kip.” “Lea’ me alone!”

“You were having a nightmare.”

The Arcturian princess had been in a bad spot. “Now I’ll never know how it came out. Wha’ did y’ want to wake me for? I thought the idea was to sleep?” “You’ve slept for hours-and now perhaps there is something we can do.”

“Breakfast, maybe?”

She ignored that. “I think we should try to escape.”

I sat up suddenly, bounced off the floor, settled back. “Wups! How?”

“I don’t know exactly. But I think they have gone away and left us. If so, we’ll never have a better chance.” “They have? What makes you think so?”

“Listen. Listen hard.”

I listened. I could hear my heart beat, I could hear Peewee breathing, and presently I could hear her heart beating. I’ve never heard deeper silence in a cave.

I took my knife, held it in my teeth for bone conduction and pushed it against a wall. Nothing. I tried the floor and the other walls. Still nothing. The ship ached with silence-no throb, no thump, not even those vibrations you can sense but not hear. “You’re right, Peewee.”

“I noticed it when the air circulation stopped.” I sniffed. “Are we running out of air?”

“Not right away. But the air stopped-it comes out of those tiny holes up there. You don’t notice it but I missed something when it stopped.”  I thought hard. “I don’t see where this gets us. We’re still locked up.”

“I’m not sure.”

I tried the blade of my knife on a wall. It wasn’t metal or anything I knew as plastic, but it didn’t mind a knife. Maybe the Comte de Monte Cristo could have dug a hole in it-but he had more time. “How do you figure?”

“Every time they’ve opened or closed that door panel, I’ve heard a click. So after they took you out I stuck a wad of bubble gum where the panel meets the wall, high up where they might not notice.”

“You’ve got some gum?”

“Yes. It helps, when you can’t get a drink of water. I-“

“Got any more?” I asked eagerly. I wasn’t fresh in any way but thirst was the worst-I’d never been so thirsty.

Peewee looked upset. “Oh, poor Kip! I haven’t any more … just an old wad I kept parked on my belt buckle and chewed when I felt driest.” She frowned. “But you can have it. You’re welcome.”

“Uh, thanks, Peewee. Thanks a lot. But I guess not.”

She looked insulted. “I assure you, Mr. Russell, that I do not have anything contagious. I was merely trying to-“ “Yes, yes,” I said hastily. “I’m sure you were. But-“

“I assumed that these were emergency conditions. It is surely no more unsanitary than kissing a girl-but then I don’t suppose you’ve ever kissed a girl!”

“Not lately,” I evaded. “But what I want is a drink of clear cold water- or murky warm water. Besides, you used up your gum on the door panel. What did you expect to accomplish?” “Oh. I told you about that click. Daddy says that, in a dilemma, it is helpful to change any variable, then reexamine the problem. I tried to introduce a change with my bubble gum.” “Well?”

“When they brought you back, then closed the door, I didn’t hear a click.”

“What? Then you thought you had bamboozled their lock hours and hour ago-and you didn’t tell me?” “That is correct.”

“Why, I ought to spank you!”

“I don’t advise it,” she said frostily. “I bite.”

I believed her. And scratch. And other things. None of them pleasant. I changed the subject. “Why didn’t you tell me, Peewee?” “I was afraid you might try to get out.”

“Huh? I certainly would have!”

“Precisely. But I wanted that panel closed … as long as he was out there.”

Maybe she was a genius. Compared with me. “I see your point. All right, let’s see if we can get it open.” I examined the panel. The wad of gum was there, up high as she could reach, and from the way it was mashed it did seem possible that it had fouled the groove the panel slid into, but I couldn’t see any crack down the edge.

I tried the point of my big blade on it. The panel seemed to creep to the right an eighth of an inch-then the blade broke.  I closed the stub and put the knife away. “Any ideas?”

“Maybe if we put our hands flat against it and tried to drag it?”

“Okay.” I wiped sweat from my hands on my shirt. “Now … easy does it. Just enough pressure for friction.” The panel slid to the right almost an inch-and stopped firmly.

But there was a hairline crack from floor to ceiling.

I broke off the stub of the big blade this time. The crack was no wider. Peewee said, “Oh, dear!” “We aren’t licked.” I backed off and ran toward the door.

“Toward,” not “to”-my feet skidded, I leveled off and did a leisurely bellywhopper. Peewee didn’t laugh.

I picked myself up, got against the far wall, braced one foot against it and tried a swimming racing start.

I got as far as the door panel before losing my footing. I didn’t hit it very hard, but I felt it spring. It bulged a little, then sprang back. “Wait a sec, Kip,” said Peewee. “Take your socks off. I’ll get behind you and push-my tennis shoes don’t slip.”

She was right. On the Moon, if you can’t get rubber-soled shoes, you’re better off barefooted. We backed against the far wall, Peewee behind me with her hands on my hips. “One … two

… three … Go!” We advanced with the grace of a hippopotamus.

I hurt my shoulder. But the panel sprung out of its track, leaving a space four inches wide at the bottom and tapering to the top.

I left skin on the door frame and tore my shirt and was hampered in language by the presence of a girl. But the opening widened. When it was wide enough for my head, I got down flat and peered out. There was nobody in sight-a foregone conclusion, with the noise I had made, unless they were playing cat-and-mouse. Which I wouldn’t put past them. Especially him.

Peewee started to wiggle through; I dragged her back. “Naughty, naughty! I go first.” Two more heaves and it was wide enough for me. I opened the small blade of my knife and handed it

to Peewee. “With your shield or on it, soldier.”

“You take it.”

“I won’t need it. ‘Two-Fisted Death,’ they call me around dark alleys.” This was propaganda, but why worry her? Sans pew et sans reproche- maiden-rescuing done cheaply, special rates for parties.

I eased out on elbows and knees, stood up and looked around. “Come on out,” I said quietly.

She started to, then backed up suddenly. She reappeared clutching that bedraggled dolly. “I almost forgot Madame Pompadour,” she said breathlessly.  I didn’t even smile.

“Well,” she said defensively, “I have to have her to get to sleep at night. It’s my one neurotic quirk-but Daddy says I’ll outgrow it.” “Sure, sure.”

“Well, don’t look so smug! It’s not fetishism, not even primitive animism; it’s merely a conditioned reflex. I’m aware that it’s just a doll-I’ve understood the pathetic fallacy for … oh, years and years!”

“Look, Peewee,” I said earnestly, “I don’t care how you get to sleep. Personally I hit myself over the head with a hammer. But quit yakking. Do you know the layout of these ships?” She looked around. “I think this is the ship that chased me. But it looks the same as the one I piloted.”

“All right. Should we head for the control room?” “Huh?”

“You flew the other heap. Can you fly this one?” “Unh … I guess so. Yes, I can.”

“Then let’s go.” I started in the direction they had lugged me.

“But the other time I had the Mother Thing to tell me what to do! Let’s find her.” I stopped. “Can you get it off the ground?”

“Well … yes.”

“We’ll look for her after we’re in the air-‘in space,’ I mean. If she’s aboard we’ll find her. If she’s not, there’s not a thing we can do.” “Well … all right. I see your logic; I don’t have to like it.” She tagged along. “Kip? How many gravities can you stand?”

“Huh? I haven’t the slightest idea. Why?”

“Because these things can go lots faster than I dared try when I escaped before. That was my mistake.” “Your mistake was in heading for New Jersey.”

“But I had to find Daddy!”

“Sure, sure, eventually. But you should have ducked over to Lunar Base and yelled for the Federation Space Corps. This is no job for a popgun; we need help. Any idea where we are?” “Mmm … I think so. If he took us back to their base. I’ll know when I look at the sky.”

“All right. If you can figure out where Lunar Base is from here, that’s where we’ll go. If not- Well, we’ll head for New Jersey at all the push it has.”

The control-room door latched and I could not figure out how to open it. Peewee did what she said should work-which was to tuck her little finger into a hole mine would not enter-and told me it must be locked. So I looked around.

I found a metal bar racked in the corridor, a thing about five feet long, pointed on one end and with four handles like brass knucks on the other. I didn’t know what it was-the hobgoblin equivalent of a fire ax, possibly -but it was a fine wrecking bar.

I made a shambles of that door in three minutes. We went in.

My first feeling was gooseflesh because here was where I had been grilled by him. I tried not to show it. If he turned up, I was going to let him have his wrecking bar right between his  grisly eyes. I looked around, really seeing the place for the first time. There was sort of a nest in the middle surrounded by what could have been a very fancy coffee maker or a velocipede for an octopus; I was glad Peewee knew which button to push. “How do you see out?”

“Like this.” Peewee squeezed past and put a finger into a hole I hadn’t noticed.

The ceiling was hemispherical like a planetarium. Which was what it was, for it lighted up. I gasped.

It was suddenly not a floor we were on, but a platform, apparently out in the open and maybe thirty feet in the air. Over me were star images, thousands of them, in a black “sky”-and facing toward me, big as a dozen full moons and green and lovely and beautiful, was Earth!

Peewee touched my elbow. “Snap out of it, Kip.”

I said in a choked voice, “Peewee, don’t you have any poetry in your soul?”

“Surely I have. Oodles. But we haven’t time. I know where we are, Kip -back where I started from. Their base. See those rocks with long jagged shadows? Some of them are ships, camouflaged. And over to the left- that high peak, with the saddle?-a little farther left, almost due west, is Tombaugh Station, forty miles away. About two hundred miles farther is Lunar Base and beyond is Luna City.”

“How long will it take?”

“Two hundred, nearly two hundred and fifty miles? Uh, I’ve never tried a point-to-point on the Moon-but it shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.” “Let’s go! They might come back any minute.”

“Yes, Kip.” She crawled into that jackdaw’s nest and bent over a sector.

Presently she looked up. Her face was white and thin and very little-girlish. “Kip … we aren’t going anywhere. I’m sorry.”  I let out a yelp. “What! What’s the matter? Have you forgotten how to run it?”

“No. The ‘brain’ is gone.” “The which?”

“The ‘brain.’ Little black dingus about the size of a walnut that fits in this cavity.” She showed me. “We got away before because the Mother Thing managed to steal one. We were locked  in an empty ship, just as you and I are now. But she had one and we got away.” Peewee looked bleak and very lost. “I should have known that he wouldn’t leave one in the control room-I guess I did and didn’t want to admit it. I’m sorry.”

“Uh … look, Peewee, we won’t give up that easily. Maybe I can make something to fit that socket.”

“Like jumping wires in a car?” She shook her head. “It’s not that simple. Kip. If you put a wooden model in place of the generator in a car, would it run? I don’t know quite what it does, but   I called it the ‘brain’ because it’s very complex.”

“But-” I shut up. If a Borneo savage had a brand-new car, complete except for spark plugs, would he get it running? Echo answers mournfully. “Peewee, what’s the next best thing? Any ideas? Because if you haven’t, I want you to show me the air lock. I’ll take this-” I shook my wrecking bar “-and bash anything that comes through.”

“I’m stumped,” she admitted. “I want to look for the Mother Thing. If she’s shut up in this ship, she may know what to do.”

“All right. But first show me the air lock. You can look for her while I stand guard.” I felt the reckless anger of desperation. I didn’t see how we were ever going to get out and I was   beginning to believe that we weren’t -but there was still a reckoning due. He was going to learn that it wasn’t safe to push people around. I was sure-I was fairly sure-that I could sock him before my spine turned to jelly. Splash that repulsive head.

If I didn’t look at his eyes.

Peewee said slowly, “There’s one other thing-“ “What?”

“I hate to suggest it. You might think I was running out on you.” “Don’t be silly. If you’ve got an idea, spill it.”

“Well … there’s Tombaugh Station, over that way about forty miles. If my space suit is in the ship-“

I suddenly quit feeling like Bowie at the Alamo. Maybe the game would go an extra period- “We can walk it!”

She shook her head. “No, Kip. That’s why I hesitated to mention it. I can walk it … if we find my suit. But you couldn’t wear my suit even if you squatted.” “I don’t need your suit,” I said impatiently.

“Kip, Kip! This is the Moon, remember? No air.”

“Yes, yes, sure! Think I’m an idiot? But if they locked up your suit, they probably put mine right beside it and-“ “You’ve got a space suit?” she said incredulously.

Our next remarks were too confused to repeat but finally Peewee was convinced that I really did own a space suit, that in fact the only reason I was sending on the space-operations band twelve hours and a quarter of a million miles back was that I was wearing it when they grabbed me.

“Let’s tear the joint apart!” I said. “No-show me that air lock, then you take it apart.” “All right.”

She showed me the lock, a room much like the one we had been cooped in, but smaller and with an inner door built to take a pressure load. It was not locked. We opened it cautiously. It was empty, and its outer door was closed or we would never been able to open the inner. I said, “If Wormface had been a suspenders-and-belt man, he would have left the outer door open, even though he had us locked up. Then- Wait a second! Is there a way to latch the inner door open?”

“I don’t know.”

“We’ll see.” There was, a simple hook. But to make sure that it couldn’t be unlatched by button-pushing from outside I wedged it with my knife. “You’re sure this is the only air lock?” “The other ship had only one and I’m pretty certain they are alike.”

“We’ll keep our eyes open. Nobody can get at us through this one. Even old Wormface has to use an air lock.” “But suppose he opens the outer door anyhow?” Peewee said nervously. “We’d pop like balloons.”

I looked at her and grinned. “Who is a genius? Sure we would … if he did. But he won’t. Not with twenty, twenty-five tons of pressure holding it closed. As you reminded me, this is the Moon. No air outside, remember?”

“Oh.” Peewee looked sheepish.

So we searched. I enjoyed wrecking doors; Wormface wasn’t going to like me. One of the first things we found was a smelly little hole that Fatty and Skinny lived in. The door was not locked, which was a shame. That room told me a lot about that pair. It showed that they were pigs, with habits as unattractive as their morals. The room also told me that they were not casual prisoners; it had been refitted for humans. Their relationship with Wormface, whatever it was, had gone on for some time and was continuing. There were two empty racks for space suits, several dozen canned rations of the sort sold in military-surplus stores, and best of all, there was drinking water and a washroom of sorts-and something more precious than fine gold or frankincense if we found our suits: two charged bottles of oxy-helium.

I took a drink, opened a can of food for Peewee-it opened with a key; we weren’t in the predicament of the Three Men in a Boat with their tin of pineapple-told her to grab a bite, then search that room. I went on with my giant toad sticker; those charged air bottles had given me an unbearable itch to find our suits-and get out!-before Wormface returned.

I smashed a dozen doors as fast as the Walrus and the Carpenter opened oysters and found all sorts of things, including what must have been living quarters for wormfaces. But I didn’t stop to look-the Space Corps could do that, if and when-I simply made sure that there was not a space suit in any of them.

And found them!-in a compartment next to the one we had been prisoners in.

I was so glad to see Oscar that I could have kissed him. I shouted, “Hi, Pal! Mirabile visu!” and ran to get Peewee. My feet went out from under me again but I didn’t care. Peewee looked up as I rushed in. “I was just going to look for you.”

“Got it! Got it!”

“You found the Mother Thing?” she said eagerly.

“Huh? No, no! The space suits-yours and mine! Let’s go!”

“Oh.” She looked disappointed and I felt hurt. “That’s good … but we have to find the Mother Thing first.”

I felt tried beyond endurance. Here we had a chance, slim but real, to escape a fate-worse-than-death (I’m not using a figure of speech) and she wanted to hang around to search for a bug-eyed monster. For any human being, even a stranger with halitosis, I would have done it. For a dog or cat I would, although reluctantly.

But what was a bug-eyed monster to me? All this one had done was to get me into the worst jam I had ever been in.  I considered socking Peewee and stuffing her into her suit. But I said, “Are you crazy? We’re leaving-right now!”

“We can’t go till we find her.”

“Now I know you’re crazy. We don’t even know she’s here … and if we do find her, we can’t take her with us.” “Oh, but we will!”

“How? This is the Moon, remember? No air. Got a space suit for her?”

“But-” That stonkered her. But not for long. She had been sitting on the floor, holding the ration can between her knees. She stood up suddenly, bouncing a little, and said, “Do as you like; I’m going to find her. Here.” She shoved the can at me.

I should have used force. But I am handicapped by training from early childhood never to strike a female, no matter how richly she deserves it. So the opportunity and Peewee both slid past while I was torn between common sense and upbringing. I simply groaned helplessly.

Then I became aware of an unbearably attractive odor. I was holding that can. It contained boiled shoe leather and gray gravy and smelled ambrosial.

Peewee had eaten half; I ate the rest while looking at what she had found. There was a coil of nylon rope which I happily put with the air bottles; Oscar had fifty feet of clothesline clipped to his belt but that had been a penny-saving expedient. There was a prospector’s hammer which I salvaged, and two batteries which would do for headlamps and things.

The only other items of interest were a Government Printing Office publication titled Preliminary Report on Selenology, a pamphlet on uranium prospecting, and an expired Utah driver’s license for “Timothy Johnson”-I recognized the older man’s mean face. The pamphlets interested me but this was no time for excess baggage.

The main furniture was two beds, curved like contour chairs and deeply padded; they told me that Skinny and Fatty had ridden this ship at high acceleration.

When I had mopped the last of the gravy with a finger, I took a big drink, washed my hands-using water lavishly because I didn’t care if that pair died of thirst-grabbed my plunder and headed for the room where the space suits were.

As I got there I ran into Peewee. She was carrying the crowbar and looking overjoyed. “I found her!” “Where?”

“Come on! I can’t get it open, I’m not strong enough.”

I put the stuff with our suits and followed her. She stopped at a door panel farther along the corridor than my vandalism had taken me. “In there!”  I looked and I listened. “What makes you think so?”

“I know! Open it!”

I shrugged and got to work with the nutpick. The panel went sprung! and that was that. Curled up in the middle of the floor was a creature.

So far as I could tell, it might or might not have been the one I had seen in the pasture the night before. The light had been poor, the conditions very different, and my examination had ended abruptly. But Peewee was in no doubt. She launched herself through the air with a squeal of joy and the two rolled over and over like kittens play-fighting.

Peewee was making sounds of joy, more or less in English. So was the Mother Thing, but not in English. I would not have been surprised if she had spoken English, since Wormface did and since Peewee had mentioned things the Mother Thing had told her. But she didn’t.

Did you ever listen to a mockingbird? Sometimes singing melodies, sometimes just sending up a joyous noise unto the Lord? The endlessly varied songs of a mockingbird are nearest to the speech of the Mother Thing.

At last they held still, more or less, and Peewee said, “Oh, Mother Thing, I’m so happy!”

The creature sang to her. Peewee answered, “Oh. I’m forgetting my manners. Mother Thing, this is my dear friend Kip.” The Mother Thing sang to me-and I understood.

What she said was: “I am very happy to know you, Kip.” It didn’t come out in words. But it might as well have been English. Nor was this half-kidding self-deception, such as my conversations with Oscar or Peewee’s with Madame Pompadour-when I talk with Oscar I am both sides of the conversation; it’s just my conscious talking to my subconscious, or some such. This was not that.

The Mother Thing sang to me and I understood.

I was startled but not unbelieving. When you see a rainbow you don’t stop to argue the laws of optics. There it is, in the sky.

I would have been an idiot not to know that the Mother Thing was speaking to me because I did understand and understood her every time. If she directed a remark at Peewee alone, it was usually just birdsongs to me-but if it was meant for me, I got it.

Call it telepathy if you like, although it doesn’t seem to be what they do at Duke University. I never read her mind and I don’t think she read mine. We just talked.

But while I was startled, I minded my manners. I felt the way I do when Mother introduces me to one of her older grande-dame friends. So I bowed and said, “We’re very happy that we’ve found you, Mother Thing.”

It was simple, humble truth. I knew, without explanation, what it was that had made Peewee stubbornly determined to risk recapture rather than give up looking for her-the quality that made her “the Mother Thing.”

Peewee has this habit of slapping names on things and her choices aren’t always apt, for my taste. But I’ll never question this one. The Mother Thing was the Mother Thing because she was. Around her you felt happy and safe and warm. You knew that if you skinned your knee and came bawling into the house, she would kiss it well and paint it with merthiolate and everything would be all right. Some nurses have it and some teachers … and, sadly, some mothers don’t.

But the Mother Thing had it so strongly that I wasn’t even worried by Wormface. We had her with us so everything was going to be all right. I logically I knew that she was as vulnerable as we were-I had seen them strike her down. She didn’t have my size and strength, she couldn’t pilot the ship as Peewee had been able to. It didn’t matter.

I wanted to crawl into her lap. Since she was too small and didn’t have a lap, I would gratefully hold her in mine, anytime.

I have talked more about my father but that doesn’t mean that Mother is less important-just different. Dad is active, Mother is passive; Dad talks, Mother doesn’t. But if she died, Dad would wither like an uprooted tree. She makes our world.

The Mother Thing had the effect on me that Mother has, only I’m used to it from Mother. Now I was getting it unexpectedly, far from home, when I needed it. Peewee said excitedly, “Now we can go. Kip. Let’s hurry!”

The Mother Thing sang (“Where are we going, children?”) “To Tombaugh Station, Mother Thing. They’ll help us.”

The Mother Thing blinked her eyes and looked serenely sad. She had great, soft, compassionate eyes-she looked more like a lemur than anything else but she was not a primate-she wasn’t even in our sequence, unearthly. But she had these wonderful eyes and a soft, defenseless mouth out of which music poured. She wasn’t as big as Peewee and her hands were tinier still-six fingers, any one of which could oppose the others the way our thumbs can. Her body-well, it never stayed the same shape so it’s hard to describe, but it was right for her.

She didn’t wear clothes but she wasn’t naked; she had soft, creamy fur, sleek and fine as chinchilla. I thought at first she didn’t wear anything, but presently I noticed a piece of jewelry, a shiny triangle with a double spiral in each corner. I don’t know what made it stick on.

I didn’t take all this in at once. At that instant the expression in the Mother Thing’s eyes brought a crash of sorrow into the happiness I had been feeling. Her answer made me realize that she didn’t have a miracle ready (“How are we to fly the ship? They have guarded me most carefully this time.”)

Peewee explained eagerly about the space suits and I stood there like a fool, with a lump of ice in my stomach. What had been just a question of using my greater strength to force Peewee to behave was now an unsolvable dilemma. I could no more abandon the Mother Thing than I could have abandoned Peewee … and there were only two space suits.

Even if she could wear our sort, which looked as practical as roller skates on a snake.

The Mother Thing gently pointed out that her own vacuum gear had been destroyed. (I’m going to quit writing down all her songs; I don’t remember them exactly anyhow.)

And so the fight began. It was an odd fight, with the Mother Thing gentle and loving and sensible and utterly firm, and Peewee throwing a tearful, bad-little-girl tantrum-and me standing miserably by, not even refereeing.

When the Mother Thing understood the situation, she analyzed it at once to the inevitable answer. Since she had no way to go (and probably couldn’t have walked that far anyhow, even if she had had her sort of space suit) the only answer was for us two to leave at once. If we reached safety, then we would, if possible, convince our people of the danger from Wormface & Co.-in which case she might be saved as well … which would be nice but was not indispensable.

Peewee utterly, flatly, and absolutely refused to listen to any plan which called for leaving the Mother Thing behind. If the Mother Thing couldn’t go, she wouldn’t budge. “Kip! You go get help! Hurry! I’ll stay here.”

I stared at her. “Peewee, you know I can’t do that.”

“You must. You will so! You’ve got to. If you don’t, I’ll … I’ll never speak to you again!”

“If I did, I’d never speak to myself again. Look, Peewee, it won’t wash. You’ll have to go-“ “No!”

“Oh, shut up for a change. You go and I stay and guard the door with the shillelagh. I’ll hold ‘em off while you round up the troops. But tell them to hurry!” “I-” She stopped and looked very sober and utterly baffled. Then she threw herself on the Mother Thing, sobbing: “Oh, you don’t love me any more!”

Which shows how far her logic had gone to pot. The Mother Thing sang softly to her while I worried the thought that our last chance was t trickling away while we argued. Wormface might come back any second- and while I hoped to slug him a final one if he got in, more likely he had resources to outmaneuver me. Either way, we would not escape.

At last I said, “Look we’ll all go.”

Peewee stopped sobbing and looked startled. “You know we can’t.” The Mother Thing sang (“How, Kip?”)

“Uh, I’ll have to show you. Up on your feet, Peewee.” We went where the suits were, while Peewee carried Madame Pompadour and half carried the Mother Thing. Lars Eklund, the rigger who had first worn Oscar according to his log, must have weighed about two hundred pounds; in order to wear Oscar I had to strap him tight to keep from bulging. I hadn’t considered retailoring him to my size as I was afraid I would never get him gas-tight again. Arm and leg lengths were okay; it was girth that was too big.

There was room inside for both the Mother Thing and me.

I explained, while Peewee looked big-eyed and the Mother Thing sang queries and approvals. Yes, she could hang on piggy-back-and she couldn’t fall off, once we were sealed up and the straps cinched.

“All right. Peewee, get into your suit.” I went to get my socks while she started to suit up. When I came back I checked her helmet gauges, reading them backwards through her lens. “We had better give you some air. You’re only about half full.”

I ran into a snag. The spare bottles I had filched from those ghouls had screw-thread fittings like mine-but Peewee’s bottles had bayonet-and-snap joints. Okay, I guess, for tourists, chaperoned and nursed and who might get panicky while bottles were changed unless it was done fast-but not so good for serious work. In my workshop I would have rigged an adapter in twenty minutes. Here, with no real tools-well, that spare air might as well be on Earth for all the good it did Peewee.

For the first time, I thought seriously of leaving them behind while I made a fast forced march for help. But I didn’t mention it. I thought that Peewee would rather die on the way than fall back into his hands-and I was inclined to agree.

“Kid,” I said slowly, “that isn’t much air. Not for forty miles.” Her gauge was scaled in time as well as pressure; it read just under five hours. Could Peewee move as fast as a trotting horse? Even at lunar gravity? Not likely.

She looked at me soberly. “That’s calibrated for full-size people. I’m little-I don’t use much air.” “Uh … don’t use it faster than you have to.”

“I won’t. Let’s go.”

I started to close her gaskets. “Hey!” she objected. “What’s the matter?”

“Madame Pompadour! Hand her to me-please. On the floor by my feet.”

I picked up that ridiculous dolly and gave it to her. “How much air does she take?”

Peewee suddenly dimpled. “I’ll caution her not to inhale.” She stuffed it inside her shirt, I sealed her up. I sat down in my open suit, the Mother Thing crept up my back, singing reassuringly, and cuddled close. She felt good and I felt that I could hike a hundred miles, to get them both safe.

Getting me sealed in was cumbersome, as the straps had to be let out and then tightened to allow for the Mother Thing, and neither Peewee nor I had bare hands. We managed.

I made a sling from my clothesline for the spare bottles. With them around my neck, with Oscar’s weight and the Mother Thing as well, I scaled perhaps fifty pounds at the Moon’s one- sixth gee. It just made me fairly sure-footed for the first time.

I retrieved my knife from the air-lock latch and snapped it to Oscar’s belt beside the nylon rope and the prospector’s hammer. Then we went inside the air lock and closed its inner door. I didn’t know how to waste its air to the outside but Peewee did. It started to hiss out.

“You all right, Mother Thing?”

(“Yes, Kip.”) She hugged me reassuringly.

“Peewee to Junebug,” I heard in my phones: “radio check. Alfa, Bravo, Coca, Delta, Echo, Foxtrot-“ “Junebug to Peewee: I read you. Golf, Hotel, India, Juliette, Kilo-“

“I read you, Kip.” “Roger.”

“Mind your pressure. Kip. You’re swelling up too fast.” I kicked the chin valve while watching the gauge-and kicking myself for letting a little girl catch me in a greenhorn trick. But she had used a space suit before, while I had merely pretended to.

I decided this was no time to be proud. “Peewee? Give me all the tips you can. I’m new to his.” “I will, Kip.”

The outer door popped silently and swung inward-and I looked out over the bleak bright surface of a lunar plain. For a homesick moment I remembered the trip-to-the-Moon games I had played as a kid and wished I were back in Centerville. Then Peewee touched her helmet to mine. “See anyone?”

“No.”

“We’re lucky, the door faces away from the other ships. Listen carefully. We won’t use radio until we are over the horizon-unless it’s a desperate emergency. They listen on our frequencies. I know that for sure. Now see that mountain with the saddle in it? Kip, pay attention!”

“Yes.” I had been staring at Earth. She was beautiful even in that shadow show in the control room-but I just hadn’t realized. There she was, so close I could almost touch her … and so far away that we might never get home. You can’t believe what a lovely planet we have, until you see her from outside … with clouds girdling her waist and polar cap set jauntily, like a spring hat. “Yes. I see the saddle.”

“We head left of there, where you see a pass. Tim and Jock brought me through it in a crawler. Once we pick up its tracks it will be easy. But first we head for those near hills just left of that-that ought to keep this ship between us and the other ships while we get out of sight. I hope.”

It was twelve feet or so to the ground and I was prepared to jump, since it would be nothing much in that gravity. Peewee insisted on lowering me by rope. “You’ll fall over your feet. Look, Kip, listen to old Aunt Peewee. You don’t have Moon legs yet. It’s going to be like your first time on a bicycle.”

So I let her lower me and the Mother Thing while she snubbed the nylon rope around the side of the lock. Then she jumped with no trouble. I started to loop up the line but she stopped me and snapped the other end to her belt, then touched helmets. “I’ll lead. If I go too fast or you need me, tug on the rope. I won’t be able to see you.”

“Aye aye, Cap’n!”

“Don’t make fun of me, Kip. This is serious.” “I wasn’t making fun, Peewee. You’re boss.”

“Let’s go. Don’t look back, it won’t do any good and you might fall. I’m heading for those hills.”

Chapter 6

I should have relished the weird, romantic experience, but I was as busy as Eliza crossing the ice and the things snapping at my heels were worse than bloodhounds. I wanted to look back but I was too busy trying to stay on my feet. I couldn’t see my feet; I had to watch ahead and try to pick my footing-it kept me as busy as a lumberjack in a logrolling contest. I didn’t skid as the ground was rough-dust or fine sand over raw rock- and fifty pounds weight was enough for footing. But I had three hundred pounds mass not a whit reduced by lowered weight; this does things to lifelong reflex habits. I had to lean heavily for the slightest turn, lean back and dig in to slow down, lean far forward to speed up.

I could have drawn a force diagram, but doing it is another matter. How long does it take a baby to learn to walk? This newborn Moon-baby was having to learn while making a forced march, half blind, at the greatest speed he could manage.

So I didn’t have time to dwell on the wonder of it all.

Peewee moved into a brisk pace and kept stepping it up. Every little while my leash tightened and I tried still harder to speed up and not fall down. The Mother Thing warbled at my spine: (“Are you all right. Kip? You seem worried.”)

“I’m … all right! How … about … you?”

(“I’m very comfortable. Don’t wear yourself out, dear.”) “Okay!”

Oscar was doing his job. I began to sweat from exertion and naked Sun, but I didn’t kick the chin valve until I saw from my blood-color gauge that I was short on air. The system worked perfectly and the joints, under a four-pound pressure, gave no trouble; hours of practice in the pasture was paying off. Presently my one worry was to keep a sharp eye for rocks and ruts. We were into those low hills maybe twenty minutes after H-hour. Peewee’s first swerve as we reached rougher ground took me by surprise; I almost fell.

She slowed down and crept forward into a gulch. Afew moments later she stopped; I joined her and she touched helmets with me. “How are you doing?” “Okay.”

“Mother Thing, can you hear me?” (“Yes, dear.”)

“Are you comfortable? Can you breathe all right?” (“Yes, indeed. Our Kip is taking good care of me.”) “Good. You behave yourself, Mother Thing. Hear me?”

(“I will, dear.”) Somehow she put an indulgent chuckle into a birdsong.

“Speaking of breathing,” I said to Peewee, “let’s check your air.” I tried to look into her helmet. She pulled away, then touched again. “I’m all right!”

“So you say.” I held her helmet with both hands, found I couldn’t see the dials-with sunlight around us, trying to see in was like peering into a well. “What does it read-and don’t fib.” “Don’t be nosy!”

I turned her around and read her bottle gauges. One read zero; the other was almost full. I touched helmets. “Peewee,” I said slowly, “how many miles have we come?”

“About three, I think. Why?”

“Then we’ve got more than thirty to go?”

“At least thirty-five. Kip, quit fretting. I know I’ve got one empty bottle; I shifted to the full one before we stopped.” “One bottle won’t take you thirty-five miles.”

“Yes, it will … because it’s got to.”

“Look, we’ve got plenty of air. I’ll figure a way to get it to you.” My mind was trotting in circles, thinking what tools were on my belt, what else I had. “Kip, you know you can’t hook those spare bottles to my suit-so shut up!”

(“What’s the trouble, darlings? Why are you quarreling?”) “We aren’t fighting, Mother Thing. Kip is a worry wart.” (“Now, children-“)

I said, “Peewee, I admit I can’t hook the spares into your suit … but I’ll jigger a way to recharge your bottle.” “But How, Kip?”

“Leave it to me. I’ll touch only the empty; if it doesn’t work, we’re no worse off. If it does, we’ve got it made.” “How long will it take?”

“Ten minutes with luck. Thirty without.” “No,” she decided.

“Now, Peewee, don’t be sil-“

“I’m not being silly! We aren’t safe until we get into the mountains. I can get that far. Then, when we no longer show up like a bug on a plate, we can rest and recharge my empty bottle.”  It made sense. “All right.”

“Can you go faster? If we reach the mountains before they miss us, I don’t think they’ll ever find us. If we don’t-“ “I can go faster. Except for these pesky bottles.”

“Oh.” She hesitated. “Do you want to throw one away?”

“Huh? Oh, no, no! But they throw me off balance. I’ve just missed a tumble a dozen times. Peewee, can you retie them so they don’t swing?” “Oh. Sure.”

I had them hung around my neck and down my front-not smart but I had been hurried. Now Peewee lashed them firmly, still in front as my own bottles and the Mother Thing were on my back-no doubt she was finding it as crowded as Dollar Day. Peewee passed clothesline under my belt and around the yoke. She touched helmets. “I hope that’s okay.”

“Did you tie a square knot?”

She pulled her helmet away. Aminute later she touched helmets again. “It was a granny,” she admitted in a small voice, “but it’s a square knot now.” “Good. Tuck the ends in my belt so that I can’t trip, then we’ll mush. Are you all right?”

“Yes,” she said slowly. “I just wish I had salvaged my gum, old and tired as it was. My throat’s awful dry.” “Drink some water. Not too much.”

“Kip! It’s not a nice joke.”

I stared. “Peewee-your suit hasn’t any water?” “What? Don’t be silly.”

My jaw dropped. “But, baby,” I said helplessly, “why didn’t you fill your tank before we left?” “What are you talking about? Does your suit have a water tank?”

I couldn’t answer. Peewee’s suit was for tourists-for those “scenic walks amidst incomparable grandeur on the ancient face of the Moon” that the ads promised. Guided walks, of course, not over a half-hour at a time-they wouldn’t put in a water tank; some tourist might choke, or bite the nipple off and half drown in his helmet, or some silly thing. Besides, it was cheaper.

I began to worry about other shortcomings that cheap-jack equipment might have-with Peewee’s life depending on it. “I’m sorry,” I said humbly. “Look, I’ll try to figure out some way to get water to you.”

“I doubt if you can. I can’t die of thirst in the time it’ll take us to get there, so quit worrying. I’m all right. I just wish I had my bubble gum. Ready?” “Uh … ready.”

The hills were hardly more than giant folds in lava; we were soon through them, even though we had to take it cautiously over the very rough ground. Beyond them the ground looked natter than western Kansas, stretching out to a close horizon, with mountains sticking up beyond, glaring in the Sun and silhouetted against a black sky like cardboard cutouts. I tried to figure how far the horizon was, on a thousand-mile radius and a height of eye of six feet-and couldn’t do it in my head and wished for my slipstick. But it was awfully close, less than a mile.

Peewee let me overtake her, touched helmets. “Okay, Kip? All right, Mother Thing?” “Sure.”

(“All right, dear.”)

“Kip, the course from the pass when they fetched me here was east eight degrees north. I heard them arguing and sneaked a peek at their map. So we go back west eight degrees south-that doesn’t count the jog to these hills but it’s close enough to find the pass. Okay?”

“Sounds swell.” I was impressed. “Peewee, were you an Indian scout once? Or Davy Crockett?”

“Pooh! Anybody can read a map”-she sounded pleased. “I want to check compasses. What bearing do you have on Earth?”  I said silently: Oscar, you’ve let me down. I’ve been cussing her suit for not having water-and you don’t have a compass.

(Oscar protested: “Hey, pal, that’s unfair! Why would I need a compass at Space Station Two? Nobody told me I was going to the Moon.”) I said, “Peewee, this suit is for space station work. What use is a compass in space? Nobody told me I was going to the Moon.”

“But- Well, don’t stop to cry about it. You can get your directions by Earth.” “Why can’t I use your compass?”

“Don’t be silly; it’s built into my helmet. Now just a moment-” She faced Earth, moved her helmet back and forth. Then she touched helmets again. “Earth is smacko on northwest … that makes the course fifty three degrees left of there. Try to pick it out. Earth is two degrees wide, you know.”

“I knew that before you were born.”

“No doubt. Some people require a head start.” “Smart aleck!”

“You were rude first!”

“But- Sorry, Peewee. Let’s save the fights for later. I’ll spot you the first two bites.” “I won’t need them! You don’t know how nasty I can-“

“I have some idea.” (“Children! Children!”) “I’m sorry, Peewee.”

“So am I. I’m edgy. I wish we were there.”

“So do I. Let me figure the course.” I counted degrees using Earth as a yardstick. I marked a place by eye, then tried again judging fifty-three degrees as a proportion of ninety. The results didn’t agree, so I tried to spot some stars to help me. They say you can see stars from the Moon even when the Sun is in the sky. Well, you can-but not easily. I had the Sun over my shoulder but was facing Earth, almost three-quarters full, and had the dazzling ground glare as well. The polarizer cut down the glare-and cut out the stars, too.

So I split my guesses and marked the spot. “Peewee? See that sharp peak with sort of a chin on its left profile? That ought to be the course, pretty near.” “Let me check.” She tried it by compass, then touched helmets. “Nice going, Kip. Three degrees to the right and you’ve got it.”

I felt smug. “Shall we get moving?”

“Right. We go through the pass, then Tombaugh Station is due west.”

It was about ten miles to the mountains; we made short work of it. You can make time on the Moon-if it is flat and if you can keep your balance. Peewee kept stepping it up until we were almost flying, long low strides that covered ground like an ostrich-and, do you know, it’s easier fast than slow. The only hazard, after I got the hang of it, was landing on a rock or hole or something and tripping. But that was hazard enough because I couldn’t pick my footing at that speed. I wasn’t afraid of falling; I felt certain that Oscar could take the punishment. But suppose I landed on my back? Probably smash the Mother Thing to jelly.

I was worried about Peewee, too. That cut-rate tourist suit wasn’t as rugged as Oscar. I’ve read about explosive decompression-I never want to see it. Especially not a little girl. But I didn’t dare use radio to warn her even though we were probably shielded from Wormface-and if I tugged on my leash I might make her fall.

The plain started to rise and Peewee let it slow us down. Presently we were walking, then we were climbing a scree slope. I stumbled but landed on my hands and got up-one-sixth gravity has advantages as well as hazards. We reached the top and Peewee led us into a pocket in the rocks. She stopped and touched helmets. “Anybody home? You two all right?”

(“All right, dear.”)

“Sure,” I agreed. “Alittle winded, maybe.” That was an understatement but if Peewee could take it, I could.

“We can rest,” she answered, “and take it easy from here on. I wanted to get us out of the open as fast as possible. They’ll never find us here.”

I thought she was right. Awormface ship flying over might spot us, if they could see down as well as up-probably just a matter of touching a control. But our chances were better now. “This is the time to recharge your empty bottle.”

“Okay.”

None too soon-the bottle which had been almost full had dropped by a third, more like half. She couldn’t make it to Tombaugh Station on that -simple arithmetic. So I crossed my fingers and got to work. “Partner, will you untie this cat’s cradle?”

While Peewee fumbled at knots, I started to take a drink-then stopped, ashamed of myself. Peewee must be chewing her tongue to work up saliva by now-and I hadn’t been able to think of any way to get water to her. The tank was inside my helmet and there was no way to reach it without making me-and Mother Thing-dead in the process.

If I ever lived to be an engineer I’d correct that!

I decided that it was idiotic not to drink because she couldn’t; the lives of all of us might depend on my staying in the best condition I could manage. So I drank and ate three malted milk tablets and a salt tablet, then had another drink. It helped a lot but I hoped Peewee hadn’t noticed. She was busy unwinding clothesline-anyhow it was hard to see into a helmet.

I took Peewee’s empty bottle off her back, making darn sure to close her outside stop valve first-there’s supposed to be a one-way valve where an air hose enters a helmet but I no longer trusted her suit; it might have more cost-saving shortcomings. I laid the empty on the ground by a full one, looked at it, straightened up and touched helmets. “Peewee, disconnect the  bottle on the left side of my back.”

“Why, Kip?”

“Who’s doing this job?” I had a reason but was afraid she might argue. My lefthand bottle held pure oxygen; the others were oxy-helium. It was full, except for a few minutes of fiddling last night in Centerville. Since I couldn’t possibly give her bottle a full charge, the next best thing was to give her a half-charge of straight oxygen.

She shut up and removed it.

I set about trying to transfer pressure between bottles whose connections didn’t match. There was no way to do it properly, short of tools a quarter of a million miles away-or over in Tombaugh Station which was just as bad. But I did have adhesive tape.

Oscar’s manual called for two first-aid kits. I didn’t know what was supposed to be in them; the manual had simply given USAF stock numbers. I hadn’t been able to guess what would  be useful in an outside kit-a hypodermic needle, maybe, sharp enough to stab through and give a man morphine when he needed it terribly. But since I didn’t know, I had stocked inside and outside with bandage, dressings, and a spool of surgical tape.

I was betting on the tape.

I butted the mismatched hose connections together, tore off a scrap of bandage and wrapped it around the junction-I didn’t want sticky stuff on the joint; it could foul the operation on a suit. Then I taped the junction, wrapping tightly, working very painstakingly and taping three inches on each side as well as around the joint-if tape could restrain that pressure a few moments, there would still be one deuce of a force trying to drag that joint apart. I didn’t want it to pull apart at the first jolt. I used the entire roll.

I motioned Peewee to touch helmets. “I’m about to open the full bottle. The valve on the empty is already open. When you see me start to close the valve on the full one, you close the other one-fast! Got it?”

“Close the valve when you do, quickly. Roger.”

“Stand by. Get your hand on the valve.” I grabbed that lump of bandaged joint in one fist, squeezed as hard as I could, and put my other hand on the valve. If that joint let go, maybe my hand would go with it- but if the stunt failed, little Peewee didn’t have long to live. So I really gripped.

Watching both gauges, I barely cracked the valve. The hose quivered; the needle gauge that read “empty” twitched. I opened the valve wide. One needle swung left, the other right. Quickly they approached half-charge. “Now!” I yelled uselessly and started closing the valve.

And felt that patchwork joint start to give.

The hoses squeezed out of my fist but we lost only a fraction of gas. I found that I was trying to close a valve that was closed tight. Peewee had hers closed. The gauges each showed just short of half full-there was air for Peewee.

I sighed and found I had been holding my breath.

Peewee put her helmet against mine and said very soberly, “Thanks, Kip.”

“Charton Drugs service, ma’am-no tip necessary. Let me tidy this mess, you can tie me and we’ll go.” “You won’t have to carry but one extra bottle now.”

“Wrong, Peewee. We may do this stunt five or six times until there’s only a whisper left”-or until the tape wears out, I added to myself. The first thing I did was to rewrap the tape on its spool-and if you think that is easy, wearing gloves and with the adhesive drying out as fast as you wind it, try it.

In spite of the bandage, sticky stuff had smeared the connections when the hoses parted. But it dried so hard that it chipped off the bayonet-and-snap joint easily. I didn’t worry about the screw-thread joint; I didn’t expect to use it on a suit. We mounted Peewee’s recharged bottle and I warned her that it was straight oxygen. “Cut your pressure and feed from both bottles. What’s your blood color reading?”

“I’ve been carrying it low on purpose.”

“Idiot! You want to keel over? Kick your chin valve! Get into normal range!”

We mounted one bottle I had swiped on my back, tied the other and the oxy bottle on my front, and were on our way.

Earth mountains are predictable; lunar mountains aren’t, they’ve never been shaped by water. We came to a hole too steep to go down other than by rope and a wall beyond I wasn’t sure we could climb. With pitons and snap rings and no space suits it wouldn’t have been hard in the Rockies- but not the way we were. Peewee reluctantly led us back. The scree slope was worse going down-I backed down on hands and knees, with Peewee belaying the line above me. I wanted to be a hero and belay for her-we had a brisk argument. “Oh, quit being big

and male and gallantly stupid, Kip! You’ve got four big bottles and the Mother Thing and you’re top heavy and I climb like a goat.”

I shut up.

At the bottom she touched helmets. “Kip,” she said worriedly, “I don’t know what to do.” “What’s the trouble?”

“I kept a little south of where the crawler came through. I wanted to avoid crossing right where the crawler crossed. But I’m beginning to think there isn’t any other way.”  “I wish you had told me before.”

“But I didn’t want them to find us! The way the crawler came is the first place they’ll look.”

“Mmm … yes.” I looked up at the range that blocked us. In pictures, the mountains of the Moon look high and sharp and rugged; framed by the lens of a space suit they look simply impossible.

I touched helmets again. “We might find another way-if we had time and air and the resources of a major expedition. We’ve got to take the route the crawler did. Which way?”

“Alittle way north … I think.”

We tried to work north along the foothills but it was slow and difficult. Finally we backed off to the edge of the plain. It made us jumpy but it was a chance we had to take. We walked, briskly but not running, for we didn’t dare miss the crawler’s tracks. I counted paces and when I reached a thousand I tugged the line; Peewee stopped and we touched helmets. “We’ve come half a mile. How much farther do you think it is? Or could it possibly be behind us?”

Peewee looked up at the mountains. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “Everything looks different.” “We’re lost?”

“Uh … it ought to be ahead somewhere. But we’ve come pretty far. Do you want to turn around?” “Peewee, I don’t even know the way to the post office.”

“But what should we do?”

“I think we ought to keep going until you are absolutely certain the pass can’t be any farther. You watch for the pass and I’ll watch for crawler tracks. Then, when you’re certain that we’ve come too far, we’ll turn back. We can’t afford to make short casts like a dog trying to pick up a rabbit’s scent.”

“All right.”

I had counted two thousand more paces, another mile, when Peewee stopped. “Kip? It can’t be ahead of us. The mountains are higher and solider than ever.” “You’re sure? Think hard. Better to go another five miles than to stop too short.”

She hesitated. She had her face pushed up close to her lens while we touched helmets and I could see her frown. Finally she said, “It’s not up ahead. Kip.” “That settles it. To the rear, march! ‘Lay on, Macduff, and curs’d be him who first cries, “Hold, enough!” ‘ “

“King Lear.”

“Macbeth. Want to bet?”

Those tracks were only half a mile behind us-I had missed them. They were on bare rock with only the lightest covering of dust; the Sun had been over my shoulder when we first crossed them, and the caterpillar tread marks hardly showed-I almost missed them going back. They led off the plain and straight up into the mountains.

We couldn’t possibly have crossed those mountains without following the crawler’s trail; Peewee had had the optimism of a child. It wasn’t a road; it was just something a crawler on caterpillar treads could travel. We saw places that even a crawler hadn’t been able to go until whoever pioneered it set a whopping big blast, backed off and waited for a chunk of mountain to get out of the way. I doubt if Skinny and Fatty carved that goat’s path; they didn’t look fond of hard work. Probably one of the exploration parties. If Peewee and I had attempted to break a new trail, we’d be there yet, relics for tourists of future generations.

But where a tread vehicle can go, a man can climb. It was no picnic; it was trudge, trudge, trudge, up and up and up-watch for loose rock and mind where you put your feet. Sometimes we belayed with the line. Nevertheless it was mostly just tedious.

When Peewee had used that half-charge of oxygen, we stopped and I equalized pressure again, this time being able to give her only a quarter charge-like Achilles and the tortoise. I   could go on indefinitely giving her half of what was left-if the tape held out. It was in bad shape but the pressure was only half as great and I managed to keep the hoses together until we closed valves.

I should say that I had it fairly easy. I had water, food, pills, dexedrine. The last was enormous help; any time I felt fagged I borrowed energy with a pep-pill. Poor Peewee had nothing but air and courage.

She didn’t even have the cooling I had. Since she was on a richer mix, one bottle being pure oxygen, it did not take as much flow to keep up her blood-color index-and I warned her not to use a bit more than necessary; she could not afford air for cooling, she had to save it to breathe.

“I know, Kip,” she answered pettishly. “I’ve got the needle jiggling the red light right now. Think I’m a fool?” “I just want to keep you alive.”

“All right, but quit treating me as a child. You put one foot in front of the other. I’ll make it.” “Sure you will!”

As for the Mother Thing she always said she was all right and she was breathing the air I had (a trifle used), but I didn’t know what was hard-ship to her. Hanging by his heels all day would kill a man; to a bat it is a nice rest-yet bats are our cousins.

I talked with her as we climbed. It didn’t matter what; her songs had the effect on me that it has to have your own gang cheering. Poor Peewee didn’t even have that comfort, except when we stopped and touched helmets-we still weren’t using radio; even in the mountains we were fearful of attracting attention.

We stopped again and I gave Peewee one-eighth of a charge. The tape was in very poor shape afterwards; I doubted if it would serve again. I said, “Peewee, why don’t you run your oxy- helium bottle dry while I carry this one? It’ll save your strength.”

“I’m all right.”

“Well, you won’t use air so fast with a lighter load.” “You have to have your arms free. Suppose you slip?”

“Peewee, I won’t carry it in my arms, My righthand backpack bottle is empty; I’ll chuck it. Help me make the change and I’ll still be carrying only four-just balanced evenly.”    “Sure, I’ll help. But I’ll carry two bottles. Honest, Kip, the weight isn’t anything. But if I run the oxy-helium bottle dry, what would I breathe while you’re giving me my next charge?”   I didn’t want to tell her that I had doubts about another charge, even in those ever smaller amounts. “Okay, Peewee.”

She changed bottles for me; we threw the dead one down a black hole and went on. I don’t know how far we climbed nor how long; I know that it seemed like days-though it couldn’t have been, not on that much air. During mile after mile of trail we climbed at least eight thousand feet. Heights are hard to guess-but I’ve seen mountains I knew the heights of. Look it up yourself-the first range east of Tombaugh Station.

There’s a lot of climbing, even at one-sixth gee.

It seemed endless because I didn’t know how far it was nor how long it had been. We both had watches-under our suits. Ahelmet ought to have a built-in watch. I should have read Greenwich time from the face of Earth. But I had no experience and most of the time I couldn’t see Earth because we were deep in mountains-anyhow I didn’t know what time it had been when we left the ship.

Another thing space suits should have is rear-view mirrors. While you are at it, add a window at the chin so that you can see where you step. But of the two, I would take a rear-view mirror. You can’t glance behind you; you have to turn your entire body. Every few seconds I wanted to see if they were following us-and I couldn’t spare the effort. All that nightmare trek I kept imagining them on my heels, expecting a wormy hand on my shoulder. I listened for footsteps which couldn’t be heard in vacuum anyhow.

When you buy a space suit, make them equip it with a rear-view mirror. You won’t have Wormface on your trail but it’s upsetting to have even your best friend sneak up behind you. Yes,  and if you are coming to the Moon, bring a sunshade. Oscar was doing his best and York had done an honest job on the air conditioning-but the untempered Sun is hotter than you would believe and I didn’t dare use air just for cooling, any more than Peewee could.

It got hot and stayed hot and sweat ran down and I itched all over and couldn’t scratch and sweat got into my eyes and burned. Peewee must have been parboiled. Even when the trail wound through deep gorges lighted only by reflection off the far wall, so dark that we turned on headlamps, I still was hot-and when we curved back into naked sunshine, it was almost

unbearable. The temptation to kick the chin valve, let air pour in and cool me, was almost too much. The desire to be cool seemed more important than the need to breathe an hour hence.

If I had been alone, I might have done it and died. But Peewee was worse off than I was. If she could stand it, I had to.

I had wondered how we could be so lost so close to human habitation -and how crawly monsters could hide a base only forty miles from Tombaugh Station. Well, I had time to think and could figure it out because I could see the Moon around me.

Compared with the Moon the Arctic is swarming with people. The Moon’s area is about equal to Asia-with fewer people than Centerville. It might be a century before anyone explored that plain where Wormface was based. Arocket ship passing over wouldn’t notice anything even if camouflage hadn’t been used; a man in a space suit would never go there; a man in a crawler would find their base only by accident even if he took the pass we were in and ranged around that plain. The lunar mapping satellite could photograph it and rephotograph, then a technician in London might note a tiny difference on two films. Maybe. Years later somebody might check up-if there wasn’t something more urgent to do in a pioneer outpost where everything is new and urgent.

As for radar sightings-there were unexplained radar sightings before I was born.

Wormface could sit there, as close to Tombaugh Station as Dallas is to Fort Worth, and not fret, snug as a snake under house. Too many square miles, not enough people. Too incredibly many square miles… . Our whole world was harsh bright cliffs and dark shadows and black sky, and endless putting one foot in front of the other.

But eventually we were going downhill oftener than up and at weary last we came to a turn where we could see out over a hot bright plain.

I There were mountains awfully far away; even from our height, up a thousand feet or so, they were beyond the horizon. I looked out over that plain, too dead beat to feel triumphant, then glanced at Earth and tried to estimate due west.

Peewee touched her helmet to mine. “There it is, Kip.” “Where?” She pointed and I caught a glint on a silvery dome. The Mother Thing trilled at my spine (“What is it, children?”) “Tombaugh Station, Mother Thing.”

Her answer was wordless assurance that we were good children and that she had known that we could do it.

The station may have been ten miles away. Distances were hard to judge, what with that funny horizon and never anything for comparison- I didn’t even know how big the dome was. “Peewee, do we dare use radio?”

She turned and looked back. I did also; we were about as alone as could be. “Let’s risk it.” “What frequency?”

“Same as before. Space operations. I think.”

So I tried. “Tombaugh Station. Come in, Tombaugh Station. Do you read me?” Then Peewee tried. I listened up and down the band I was equipped for. No luck.  I shifted to horn antenna, aiming at the glint of light. No answer.

“We’re wasting time, Peewee. Let’s start slogging.”

She turned slowly away. I could feel her disappointment-I had trembled with eagerness myself. I caught up with her and touched helmets. Don’t let it throw you, Peewee. They can’t listen all day for us to call. We see it, now we’ll walk it.”

“I know,” she said dully.

As we started down we lost sight of Tombaugh Station, not only from twists and turns but because we dropped it below the horizon. I kept calling as long as there seemed any hope, then shut it off to save breath and battery.

We were about halfway down the outer slope when Peewee slowed and stopped-sank to the ground and sat still. I hurried to her. “Peewee!”

“Kip,” she said faintly, “could you go get somebody? Please? You know the way now. I’ll wait here. Please, Kip?” “Peewee!” I said sharply. “Get up! You’ve got to keep moving.”

“I c- c- can’t!” She began to cry. “I’m so thirsty … and my legs-” She passed out. “Peewee!” I shook her shoulder. “You can’t quit now! Mother Thing! -you tell her!”

Her eyelids fluttered. “Keep telling her, Mother Thing!” I flopped Peewee over and got to work. Hypoxia hits as fast as a jab on the button. I didn’t need to see her blood-color index to know  it read DANGER; the gauges on her bottles told me. The oxygen bottles showed empty, the oxy-helium tank was practically so. I closed her exhaust valves, overrode her chin valve with    the outside valve and let what was left in the oxy-helium bottle flow into her suit. When it started to swell I cut back the flow and barely cracked one exhaust valve. Not until then did I close stop valves and remove the empty bottle.

I found myself balked by a ridiculous thing.

Peewee had tied me too well; I couldn’t reach the knot! I could feel it with my left hand but couldn’t get my right hand around; the bottle on my front was in the way-and I couldn’t work the knot loose with one hand.

I made myself stop panicking. My knife-of course, my knife! It was an old scout knife with a loop to hang it from a belt, which was where it was. But the map hooks on Oscar’s belt were large for it and I had had to force it on. I twisted it until the loop broke.

Then I couldn’t get the little blade open. Space-suit gauntlets don’t have thumb nails.

I said to myself: Kip, quit running in circles. This is easy. All you have to do is open a knife-and you’ve got to … because Peewee is suffocating. I looked around for a sliver of rock, anything that could pinch-hit for a thumb nail. Then I checked my belt.

The prospector’s hammer did it, the chisel end of the head was sharp enough to open the blade. I cut the clothesline away.

I was still blocked. I wanted very badly to get at a bottle on my back. When I had thrown away that empty and put the last fresh one on my back, I had started feeding from it and saved the almost-half-charge in the other one. I meant to save it for a rainy day and split it with Peewee. Now was the time-she was out of air, I was practically so in one bottle but still had that half- charge in the other-plus an eighth of a charge or less in the bottle that contained straight oxygen (the best I could hope for in equalizing pressures), I had planned to surprise her with a one-quarter charge of oxy-helium, which would last longer and give more cooling. Areal knight-errant plan, I thought. I didn’t waste two seconds discarding it.

I couldn’t get that bottle off my back!

Maybe if I hadn’t modified the backpack for nonregulation bottles I could have done it. The manual says: “Reach over your shoulder with the opposite arm, close stop valves at bottle and helmet, disconnect the shackle-” My pack didn’t have shackles; I had substituted straps. But I still don’t think you can reach over your shoulder in a pressurized suit and do anything effective. I think that was written by a man at a desk. Maybe he had seen it done under favorable conditions. Maybe he had done it, but was one of those freaks who can dislocate both shoulders. But I’ll bet a full charge of oxygen that the riggers around Space Station Two did it for each other as Peewee and I had, or went inside and deflated.

If I ever get a chance, I’ll change that. Everything you have to do in a space suit should be arranged to do in front-valves, shackles, everything, even if it is to affect something in back. We aren’t like Wormface, with eyes all around and arms that bend in a dozen places; we’re built to work in front of us-that goes triple in a space suit.

You need a chin window to let you see what you’re doing, too! Athing can look fine on paper and be utterly crumby in the field. But I didn’t waste time moaning; I had a one-eighth charge of oxygen I could reach. I grabbed it.

That poor, overworked adhesive tape was a sorry mess. I didn’t bother with bandage; if I could get the tape to stick at all I’d be happy. I handled it as carefully as gold leaf, trying to get it tight, and stopped in the middle to close Peewee’s exhaust entirely when it looked as if her suit was collapsing. I finished with trembling fingers.

I didn’t have Peewee to close a valve. I simply gripped that haywired joint in one hand, opened Peewee’s empty bottle with the other, swung over fast and opened the oxygen bottle wide- jerked my hand across and grabbed the valve of Peewee’s bottle and watched those gauges.

The two needles moved toward each other. When they slowed down I started closing her bottle-and the taped joint blew out.

I got that valve closed in a hurry; I didn’t lose much gas from Peewee’s bottle. But what was left on the supply side leaked away. I didn’t stop to worry; I peeled away a scrap of adhesive, made sure the bayonet-and-snap joint was clean, got that slightly recharged bottle back on Peewee’s suit, opened stop valves.

Her suit started to distend. I opened one exhaust valve a crack and touched helmets. “Peewee! Peewee! Can you hear me? Wake up, baby! Mother Thing!-make her wake up!” “Peewee!”

“Yes, Kip?”

“Wake up! On your feet, Champ! Get up! Honey, please get up.” “Huh? Help me get my helmet off … I can’t breathe.”

“Yes, you can. Kick your chin valve-feel it, taste it. Fresh air!”

She tried, feebly; I gave her a quick strong shot, overriding her chin valve from outside. “Oh!” “See? You’ve got air. You’ve got lots of air. Now get up.”

“Oh, please, just let me lie here.”

“No, you don’t! You’re a nasty, mean, spoiled little brat-and if you don’t get up, nobody will love you. The Mother Thing won’t love you. Mother Thing!-tell her!” (“Stand up, daughter!”)

Peewee tried. I helped her, once she was trying. She trembled and clung to me and I kept her from falling. “Mother Thing?” she said faintly. “I did it. You … still love me?” (“Yes, darling!”)

“I’m dizzy … and I don’t think I … can walk.”

“You don’t have to, honey,” I said gently and picked her up in my arms. “You don’t have to walk any farther.” She didn’t weigh anything.

The trail disappeared when we were down out of the foothills but the crawler’s tracks were sharp in the dust and led due west. I had my air trimmed down until the needle of the blood- color indicator hung at the edge of the danger sector. I held it there, kicking my chin valve only when it swung past into DANGER. I figured that the designer must have left some leeway,   the way they do with gasoline gauges. I had long since warned Peewee never to take her eyes off her own indicator and hold it at the danger limit. She promised and I kept reminding her.   I pressed her helmet against the yoke of mine, so that we could talk.

I counted paces and every half-mile I told Peewee to call Tombaugh Station. It was over the horizon but they might have a high mast that could “see” a long way. The Mother Thing talked to her, too-anything to keep her from slipping away again. It saved my strength to have the Mother Thing talk and was good for all of us.

After a while I noticed that my needle had drifted into the red again. I kicked the valve and waited. Nothing happened. I kicked it again and the needle drifted slowly toward the white. “How you fixed for air, Peewee?”

“Just fine. Kip, just fine.”

Oscar was yelling at me. I blinked and noticed that my shadow had disappeared. It had been stretched out ahead at an angle to the tracks, the tracks were there but my shadow was not. That made me sore, so I turned around and looked for it. It was behind me.

The darn thing had been hiding. Games! (“That better!” said Oscar.)

“It’s hot in here, Oscar.”

(“You think it’s cool out here? Keep your eye on that shadow, bud-and on those tracks.”)

“All right, all right! Quit pestering me.” I made up my mind that I wouldn’t let that shadow get away again. Games it wanted to play, huh? “There’s darn little air in here, Oscar.”

(“Breathe shallow, chum. We can make it.”) “I’m breathing my socks, now.”

(“So breathe your shirt.”)

“Did I see a ship pass over?”

(“How should I know? You’re the one with the blinkers.”) “Don’t get smart. I’m in no mood to joke.”

I was sitting on the ground with Peewee across my knees and Oscar was really shouting-and so was the Mother Thing. (“Get up, you big ape! Get up and try.”) (“Get up, Kip dear! Only a little way now.”)

“I just want to get my wind.”

(“All right, you’ve got it. Call Tombaugh Station.”) I said, “Peewee, call Tombaugh Station.”

She didn’t answer. That scared me and I snapped out of it. “Tombaugh Station,, come in! Come in!” I got to my knees and then to my feet. Tombaugh Station, do you read me? Help! Help!”

Avoice answered, “I read you.”

“Help! M’aidez! I’ve got a little girl dying! Help!”

Suddenly it sprang up in front of my eyes-great shiny domes, tall towers, radio telescopes, a giant Schmidt camera. I staggered toward it. “May Day!”

An enormous lock opened and a crawler came toward me. Avoice in my phones said, “We’re coming. Stay where you are. Over and out.”

Acrawler stopped near me. Aman got out, came over and touched helmets. I gasped: “Help me get her inside.”

I got back: “You’ve given me trouble, bub. I don’t like people who give me trouble.” Abigger, fatter man got out behind him. The smaller man raised a thing like a camera and aimed it at me. That was the last I knew.

Chapter 7

I don’t know if they took us all that weary way back in the crawler, or if Wormface sent a ship. I woke up being slapped and was inside, lying down. The skinny one was slapping me-the man the fat one called “Tim.” I tried to fight back and found that I couldn’t. I was in a straitjacket thing that held me as snugly as a wrapped mummy. I let out a yelp.

Skinny grabbed my hair, jerked my head up, tried to put a big capsule into my mouth. I tried to bite him.

He slapped me harder and offered me the capsule again. His expression didn’t change-it stayed mean.

I heard: “Take it, boy,” and turned my eyes. The fat one was on the other side. “Better swallow it,” he said. “You got five bad days ahead.”

I took it. Not because of the advice but because a hand held my nose and another popped the pill into my mouth when I gasped. Fatty held a cup of water for me to wash it down; I didn’t resist that, I needed it.

Skinny stuck a hypodermic needle big enough for a horse into my shoulder. I told him what I thought of him, using words I hardly ever use. The skinny one could have been deaf; the fat one chuckled. I rolled my eyes at him. “You, too,” I added weakly. “Squared.”

Fatty clucked reprovingly. “You ought to be glad we saved your life.” He added, “Though it wasn’t my idea, you strike me as a sorry team. He wanted you alive.” “Shaddap,” Skinny said. “Strap his head.”

“Let him break his neck. We better fix our ourselves. He won’t wait.” But he started to obey. Skinny glanced at his watch. “Four minutes.”

The fat one hastily tightened a strap across my forehead, then both moved very fast, swallowing capsules, giving each other hypos. I watched as best I could.

I was back in the ship. The ceiling glowed the same way, the walls looked the same. It was the room the two men used; their beds were on each side and I was strapped to a soft couch between them.

Each hurriedly got on his bed, began zipping up a tight wrapping like a sleeping bag. Each strapped his head in place before completing the process. I was not interested in them. “Hey! What did you do with Peewee?”

The fat man chuckled. “Hear that, Tim? That’s a good one.” “Shaddap.”

“You-” I was about to sum up Fatty’s character but my thoughts got fuzzy and my tongue was thick. Besides, I wanted to ask about the Mother Thing, too.  I did not get out another word. Suddenly I was incredibly heavy and the couch was rock hard.

For a long, long time I wasn’t awake or truly asleep. At first I couldn’t feel anything but that terrible weight, then I hurt all over and wanted to scream. I didn’t have the strength for it.

Slowly the pain went away and I stopped feeling anything. I wasn’t a body-just me, no attachments. I dreamed a lot and none of it made sense; I seemed to be stuck in a comic book, the sort P.T.A. meetings pass resolutions against, and the baddies were way ahead no matter what I did.

Once the couch gave a twisting lurch and suddenly I had a body, one that was dizzy. After a few ages I realized vaguely that I had gone through a skew-flip turn-over. I had known, during lucid moments, that I was going somewhere, very fast, at terribly high acceleration. I decided solemnly that we must be halfway and tried to figure out how long two times eternity was. It kept coming out eighty-five cents plus sales tax; the cash register rang “NO SALE” and I would start over.

Fats was undoing my head strap. It stuck and skin came away. “Rise and shine, bub. Time’s awastin’.” Acroak was all I managed. The skinny one was unwrapping me. My legs sagged apart and hurt. “Get up!” I tried and didn’t make it. Skinny grabbed one of my legs and started to knead it.

I screamed.

“Here, lemme do that,” said Fatty. “I used to be a trainer.”

Fats did know something about it. I gasped when his thumbs dug into my calves and he stopped. “Too rough?” I couldn’t answer. He went on massaging me and said almost jovially, “Five days at eight gravities ain’t no joy ride. But you’ll be okay. Got the needle, Tim?”

The skinny one jabbed me in my left thigh. I hardly felt it. Fats pulled me to a sitting position and handed me a cup. I thought it was water; it wasn’t and I choked and sprayed. Fats waited, then gave it to me again. “Drink some, this time.” I did.

“Okay, up on your feet. Vacation is over.”

The floor swayed and I had to grab him until it stopped. “Where are we?” I said hoarsely.

Fats grinned, as if he knew an enormously funny joke. “Pluto, of course. Lovely place, Pluto. Asummer resort.” “Shaddap. Get him moving.”

“Shake it up, kid. You don’t want to keep him waiting.”

Pluto! It couldn’t be; nobody could get that far. Why, they hadn’t even attempted Jupiter’s moons yet. Pluto was so much farther that.

My brain wasn’t working. The experience just past had shaken me so badly that I couldn’t accept the fact that the experience itself proved that I was wrong. But Pluto!

I wasn’t given time to wonder; we got into space suits. Although I hadn’t known, Oscar was there, and I was so glad to see him that I forgot everything else. He hadn’t been racked, just tossed on the floor. I bent down (discovering charley horses in every muscle) and checked him. He didn’t seem hurt.

“Get in it,” Fats ordered. “Quit fiddlin’.”

“All right,” I answered almost cheerfully. Then I hesitated. “Say-I haven’t any air.”

“Take another look,” said Fats. I looked. Charged oxy-helium bottles were on the backpack. “Although,” he continued, “if we didn’t have orders from him, I wouldn’t give you a whiff of Limburger. You made us for two bottles-and a rock hammer-and a line that cost four ninety-five, earthside. Sometime,” he stated without rancor, “I’m gonna take it out of your hide.”

“Shaddap,” said Skinny. “Get going.”

I spread Oscar open, wriggled in, clipped on the blood-color reader, and zipped the gaskets. Then I stood up, clamped my helmet, and felt better just to be inside. “Tight?” (“Tight!” Oscar agreed.)

“We’re a long way from home.”

(“But we got air! Chin up, pal.”)

Which reminded me to check the chin valve. Everything was working. My knife was gone and so were the hammer and line, but those were incidentals. We were tight.

I followed Skinny out with Fats behind me. We passed Wormface in the corridor-or a wormface-but while I shuddered, I had Oscar around me and felt that he couldn’t get at me. Another creature joined us in the air lock and I had to look twice to realize that it was a wormface in a space suit. The material was smooth and did not bulge the way ours did. It looked like a   dead tree trunk with bare branches and heavy roots, but the supreme improvement was its “helmet”-a glassy smooth dome. One-way glass, I suppose; I couldn’t see in. Cased that way,  a wormface was grotesquely ridiculous rather than terrifying. But I stood no closer than I had to.

Pressure was dropping and I was busy wasting air to keep from swelling up. It reminded me of what I wanted most to know: what had happened to Peewee and the Mother Thing. So I keyed my radio and announced: “Radio check. Alfa, Bravo, Coca-“

“Shaddap that nonsense. We want you, we’ll tell you.” The outer door opened and I had my first view of Pluto.

I don’t know what I expected. Pluto is so far out that they can’t get decent photographs even at Luna Observatory. I had read articles in the Scientific American and seen pictures in LIFE, bonestelled to look like photographs, and remembered that it was approaching its summer-if “summer” is the word for warm enough to melt air. I recalled that because they had announced that Pluto was showing an atmosphere as it got closer to the Sun.

But I had never been much interested in Pluto-too few facts and too much speculation, too far away and not desirable real estate. By comparison the Moon was a choice residential  suburb. Professor Tombaugh (the one the station was named for) was working on a giant electronic telescope to photograph it, under a Guggenheim grant, but he had a special interest; he discovered Pluto years before I was born.

The first thing I noticed as the door was opening was click … click … click-and a fourth click, in my helmet, as Oscar’s heating units all cut in.

The Sun was in front of me-I didn’t realize what it was at first; it looked no bigger than Venus or Jupiter does from Earth (although much brighter). With no disc you could be sure of, it looked like an electric arc.

Fats jabbed me in the ribs. “Snap out of your hop.”

Adrawbridge joined the door to an elevated roadway that led into the side of a mountain about two hundred yards away. The road was supported on spidery legs two or three feet high up to ten or twelve, depending on the lay of the land. The ground was covered with snow, glaringly white even under that pinpoint Sun. Where the stilts were longest, about halfway, the   viaduct crossed a brook.

What sort of “water” was that? Methane? What was the “snow”? Solid ammonia? I didn’t have tables to tell me what was solid, what was liquid, and what was gas at whatever hellish cold Pluto enjoyed in the “summer.” All I knew was that it got so cold in its winter that it didn’t have any gas or liquid-just vacuum, like the Moon.

I was glad to hurry. Awind blew from our left and was not only freezing that side of me in spite of Oscar’s best efforts, it made the footing hazardous-I decided it would be far safer to do that forced march on the Moon again than to fall into that “snow.” Would a man struggle before he shattered himself and his suit, or would he die as he hit?

Adding to hazard of wind and no guard rail was traffic, space-suited wormfaces. They moved at twice our speed and shared the road the way a dog does a bone. Even Skinny resorted to fancy footwork and I had three narrow squeaks.

The way continued into a tunnel; ten feet inside a panel snapped out of the way as we got near it. Twenty feet beyond was another; it did the same and closed behind us. There were about two dozen panels, each behaving like fast-acting gate valves, and the pressure was a little higher after each. I couldn’t see what operated them although it was light in the tunnel from glowing ceilings. Finally we passed through a heavy-duty air lock, but the pressure was already taken care of and its doors stood open. It led into a large room.

Wormface was inside. The Wormface, I think, because he spoke in English: “Come!” I heard it through my helmet. But I couldn’t be sure it was he as there were others around and I would have less trouble telling wart hogs apart.

Wormface hurried away. He was not wearing a space suit and I was relieved when he turned because I could no longer see his squirming mouth; but it was only a slight improvement as  it brought into sight his rearview eye.

We were hard put to keep up. He led us down a corridor, to the right through another open double set of doors, and finally stopped suddenly just short of a hole in the floor about like a sewer manhole. “Undress it!” he commanded.

Fats and Skinny had their helmets open, so I knew it was safe, in one way. But in every other way I wanted to stay inside Oscar-as long as Wormface was around. Fats undamped my helmet. “Out of that skin, bub. Snap it up!” Skinny loosened my belt and they quickly had the suit off even though I hindered.

Wormface waited. As soon as I was out of Oscar he pointed at the hole. “Down!” I gulped. That hole looked as deep as a well and less inviting.

“Down,” he repeated. “Now.”

“Do it, bub,” Fats advised. “Jump or be pushed. Get down that hole before he gets annoyed.” I tried to run.

Wormface was around me and chivvying me back before I was well started. I slammed on the brakes and backed up-glanced behind just in time to turn a fall into a clumsy jump.

It was a long way to the bottom. Landing did not hurt the way it would have on Earth, but I turned an ankle. That didn’t matter; I wasn’t going anywhere; the hole in the ceiling was the only exit.

My cell was about twenty feet square. It was, I suppose, carved out of solid rock, although there was no way to tell as the walls and floor and ceiling were the same elephant hide used in the ship. Alighting panel covered half the ceiling and I could have read if I’d had anything to read. The only other detail was a jet of water that splashed out of a hole in the wall, landed in a depression the size of a washtub, and departed for parts unknown.

The place was warm, which was well as there was nothing resembling bed or bedclothes. I had already concluded that I might be here quite a while and was wondering about eating and sleeping.

I decided I was tired of this nonsense. I had been minding my own business, out back of my own house. Everything else was Wormface’s fault! I sat down on the floor and thought about slow ways to kill him.

I finally gave up that foolishness and wondered about Peewee and the Mother Thing. Were they here? Or were they dead somewhere between the mountains and Tombaugh Station? Thinking it over glumly, I decided that poor little Peewee was best off if she had never wakened from that second coma. I wasn’t sure about the Mother Thing because I didn’t know enough about her-but in Peewee’s case I was sure.

Well, there was a certain appropriateness to the fix I was in; a knight-errant usually lands in a dungeon at some point. But by rights, the maiden fair ought to be imprisoned in a tower in the same castle. Sorry, Peewee; as a knight-errant, I’m a good soda jerk. Or jerk. “His strength is as the strength of ten because his heart is pure.”

It wasn’t funny.

I got tired of punishing myself and looked to see what time it was-not that it mattered. But a prisoner is traditionally expected to scratch marks on the wall, tallying the days he’s been in, so I thought I might as well start. My watch was on my wrist but not running and I couldn’t start it. Maybe eight gees was too much for it, even though it was supposed to be shockproof, waterproof, magnetism-proof, and immune to un-American influences.

After a while I lay down and went to sleep. I was awakened by a clatter.

It was a ration can hitting the floor and the fall hadn’t helped it, but the key was on it and I got it open-corned beef hash and very good, too. I used the empty can to drink from-the water

might be poisoned, but did I have a choice?-and then washed the can so that it wouldn’t smell.

The water was warm. I took a bath.

I doubt if many American citizens during the past twenty years have ever needed a bath as much as I did. Then I washed my clothes. My shirt, shorts, and socks were wash-and-wear synthetics; my slacks were denim and took longer to dry, but I didn’t mind; I just wished that I had one of the two hundred bars of Skyway Soap that were home on the floor of my closet. If I had known I was coming to Pluto, I would have brought one.

Washing clothes caused me to take inventory. I had a handkerchief, sixty-seven cents in change, a dollar bill so sweat-soaked and worn that it was hard to make out Washington’s  picture, a mechanical pencil stamped “Jay’s Drive-In-the thickest malts in town!”-Acanard; I make the thickest-and a grocery list I should have taken care of for Mother but hadn’t because of that silly air conditioner in Charton’s Drugstore. It wasn’t as bedraggled as the dollar bill because it had been in my shirt pocket.

I lined up my assets and looked at them. They did not look like a collection that could be reworked into a miracle weapon with which I would blast my way out, steal a ship, teach myself to pilot it, and return triumphantly to warn the President and save the country. I rearranged them and they still didn’t.

I was correct. They weren’t.

I woke up from a terrible nightmare, remembered where I was, and wished I were back in the nightmare. I lay there feeling sorry for myself and presently tears started welling out of my eyes while my chin trembled. I had never been badgered “not to be a crybaby”; Dad says there is nothing wrong with tears; it’s just that they are socially not acceptable- he says that in some cultures weeping is a social grace. But in Horace Mann Grammar School being a crybaby was no asset; I gave it up years ago. Besides, it’s exhausting and gets you nowhere. I shut off the rain and took stock.

My action list ran like this:

  1. Escape from this cell.
  2. Find Oscar, suit up.
  3. Go outdoors, steal a ship, head home-if I could figure out how to gun it.
  • Figure out a weapon or stratagem to fight off the wormfaces or keep them busy while I sneaked out and grabbed a ship. Nothing to it. Any superman capable of teleportation and other assorted psionic tricks could do it. Just be sure the plan is foolproof and that your insurance is paid up.
  • Crash priority: make sure, before bidding farewell to the romantic shores of exotic Pluto and its friendly colorful natives, that neither Peewee nor the Mother Thing is here-if they are,  take them along-because, contrary to some opinions, it is better to be a dead hero than a live louse. Dying is messy and inconvenient but even a louse dies someday no matter what he will do to stay alive and he is forever having to explain his choice. The gummed-up spell that I had had at the hero business had shown that it was undesirable work but the alternative was still less attractive.

The fact that Peewee knew how to gun those ships, or that the Mother Thing could coach me, did not figure. I can’t prove that, but I know.

Footnote: after I learned to run one of their ships, could I do so at eight gravities? That may simply call for arch supports for a wormface but I knew what eight gees did to me. Automatic pilot? If so, would it have directions on it, in English? (Don’t be silly, Clifford!)

Subordinate footnote: how long would it take to get home at one gravity? The rest of the century? Or just long enough to starve to death?

  • Occupational therapy for the lulls when I went stale on the problems. This was important in order to avoid coming apart at the seams. 0. Henry wrote stories in prison, St. Paul turned  out his strongest epistles incarcerated in Rome, Hitler wrote Mein Kampf in jail-next time I would bring a typewriter and paper. This time I could work out magic squares and invent chess problems. Anything was better than feeling sorry for myself. Lions put up with zoos and wasn’t I smarter than a lion? Some, anyhow?

And so to work- One: how to get out of this hole? I came up with a straight-forward answer: there wasn’t any way. The cell was twenty feet on a side with a ceiling twelve feet high; the    walls were as smooth as a baby’s cheek and as impervious as a bill collector. The other features were the hole in the ceiling, which ran about six feet still higher, the stream of water and its catch basin, and a glowing area in the ceiling. For tools I had the stuff previously listed (a few ounces of nothing much, nothing sharp, nor explosive, nor corrosive), my clothes, and an empty tin can.

I tested how high I could jump. Even a substitute guard needs springs in his legs-I touched the ceiling. That meant a gravity around one-half gee-I hadn’t been able to guess, as I had spent an endless time under one-sixth gravity followed by a few eons at eight gees; my reflexes had been mistreated.

But, although I could touch the ceiling, I could neither walk on it nor levitate. I could get that high, but there was nothing a mouse could cling to.

Well, I could rip my clothes and braid a rope. Was there anything near the hole on which to catch it? All I could recall was smooth floor. But suppose it did catch? What next? Paddle around in my skin until Wormface spotted me and herded me back down, this time with no clothes? I decided to postpone the rope trick until I worked out that next step which would confound Wormface and his tribe.

I sighed and looked around. All that was left was that jet of water and the floor basin that caught it.

There is a story about two frogs trapped in a crock of cream. One sees how hopeless it is, gives up and drowns. The other is too stupid to know he’s licked; he keeps on paddling. In a few hours he has churned so much butter that it forms an island, on which he floats, cool and comfortable, until the milkmaid comes and chucks him out.

That water spilled in and ran out. Suppose it didn’t run out?

I explored the bottom of the catch basin. The drain was large by our standards, but I thought I could plug it. Could I stay afloat while the room filled up, filled the hole above, and pushed me out the spout? Well, I could find out, I had a can.

The can looked like a pint and a “pint’s a pound the world ‘round” and a cubic foot of water weighs (on Earth) a little over sixty pounds. But I had to be sure. My feet are eleven inches long; they’ve been that size since I was ten-I took a lot of ribbing until I grew up to them. I marked eleven inches on the floor with two pennies. It turns out that a dollar bill is two and a half   inches wide and quarter is a smidgeon under an inch. Shortly I knew the dimensions of room and can pretty accurately.

I held the can under the stream, letting it fill and dumping it fast, while I ticked off cans of water on my left hand and counted seconds. Eventually I calculated how long it would take to fill the room. I didn’t like the answer, so I did it over.

It would take fourteen hours to fill the room and the hole above, plus an hour to allow for crude methods. Could I stay afloat that long? You’re darn tootin’ I could!-if I had to. And I had to. There isn’t any limit to how long a man can float if he doesn’t panic.

I balled my slacks and stuffed them in the drain. I almost lost them, so I wrapped them around the can and used the bundle as a cork. It stayed put and I used the rest of my clothes to caulk it. Then I waited, feeling cocky. Maybe the flood would create the diversion I needed for the rest of the caper. Slowly the basin filled.

The water got about an inch below floor level and stopped.

Apressure switch, I suppose. I should have known that creatures who could build eight-gee, constant-boost ships would design plumbing to “fail-safe.” I wish we could.   I recovered my clothes, all but one sock, and spread them to dry. I hoped the sock would foul a pump or something but I doubted it; they were good engineers.

I never really believed that story about the frogs.

Another can was tossed down-roast beef and soggy potatoes. It was filling but I began to long for peaches. The can was stenciled “Available for subsidized resale on Luna” which made  it possible that Skinny and Fatty had come by this food honestly. I wondered how they liked sharing their supplies? No doubt they did so only because Wormface had twisted their arms. Which made me wonder why Wormface wanted me alive? I was in favor of it but couldn’t see why he was. I decided to call each can a “day” and let the empties be my calendar.

Which reminded me that I had not worked out how long it would take to get home on a one-gee boost, if it turned out that I could not arrange automatic piloting at eight gees. I was stymied on getting out of the cell, I hadn’t even nibbled at what I would do if I did get out (correction: when I got out), but I could work ballistics.

I didn’t need books. I’ve met people, even in this day and age, who can’t tell a star from a planet and who think of astronomical distances simply as “big.” They remind me of those primitives who have just four numbers: one, two, three, and “many.” But any tenderfoot Scout knows the basic facts and a fellow bitten by the space bug (such as myself) usually knows a number of figures.

“Mother very thoughtfully made a jelly sandwich under no protest.” Could you forget that after saying it a few times? Okay, lay it out so: Mother  MERCURY$.39

Very VENUS $.72 Thoughtfully TERRA$1.00 Made MARS $1.50

AASTEROIDS (assorted prices, unimportant) Jelly JUPITER $5.20

Sandwich SATURN $9.50 Under URANUS $19.00 No NEPTUNE $30.00

Protest PLUTO $39.50

The “prices” are distances from the Sun in astronomical units. An A.U. is the mean distance of Earth from Sun, 93,000,000 miles. It is easier to remember one figure that everybody knows and some little figures than it is to remember figures in millions and billions. I use dollar signs because a figure has more flavor if I think of it as money-which Dad considers deplorable. Some way you must remember them, or you don’t know your own neighborhood.

Now we come to a joker. The list says that Pluto’s distance is thirty-nine and a half times Earth’s distance. But Pluto and Mercury have very eccentric orbits and Pluto’s is a dilly; its distance varies almost two billion miles, more than the distance from the Sun to Uranus. Pluto creeps to the orbit of Neptune and a hair inside, then swings way out and stays there a couple of centuries-it makes only four round trips in a thousand years.

But I had seen that article about how Pluto was coming into its “summer.” So I knew it was close to the orbit of Neptune now, and would be for the rest of my life-my life expectancy in Centerville; I didn’t look like a preferred risk here. That gave an easy figure-30 astronomical units.

Acceleration problems are simple s=1/2 at2; distance equals half the acceleration times the square of elapsed time. If astrogation were that simple any sophomore could pilot a rocket ship-the complications come from gravitational fields and the fact that everything moves fourteen directions at once. But I could disregard gravitational fields and planetary motions; at the speeds a wormface ship makes neither factor matters until you are very close. I wanted a rough answer.

I missed my slipstick. Dad says that anyone who can’t use a slide rule is a cultural illiterate and should not be allowed to vote. Mine is a beauty- a K&E 20” Log-log Duplex Decitrig. Dad surprised me with it after I mastered a ten-inch polyphase. We ate potato soup that week-but Dad says you should always budget luxuries first. I knew where it was. Home on my desk.

No matter. I had figures, formula, pencil and paper.

First a check problem. Fats had said “Pluto,” “five days,” and “eight gravities.”

It’s a two-piece problem; accelerate for half time (and half distance); do a skew-flip and decelerate the other half time (and distance). You can’t use the whole distance in the equation, as “time” appears as a square-it’s a parabolic. Was Pluto in opposition? Or quadrature? Or conjunction? Nobody looks at Pluto-so why remember where it is on the ecliptic? Oh, well, the average distance was 30 A.U.s-that would give a close-enough answer. Half that distance, in feet, is: 1/2 x 30 x 93,000,000 x 5280. Eight gravities is: 8 x 32.2 ft./sec./sec.-speed increases by 258 feet per second every second up to skew-flip and decreases just as fast thereafter.

So- 1/2 x 30 x 93,000,000 x 5280 = 1/2 x 8 x 32.2 x t2 -and you wind up with the time for half the trip, in seconds. Double that for full trip. Divide by 3600 to get hours; divide by 24 and you have days. On a slide rule such a problem takes forty seconds, most of it to get your decimal point correct. It’s as easy as computing sales tax.

It took me at least an hour and almost as long to prove it, using a different sequence-and a third time, because the answers didn’t match (I had forgotten to multiply by 5280, and had “miles” on one side and “feet” on the other-a no-good way to do arithmetic)-then a fourth time because my confidence was shaken. I tell you, the slide rule is the greatest invention since girls.

But I got a proved answer. Five and a half days. I was on Pluto. Or maybe Neptune-

No, on Neptune I would not be able to jump to a twelve-foot ceiling; Pluto alone matched all facts. So I erased and computed the trip at one gravity, with turnover. Fifteen days.

It seemed to me that it ought to take at least eight times as long at one gee as at eight-more likely sixty-four. Then I was glad I had bulled my way through analytical geometry, for I made a rough plot and saw the trouble. Squared time cut down the advantage-because the more boost, the shorter the trip, and the shorter the trip the less time in which to use the built-up   speed. To cut time in half, you need four times as much boost; to cut it to a quarter, you need sixteen times the boost, and so on. This way lies bankruptcy.

To learn that I could get home in about two weeks at one gravity cheered me. I couldn’t starve in two weeks. If I could steal a ship. If I could run it. If I could climb out of this hole. If- Not “if,” but “when!” I was too late for college this year; fifteen more days wouldn’t matter.

I had noticed, in the first problem, the speed we had been making at skew-flip. More than eleven thousand miles per second. That’s a nice speed, even in space. It made me think. Consider the nearest star, Proxima Centauri, four and three-tenths light-years away, the distance you hear so often on quiz shows. How long at eight gees?

The problem was the same sort but I had to be careful about decimal points; the figures mount up. Alightyear is-I had forgotten. So multiply 186,000 miles per second (the speed of light) by the seconds in a year (365.25 x 24 x 3600) and get-5,880,000,000,000 miles -multiply that by 4.3 and get- 25,284,000,000,000 Call it twenty-five trillion miles. Whew!

It works out to a year and five months-not as long as a trip around the Horn only last century. Why, these monsters had star travel!

I don’t know why I was surprised; it had been staring me in the face. I had assumed that Wormface had taken me to his home planet, that he was a Plutonian, or Plutocrat, or whatever the word is. But he couldn’t be.

He breathed air. He kept his ship warm enough for me. When he wasn’t in a hurry, he cruised at one gee, near enough. He used lighting that suited my eyes. Therefore he came from the sort of planet I came from.

Proxima Centauri is a double star, as you know if you do crossword puzzles, and one is a twin for our own Sun-size, temperature, special pattern. Is it a fair guess that it has a planet like Earth? I had a dirty hunch that I knew Wormface’s home address.

I knew where he didn’t come from. Not from a planet that runs a couple of centuries in utter airlessness with temperatures pushing absolute zero, followed by a “summer” in which some gases melt but water is solid rock and even Wormface has to wear a space suit. Nor from anywhere in our system, for I was sure as taxes that Wormface felt at home only on a planet    like ours. Never mind the way he looked; spiders don’t look like us but they like the things we like-there must be a thousand spiders in our houses for every one of us.

Wormface and his kin would like Earth. My fear was that they liked it too much.

I looked at that Proxima Centauri problem and saw something else. The turn-over speed read 1,110,000 miles per second, six times the speed of light. Relativity theory says that’s impossible.

I wanted to talk to Dad about it. Dad reads everything from The Anatomy of Melancholy to Acta Mathematica and Paris-Match and will sit on a curbstone separating damp newspapers wrapped around garbage in order to see continued-on-page-eight. Dad would haul down a book and we’d look it up. Then he would try four or five more with other opinions. Dad doesn’t hold with the idea that it-must-be-true-or-they-wouldn’t-have-printed-it; he doesn’t consider any opinion sacred-it shocked me the first time he took out a pen and changed something in one of my math books.

Still, even if speed-of-light was a limit, four or five years wasn’t impossible, or even impractical. We’ve been told for so long that star trips, even to the nearest stars, would take generations that we may have a wrong slant. Amile of lunar mountains is a long way but a trillion miles in empty space may not be.

But what was Wormface doing on Pluto?

If you were invading another solar system, how would you start? I’m not joking; a dungeon on Pluto is no joke and I never laughed at Wormface. Would you just barge in, or toss your hat   in first? They seemed far ahead of us in engineering but they couldn’t have known that ahead of time. Wouldn’t it be smart to build a supply base in that system in some spot nobody ever visited?

Then you could set up advance bases, say on an airless satellite of a likely-looking planet, from which you could scout the surface of the target planet. If you lost your scouting base, you would pull back to main base and work out a new attack.

Remember that while Pluto is a long way off to us, it was only five days from Luna for Wormface. Think about World War II, back when speeds were slow. Main Base is safely out of reach (U.S.A./Pluto) but only about five days from advance base (England/The Moon) which is three hours from theater-of-operations (France-Germany/Earth). That’s a slow way to operate but it worked for the Allies in World War II.

I just hoped it would not work for Wormface’s gang. Though I didn’t see anything to prevent it.

Somebody chucked down another can-spaghetti and meat balls. If it had been canned peaches, I might not have had the fortitude to do what I did next, which was to use it for a hammer before I opened it. I beat an empty can into a flat narrow shape and beat a point on it, which I sharpened on the edge of the catch basin. When I was through, I had a dagger -not a good one, but it made me feel less helpless.

Then I ate. I felt sleepy and went to sleep in a warm glow. I was still a prisoner but I had a weapon of sorts and I believed that I had figured out what I was up against. Getting a problem analyzed is two-thirds of solving it. I didn’t have nightmares.

The next thing tossed down the hole was Fats.

Skinny landed on him seconds later. I backed off and held my dagger ready. Skinny ignored me, picked himself up, looked around, went to the water spout and got a drink. Fats was in no shape to do anything; his breath was knocked out.

I looked at him and thought what a nasty parcel he was. Then I thought, oh, what the deuce!-he had massaged me when I needed it. I heaved him onto his stomach and began artificial respiration. In four or five pushes his motor caught and he was able to breathe. He gasped, “That’s enough!”

I backed off, got my knife out. Skinny was sitting against a wall, ignoring us. Fats looked at my feeble weapon and said, “Put that away, kid. We’re bosom buddies now.” “We are?”

“Yeah. Us human types had better stick together.” He sighed wretchedly. “After all we done for him! That’s gratitude.” “What do you mean?” I demanded.

“Huh?” said Fats. “Just what I said. He decided he could do without us. So Annie doesn’t live here any more.” “Shaddap,” the skinny one said flatly.

Fats screwed his face into a pout. “You shaddap,” he said peevishly. “I’m tired of that. It’s shaddap here, shaddap there, all day long-and look where we are.” “Shaddap, I said.”

Fats shut up. I never did find out what had happened, because Fats seldom gave the same explanation twice. The older man never spoke except for that tiresome order to shut up, or in monosyllables even less helpful. But one thing was clear: they had lost their jobs as assistant gangsters, or fifth columnists, or whatever you call a human being who would stooge against his own race. Once Fats said, “Matter of fact, it’s your fault.”

“Mine?” I dropped my hand to my tin-can knife.

“Yours. If you hadn’t butted in, he wouldn’t have got sore.” “I didn’t do anything.”

“Says you. You swiped his two best prizes, that’s all, and held him up when he planned to high-tail it back here.” “Oh. But that wasn’t your fault.” “So I told him. You try telling him. Take your hand away from that silly nail file.” Fats shrugged. “Like I always say, let bygones be bygones.”

I finally learned the thing I wanted most to know. About the fifth time I brought up the matter of Peewee, Fats said, “What d’you want to know about the brat for?” “I just want to know whether she’s alive or dead.”

“Oh, she’s alive. Leastwise she was last time I seen her.” “When was that?”

“You ask too many questions. Right here.” “She’s here?” I said eagerly.

“That’s what I said, wasn’t it? Around everywhere and always underfoot. Living like a princess, if you ask me.” Fats picked his teeth and frowned. “Why he should make a pet out of her and treat us the way he did, beats me. It ain’t right.”

I didn’t think so, either, but for another reason. The idea that gallant little Peewee was the spoiled darling of Wormface I found impossible to believe. There was some explanation-or Fats was lying. “You mean he doesn’t have her locked up?”

“What’s it get him? Where’s she gonna go?”

I pondered that myself. Where could you go?-when to step outdoors was suicide. Even if Peewee had her space suit (and that, at least, was probably locked up), even if a ship was at hand and empty when she got outside, even if she could get into it, she still wouldn’t have a “ship’s brain,” the little gadget that served as a lock. “What happened to the Mother Thing?”

“The what?”

“The-” I hesitated. “Uh, the non-human who was in my space suit with me. You must know, you were there. Is she alive? Is she here?” But Fats was brooding. “Them bugs don’t interest me none,” he said sourly and I could get no more out of him.

But Peewee was alive (and a hard lump in me was suddenly gone). She was here! Her chances, even as a prisoner, had been enormously better on the Moon; nevertheless I felt almost ecstatic to know that she was near. I began thinking about ways to get a message to her.

As for Fats’ insinuation that she was playing footy with Wormface, it bothered me not at all. Peewee was unpredictable and sometimes a brat and often exasperating, as well as conceited, supercilious, and downright childish. But she would be burned alive rather than turn traitor. Joan of Arc had not been made of sterner stuff.

We three kept uneasy truce. I avoided them, slept with one eye open, and tried not to sleep unless they were asleep first, and I always kept my dagger at hand. I did not bathe after they joined me; it would have put me at a disadvantage. The older one ignored me, Fats was almost friendly. I pretended not to be afraid of my puny weapon, but I think he was. The reason I think so comes from the first time we were fed. Three cans dropped from the ceiling; Skinny picked up one, Fats got one, but when I circled around to take the third, Fats snatched it.

I said, “Give me that, please.”

Fats grinned. “What makes you think this is for you, sonny boy?” “Uh, three cans, three people.”

“So what? I’m feeling a mite hungry. I don’t hardly think I can spare it.” “I’m hungry, too. Be reasonable.”

“Mmmm-” He seemed to consider it. “Tell you what. I’ll sell it to you.”

I hesitated. It had a shifty logic; Wormface couldn’t walk into Lunar Base commissary and buy these rations; probably Fats or his partner had bought them. I wouldn’t mind signing I.O.U.s-a hundred dollars a meal, a thousand, or a million; money no longer meant anything. Why not humor him?

No! If I gave in, if I admitted I had to dicker with him for my prison rations, he would own me. I’d wait on him hand and foot, do anything he told me, just to eat.  I let him see my tin dagger. “I’ll fight you for it.”

Fats glanced at my hand and grinned broadly. “Can’t you take a joke?”

He tossed me the can. There was no trouble at feeding times after that, We lived like that “Happy Family” you sometimes see in traveling zoos: a lion caged with a lamb. It is a startling exhibit but the lamb has to be replaced frequently. Fats liked to talk and I learned things from him, when I could sort out truth from lies. His name-so he said-was Jacques de Barre de Vigny (“Call me ‘Jock.’ “) and the older man was Timothy Johnson-but I had a hunch that their real names could be learned only by inspecting post office bulletin boards. Despite Jock’s pretense of knowing everything, I soon decided that he knew nothing about Wormface’s origin and little about his plans and purposes. Wormface did not seem the sort to discuss things with “lower animals”; he would simply make use of them, as we use horses.

Jock admitted one thing readily. “Yeah, we put the snatch on the brat. There’s no uranium on the Moon; those stories are just to get suckers. We were wasting our time-and a man’s got to eat, don’t he?”

I didn’t make the obvious retort; I wanted information. Tim said, “Shaddap!”

“Aw, what of it, Tim? You worried about the F.B.I.? You think the Man can put the arm on you-here?” “Shaddap, I said.”

“Happens I feel like talking. So blow it.” Jock went on, “It was easy. The brat’s got more curiosity than seven cats. He knew she was coming and when.” Jock looked thoughtful. “He  always knows-he’s got lots of people working for him, some high up. All I had to do was be in Luna City and get acquainted-I made the contact because Tim here ain’t the fatherly type,  the way I am. I get to talking with her, I buy her a coke, I tell her about the romance of hunting uranium on the Moon and similar hogwash. Then I sigh and say it’s too bad I can’t show her the mine of my partner and I. That’s all it took. When the tourist party visited Tombaugh Station, she got away and sneaked out the lock-she worked that part out her ownself. She’s sly,  that one. All we had to do was wait where I told her -didn’t even have to be rough with her until she got worried about taking longer for the crawler to get to our mine than I told her.” Jock grinned. “She fights pretty well for her weight. Scratched me some.”

Poor little Peewee! Too bad she hadn’t drawn and quartered him! But the story sounded true, for it was the way Peewee would behave-sure of herself, afraid of no one, unable to resist any “educational” experience.

Jock went on, “It wasn’t the brat he wanted. He wanted her old man. Had some swindle to get him to the Moon, didn’t work.” Jock grinned sourly. “That was a bad time, things ain’t good when he don’t have his own way. But he had to settle for the brat. Tim here pointed out to him he could trade.”

Tim chucked in one word which I took as a general denial. Jock raised his eyebrows. “Listen to vinegar puss. Nice manners, ain’t he?”

Maybe I should have kept quiet since I was digging for facts, not philosophy. But I’ve got Peewee’s failing myself; when I don’t understand, I have an unbearable itch to know why. I didn’t (and don’t) understand what made Jock tick. “Jock? Why did you do it?”

“Huh?”

“Look, you’re a human being.” (At least he looked like one.) “As you pointed out, we humans had better stick together. How could you bring yourself to kidnap a little girl-and turn her over to him?”

“Are you crazy, boy?” “I don’t think so.”

“You talk crazy. Have you ever tried not doing something he wanted? Try it some time.”

I saw his point. Refusing Wormface would be like a rabbit spitting in a snake’s eye-as I knew too well. Jock went on, “You got to understand the other man’s viewpoint. Live and let live, I always say. We got grabbed while we were messin’ around, lookin’ for carnotite-and after that, we never stood no chance. You can’t fight City Hall, that gets you nowhere. So we made a dicker-we run his errands, he pays us in uranium.”

My faint sympathy vanished. I wanted to throw up. “And you got paid?” “Well … you might say we got time on the books.”

I looked around our cell. “You made a bad deal.”

Jock grimaced, looking like a sulky baby. “Maybe so. But be reasonable, kid. You got to cooperate with the inevitable. These boys are moving in-they got what it takes. You seen that yourself. Well, a man’s got to look out for number one, don’t he? It’s a cinch nobody else will. Now I seen a case like this when I was no older than you and it taught me a lesson. Our town had run quietly for years, but the Big Fellow was getting old and losing his grip … whereupon some boys from St. Louis moved in. Things were confused for a while. Aman had to know which way to jump-else he woke up wearing a wooden overcoat, like as not. Those that seen the handwriting made out; those that didn’t … well, it don’t do no good to buck the current, I always say. That makes sense, don’t it?”

I could follow his “logic”-provided you accepted his “live louse” standard. But he had left out a key point. “Even so. Jock, I don’t see how you could do that to a little girl.” “Huh? I just explained how we couldn’t help it.”

“But you could. Even allowing how hard it is to face up to him and refuse orders, you had a perfect chance to duck out.” “Wha’ d’you mean?”

“He sent you to Luna City to find her, you said so. You’ve got a return-fare benefit-I know you have, I know the rules. All you had to do was sit tight, where he couldn’t reach you-and take the next ship back to Earth. You didn’t have to do his dirty work.”

“But-“

I cut him off. “Maybe you couldn’t help yourself, out in a lunar desert. Maybe you wouldn’t feel safe even inside Tombaugh Station. But when he sent you into Luna City, you had your chance. You didn’t have to steal a little girl and turn her over to a-a bug-eyed monster!”

He looked baffled, then answered quickly. “Kip, I like you. You’re a good boy. But you ain’t smart. You don’t understand.”

“I think I do!”

“No, you don’t.” He leaned toward me, started to put a hand on my knee; I drew back. He went on, “There’s something I didn’t tell you … for fear you’d think I was a-well, a zombie, or something. They operated on us.”

“Huh?”

“They operated on us,” he went on glibly. “They planted bombs in our heads. Remote control, like a missile. Aman gets out of line … he punches a button-blooie! Brains all over the ceiling.” He fumbled at the nape of his neck. “See the scar? My hair’s getting kind o’ long … but if you look close I’m sure you’ll see it; it can’t ‘ave disappeared entirely. See it?”

I started to look. I might even have been sold on it-I had been forced to believe less probable things lately. Tim cut short my suspended judgment with one explosive word. Jock flinched, then braced himself and said, “Don’t pay any attention to him!”

I shrugged and moved away. Jock didn’t talk the rest of that “day.” That suited me.

The next “morning” I was roused by Jock’s hand on my shoulder. “Wake up, Kip! Wake up!”

I groped for my toy weapon. “It’s over there by the wall,” Jock said, “but it ain’t ever goin’ to do you any good now.”  I grabbed it. “What do you mean? Where’s Tim?”

“You didn’t wake up?” “Huh?”

“This is what I’ve been scared of. Cripes, boy! I just had to talk to somebody. You slept through it?” “Through what? And where’s Tim?”

Jock was shivering and sweating. “They blue-lighted us, that’s what. They took Tim.” He shuddered. “I’m glad it was him. I thought-well, maybe you’ve noticed I’m a little stout … they like fat.”

“What do you mean? What have they done with him?”

“Poor old Tim. He had his faults, like anybody, but-He’s soup, by now … that’s what.” He shuddered again. “They like soup-bones and all.” “I don’t believe it. You’re trying to scare me.”

“So?” He looked me up and down. “They’ll probably take you next. Son, if you’re smart, you’ll take that letter opener of yours over to that horse trough and open your veins. It’s better that way.”

I said, “Why don’t you? Here, I’ll lend it to you.” He shook his head and shivered. “I ain’t smart.”

I don’t know what became of Tim. I don’t know whether the wormfaces ate people, or not. (You can’t say “cannibal.” We may be mutton, to them.) I wasn’t especially scared because I had long since blown all fuses in my “scare” circuits.

What happens to my body after I’m through with it doesn’t matter to me. But it did to Jock; he had a phobia about it. I don’t think Jock was a coward; cowards don’t even try to become prospectors on the Moon. He believed his theory and it shook him. He halfway admitted that he had more reason to believe it than I had known. He had been to Pluto once before, so he said, and other men who had come along, or been dragged, on that trip hadn’t come back.

When feeding time came-two cans-he said he wasn’t hungry and offered me his rations. That “night” he sat up and kept himself awake. Finally I just had to go to sleep before he did.   I awoke from one of those dreams where you can’t move. The dream was correct; sometime not long before, I had surely been blue-lighted.

Jock was gone.

I never saw either of them again.

Somehow I missed them … Jock at least. It was a relief not to have to watch all the time, it was luxurious to bathe. But it gets mighty boring, pacing your cage alone.  I have no illusions about them. There must be well over three billion people I would rather be locked up with. But they were people.

Tim didn’t have anything else to recommend him; he was as coldly vicious as a guillotine. But Jock had some slight awareness of right and wrong, or he wouldn’t have tried to justify himself. You might say he was just weak.

But I don’t hold with the idea that to understand all is to forgive all; you follow that and first thing you know you’re sentimental over murderers and rapists and kidnappers and forgetting their victims. That’s wrong. I’ll weep over the likes of Peewee, not over criminals whose victims they are. I missed Jock’s talk but if there were some way to drown such creatures at birth, I’d take my turn as executioner. That goes double for Tim.

If they ended up as soup for hobgoblins, I couldn’t honestly be sorry- even though it might be my turn tomorrow. As soup, they probably had their finest hour.

Chapter 8

I was jarred out of useless brain-cudgeling by an explosion, a sharp crack -a bass rumble-then a whoosh! of reduced pressure. I bounced to my feet-anyone who has ever depended on  a space suit is never again indifferent to a drop in pressure.

I gasped, “What the deuce!”

Then I added, “Whoever is on watch had better get on the ball-or we’ll all be breathing thin cold stuff.” No oxygen outside, I was sure-or rather the astronomers were and I didn’t want to test it.

Then I said, “Somebody bombing us? I hope. “Or was it an earthquake?”

This was not an idle remark. That Scientific American article concerning “summer” on Pluto had predicted “sharp isostatic readjustments” as the temperature rose-which is a polite way of saying, “Hold your hats! Here comes the chimney!”

I was in an earthquake once, in Santa Barbara; I didn’t need a booster shot to remember what every Californian knows and others learn in one lesson: when the ground does a jig, get outdoors!

Only I couldn’t.

I spent two minutes checking whether adrenalin had given me the strength to jump eighteen feet instead of twelve. It hadn’t. That was all I did for a half-hour, if you don’t count nail biting. Then I heard my name! “Kip! Oh, Kip!”

“Peewee!” I screamed. “Here! Peewee!”

Silence for an eternity of three heartbeats- “Kip?” “Down HERE!”

“Kip? Are you down this hole?”

“Yes! Can’t you see me?” I saw her head against the light above. “Uh, I can now. Oh, Kip, I’m so glad!”

“Then why are you crying? So am I!”

“I’m not crying,” she blubbered. “Oh Kip … Kip.” “Can you get me out?”

“Uh-” She surveyed that drop. “Stay where you are.” “Don’t go ‘way!” She already had.

She wasn’t gone two minutes; it merely seemed like a week. Then she was back and the darling had a nylon rope! “Grab on!” she shrilled.

“Wait a sec. How is it fastened?” “I’ll pull you up.”

“No, you won’t-or we’ll both be down here. Find somewhere to belay it.” “I can lift you.”

“Belay it! Hurry!”

She left again, leaving an end in my hands. Shortly I heard very faintly: “On belay!”

I shouted, “Testing!” and took up the slack. I put my weight on it-it held. “Climbing!” I yelled, and followed the final “g” up the hole and caught it.

She flung herself on me, an arm around my neck, one around Madame Pompadour, and both of mine around her. She was even smaller and skinnier than I remembered. “Oh, Kip, it’s been just awful.”

I patted her bony shoulder blades. “Yeah, I know. What do we do now? Where’s W-“ I started to say, “Where’s Wormface?” but she burst into tears.

“Kip-I think she’s dead!”

My mind skidded-I was a bit stir-crazy anyhow. “Huh? Who?”

She looked as amazed as I was confused. “Why, the Mother Thing.”

“Oh.” I felt a flood of sorrow. “But, honey, are you sure? She was talking to me all right up to the last-and I didn’t die.” “What in the world are you talk- Oh. I don’t mean then. Kip; I mean now.”

“Huh? She was here?” “Of course. Where else?”

Now that’s a silly question, it’s a big universe. I had decided long ago that the Mother Thing couldn’t be here-because Jock had brushed off the subject. I reasoned that Jock would either have said that she was here or have invented an elaborate lie, for the pleasure of lying. Therefore she wasn’t on his list-perhaps he had never seen her save as a bulge under my suit.

I was so sure of my “logic” that it took a long moment to throw off prejudice and accept fact. “Peewee,” I said, gulping, “I feel like I’d lost my own mother. Are you sure?”  ” ‘Feel as if,’ ” she said automatically. “I’m not sure sure … but she’s outside-so she must be dead.”

“Wait a minute. If she’s outside, she’s wearing a space suit? Isn’t she?” “No, no! She hasn’t had one-not since they destroyed her ship.”

I was getting more confused. “How did they bring her in here?”

“They just sacked her and sealed her and carried her in. Kip-what do we do now?”

I knew several answers, all of them wrong-I had already considered them during my stretch in jail. “Where is Wormface? Where are all the wormfaces?”

“Oh. All dead. I think.”

“I hope you’re right.” I looked around for a weapon and never saw a hallway so bare. My toy dagger was only eighteen feet away but I didn’t feel like going back down for it. “What makes you think so?”

Peewee had reason to think so. The Mother Thing didn’t look strong enough to tear paper but what she lacked in beef she made up in brains. She had done what I had tried to do: reasoned out a way to take them all on. She had not been able to hurry because her plan had many factors all of which had to mesh at once and many of them she could not influence; she had to wait for the breaks.

First, she needed a time when there were few wormfaces around. The base was indeed a large supply dump and space port and transfer point, but it did not need a large staff. It had been unusually crowded the few moments I had seen it, because our ship was in.

Second, it also had to be when no ships were in because she couldn’t cope with a ship-she couldn’t get at it.

Third, H-Hour had to be while the wormfaces were feeding. They all ate together when there were few enough not to have to use their mess hall in relays-crowded around one big tub and sopping it up, I gathered -a scene out of Dante. That would place all her enemies on one target, except possibly one or two on engineering or communication watches.

“Wait a minute!” I interrupted. “You said they were all dead?” “Well … I don’t know. I haven’t seen any.”

“Hold everything until I find something to fight with.” “But-“

“First things first, Peewee.”

Saying that I was going to find a weapon wasn’t finding one. That corridor had nothing but more holes like the one I had been down- which was why Peewee had looked for me there; it was one of the few places where she had not been allowed to wander at will. Jock had been correct on one point: Peewee-and the Mother Thing-had been star prisoners, allowed all privileges except freedom … whereas Jock and Tim and myself had been third-class prisoners and/or soup bones. It fitted the theory that Peewee and the Mother Thing were hostages rather than ordinary P.W.s.

I didn’t explore those holes after I looked down one and saw a human skeleton-maybe they got tired of tossing food to him. When I straightened up Peewee said, “What are you shaking about?”

“Nothing. Come on.” “I want to see.”

“Peewee, every second counts and we’ve done nothing but yak. Come on. Stay behind me.”

I kept her from seeing the skeleton, a major triumph over that little curiosity box-although it probably would not have affected her much; Peewee was sentimental only when it suited her. “Stay behind me” had the correct gallant sound but it was not based on reason. I forgot that attack could come from the rear-I should have said:

“Follow me and watch behind us.”

She did anyway. I heard a squeal and whirled around to see a wormface with one of those camera-like things aimed at me. Even though Tim had used one on me I didn’t realize what it was; for a moment I froze.

But not Peewee. She launched herself through the air, attacking with both hands and both feet in the gallant audacity and utter recklessness of a kitten.

That saved me. Her attack would not have hurt anything but another kitten but it mixed him up so that he didn’t finish what he was doing, namely paralyzing or killing me; he tripped over her and went down.

And I stomped him. With my bare feet I stomped him, landing on that lobster-horror head with both feet. His head crunched. It felt awful.

It was like jumping on a strawberry box. It splintered and crunched and went to pieces. I cringed at the feel, even though I was in an agony to fight, to kill. I trampled worms and hopped away, feeling sick. I scooped up Peewee and pulled her back, as anxious to get clear as I had been to Join battle seconds before.

I hadn’t killed it. For an awful moment I thought I was going to have to wade back in. Then I saw that while it was alive, it did not seem aware of us. It flopped like a chicken freshly chopped, then quieted and began to move purposefully.

But it couldn’t see. I had smashed its eyes and maybe its ears-but certainly those terrible eyes.

It felt around the floor carefully, then got to its feet, still undamaged except that its head was a crushed ruin. It stood still, braced tripod-style by that third appendage, and felt the air. I pulled us back farther.

It began to walk. Not toward us or I would have screamed. It moved away, ricocheted off a wall, straightened out, and went back the way we had come. t reached one of those holes they used for prisoners, walked into it and dropped. I sighed, and realized that I had been holding Peewee too tightly to breathe. I put her down.

“There’s your weapon,” she said. “Huh?”

“On the floor. Just beyond where I dropped Madame Pompadour. The gadget.” She went over, picked up her dolly, brushed away bits of ruined wormface, then took the camera-like thing and handed it to me. “Be careful. Don’t point it toward you. Or me.”

“Peewee,” I said faintly, “don’t you ever have an attack of nerves?”

“Sure I do. When I have leisure for it. Which isn’t now. Do you know how to work it?” “No. Do you?”

“I think so. I’ve seen them and the Mother Thing told me about them.” She took it, handling it casually but not pointing it at either of us. “These holes on top-uncover one of them, it stuns. If you uncover them all, it kills. To make it work you push it here.” She did and a bright blue light shot out, splashed against the wall. “The light doesn’t do anything,” she added. “It’s for aiming. I hope there wasn’t anybody on the other side of that wall. No, I hope there was. You know what I mean.”

It looked like a cockeyed 35 mm. camera, with a lead lens-one built from an oral description. I took it, being very cautious where I pointed it, and looked at it. Then I tried it-full power, by mistake.

The blue light was a shaft in the air and the wall where it hit glowed and began to smoke. I shut it off. “You wasted power,” Peewee chided. “You may need it later.”

“Well, I had to try it. Come on, let’s go.”

Peewee glanced at her Mickey Mouse watch-and I felt irked that it had apparently stood up when my fancy one had not. “There’s very little time. Kip. Can’t we assume that only this one escaped?”

“What? We certainly cannot! Until we’re sure that all of them are dead, we can’t do anything else. Come on.”

“But- Well, I’ll lead. I know my way around, you don’t.” “No.”

“Yes!”

So we did it her way; she led and carried the blue-light projector while I covered the rear and wished for a third eye, like a wormface. I couldn’t argue that my reflexes were faster when they weren’t, and she knew more than I did about our weapon.

But it’s graveling, just the same.

The base was huge; half that mountain must have been honeycombed. We did it at a fast trot, ignoring things as complicated as museum exhibits and twice as interesting, simply making sure that no wormface was anywhere. Peewee ran with the weapon at the ready, talking twenty to the dozen and urging me on.

Besides an almost empty base, no ships in, and the wormfaces feeding, the Mother Thing’s plan required that all this happen shortly before a particular hour of the Plutonian night. “Why?” I panted.

“So she could signal her people, of course.”

“But-” I shut up. I had wondered about the Mother Thing’s people but didn’t even know as much about her as I did about Wormface- except that she was everything that made her the Mother Thing. Now she was dead-Peewee said that she was outside without a space suit, so she was surely dead; that little soft warm thing wouldn’t last two seconds in that ultra-arctic weather. Not to mention suffocation and lung hemorrhage. I choked up.

Of course, Peewee might be wrong. I had to admit that she rarely was- but this might be one of the times … in which case we would find her. But if we didn’t find her, she was outside and- “Peewee, do you know where my space suit is?”

“Huh? Of course. Right next to where I got this.” She patted the nylon rope, which she had coiled around her waist and tied with a bow. “Then the second we are sure that we’ve cleaned out the wormfaces I’m going outside and look for her!”

“Yes, yes! But we’ve got to find my suit, too. I’m going with you.”

No doubt she would. Maybe I could persuade her to wait in the tunnel out of that bone-freezing wind. “Peewee, why did she have to send her message at night? To a ship in a rotation- period orbit? Or is there-“

My words were chopped off by a rumble. The floor shook in that loose-bearing vibration that frightens people and animals alike. We stopped dead. “What was that?” Peewee whispered.   I swallowed. “Unless it’s part of this rumpus the Mother Thing planned-“

“It isn’t. I think.” “It’s a quake.”

“An earthquake?”

“APluto quake. Peewee, we’ve got to get out of here!”

I wasn’t thinking about where-you don’t in a quake. Peewee gulped. “We can’t bother with earthquakes; we haven’t time. Hurry, Kip, hurry!” She started to run and I followed, gritting my teeth. If Peewee could ignore a quake, so could I-though it’s like ignoring a rattlesnake in bed.

“Peewee … Mother Thing’s people … is their ship in orbit around Pluto?” “What? Oh, no, no! They’re not in a ship.”

“Then why at night? Something about the Heavyside layers here? How far away is their base?” I was wondering how far a man could walk here. We had done almost forty miles on the Moon. Could we do forty blocks here? Or even forty yards? You could insulate your feet, probably. But that wind- “Peewee, they don’t live here, do they?”

“What? Don’t be silly! They have a nice planet of their own. Kip, if you keep asking foolish questions, we’ll be too late. Shut up and listen.”

I shut up. What follows I got in snatches as we ran, and some of it later. When the Mother Thing had been captured, she had lost ship, space clothing, communicator, everything; Wormface had destroyed it all. There had been treachery, capture through violation of truce while parleying. “He grabbed her when they were supposed to be under a King’s ‘X’ ” was Peewee’s indignant description, “and that’s not fair! He had promised.”

Treachery would be as natural in Wormface as venom in a Gila monster; I was surprised that the Mother Thing had risked a palaver with him. It left her a prisoner of ruthless monsters equipped with ships that made ours look like horseless carriages, weapons which started with a “death ray” and ended heaven knows where, plus bases, organization, supplies.

She had only her brain and her tiny soft hands.

Before she could use the rare combination of circumstances necessary to have any chance at all she had to replace her communicator (I think of it as her “radio” but it was more than that) and she had to have weapons. The only way she could get them was to build them.

She had nothing, not a bobby pin-only that triangular ornament with spirals engraved on it. To build anything she had to gain access to a series of rooms which I would describe as electronics labs-not that they looked like the bench where I jiggered with electronics, but electron-pushing has its built-in logic. If electrons are to do what you want them to, components have to look pretty much a certain way, whether built by humans, wormfaces, or the Mother Thing. Awave guide gets its shape from the laws of nature, an inductance has its necessary geometry, no matter who the technician is.

So it looked like an electronics lab-a very good one. It had gear I did not recognize, but which I felt I could understand if I had time. I got only a glimpse.

The Mother Thing spent many, many hours there. She would not have been permitted there, even though she was a prisoner-at-large with freedom in most ways and anything she wanted, including private quarters with Peewee. I think that Wormface was afraid of her, even though she was a prisoner-he did not want to offend her unnecessarily.

She got the run of their shops by baiting their cupidity. Her people had many things that wormfaces had not-gadgets, inventions, conveniences. She began by inquiring why they did a thing this way rather than another way which was so much more efficient? Atradition? Or religious reasons?

When asked what she meant she looked helpless and protested that she couldn’t explain-which was a shame because it was simple and so easy to build, too.

Under close chaperonage she built something. The gadget worked. Then something else. Presently she was in the labs daily, making things for her captors, things that delighted them. She always delivered; the privilege depended on it.

But each gadget involved parts she needed herself.

“She sneaked bits and pieces into her pouch,” Peewee told me. “They never knew exactly what she was doing. She would use five of a thing and the sixth would go into her pouch.” “Her pouch?”

“Of course. That’s where she hid the ‘brain’ the time she and I swiped the ship. Didn’t you know?” “I didn’t know she had a pouch.”

“Well, neither did they. They watched to see she didn’t carry anything out of the shop-and she never did. Not where it showed.”

“Uh, Peewee, is the Mother Thing a marsupial?”

“Huh? Like possums? You don’t have to be a marsupial to have a pouch. Look at squirrels, they have pouches in their cheeks.” “Mmm, yes.”

“She sneaked a bit now and a bit then, and I swiped things, too. During rest time she worked on them in our room.”

The Mother Thing had not slept all the time we had been on Pluto. She worked long hours publicly, making things for wormfaces-a stereo-telephone no bigger than a pack of cigarettes, a tiny beetle-like arrangement that crawled all over anything it was placed on and integrated the volume, many other things. But during hours set apart for rest she worked for herself,   usually in darkness, those tiny fingers busy as a blind watch-maker’s.

She made two bombs and a long-distance communicator-and-beacon.

I didn’t get all this tossed over Peewee’s shoulder while we raced through the base; she simply told me that the Mother Thing had managed to build a radio-beacon and had been responsible for the explosion I had felt. And that we must hurry, hurry, hurry!

“Peewee,” I said, panting. “What’s the rush? If the Mother Thing is outside, I want to bring her in-her body, I mean. But you act as if we had a deadline.” “We do!”

The communicator-beacon had to be placed outside at a particular local time (the Plutonian day is about a week-the astronomers were right again) so that the planet itself would not blanket the beam. But the Mother Thing had no space suit. They had discussed having Peewee suit up, go outside, and set the beacon-it had been so designed that Peewee need only trigger it. But that depended on locating Peewee’s space suit, then breaking in and getting it after the wormfaces were disposed of.

They had never located it. The Mother Thing had said serenely, singing confident notes that I could almost hear ringing in my head: (“Never mind, dear. I can go out and set it myself.”) “Mother Thing! You can’t!” Peewee had protested. “It’s cold out there.”

(“I shan’t be long.”)

“You won’t be able to breathe.”

(“It won’t be necessary, for so short a time.”)

That settled it. In her own way, the Mother Thing was as hard to argue with as Wormface.

The bombs were built, the beacon was built, a time approached when all factors would match-no ship expected, few wormfaces, Pluto faced the right way, feeding time for the staff-and they still did not know where Peewee’s suit was-if it had not been destroyed. The Mother Thing resolved to go ahead.

“But she told me, just a few hours ago when she let me know that today was the day, that if she did not come back in ten minutes or so, that she hoped I could find my suit and trigger the beacon-if she hadn’t been able to.” Peewee started to cry. “That was the f- f- first time she admitted that she wasn’t sure she could do it!”

“Peewee! Stop it! Then what?”

“I waited for the explosions-they came, right together-and I started to search, places I hadn’t been allowed to go. But I couldn’t find my suit!

Then I found you and-oh, Kip, she’s been out there almost an hour!” She looked at her watch. “There’s only about twenty minutes left. If the beacon isn’t triggered by then, she’s had all her trouble and died for n- n- nothing! She wouldn’t like that.” “Where’s my suit!”

We found no more wormfaces-apparently there was only one on duty while the others fed. Peewee showed me a door, air-lock type, behind which was the feeding chamber-the bomb may have cracked that section for gas-tight doors had closed themselves when the owners were blown to bits. We hurried past.

Logical as usual, Peewee ended our search at my space suit. It was one of more than a dozen human-type suits-I wondered how much soup those ghouls ate. Well, they wouldn’t eat again! I wasted no time; I simply shouted, “Hi, Oscar!” and started to suit up.

(“Where you been, chum?”)

Oscar seemed in perfect shape. Fats’ suit was next to mine and Tim’s next to it; I glanced at them as I stretched Oscar out, wondering whether they had equipment I could use. Peewee was looking at Tim’s suit. “Maybe I can wear this.”

It was much smaller than Oscar, which made it only nine sizes too big for Peewee. “Don’t be silly! It’d fit you like socks on a rooster. Help me. Take off that rope, coil it and clip it to my belt.”

“You won’t need it. The Mother Thing planned to take the beacon out the walkway about a hundred yards and sit it down. If she didn’t manage it, that’s all you do. Then twist the stud on top.”

“Don’t argue! How much time?” “Yes, Kip. Eighteen minutes.”

“Those winds are strong,” I added. “I may need the line.” The Mother Thing didn’t weigh much. If she had been swept off, I might need a rope to recover her body. “Hand me that hammer off Fats’ suit.”

“Right away!”

I stood up. It felt good to have Oscar around me. Then I remembered how cold my feet got, walking in from the ship. “I wish I had asbestos boots.”

Peewee looked startled. “Wait right here!” She was gone before I could stop her. I went on sealing up while I worried-she hadn’t even stopped to pick up the projector weapon. Shortly I said, “Tight, Oscar?”

(“Tight, boy!”)

Chin valve okay, blood-color okay, radio-I wouldn’t need it-water- The tank was dry. No matter, I wouldn’t have time to grow thirsty. I worked the chin valve, making the pressure low because I knew that pressure outdoors was quite low.

Peewee returned with what looked like ballet slippers for a baby elephant. She leaned close to my face plate and shouted, “They wear these. Can you get them on?” It seemed unlikely, but I forced them over my feet like badly fitting socks. I stood up and found that they improved traction; they were clumsy but not hard to walk in.

Aminute later we were standing at the exit of the big room I had first seen. Its air-lock doors were closed now as a result of the Mother Thing’s other bomb, which she had placed to blow out the gate-valve panels in the tunnel beyond. The bomb in the feeding chamber had been planted by Peewee who had then ducked back to their room. I don’t know whether the Mother Thing timed the two bombs to go off together, or triggered them by remote-control-nor did it matter; they had made a shambles of Wormface’s fancy base.

Peewee knew how to waste air through the air lock. When the inner door opened I shouted, “Time?” “Fourteen minutes.” She held up her watch.

“Remember what I said, just stay here. If anything moves, blue-light it first and ask questions afterwards.” “I remember.”

I stepped in and closed the inner door, found the valve in the outer door, waited for pressure to equalize.

The two or three minutes it took that big lock to bleed off I spent in glum thought. I didn’t like leaving Peewee alone. I thought all wormfaces were dead, but I wasn’t sure. We had searched hastily; one could have zigged when we zagged-they were so fast.

Besides that, Peewee had said, “I remember,” when she should have said, “Okay, Kip, I will.” Aslip of the tongue? That flea-hopping mind made “slips” only when it wanted to. There is a world of difference between “Roger” and “Wilco.”

Besides I was doing this for foolish motives. Mostly I was going out to recover the Mother Thing’s body-folly, because after I brought her in, she would spoil. It would be kinder to leave her in natural deep-freeze.

But I couldn’t bear that-it was cold out there and I couldn’t leave her out in the cold. She had been so little and warm … so alive. I had to bring her in where she could get warm. You’re in bad shape when your emotions force you into acts which you know are foolish.

Worse still, I was doing this in a reckless rush because the Mother Thing had wanted that beacon set before a certain second, now only twelve minutes away, maybe ten. Well, I’d do it, but what sense was it? Say her home star is close by-oh, say it’s Proxima Centauri and the wormfaces came from somewhere farther. Even if her beacon works-it still takes over four years for her S.O.S. to reach her friends!

This might have been okay for the Mother Thing. I had an impression that she lived a very long time; waiting a few years for rescue might not bother her. But Peewee and I were not creatures of her sort. We’d be dead before that speed-of-light message crawled to Proxima Centauri. I was glad that I had seen Peewee again, but I knew what was in store for us.    Death, in days, weeks, or months at most, from running out of air, or water, or food-or a wormface ship might land before we died-which meant one unholy sabbat of a fight in which, if we were lucky, we would die quickly.

No matter how you figured, planting that beacon was merely “carrying out the deceased’s last wishes”-words you hear at funerals. Sentimental folly. The outer door started to open. Ave, Mother Thing! Nos morituri.

It was cold out there, biting cold, even though I was not yet in the wind. The glow panels were still working and I could see that the tunnel was a mess; the two dozen fractional-pressure stops had ruptured like eardrums. I wondered what sort of bomb could be haywired from stolen parts, kept small enough to conceal two in a body pouch along with some sort of radio rig, and nevertheless have force enough to blow out those panels. The blast had rattled my teeth, several hundred feet away in solid rock.

The first dozen panels were blown inwards. Had she set it off in the middle of the tunnel? Ablast that big would fling her away like a feather! She must have planted it there, then come inside and triggered it-then gone back through the lock just as I had. That was the only way I could see it.

It got colder every step. My feet weren’t too cold yet, those clumsy mukluks were okay; the wormfaces understood insulation. “Oscar, you got the fires burning?” (“Roaring, chum. It’s a cold night.”)

“You’re telling me!”

Just beyond the outermost burst panel, I found her.

She had sunk forward, as if too tired to go on. Her arms stretched in front of her and, on the floor of the tunnel not quite touched by her tiny fingers, was a small round box about the size ladies keep powder in on dressing tables.

Her face was composed and her eyes were open except that nictitating membranes were drawn across as they had been when I had first seen her in the pasture back of our house, a few days or weeks or a thousand years ago. But she had been hurt then and looked it; now I half expected her to draw back those inner lids and sing a welcome.

I touched her.

She was hard as ice and much colder.

I blinked back tears and wasted not a moment. She wanted that little box placed a hundred yards out on the causeway and the bump on top twisted-and she wanted it done in the next six or seven minutes. I scooped it up. “Righto, Mother Thing! On my way!”

(“Get cracking, chum!”) (“Thank you, dear Kip… .”)

I don’t believe in ghosts. I had heard her sing thank-you so many times that the notes echoed in my head.

Afew feet away at the mouth of the tunnel, I stopped. The wind hit me and was so cold that the deathly chill in the tunnel seemed summery. I closed my eyes and counted thirty seconds   to give time to adjust to starlight while I fumbled on the windward side of the tunnel at a slanting strut that anchored the causeway to the mountain, tied my safety line by passing it around the strut and snapping it back on itself. I had known that it was night outside and I expected the causeway to stand out as a black ribbon against the white “snow” glittering under a skyful  of stars. I thought I would be safer on that windswept way if I could see its edges-which I couldn’t by headlamp unless I kept swinging my shoulders back and forth-clumsy and likely to throw me off balance or slow me down.

I had figured this carefully; I didn’t regard this as a stroll in the garden -not at night, not on Pluto! So I counted thirty seconds and tied my line while waiting for eyes to adjust to starlight. I opened them.

And I couldn’t see a darned thing!

Not a star. Not even the difference between sky and ground. My back was to the tunnel and the helmet shaded my face like a sunbonnet; I should have been able to see the walkway. Nothing.

I turned the helmet and saw something that accounted both for black sky and the quake we had felt-an active volcano. It may have been five miles away or fifty, but I could not doubt what it was-a jagged, angry red scar low in the sky.

But I didn’t stop to stare. I switched on the headlamp, splashed it on the righthand windward edge, and started a clumsy trot, keeping close to that side, so that if I stumbled I would have the entire road to recover in before the wind could sweep me off. That wind scared me. I kept the line coiled in my left hand and paid it out as I went, keeping it fairly taut. The coil felt stiff in my fingers.

The wind not only frightened me, it hurt. It was a cold so intense that it felt like flame. It burned and blasted, then numbed. My right side, getting the brunt of it, began to go and then my left side hurt more than the right.

I could no longer feel the line. I stopped, leaned forward and got the coil in the light from the headlamp-that’s another thing that needs fixing! the headlamp should swivel.

The coil was half gone, I had come a good fifty yards. I was depending on the rope to tell me; it was a hundred-meter climbing line, so when I neared its end I would be as far out as the Mother Thing had wanted. Hurry, Kip!

(“Get cracking, boy! It’s cold out here.”) I stopped again. Did I have the box?

I couldn’t feel it. But the headlamp showed my right hand clutched around it. Stay there, fingers! I hurried on, counting steps. One! Two! Three! Four! …

When I reached forty I stopped and glanced over the edge, saw that I was at the highest part where the road crossed the brook and remembered that it was about midway. That brook- methane, was it?-was frozen solid, and I knew that the night was cold.

There were a few loops of line on my left arm-close enough. I dropped the line, moved cautiously to the middle of the way, eased to my knees and left hand, and started to put the box down.

My fingers wouldn’t unbend.

I forced them with my left hand, got the box out of my fist. That diabolical wind caught it and I barely saved it from rolling away. With both hands I set it carefully upright. (“Work your fingers, bud. Pound your hands together!”)

I did so. I could tighten the muscles of my forearms, though it was tearing agony to flex fingers. Clumsily steadying the box with my left hand, I groped for the little knob on top.   I couldn’t feel it but it turned easily once I managed to close my fingers on it; I could see it turn.

It seemed to come to life, to purr. Perhaps I heard vibration, through gloves and up my suit; I certainly couldn’t have felt it, not the shape my fingers were in. I hastily let go, got awkwardly to my feet and backed up, so that I could splash the headlamp on it without leaning over.

I was through, the Mother Thing’s job was done, and (I hoped) before deadline. If I had had as much sense as the ordinary doorknob, I would have turned and hurried into the tunnel faster than I had come out. But I was fascinated by what it was doing.

It seemed to shake itself and three spidery little legs grew out the bottom. It raised up until it was standing on its own little tripod, about a foot high. It shook itself again and I thought the wind would blow it over. But the spidery legs splayed out, seemed to bite into the road surface and it was rock firm.

Something lifted and unfolded out the top.

It opened like a flower, until it was about eight inches across. Afinger lifted (an antenna?), swung as if hunting, steadied and pointed at the sky.

Then the beacon switched on. I’m sure that is what happened although all I saw was a flash of light-parasitic it must have been, for light alone would not have served even without that volcanic overcast. It was probably some harmless side effect of switching on an enormous pulse of power, something the Mother Thing hadn’t had time, or perhaps equipment or materials, to eliminate or shield. It was about as bright as a peanut photoflash.

But I was looking at it. Polarizers can’t work that fast. It blinded me.

I thought my headlamp had gone out, then I realized that I simply couldn’t see through a big greenish-purple disc of dazzle. (“Take it easy, boy. It’s just an after-image. Wait and it’ll go away.”)

“I can’t wait! I’m freezing to death!”

(“Hook the line with your forearm, where it’s clipped to your belt. Pull on it.”)

I did as Oscar told me, found the line, turned around, started to wind it on both forearms. It shattered.

It did not break as you expect rope to break; it shattered like glass. I suppose that is what it was by then-glass, I mean. Nylon and glass are super-cooled liquids. Now I know what “super-cooled” means.

But all I knew then was that my last link with life had gone. I couldn’t see, I couldn’t hear, I was all alone on a bare platform, billions of miles from home, and a wind out of the depths of a frozen hell was bleeding the last life out of a body I could barely feel-and where I could feel, it hurt like fire.

“Oscar!”

(“I’m here, bud. You can make it. Now-can you see anything?”) “No!”

(“Look for the mouth of the tunnel. It’s got light in it. Switch off your headlamp. Sure, you can-it’s just a toggle switch. Drag your hand back across the right side of our helmet.”)   I did.

(“See anything?”) “Not yet.”

(“Move your head. Try to catch it in the corner of your eye-the dazzle stays in front, you know. Well?”) “I caught something that time!”

(“Reddish, wasn’t it? Jagged, too. The volcano. Now we know which way we’re facing. Turn slowly and catch the mouth of the tunnel as it goes by.”) Slowly was the only way I could turn. “There it is!”

(“Okay, you’re headed home. Get down on your hands and knees and crab slowly to your left. Don’t turn-because you want to hang onto that edge and crawl. Crawl toward the tunnel.”)

I got down. I couldn’t feel the surface with my hands but I felt pressure on my limbs, as if all four were artificial. I found the edge when my left hand slipped over it and I almost fell off. But I recovered. “Am I headed right?”

(“Sure you are. You haven’t turned. You’ve just moved sideways. Can you lift your head to see the tunnel?”) “Uh, not without standing up.”

(“Don’t do that! Try the headlamp again. Maybe your eyes are okay now.”)

I dragged my hand forward against the right side of the helmet. I must have hit the switch, for suddenly I saw a circle of light, blurred and cloudy in the middle. The edge of the walkway sliced it on the left.

(“Good boy! No, don’t get up; you’re weak and dizzy and likely to fall. Start crawling. Count ‘em. Three hundred ought to do it.”)  I started crawling, counting.

“It’s a long way, Oscar. You think we can make it?”

(“Of course we can! You think I want to be left out here?”) “I’d be with you.”

(“Knock off the chatter. You’ll make me lose count. Thirty-six … thirty-seven … thirty-eight-“) We crawled.

(“That’s a hundred. Now we double it. Hundred one … hundred two … hundred three-“) “I’m feeling better, Oscar. I think it’s getting warmer.”

(“WHAT!”)

“I said I’m feeling a little warmer.”

(“You’re not warmer, you blistering idiot! That’s freeze-to-death you’re feeling! Crawl faster! Work your chin valve. Get more air. Le’ me hear that chin valve click!”)   I was too tired to argue; I chinned the valve three or four times, felt a blast blistering my face.

(“I’m stepping up the stroke. Warmer indeed! Hund’d nine … hund’d ten … hun’leven … hun’twelve-pick it up!”)

At two hundred I said I would just have to rest.

(“No, you don’t!”)

“But I’ve got to. Just a little while.”

(“Like that, uh? You know what happens. What’s Peewee goin’ to do? She’s in there, waiting. She’s already scared because you’re late. What’s she goin’ to do? Answer me!”) “Uh … she’s going to try to wear Tim’s suit.”

(“Right! In case of duplicate answers the prize goes to the one postmarked first. How far will she get? You tell me.”) “Uh … to the mouth of the tunnel, I guess. Then the wind will get her.”

(“My opinion exactly. Then we’ll have the whole family together. You, me, the Mother Thing, Peewee. Cozy. Afamily of stiffs.”) “But-“

(“So start slugging, brother. Slug … slug … slug … slug … tw’und’d five … two’und’d six … tw’und’d sev’n’-“)

I don’t remember falling off. I don’t even know what the “snow” felt like. I just remember being glad that the dreadful counting was over and I could rest. But Oscar wouldn’t let me. (“Kip! Kip! Get up! Climb back on the straight and narrow.”)

“Go ‘way.”

(“I can’t go away. I wish I could. Right in front of you. Grab the edge and scramble up. It’s only a little farther now.”)

I managed to raise my head, saw the edge of the walkway in the light of my headlamp about two feet above my head. I sank back. “It’s too high,” I said listlessly. “Oscar, I think we’ve had it.”

He snorted. (“So? Who was it, just the other day, cussed out a little bitty girl who was too tired to get up? ‘Commander Comet,’ wasn’t it? Did I get the name right? The ‘Scourge of the Spaceways’ … the no- good lazy sky tramp. ‘Have Space Suit-Will Travel.’ Before you go to sleep, Commander, can I have your autograph! I’ve never met a real live space pirate before … one that goes around hijacking ships and kidnapping little girls.”)

“That’s not fair!”

(“Okay, okay, I know when I’m not wanted. But just one thing before I leave: she’s got more guts in her little finger than you have in your whole body-you lying, fat, lazy swine! Good-bye. Don’t wait up.”)

“Oscar! Don’t leave me!” (“Eh? You want help?”) “Yes!”

(“Well, if it’s too high to reach, grab your hammer and hook it over the edge. Pull yourself up.”)

I blinked. Maybe it would work. I reached down, decided I had the hammer even though I couldn’t feel it, got it loose. Using both hands I hooked it over the edge above me. I pulled. That silly hammer broke just like the line. Tool steel-and it went to pieces as if it had been cast out of type slugs.

That made me mad. I heaved myself to a sitting position, got both elbows on the edge, and struggled and groaned and burst into fiery sweat -and rolled over onto the road surface. (“That’s my boy! Never mind counting, just crawl toward the light!”)

The tunnel wavered in front of me. I couldn’t get my breath, so I kicked the chin valve. Nothing happened.

“Oscar! The chin valve is stuck!” I tried again.

Oscar was very slow in answering. (“No, pal, the valve isn’t stuck. Your air hoses have frozen up. I guess that last batch wasn’t as dry as it could have been.”) “I haven’t any air!”

Again he was slow. But he answered firmly, (“Yes, you have. You’ve got a whole suit full. Plenty for the few feet left.”) “I’ll never make it.”

(“Afew feet, only. There’s the Mother Thing, right ahead of you. Keep moving.”)

I raised my head and, sure enough, there she was. I kept crawling, while she got bigger and bigger. Finally I said, “Oscar … this is as far as I go.” (“I’m afraid it is. I’ve let you down … but thanks for not leaving me outside there.”)

“You didn’t let me down … you were swell. I just didn’t quite make it.”

(“I guess we both didn’t quite make it … but we sure let ‘em know that we tried! So long, partner.”)

“So long. ‘Hasta la vista, amigo!” I managed to crawl two short steps and collapsed with my head near the Mother Thing’s head. She was smiling. (“Hello, Kip my son.”)

“I didn’t … quite make it, Mother Thing. I’m sorry.” (“Oh, but you did make it!”)

“Huh?”

(“Between us, we’ve both made it.”)

I thought about that for a long time. “And Oscar.” (“And Oscar, of course.”)

“And Peewee.”

(“And always Peewee. We’ve all made it. Now we can rest, dear.”) “G’night … Mother Thing.”

It was a darn short rest. I was just closing my eyes, feeling warm and happy that the Mother Thing thought that I had done all right-when Peewee started shaking my shoulder. She touched helmets. “Kip! Kip! Get up. Please get up.”

“Huh? Why?”

“Because I can’t carry you! I tried, but I can’t do it. You’re just too big!”

I considered it. Of course she couldn’t carry me-where did she get the silly notion that she could? I was twice her size. I’d carry her … just as soon as I caught my breath.

“Kip! Please get up.” She was crying now, blubbering.

“Why, sure, honey,” I said gently, “if that’s what you want.” I tried and had a clumsy bad time of it. She almost picked me up, she helped a lot. Once up, she steadied me. “Turn around. Walk.”

She almost did carry me. She got her shoulders under my right arm and kept pushing. Every time we came to one of those blown-out panels she either helped me step over, or simply pushed me through and helped me up again.

At last we were in the lock and she was bleeding air from inside to fill it. She had to let go of me and I sank down. She turned when the inner door opened, started to say something-then got my helmet off in a hurry.

I took a deep breath and got very dizzy and the lights dimmed. She was looking at me. “You all right now?”

“Me? Sure! Why shouldn’t I be?” “Let me help you inside.”

I couldn’t see why, but she did help and I needed it. She sat me on the floor near the door with my back to the wall-I didn’t want to lie down. “Kip, I was so scared!” “Why?” I couldn’t see what she was worried about. Hadn’t the Mother Thing said that we had all done all right?

“Well, I was. I shouldn’t have let you go out.” “But the beacon had to be set.”

“Oh, but- You set it?”

“Of course. The Mother Thing was pleased.”

“I’m sure she would have been,” she said gravely. “She was.”

“Can I do anything? Can I help you out of your suit?” “Uh … no, not yet. Could you find me a drink of water?” “Right away!”

She came back and held it for me-I wasn’t as thirsty as I had thought; it made me a bit ill. She watched me for some time, then said, “Do you mind if I’m gone a little while? Will you be all right?”

“Me? Certainly.” I didn’t feel well, I was beginning to hurt, but there wasn’t anything she could do.

“I won’t be long.” She began clamping her helmet and I noticed with detached interest that she was wearing her own suit-somehow I had had the impression that she had been wearing Tim’s.

I saw her head for the lock and realized where she was going and why. I wanted to tell her that the Mother Thing would rather not be inside here, where she might … where she might-I didn’t want to say “spoil” even to myself.

But Peewee was gone.

I don’t think she was away more than five minutes. I had closed my eyes and I am not sure. I noticed the inner door open. Through it stepped Peewee, carrying the Mother Thing in her arms like a long piece of firewood. She didn’t bend at all.

Peewee put the Mother Thing on the floor in the same position I had last seen her, then undamped her helmet and bawled.  I couldn’t get up. My legs hurt too much. And my arms. “Peewee … please, honey. It doesn’t do any good.”

She raised her head. “I’m all through. I won’t cry any more.” And she didn’t.

We sat there a long time. Peewee again offered to help me out of my suit, but when we tried it, I hurt so terribly, especially my hands and my feet, that I had to ask her to stop. She looked worried. “Kip … I’m afraid you froze them.”

“Maybe. But there’s nothing to do about it now.” I winced and changed the subject. “Where did you find your suit?” “Oh!” She looked indignant, then almost gay. “You’d never guess. Inside Jock’s suit.”

“No, I guess I wouldn’t. The Purloined Letter.’ “ “The what?”

“Nothing. I hadn’t realized that old Wormface had a sense of humor.”

Shortly after that we had another quake, a bad one. Chandeliers would have jounced if the place had had any and the floor heaved. Peewee squealed. “Oh! That was almost as bad as the last one.”

“Alot worse, I’d say. That first little one wasn’t anything.” “No, I mean the one while you were outside.”

“Was there one then?” “Didn’t you feel it?”

“No.” I tried to remember. “Maybe that was when I fell off in the snow.” “You fell off? Kip!”

“It was all right. Oscar helped me.”

There was another ground shock. I wouldn’t have minded, only it shook me up and made me hurt worse. I finally came out of the fog enough to realize that I didn’t have to hurt. Let’s see, medicine pills were on the right and the codeine dispenser was farthest back- “Peewee? Could I trouble you for some water again?”

“Of course!”

“I’m going to take codeine. It may make me sleep. Do you mind?” “You ought to sleep if you can. You need it.”

“I suppose so. What time is it?”

She told me and I couldn’t believe it. “You mean it’s been more than twelve hours?” “Huh? Since what?”

“Since this started.”

“I don’t understand, Kip.” She stared at her watch. “It has been exactly an hour and a half since I found you-not quite two hours since the Mother Thing set off the bombs.”   I couldn’t believe that, either. But Peewee insisted that she was right.

The codeine made me feel much better and I was beginning to be drowsy, when Peewee said, “Kip, do you smell anything?”  I sniffed. “Something like kitchen matches?”

“That’s what I mean. I think the pressure is dropping, too. Kip … I think I had better close your helmet-if you’re going to sleep.” “All right. You close yours, too?”

“Yes. Uh, I don’t think this place is tight any longer.”

“You may be right.” Between explosions and quakes, I didn’t see how it could be. But, while I knew what that meant, I was too weary and sick- and getting too dreamy from the drug-to worry. Now, or a month from now-what did it matter? The Mother Thing had said everything was okay.

Peewee clamped us in, we checked radios, and she sat down facing me and the Mother Thing. She didn’t say anything for a long time. Then I heard: “Peewee to Junebug-“ “I read you, Peewee.”

“Kip? It’s been fun, mostly. Hasn’t it?”

“Huh?” I glanced up, saw that the dial said I had about four hours of air left. I had had to reduce pressure twice, since we closed up, to match falling pressure in the room. “Yes, Peewee, it’s been swell. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

She sighed. “I just wanted to be sure you weren’t blaming me. Now go to sleep.”

I did almost go to sleep, when I saw Peewee jump up and my phones came to life. “Kip! Something’s coming in the door!”

I came wide awake, realized what it meant. Why couldn’t they have let us be? Afew hours, anyhow? “Peewee. Don’t panic. Move to the far side of the door. You’ve got your blue-light gadget?”

“Yes.”

“Pick them off as they come in.”

“You’ve got to move, Kip. You’re right where they will come!”

“I can’t get up.” I hadn’t been able to move, not even my arms, for quite a while. “Use low power, then if you brush me, it won’t matter. Do what I say! Fast!” “Yes, Kip.” She got where she could snipe at them sideways, raised her projector and waited.

The inner door opened, a figure came in. I saw Peewee start to nail it- and I called into my radio: “Don’t shoot!” But she was dropping the projector and running forward even as I shouted.

They were “mother thing” people.

It took six of them to carry me, only two to carry the Mother Thing. They sang to me soothingly all the time they were rigging a litter. I swallowed another codeine tablet before they lifted me, as even with their gentleness any movement hurt. It didn’t take long to get me into their ship, for they had landed almost at the tunnel mouth, no doubt crushing the walkway-I hoped so.

Once I was safely inside Peewee opened my helmet and unzipped the front of my suit. “Kip! Aren’t they wonderful?” “Yes.” I was getting dizzier from the drug but was feeling better. “When do we raise ship?”

“We’ve already started.”

“They’re taking us home?” I’d have to tell Mr. Charton what a big help the codeine was. “Huh? Oh, my, no! We’re headed for Vega.”

I fainted.

Chapter 9

I had been dreaming that I was home; this awoke me with a jerk. “Mother Thing!” (“Good morning, my son. I am happy to see that you are feeling better.”)

“Oh, I feel fine. I’ve had a good night’s rest-” I stared, then blurted: “-you’re dead!” I couldn’t stop it.

Her answer sounded warmly, gently humorous, the way you correct a child who has made a natural mistake. (“No, dear, I was merely frozen. I am not as frail as you seem to think me.”)   I blinked and looked again. “Then it wasn’t a dream?”

(“No, it was not a dream.”)

“I thought I was home and-” I tried to sit up, managed only to raise my head. “I am home!” My room! Clothes closet on the left-hall door behind the Mother Thing-my desk on the right, piled with books and with a Centerville High pennant over it-window beyond it, with the old elm almost filling it-sun-speckled leaves stirring in a breeze.

My slipstick was where I had left it.

Things started to wobble, then I figured it out. I had dreamed only the silly part at the end. Vega-I had been groggy with codeine. “You brought me home.” (“We brought you home … to your other home. My home.”)

The bed started to sway. I clutched at it but my arms didn’t move. The Mother Thing was still singing. (“You needed your own nest. So we prepared it.”) “Mother Thing, I’m confused.”

(“We know that a bird grows well faster in its own nest. So we built yours.”) “Bird” and “nest” weren’t what she sang, but an Unabridged won’t give anything closer.

I took a deep breath to steady down. I understood her-that’s what she was best at, making you understand. This wasn’t my room and I wasn’t home; it simply looked like it. But I was still terribly confused.

I looked around and wondered how I could have been mistaken.

The light slanted in the window from a wrong direction. The ceiling didn’t have the patch in it from the time I built a hide-out in the attic and knocked plaster down by hammering. It wasn’t the right shade, either.

The books were too neat and clean; they had that candy-box look. I couldn’t recognize the bindings. The over-all effect was mighty close, but details were not right. (“I like this room,”) the Mother Thing was singing. (“It looks like you, Kip.”)

“Mother Thing,” I said weakly, “how did you do it?” (“We asked you. And Peewee helped.”)

I thought, “But Peewee has never seen my room either,” then decided that Peewee had seen enough American homes to be a consulting expert. “Peewee is here?” (“She’ll be in shortly.”)

With Peewee and the Mother Thing around things couldn’t be too bad. Except- “Mother Thing, I can’t move my arms and legs.”

She put a tiny, warm hand on my forehead and leaned over me until her enormous, lemur-like eyes blanked out everything else. (“You have been damaged. Now you are growing well. Do not worry.”)

When the Mother Thing tells you not to worry, you don’t. I didn’t want to do handstands anyhow; I was satisfied to look into her eyes. You could sink into them, you could have dived in and swum around. “All right, Mother Thing.” I remembered something else. “Say … you were frozen? Weren’t you?”

(“Yes.”)

“But- Look, when water freezes it ruptures living cells. Or so they say.” She answered primly, (“My body would never permit that!”).

“Well-” I thought about it. “Just don’t dunk me in liquid air! I’m not built for it.”

Again her song held roguish, indulgent humor. (“We shall endeavor not to hurt you.”) She straightened up and grew a little, swaying like a willow. (“I sense Peewee.”)

There was a knock-another discrepancy; it didn’t sound like a knock on a light-weight interior door-and Peewee called out, “May I come in?” She didn’t wait (I wondered if she ever did) but came on in. The bit I could see past her looked like our upper hall; they’d done a thorough job.

(“Come in, dear.”)

“Sure, Peewee. You are in.” “Don’t be captious.”

“Look who’s talking. Hi, kid!” “Hi yourself.”

The Mother Thing glided away. (“Don’t stay long, Peewee. You are not to tire him.”) “I won’t, Mother Thing.”

(” ‘Bye, dears.”)

I said, “What are the visiting hours in this ward?”

“When she says, of course.” Peewee stood facing me, fists on hips. She was really clean for the first time in our acquaintance-cheeks pink with scrubbing, hair fluffy-maybe she would be pretty, in about ten years. She was dressed as always but her clothes were fresh, all buttons present, and tears invisibly mended.

“Well,” she said, letting out her breath, “I guess you’re going to be worth keeping, after all.” “Me? I’m in the pink. How about yourself?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Alittle frost nip. Nothing. But you were a mess.” “I was?”

“I can’t use adequate language without being what Mama calls ‘unladylike.’ “ “Oh, we wouldn’t want you to be that.”

“Don’t be sarcastic. You don’t do it well.”

“You won’t let me practice on you?”

She started to make a Peewee retort, stopped suddenly, smiled and came close. For a nervous second I thought she was going to kiss me. But she just patted the bedclothes and said solemnly, “You bet you can, Kip. You can be sarcastic, or nasty, or mean, or scold me, or anything, and I won’t let out a peep. Why, I’ll bet you could even talk back to the Mother Thing.”

I couldn’t imagine wanting to. I said, “Take it easy, Peewee. Your halo is showing.” “I’d have one if it weren’t for you. Or flunked my test for it, more likely.”

“So? I seem to remember somebody about your size lugging me indoors almost piggy-back. How about that?” She wriggled. “That wasn’t anything. You set the beacon. That was everything.”

“Uh, each to his own opinion. It was cold out there.” I changed the subject; it was embarrassing us. Mention of the beacon reminded me of something else. “Peewee? Where are we?” “Huh? In the Mother Thing’s home, of course.” She looked around and said, “Oh, I forgot. Kip, this isn’t really your-“

“I know,” I said impatiently. “It’s a fake. Anybody can see that.”

“They can?” She looked crestfallen. “I thought we had done a perfect job.” “It’s an incredibly good job. I don’t see how you did it.”

“Oh, your memory is most detailed. You must have a camera eye.” -and I must have spilled my guts, too! I added to myself. I wondered what else I had said-with Peewee listening. I was afraid to ask; a fellow ought to have privacy.

“But it’s still a fake,” I went on. “I know we’re in the Mother Thing’s home. But where’s that?” “Oh.” She looked round-eyed. “I told you. Maybe you don’t remember -you were sleepy.”

“I remember,” I said slowly, “something. But it didn’t make sense. I thought you said we were going to Vega.”

“Well, I suppose the catalogs will list it as Vega Five. But they call it-” She threw back her head and vocalized; it recalled to me the cockcrow theme in Le Coq d’Or. “-but I couldn’t say that. So I told you Vega, which is close enough.”

I tried again to sit up, failed. “You mean to stand there and tell me we’re on Vega? I mean, a ‘Vegan planet’?” “Well, you haven’t asked me to sit down.”

I ignored the Peeweeism. I looked at “sunlight” pouring through the window. “That light is from Vega?”

“That stuff? That’s artificial sunlight. If they had used real, bright, Vega light, it would look ghastly. Like a bare arc light. Vega is ‘way up the Russell diagram, you know.” “It is?” I didn’t know the spectrum of Vega; I had never expected to need to know it.

“Oh, yes! You be careful, Kip-when you’re up, I mean. In ten seconds you can get more burn than all winter in Key West-and ten minutes would kill you.”

I seemed to have a gift for winding up in difficult climates. What star class was Vega? “A,” maybe? Probably “B.” All I knew was that it was big and bright, bigger than the Sun, and looked pretty set in Lyra.

But where was it? How in the name of Einstein did we get here? “Peewee? How far is Vega? No, I mean, ‘How far is the Sun?’ You wouldn’t happen to know?” “Of course,” she said scornfully. “Twenty-seven light-years.”

Great Galloping Gorillas! “Peewee-get that slide rule. You know how to push one? I don’t seem to have the use of my hands.” She looked uneasy. “Uh, what do you want it for?”

“I want to see what that comes to in miles.” “Oh. I’ll figure it. No need for a slide rule.”

“Aslipstick is faster and more accurate. Look, if you don’t know how to use one, don’t be ashamed-I didn’t, at your age. I’ll show you.”

“Of course I can use one!” she said indignantly. “You think I’m a stupe? But I’ll work it out.” Her lips moved silently. “One point five nine times ten to the fourteenth miles.”

I had done that Proxima Centauri problem recently; I remembered the miles in a light-year and did a rough check in my head-uh, call it six times twenty-five makes a hundred and fifty-and where was the decimal point? “Your answer sounds about right.” 159,000,000,000,000 weary miles! Too many zeroes for comfort.

“Of course I’m right!” she retorted. “I’m always right.” “Goodness me! The handy-dandy pocket encyclopedia.” She blushed. “I can’t help being a genius.”

Which left her wide open and I was about to rub her nose in it-when I saw how unhappy she looked.

I remembered hearing Dad say: “Some people insist that ‘mediocre’ is better than ‘best.’ They delight in clipping wings because they themselves can’t fly. They despise brains because they have none. Pfah!”

“I’m sorry, Peewee,” I said humbly. “I know you can’t. And I can’t help not being one … any more than you can help being little, or I can help being big.”   She relaxed and looked solemn. “I guess I was being a show-off again.” She twisted a button. “Or maybe I assumed that you understand me-like Daddy.” “I feel complimented. I doubt if I do-but from now on I’ll try.” She went on worrying the button. “You’re pretty smart yourself, Kip. You know that, don’t you?”

I grinned. “If I were smart, would I be here? All thumbs and my ears rub together. Look, honey, would you mind if we checked you on the slide rule? I’m really interested.” Twenty-seven light-years-why, you wouldn’t be able to see the Sun, It isn’t any great shakes as a star.

But I had made her uneasy again. “Uh, Kip, that isn’t much of a slide rule.” “What? Why, that’s the best that money can-”

“Kip, please! It’s part of the desk. It’s not a slide rule.”

“Huh?” I looked sheepish. “I forgot. Uh, I suppose that hall out there doesn’t go very far?”

“Just what you can see. Kip, the slide rule would have been real-if we had had time enough. They understand logarithms. Oh, indeed they do!”

That was bothering me-“time enough” I mean. “Peewee, how long did it take us to get here?” Twenty-seven light-years! Even at speed-of-light-well, maybe the Einstein business would make it seem like a quick trip to me-but not to Centerville. Dad could be dead! Dad was older than Mother, old enough to be my grandfather, really. Another twenty-seven years back- Why, that would make him well over a hundred. Even Mother might be dead.

“Time to get here? Why, it didn’t take any.”

“No, no. I know it feels that way. You’re not any older, I’m still laid up by frostbite. But it took at least twenty-seven years. Didn’t it?”

“What are you talking about, Kip?”

“The relativity equations, of course. You’ve heard of them?”

“Oh, those! Certainly. But they don’t apply. It didn’t take time. Oh, fifteen minutes to get out of Pluto’s atmosphere, about the same to cope with the atmosphere here. But otherwise, pht! Zero.”

“At the speed of light you would think so.”

“No, Kip.” She frowned, then her face lighted up. “How long was it from the time you set the beacon till they rescued us?” “Huh?” It hit me. Dad wasn’t dead! Mother wouldn’t even have gray hair. “Maybe an hour.”

“Alittle over. It would have been less if they had had a ship ready … then they might have found you in the tunnel instead of me. No time for the message to reach here. Half an hour frittered away getting a ship ready-the Mother Thing was vexed. I hadn’t known she could be. You see, a ship is supposed to be ready.”

“Any time she wants one?”

“Any and all the time-the Mother Thing is important. Another half-hour in atmosphere maneuvering-and that’s all. Real time. None of those funny contractions.”

I tried to soak it up. They take an hour to go twenty-seven light-years and get bawled out for dallying. Dr. Einstein must be known as “Whirligig Albert” among his cemetery neighbors. “But how?”

“Kip, do you know any geometry? I don’t mean Euclid-I mean geometry.”

“Mmm … I’ve fiddled with open and closed curved spaces-and I’ve read Dr. Bell’s popular books. But you couldn’t say I know any geometry.”

“At least you won’t boggle at the idea that a straight line is not necessarily the shortest distance between two points.” She made motions as if squeezing a grapefruit in both hands. “Because it’s not. Kip-it all touches. You could put it in a bucket. In a thimble if you folded it so that spins matched.”

I had a dizzying picture of a universe compressed into a teacup, nucleons and electrons packed solidly-really solid and not the thin mathematical ghost that even the uranium nucleus is said to be. Something like the “primal atom” that some cosmogonists use to explain the expanding universe. Well, maybe it’s both packed and expanding. Like the “wavicle” paradox. A particle isn’t a wave and a wave can’t be a particle- yet everything is both. If you believe in wavicles, you can believe in anything-and if you don’t, then don’t bother to believe at all. Not even in yourself, because that’s what you are-wavicles. “How many dimensions?” I said weakly.

“How many would you like?”

“Me? Uh, twenty, maybe. Four more for each of the first four, to give some looseness on the corners.”       “Twenty isn’t a starter. I don’t know, Kip; I don’t know geometry, either-I just thought I did. So I’ve pestered them.” “The Mother Thing?”

“Her? Oh, heavens, no! She doesn’t know geometry. Just enough to pilot a ship in and out of the folds.”

“Only that much?” I should have stuck to advanced finger-painting and never let Dad lure me into trying for an education. There isn’t any end- the more you learn, the more you need to learn. “Peewee, you knew what that beacon was for, didn’t you?”

“Me?” She looked innocent. “Well … yes.” “You knew we were going to Vega.”

“Well … if the beacon worked. If it was set in time.” “Now the prize question. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Well-” Peewee was going to twist that button off. “I wasn’t sure how much math you knew and-you might have gone all masculine and common-sensical and father-knows-best. Would you have believed me?”

(“I told Orville and I told Wilbur and now I’m telling you-that contraption will never work!”) “Maybe not, Peewee. But next time you’re tempted not to tell me something ‘for my own good,’ will you take a chance that I’m not wedded to my own ignorance? I know I’m not a genius but I’ll try to keep my mind open-and I might be able to help, if I knew what you were up to. Quit twisting that button.”

She let go hastily. “Yes, Kip. I’ll remember.”

“Thanks. Another thing is fretting me. I was pretty sick?” “Huh? You certainly were!”

“All right. They’ve got these, uh, ‘fold ships’ that go anywhere in no time. Why didn’t you ask them to bounce me home and pop me into a hospital?” She hesitated. “How do you feel?”

“Huh? I feel fine. Except that I seem to be under spinal anesthesia, or something.” “Or something,” she agreed. “But you feel as if you are getting well?”

“Shucks, I feel well.”

“You aren’t. But you’re going to be.” She looked at me closely. “Shall I put it bluntly, Kip?” “Go ahead.”

“If they had taken you to Earth to the best hospital we have, you’d be a ‘basket case.’ Understand me? No arms, no legs. As it is, you are getting completely well. No amputations, not even a toe.”

I think the Mother Thing had prepared me. I simply said, “You’re sure?”

“Sure. Sure both. You’re going to be all right.” Suddenly her face screwed up. “Oh, you were a mess! I saw.” “Pretty bad?”

“Awful. I have nightmares.”              “They shouldn’t have let you look.”   “They couldn’t stop me. I was next of kin.”

“Huh? You told them you were my sister or something?” “What? I am your next of kin.”

I was about to say she was cockeyed when I tripped over my tongue. We were the only humans for a hundred and sixty trillion miles. As usual, Peewee was right. “So I had to grant permission,” she went on.

“For what? What did they do to me?”

“Uh, first they popped you into liquid helium. They left you there and the past month they have been using me as a guinea pig. Then, three days ago-three of ours-they thawed you out and got to work. You’ve been getting well ever since.”

“What shape am I in now?”

“Uh … well, you’re growing back. Kip, this isn’t a bed. It just looks like it.” “What is it, then?”

“We don’t have a name for it and the tune is pitched too high for me. But everything from here on down-” She patted the spread. “-on into the room below, does things for you. You’re wired like a hi-fi nut’s basement.”

“I’d like to see it.”

“I’m afraid you can’t. You don’t know, Kip. They had to cut your space suit off.”

I felt more emotion at that than I had at hearing what a mess I had been. “Huh? Where is Oscar? Did they ruin him? My space suit, I mean.” “I know what you mean. Every time you’re delirious you talk to ‘Oscar’ -and you answer back, too. Sometimes I think you’re schizoid, Kip.” “You’ve mixed your terms, runt-that’ud make me a split personality. All right, but you’re a paranoid yourself.”

“Oh, I’ve known that for a long time. But I’m a very well adjusted one. You want to see Oscar? The Mother Thing said that you would want him near when you woke up.” She opened the closet.

“Hey! You said he was all cut up!”

“Oh, they repaired him. Good as new. Alittle better than new.” (“Time, dear! Remember what I said.”)

“Coming, Mother Thing! ‘Bye, Kip. I’ll be back soon, and real often.” “Okay. Leave the closet open so I can see Oscar.”

Peewee did come back, but not “real often.” I wasn’t offended, not much. She had a thousand interesting and “educational” things to poke her ubiquitous nose into, all new and fascinating-she was as busy as a pup chewing slippers. She ran our hosts ragged. But I wasn’t bored. I was getting well, a full-time job and not boring if you are happy-which I was.

I didn’t see the Mother Thing often. I began to realize that she had work of her own to do-even though she came to see me if I asked for her, with never more than an hour’s delay, and never seemed in a hurry to leave.

She wasn’t my doctor, nor my nurse. Instead I had a staff of veterinarians who were alert to supervise every heartbeat. They didn’t come in unless I asked them to (a whisper was as good as a shout) but I soon realized that “my” room was bugged and telemetered like a ship in flight test-and my “bed” was a mass of machinery, gear that bore the relation to our own “mechanical hearts” and “mechanical lungs” and “mechanical kidneys” that a Lockheed ultrasonic courier does to a baby buggy.

I never saw that gear (they never lifted the spread, unless it was while I slept), but I know what they were doing. They were encouraging my body to repair itself-not scar tissue but the way  it had been. Any lobster can do this and starfish do it so well that you can chop them to bits and wind up with a thousand brand-new starfish.

This is a trick any animal should do, since its gene pattern is in every cell. But a few million years ago we lost it. Everybody knows that science is trying to recapture it; you see articles- optimistic ones in Reader’s Digest, discouraged ones in The Scientific Monthly, wildly wrong ones in magazines whose “science editors” seem to have received their training writing horror movies. But we’re working on it. Someday, if anybody dies an accidental death, it will be because he bled to death on the way to the hospital.

Here I was with a perfect chance to find out about it-and I didn’t.

I tried. Although I was unworried by what they were doing (the Mother Thing had told me not to worry and every time she visited me she looked in my eyes and repeated the injunction), nevertheless like Peewee, I like to know.

Pick a savage so far back in the jungle that they don’t even have installment-plan buying. Say he has an I.Q. of 190 and Peewee’s yen to understand. Dump him into Brookhaven Atomic Laboratories. How much will he learn? With all possible help?

He’ll learn which corridors lead to what rooms and he’ll learn that a purple trefoil means: “Danger!”

That’s all. Not because he can’t; remember he’s a supergenius-but he needs twenty years schooling before he can ask the right questions and understand the answers.

I asked questions and always got answers and formed notions. But I’m not going to record them; they are as confused and contradictory as the notions a savage would form about design and operation of atomic equipment. As they say in radio, when noise level reaches a certain value, no information is transmitted. All I got was “noise.”

Some of it was literally “noise.” I’d ask a question and one of the therapists would answer. I would understand part, then as it reached the key point, I would hear nothing but birdsongs. Even with the Mother Thing as an interpreter, the parts I had no background for would turn out to be a canary’s cheerful prattle.

Hold onto your seats; I’m going to explain something I don’t understand: how Peewee and I could talk with the Mother Thing even though her mouth could not shape English and we couldn’t sing the way she did and had not studied her language. The Vegans-(I’ll call them “Vegans” the way we might be called “Solarians”; their real name sounds like a wind chime in  a breeze. The Mother Thing had a real name, too, but I’m not a coloratura soprano. Peewee used it when she wanted to wheedle her -fat lot of good it did her.) The Vegans have a supreme talent to understand, to put themselves in the other person’s shoes. I don’t think it was telepathy, or I wouldn’t have gotten so many wrong numbers. Call it empathy.

But they have it in various degrees, just as all of us drive cars but only a few are fit to be racing drivers. The Mother Thing had it the way Novaes understands a piano. I once read about an actress who could use Italian so effectively to a person who did not understand Italian that she always made herself understood. Her name was “Duce.” No, a “duce” is a dictator. Something like that. She must have had what the Mother Thing had.

The first words I had with the Mother Thing were things like “hello” and “good-bye” and “thank you” and “where are we going?” She could project her meaning with those-shucks, you can talk to a strange dog that much. Later I began to understand her speech as speech. She picked up meanings of English words even faster; she had this great talent, and she and Peewee had talked for days while they were prisoners.

But while this is easy for “you’re welcome” and “I’m hungry” and “let’s hurry,” it gets harder for ideas like “heterodyning” and “amino acid” even when both are familiar with the concept. When one party doesn’t even have the concept, it breaks down. That’s the trouble I had understanding those veterinarians. If we had all spoken English I still would not have understood.

An oscillating circuit sending out a radio signal produces dead silence unless there is another circuit capable of oscillating in the same way to receive it. I wasn’t on the right frequency. Nevertheless I understood them when the talk was not highbrow. They were nice people; they talked and laughed a lot and seemed to like each other. I had trouble telling them apart,

except the Mother Thing. (I learned that the only marked difference to them between Peewee and myself was that I was ill and she wasn’t.) They had no trouble telling each other apart;

their conversations were interlarded with musical names, until you felt that you were caught in Peter and the Wolf or a Wagnerian opera. They even had a leit-motif for me. Their talk was

cheerful and gay, like the sounds of a bright summer dawn.

The next time I meet a canary I’ll know what he is saying even if he doesn’t.

I picked up some of this from Peewee-a hospital bed is not a good place from which to study a planet. Vega Five has Earth-surface gravity, near enough, with an oxygen, carbon dioxide, and water life cycle. The planet would not suit humans, not only because the noonday “sun” would strike you dead with its jolt of ultraviolet but also the air has poisonous amounts of ozone-a trace of ozone is stimulating but a trifle more-well, you might as well sniff prussic acid. There was something else, too, nitrous oxide I think, which was ungood for humans if breathed too long. My quarters were air-conditioned; the Vegans could breathe what I used but they considered it tasteless.

I learned a bit as a by-product of something else; the Mother Thing asked me to dictate how I got mixed up in these things. When I finished, she asked me to dictate everything I knew about Earth, its history, and how we work and live together. This is a tall order-I’m not still dictating because I found out I don’t know much. Take ancient Babylonia-how is it related to early Egyptian civilizations? I had only vague notions.

Maybe Peewee did better, since she remembers everything she has heard or read or seen the way Dad does. But they probably didn’t get her to hold still long, whereas I had to. The Mother Thing wanted this for the reasons we study Australian aborigines and also as a record of our language. There was another reason, too.

The job wasn’t easy but there was a Vegan to help me whenever I felt like it, willing to stop if I tired. Call him Professor Josephus Egghead; “Professor” is close enough and his name can’t be spelled. I called him Joe and he called me the leitmotif that meant “Clifford Russell, the monster with the frostbite.” Joe had almost as much gift for understanding as the Mother Thing. But how do you put over ideas like “tariffs” and “kings” to a person whose people have never had either? The English words were just noise.

But Joe knew histories of many peoples and planets and could call up scenes, in moving stereo and color, until we agreed on what I meant. We jogged along, with me dictating to a silvery ball floating near my mouth and with Joe curled up like a cat on a platform raised to my level, while he dictated to another microphone, making running notes on what I said. His mike had a gimmick that made it a hush-phone; I did not hear him unless he spoke to me.

Then we would stumble. Joe would stop and throw me a sample scene, his best guess of what I meant. The pictures appeared in the air, positioned for my comfort-if I turned my head, the picture moved to accommodate me. The pix were color-stereo-television with perfect life and sharpness-well, give us another twenty years and we’ll have them as realistic. It was a good trick to have the projector concealed and to force images to appear as if they were hanging in air, but those are just gimmicks of stereo optics; we can do them anytime we really want to-after all, you can pack a lifelike view of the Grand Canyon into a viewer you hold in your hand.

The thing that did impress me was the organization behind it. I asked Joe about it. He sang to his microphone and we went on a galloping tour of their “Congressional Library.”

Dad claims that library science is the foundation of all sciences just as math is the key-and that we will survive or founder, depending on how well the librarians do their jobs. Librarians didn’t look glamorous to me but maybe Dad had hit on a not very obvious truth.

This “library” had hundreds, maybe thousands, of Vegans viewing pictures and listening to sound tracks, each with a silvery sphere in front of him. Joe said they were “telling the  memory.” This was equivalent to typing a card for a library’s catalog, except that the result was more like a memory path in brain cells-nine-tenths of that building was an electronic brain.

I spotted a triangular sign like the costume jewelry worn by the Mother Thing, but the picture jumped quickly to something else. Joe also wore one (and others did not) but I did not get around to asking about it, as the sight of that incredible “library” brought up the word “cybernetics” and we went on a detour. I decided later that it might be a lodge pin, or like a Phi Beta Kappa key-the Mother Thing was smart even for a Vegan and Joe was not far behind.

Whenever Joe was sure that he understood some English word, he would wriggle with delight like a puppy being tickled. He was very dignified, but this is not undignified for a Vegan. Their bodies are so fluid and mobile that they smile and frown with the whole works. AVegan holding perfectly still is either displeased or extremely worried.

The sessions with Joe let me tour places from my bed. The difference between “primary school” and “university” caused me to be shown examples. A“kindergarten” looked like an adult Vegan being overwhelmed by babies; it had the innocent rowdiness of a collie pup stepping on his brother’s face to reach the milk dish. But the “university” was a place of quiet beauty, strange-looking trees and plants and flowers among buildings of surrealistic charm unlike any architecture I have ever seen-I suppose I would have been flabbergasted if they had  looked familiar. Parabolas were used a lot and I think all the “straight” lines had that swelling the Greeks called “entasis”-delicate grace with strength.

Joe showed up one day simply undulating with pleasure. He had another silvery ball, larger than the other two. He placed it in front of me, then sang to his own. (“I want you to hear this, Kip!”)

As soon as he ceased the larger sphere spoke in English: “I want you to hear this. Kip!” Squirming with delight, Joe swapped spheres and told me to say something.

“What do you want me to say?” I asked.

(“What do you want me to say?”) the larger sphere sang in Vegan. That was my last session with Prof Joe.

Despite unstinting help, despite the Mother Thing’s ability to make herself understood, I was like the Army mule at West Point: an honorary member of the student body but not prepared for the curriculum. I never did understand their government. Oh, they had government, but it wasn’t any system I’ve heard of. Joe knew about democracies and representation and voting and courts of law; he could fish up examples from many planets. He felt that democracy was “a very good system, for beginners.” It would have sounded patronizing, except that is not  one of their faults.

I never met one of their young. Joe explained that children should not see “strange creatures” until they had learned to feel understanding sympathy. That would have offended me if I hadn’t been learning some “understanding sympathy” myself. Matter of fact, if a human ten-year-old saw a Vegan, he would either run, or poke it with a stick.

I tried to learn about their government from the Mother Thing, in particular how they kept the peace-laws, crimes, punishments, traffic regulations, etc.

It was as near to flat failure as I ever had with her. She pondered a long time, then answered: (“How could one possibly act against one’s own nature?”)  I guess their worst vice was that they didn’t have any. This can be tiresome.

The medical staff were interested in the drugs in Oscar’s helmet-like our interest in a witch doctor’s herbs, but that is not idle interest; remember digitalis and curare.

I told them what each drug did and in most cases I knew the Geneva name as well as the commercial one. I knew that codeine was derived from opium, and opium from poppies. I knew that dexedrine was a sulphate but that was all. Organic chemistry and biochemistry are not easy even with no language trouble. We got together on what a benzene ring was, Peewee drawing it and sticking in her two dollars’ worth, and we managed to agree on “element,” “isotope,” “half life,” and the periodic table. I should have drawn structural formulas, using Peewee’s hands- but neither of us had the slightest idea of the structural formula for codeine and couldn’t do it even when supplied with kindergarten toys which stuck together only in    the valences of the elements they represented.

Peewee had fun, though. They may not have learned much from her; she learned a lot from them.

I don’t know when I became aware that the Mother Thing was not, or wasn’t quite, a female. But it didn’t matter; being a mother is an attitude, not a biological relation.

If Noah launched his ark on Vega Five, the animals would come in by twelves. That makes things complicated. But a “mother thing” is one who takes care of others. I am not sure that all mother things were the same gender; it may have been a matter of temperament.

I met one “father thing.” You might call him “governor” or “mayor,” but “parish priest” or “scoutmaster” is closer, except that his prestige dominated a continent. He breezed in during a session with Joe, stayed five minutes, urged Joe to do a good job, told me to be a good boy and get well, and left, all without hurrying. He filled me with the warm self-reliance that Dad does-I didn’t need to be told that he was a “father thing.” His visit had a flavor of “royalty visiting the wounded” without being condescending-no doubt it was hard to work me into a busy schedule.

Joe neither mothered nor fathered me; he taught me and studied me- “a professor thing.”

Peewee showed up one day full of bubbles. She posed like a mannequin. “Do you like my new spring outfit?”

She was wearing silvery tights, plus a little hump like a knapsack. She looked cute but not glamorous, for she was built like two sticks and this get-up emphasized it. “Very fancy,” I said. “Are you learning to be an acrobat?”

“Don’t be silly, Kip; it’s my new space suit-a real one.”

I glanced at Oscar, big and bulky and filling the closet and said privately, “Hear that, chum?” (“It takes all kinds to make a world.”)

“Your helmet won’t fit it, will it?”

She giggled. “I’m wearing it.”

“You are? ‘The Emperor’s New Clothes’?”

“Pretty close. Kip, disconnect your prejudices and listen. This is like the Mother Thing’s suit except that it’s tailored for me. My old suit wasn’t much good-and that cold cold about finished it. But you’ll be amazed at this one. Take the helmet. It’s there, only you can’t see it. It’s a field. Gas can’t go in or out.” She came close. “Slap me.”

“With what?”

“Oh. I forgot. Kip, you’ve got to get well and up off that bed. I want to take you for a walk.” “I’m in favor. They tell me it won’t be long now.”

“It had better not be. Here, I’ll show you.” She hauled off and slapped herself. Her hand smacked into something inches from her face. “Now watch,” she went on. She moved her hand very slowly; it sank through the barrier, she thumbed her nose at me and giggled.

This impressed me-a space suit you could reach into! Why, I would have been able to give Peewee water and dexedrine and sugar pills when she needed them. “I’ll be darned! What does it?”

“Apower pack on my back, under the air tank. The tank is good for a week, too, and hoses can’t give trouble because there aren’t any.” “Uh, suppose you blow a fuse. There you are, with a lungful of vacuum.”

“The Mother Thing says that can’t happen.”

Hmm-I had never known the Mother Thing to be wrong when she made a flat statement.

“That’s not all,” Peewee went on. “It feels like skin, the joints aren’t clumsy, and you’re never hot or cold. It’s like street clothes.” “Uh, you risk a bad sunburn, don’t you? Unhealthy, you tell me. Unhealthy even on the Moon.”

“Oh, no! The field polarizes. That’s what the field is, sort of. Kip, get them to make you one-we’ll go places!”  I glanced at Oscar. (“Please yourself, pal,” he said distantly. “I’m not the jealous type.”)

“Uh, Peewee, I’ll stick to one I understand. But I’d like to examine that monkey suit of yours.” “Monkey suit indeed!”

I woke up one morning, turned over, and realized that I was hungry. Then I sat up with a jerk. I had turned over in bed.

I had been warned to expect it. The “bed” was a bed and my body was back under my control. Furthermore, I was hungry and I hadn’t been hungry the whole time I had been on Vega Five. Whatever that machinery was, it included a way to nourish me without eating.

But I didn’t stop to enjoy the luxury of hunger; it was too wonderful to be a body again, not just a head. I got out of bed, was suddenly dizzy, recovered and grinned. Hands! Feet!   I examined those wonderful things. They were unchanged and unhurt.

Then I looked more closely. No, not quite unchanged.

I had had a scar on my left shin where I had been spiked in a close play at second; it was gone. I once had “Mother” tattooed on my left forearm at a carnival. Mother had been distressed and Dad disgusted, but he had said to leave it as a reminder not to be a witling. It was gone. There was not a callus on hand or foot.

I used to bite my nails. My nails were a bit long but perfect. I had lost the nail from my right little toe years ago through a slip with a hatchet. It was back.  I looked hastily for my appendectomy scar-found it and felt relieved. If it had been missing, I would have wondered if I was me.

There was a mirror over the chest of drawers. It showed me with enough hair to warrant a guitar (I wear a crew cut) but somebody had shaved me.

On the chest was a dollar and sixty-seven cents, a mechanical pencil, a sheet of paper, my watch, and a handkerchief. The watch was running. The dollar bill, the paper, and the handkerchief had been laundered.

My clothes, spandy clean and invisibly repaired, were on the desk. The socks weren’t mine; the material was more like felt, if you will imagine felted material no thicker than Kleenex which stretches instead of tearing. On the floor were tennis shoes, like Peewee’s even to a “U.S. Rubber” trademark, but in my size. The uppers were heavier felted material. I got dressed.

I was wearing the result when Peewee kicked the door. “Anybody home?” She came in, bearing a tray. “Want breakfast?” “Peewee! Look at me!”

She did. “Not bad,” she admitted, “for an ape. You need a haircut.” “Yes, but isn’t it wonderful! I’m all together again!”

“You never were apart,” she answered, “except in spots-I’ve had daily reports. Where do you want this?” She put the tray on the desk. “Peewee,” I asked, rather hurt, “don’t you care that I’m well?”

“Of course I do. Why do you think I made ‘em let me carry in your breakfast? But I knew last night that they were going to uncork you. Who do you think cut your nails and shaved you? That’ll be a dollar, please. Shaves have gone up.” I got that tired dollar and handed it to her. She didn’t take it. “Aw, can’t you take a joke?” “‘Neither a borrower nor a lender be.’”

“Polonius. He was a stupid old bore. Honest, Kip, I wouldn’t take your last dollar.” “Now who can’t take a joke?”

“Oh, eat your breakfast. That purple juice,” she said, “tastes like orange juice-it’s very nice. The stuff that looks like scrambled eggs is a fair substitute and I had ‘em color it yellow-the eggs here are dreadful, which wouldn’t surprise you if you knew where they get them. The buttery stuff is vegetable fat and I had them color it, too. The bread is bread, I toasted it myself. The salt is salt and it surprises them that we eat it-they think it’s poison. Go ahead; I’ve guinea-pigged everything. No coffee.”

“I won’t miss it.”

“I never touch the stuff-I’m trying to grow. Eat. Your sugar count has been allowed to drop so that you will enjoy it.” The aroma was wonderful. “Where’s your breakfast, Peewee?”

“I ate hours ago. I’ll watch and swallow when you do.”

The tastes were odd but it was just what the doctor ordered-literally, I suppose. I’ve never enjoyed a meal so much. Presently I slowed down to say, “Knife and fork? Spoons?”

“The only ones on-” She vocalized the planet’s name. “I got tired of fingers and I play hob using what they use. So I drew pictures. This set is mine but we’ll order more.”

There was even a napkin, more felted stuff. The water tasted distilled and not aerated. I didn’t mind. “Peewee, how did you shave me? Not even a nick.”

“Little gismo that beats a razor all hollow. I don’t know what they use it for, but if you could patent it, you’d make a fortune. Aren’t you going to finish that toast?” “Uh-” I had thought that I could eat the tray. “No, I’m full.”

“Then I will.” She used it to mop up the “butter,” then announced, “I’m off!” “Where?”

“To suit up. I’m going to take you for a walk!” She was gone.

The hall outside did not imitate ours where it could not be seen from the bed, but a door to the left was a bathroom, just where it should have been. No attempt had been made to make it look like the one at home, and valving and lighting and such were typically Vegan. But everything worked.

Peewee returned while I was checking Oscar. If they had cut him off me, they had done a marvelous job of repairing; even the places I had patched no longer showed. He had been cleaned so thoroughly that there was no odor inside. He had three hours of air and seemed okay in every way. “You’re in good shape, partner.”

(“In the pink! The service is excellent here.”)

“So I’ve noticed.” I looked up and saw Peewee; she was already in her “spring outfit.” “Peewee, do we need space suits just for a walk?”

“No. You could get by with a respirator, sun glasses, and a sun shade.”

“You’ve convinced me. Say, where’s Madame Pompadour? How do you get her inside that suit?” “No trouble at all, she just bulges a little. But I left her in my room and told her to behave herself.” “Will she?”

“Probably not. She takes after me.” “Where is your room?”

“Next door. This is the only part of the house which is Earth-conditioned.” I started to suit up. “Say, has that fancy suit got a radio?”

“All that yours has and then some. Did you notice the change in Oscar?”

“Huh? What? I saw that he was repaired and cleaned up. What else have they done?”

“Just a little thing. One more click on the switch that changes antennas and you can talk to people around you who aren’t wearing radios without shouting.” “I didn’t see a speaker.”

“They don’t believe in making everything big and bulky.”

As we passed Peewee’s room I glanced in. It was not decorated Vegan style; I had seen Vegan interiors through stereo. Nor was it a copy of her own room-not if her parents were sensible. I don’t know what to call it -“Moorish harem” style, perhaps, as conceived by Mad King Ludwig, with a dash of Disneyland.

I did not comment. I had a hunch that Peewee had been given a room “just like her own” because I had one; that fitted the Mother Thing’s behavior-but Peewee had seen a golden chance to let her overfertile imagination run wild. I doubt if she fooled the Mother Thing one split second. She had probably let that indulgent overtone come into her song and had given Peewee what she wanted.

The Mother Thing’s home was smaller than our state capitol but not much; her family seemed to run to dozens, or hundreds-“family” has a wide meaning under their complex interlinkage. We didn’t see any young ones on our floor and I knew that they were being kept away from the “monsters.” The adults all greeted me, inquired as to my health, and congratulated me on my recovery; I was kept busy saying “Fine, thank you! Couldn’t be better.”

They all knew Peewee and she could sing their names.

I thought I recognized one of my therapists, but the Mother Thing, Prof Joe and the boss veterinarian were the only Vegans I was sure of and we did not meet them.

We hurried on. The Mother Thing’s home was typical-many soft round cushions about a foot thick and four in diameter, used as beds or chairs, floor bare, slick and springy, most furniture on the walls where it could be reached by climbing, convenient rods and poles and brackets a person could drape himself on while using the furniture, plants growing unexpectedly here and there as if the jungle were moving in-delightful, and as useful to me as a corset.

Through a series of parabolic arches we reached a balcony. It was not railed and the drop to a terrace below was about seventy-five feet; I stayed back and regretted again that Oscar had no chin window. Peewee went to the edge, put an arm around a slim pillar and leaned out. In the bright outdoor light her “helmet” became an opalescent sphere. “Come see!”

“And break my neck? Maybe you’d like to belay me?” “Oh, pooh! Who’s afraid of heights?”

“I am when I can’t see what I’m doing.”

“Well, for goodness’ sakes, take my hand and grab a post.” I let her lead me to a pillar, then looked out.

It was a city in a jungle. Thick dark green, so tangled that I could not tell trees from vine and bush, spread out all around but was broken repeatedly by buildings as large and larger than  the one we were in. There were no roads; their roads are underground in cities and sometimes outside the cities. But there was air traffic-individual fliers supported by contrivances even less substantial than our own one-man ‘copter harnesses or flying carpets. Like birds they launched themselves from and landed in balconies such as the one we stood in.

There were real birds, too, long and slender and brilliantly colored, with two sets of wings in tandem-which looked aerodynamically unsound but seemed to suit them. The sky was blue and fair but broken by three towering cumulous anvils, blinding white in the distance.

“Let’s go on the roof,” said Peewee. “How?”

“Over here.”

It was a scuttle hole reached by staggered slender brackets the Vegans use as stairs. “Isn’t there a ramp?” “Around on the far side, yes.”

“I don’t think those things will hold me. And that hole looks small for Oscar.” “Oh, don’t be a sissy,” Peewee went up like a monkey.

I followed like a tired bear. The brackets were sturdy despite their grace; the hole was a snug fit.

Vega was high in the sky. It appeared to be the angular size of our Sun, which fitted since we were much farther out than Terra is from the Sun, but it was too bright even with full polarization. I looked away and presently eyes and polarizers adjusted until I could see again. Peewee’s head was concealed by what appeared to be a polished chrome basketball. I said, “Hey, are you still there?”

“Sure,” she answered. “I can see out all right. It’s a grand view. Doesn’t it remind you of Paris from the top of the Arc de Triomphe?” “I don’t know, I’ve never done any traveling.”

“Except no boulevards, of course. Somebody is about to land here.”

I turned the way she was pointing-she could see in all directions while I was hampered by the built-in tunnel vision of my helmet. By the time I was turned around the Vegan was coming in beside us.

(“Hello, children!”)

“Hi, Mother Thing!” Peewee threw her arms around her, picking her up.

(“Not so hasty, dear. Let me shed this.”) The Mother Thing stepped out of her harness, shook herself in ripples, folded the flying gear like an umbrella and hung it over an arm. (“You’re looking fit, Kip.”)

“I feel fine, Mother Thing! Gee, it’s nice to have you back.”

(“I wished to be back when you got out of bed. However, your therapists have kept me advised every minute.”) She put a little hand against my chest, growing a bit to do so, and placed her eyes almost against my face plate. (“You are well?”)

“I couldn’t be better.”

“He really is, Mother Thing!”

(“Good. You agree that you are well, I sense that you are, Peewee is sure that you are and, most important, your leader therapist assures me that you are. We’ll leave at once.”) “What?” I asked. “Where, Mother Thing?”

She turned to Peewee. (“Haven’t you told him, dear?”) “Gee, Mother Thing, I haven’t had a chance.”

(“Very well.”) She turned to me. (“Dear Kip, we must now attend a gathering. Questions will be asked and answered, decisions will be made.”) She spoke to us both. (“Are you ready to leave?”)

“Now?” said Peewee. “Why, I guess so-except that I’ve got to get Madame Pompadour.” (“Fetch her, then. And you, Kip?”)

“Uh-” I couldn’t remember whether I had put my watch back on after I washed and I couldn’t tell because I can’t feel it through Oscar’s thick hide. I told her so. (“Very well. You children run to your rooms while I have a ship fetched. Meet me here and don’t stop to admire flowers.”)

We went down by ramp. I said, “Peewee, you’ve been holding out on me again.” “Why, I have not!”

“What do you call it?”

“Kip-please listen! I was told not to tell you while you were ill. The Mother Thing was very firm about it. You were not to be disturbed-that’s what she said!-while you were growing well.” “Why should I feel disturbed? What is all this? What gathering? What questions?”

“Well … the gathering is sort of a court. Acriminal court, you might say.”

“Huh?” I took a quick look at my conscience. But I hadn’t had any chance to do anything wrong-I had been helpless as a baby up to two hours ago. That left Peewee. “Runt,” I said sternly, “what have you done now?”

“Me? Nothing.” “Think hard.”

“No, Kip. Oh, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you at breakfast! But Daddy says never to break any news until after his second cup of coffee and I thought how nice it would be to take a little walk before we had any worries and I was going to tell you”

“Make it march.”

“-as soon as we came down. I haven’t done anything. But there’s old Wormface.” “What? I thought he was dead.”

“Maybe so, maybe not. But, as the Mother Thing says, there are still questions to be asked, decisions to be made. He’s up for the limit, is my guess.”

I thought about it as we wound our way through strange apartments toward the air lock that led to our Earth-conditioned rooms. High crimes and misdemeanors … skulduggery in the spaceways-yes, Wormface was probably in for it. If the Vegans could catch him. “Had caught him” apparently, since they were going to try him. “But where do we come in? As witnesses?”

“I suppose you could call it that.”

What happened to Wormface was no skin off my nose-and it would be a chance to find out more about the Vegans. Especially if the court was some distance away, so that we would travel and see the country.

“But that isn’t all,” Peewee went on worriedly. “What else?”

She sighed. “This is why I wanted us to have a nice sight-see first. Uh …” “Don’t chew on it. Spit it out.”

“Well … we have to be tried, too.” “What?”

“Maybe ‘examined’ is the word. I don’t know. But I know this: we can’t go home until we’ve been judged.” “But what have we done?” I burst out.

“I don’t know!”

My thoughts were boiling. “Are you sure they’ll let us go home then?”

“The Mother Thing refuses to talk about it.”

I stopped and took her arm. “What it amounts to,” I said bitterly, “is that we are under arrest. Aren’t we?” “Yes-” She added almost in a sob, “But, Kip, I told you she was a cop!”

“Great stuff. We pull her chestnuts out of the fire-and now we’re arrested-and going to be tried-and we don’t even know why! Nice place, Vega Five. ‘The natives are friendly.’ ” They had nursed me-as we nurse a gangster in order to hang him.

“But, Kip-” Peewee was crying openly now. “I’m sure it’ll be all right. She may be a cop-but she’s still the Mother Thing.” “Is she? I wonder.” Peewee’s manner contradicted her words. She was not one to worry over nothing. Quite the contrary.

My watch was on the washstand. I ungasketed to put it in an inside pocket. When I came out, Peewee was doing the same with Madame Pompadour. “Here,” I said, “I’ll take her with me. I’ve got more room.”

“No, thank you,” Peewee answered bleakly. “I need her with me. Especially now.” “Uh, Peewee, where is this court? This city? Or another one?”

“Didn’t I tell you? No, I guess I didn’t. It’s not on this planet.” “I thought this was the only inhabited-“

“It’s not a planet around Vega. Another star. Not even in the Galaxy.” “Say that again?”

“It’s somewhere in the Lesser Magellanic Cloud.”

Chapter 10

I didn’t put up a fight-a hundred and sixty trillion miles from nowhere, I mean. But I didn’t speak to the Mother Thing as I got into her ship.

It was shaped like an old-fashioned beehive and it looked barely big enough to jump us to the space port. Peewee and I crowded together on the floor, the Mother Thing curled up in front and twiddled a shiny rack like an abacus; we took off, straight up.

In a few minutes my anger grew from sullenness to a reckless need to settle it. “Mother Thing!”

(“One moment, dear. Let me get us out of the atmosphere.”) She pushed something, the ship quivered and steadied. “Mother Thing,” I repeated.

(“Wait until I lower us, Kip.”)

I had to wait. It’s as silly to disturb a pilot as it is to snatch the wheel of a car. The little ship took a buffeting; the upper winds must have been dillies. But she could pilot.

Presently there was a gentle bump and I figured we must be at the space port. The Mother Thing turned her head. (“All right, Kip. I sense your fear and resentment. Will it help to say that you two are in no danger? That I would protect you with my body? As you protected mine?”)

“Yes, but-“

(“Then let be. It is easier to show than it is to explain. Don’t clamp your helmet. This planet’s air is like your own.”) “Huh? You mean we’re there?”

“I told you,” Peewee said at my elbow. “Just poof! and you’re there.” I didn’t answer. I was trying to guess how far we were from home. (“Come, children.”)

It was midday when we left; it was night as we disembarked. The ship rested on a platform that stretched out of sight. Stars in front of me were in unfamiliar constellations; slaunchwise down the sky was a thin curdling which I spotted as the Milky Way. So Peewee had her wires crossed-we were far from home but still in the Galaxy-perhaps we had simply switched to  the night side of Vega Five.

I heard Peewee gasp and turned around. I didn’t have strength to gasp.

Dominating that whole side of the sky was a great whirlpool of millions, maybe billions, of stars.

You’ve seen pictures of the Great Nebula in Andromeda?-a giant spiral of two curving arms, seen at an angle. Of all the lovely things in the sky it is the most beautiful. This was like that. Only we weren’t seeing a photograph nor even by telescope; we were so close (if “close” is the word) that it stretched across the sky twice as long as the Big Dipper as seen from home-

so close that I saw the thickening at the center, two great branches coiling around and overtaking each other. We saw it from an angle so that it appeared elliptical, just as M31 in

Andromeda does; you could feel its depth, you could see its shape.

Then I knew I was a long way from home. That was home, up there, lost in billions of crowded stars.

It was some time before I noticed another double spiral on my right, almost as wide-flung but rather lopsided and not nearly as brilliant-a pale ghost of our own gorgeous Galaxy. It slowly penetrated that this second one must be the Greater Magellanic Cloud-if we were in the Lesser and if that fiery whirlpool was our own Galaxy. What I had thought was “The Milky Way”

was simply a milky way, the Lesser Cloud from inside.

I turned and looked at it again. It had the right shape, a roadway around the sky, but it was pale skim milk compared with our own, about as our Milky Way looks on a murky night. I don’t know how it should look, since I’d never seen the Magellanic Clouds; I’ve never been south of the Rio Grande. But I did know that each cloud is a galaxy in its own right, but smaller than ours and grouped with us.

I looked again at our blazing spiral and was homesick in a way I hadn’t been since I was six.

Peewee was huddling to the Mother Thing for comfort. She made herself taller and put an arm around Peewee. (“There, there, dear! I felt the same way when I was very young and saw it for the first time.”)

“Mother Thing?” Peewee said timidly. “Where is home?”

(“See the right half of it, dear, where the outer arm trails into nothingness? We came from a point two-thirds the way out from the center.” “No, no! Not Vega. I want to know where the Sun is!”

(“Oh, your star. But, dear, at this distance it is the same.”)

We learned how far it is from the Sun to the planet Lanador 167,000 light-years. The Mother Thing couldn’t tell us directly as she did not know how much time we meant by a “year”-how long it takes Terra to go around the Sun (a figure she might have used once or not at all and as worth remembering as the price of peanuts in Perth). But she did know the distance from Vega to the Sun and told us the distance from Lanador to Vega with that as a yardstick-six thousand one hundred and ninety times as great. 6190 times 27 light-years gives 167,000 light-years. She courteously gave it in powers of ten the way we figure, instead of using factorial five (1x2x3x4x5 equals 120) which is how Vegans figure. 167,000 light-years is 9.82 x 1017 miles. Round off 9.82 and call it ten. Then -1,000,000,000,000,000,000 miles -is the distance from Vega to Lanador (or from the Sun to Lanador; Vega and the Sun are back-fence neighbors on this scale.)

Athousand million billion miles.

I refuse to have anything to do with such a preposterous figure. It may be “short” as cosmic distances go, but there comes a time when the circuit breakers in your skull trip out from overload.

The platform we were on was the roof of an enormous triangular building, miles on a side. We saw that triangle repeated in many places and always with a two-armed spiral in each corner. It was the design the Mother Thing wore as jewelry.

It is the symbol for “Three Galaxies, One Law.”

I’ll lump here things I learned in driblets: The Three Galaxies are like our Federated Free Nations, or the United Nations before that, or the League of Nations still earlier; Lanador houses their offices and courts and files-the League’s capital, the way the FFN is in New York and the League of Nations used to be in Switzerland. The cause is historical; the people of Lanador are the Old Race; that’s where civilization began.

The Three Galaxies are an island group, like Hawaii State, they haven’t any other close neighbors. Civilization spread through the Lesser Cloud, then through the Greater Cloud and is seeping slowly through our own Galaxy-that is taking longer; there are fifteen or twenty times as many stars in our Galaxy as in the other two.

When I began to get these things straight I wasn’t quite as sore. The Mother Thing was a very important person at home but here she was a minor official-all she could do was bring us in. Still, I wasn’t more than coolly polite for a while-she might have looked the other way while we beat it for home.

They housed us in that enormous building in a part you could call a “transients” hotel,” although “detention barracks” or “jail” is closer. I can’t complain about accommodations but I was getting confoundedly tired of being locked up every time I arrived in a new place. Arobot met us and took us down inside-there are robots wherever you turn on Lanador. I don’t mean

things looking like the Tin Woodman; I mean machines that do things for you, such as this one which led us to our rooms, then hung around like a bellhop expecting a tip. It was a three- wheeled cart with a big basket on top, for luggage if we had any. It met us, whistled to the Mother Thing in Vegan and led us away, down a lift and through a wide and endlessly long corridor.

I was given “my” room again-a fake of a fake, with all errors left in and new ones added. The sight of it was not reassuring; it shrieked that they planned to keep us there as long as-well, as long as they chose.

But the room was complete even to a rack for Oscar and a bathroom outside. Just beyond “my” room was a fake of another kind-a copy of that Arabian Nights horror Peewee had occupied on Vega Five. Peewee seemed delighted, so I didn’t point out the implications.

The Mother Thing hovered around while we got out of space suits. (“Do you think you will be comfortable?”) “Oh, sure,” I agreed unenthusiastically.

(“If you want food or anything, just say so. It will come.”) “So? Is there a telephone somewhere?”           (“Simply speak your wishes. You will be heard.”)

I didn’t doubt her-but I was almost as tired of rooms that were bugged as of being locked up; a person ought to have privacy. “I’m hungry now,” Peewee commented. “I had an early breakfast.”

We were in her room. Apurple drapery drew back, a light glowed in the wall. In about two minutes a section of wall disappeared; a slab at table height stuck out like a tongue. On it were dishes and silverware, cold cuts, fruit, bread, butter,, and a mug of steaming cocoa. Peewee clapped and squealed. I looked at it with less enthusiasm.

(“You see?”) the Mother Thing went on with a smile in her voice. (“Ask for what you need. If you need me, I’ll come. But I must go now.”) “Oh, please don’t go, Mother Thing.”

(“I must, Peewee dear. But I will see you soon. By the bye, there are two more of your people here.”) “Huh?” I put in. “Who? Where?”

(“Next door.”) She was gone with gliding swiftness; the bellhop speeded up to stay ahead of her. I spun around. “Did you hear that?”

“I certainly did!”

“Well-you eat if you want to; I’m going to look for those other humans.” “Hey! Wait for me!”

“I thought you wanted to eat.”

“Well …” Peewee looked at the food. “Just a sec.” She hastily buttered two slices of bread and handed one to me. I was not in that much of a hurry; I ate it. Peewee gobbled hers, took a gulp from the mug and offered it to me. “Want some?”

It wasn’t quite cocoa; there was a meaty flavor, too. But it was good. I handed it back and she finished it. “Now I can fight wildcats. Let’s go, Kip.”

“Next door” was through the foyer of our three-room suite and fifteen yards down the corridor, where we came to a door arch. I kept Peewee back and glanced in cautiously.  It was a diorama, a fake scene.

This one was better than you see in museums. I was looking through a bush at a small clearing in wild country. It ended in a limestone bank. I could see overcast sky and a cave mouth in the rocks. The ground was wet, as if from rain.

Acave man hunkered down close to the cave. He was gnawing the carcass of a small animal, possibly a squirrel.

Peewee tried to shove past me; I stopped her. The cave man did not appear to notice us which struck me as a good idea. His legs looked short but I think he weighed twice what I do and he was muscled like a weight lifter, with short, hairy forearms and knotty biceps and calves. His head was huge, bigger than mine and longer, but his forehead and chin weren’t much.   His teeth were large and yellow and a front one was broken. I heard bones crunching.

In a museum I would have expected a card reading “Neanderthal Man -circa Last Ice Age.” But wax dummies of extinct breeds don’t crack bones. Peewee protested, “Hey, let me look.”

He heard. Peewee stared at him, he stared toward us. Peewee squealed; he whirled and ran into the cave, waddling but making time.  I grabbed Peewee. “Let’s get out of here!”

“Wait a minute,” she said calmly. “He won’t come out in a hurry.” She tried to push the bush aside. “Peewee!”

“Try this,” she suggested. Her hand was shoving air. “They’ve got him penned.”

I tried it. Something transparent blocked the arch. I could push it a little but not more than an inch. “Plastic?” I suggested. “Like Lucite but springier?” “Mmm …” said Peewee. “More like the helmet of my suit. Tougher, though-and I’ll bet light passes only one way. I don’t think he saw us.”

“Okay, let’s get back to our rooms. Maybe we can lock them.”

She went on feeling that barrier. “Peewee!” I said sharply. “You’re not listening.” “What were you doing talking,” she answered reasonably, “when I wasn’t listening?” “Peewee! This is no time to be difficult.”

“You sound like Daddy. He dropped that rat he was eating-he might come back.”

“If he does, you won’t be here, because I’m about to drag you-and if you bite, I’ll bite back. I warn you.”

She looked around with a trace of animosity. “I wouldn’t bite you. Kip, no matter what you did. But if you’re going to be stuffy-oh, well, I doubt if he’ll come out for an hour or so. We’ll come back.”

“Okay.” I pulled her away.

But we did not leave. I heard a loud whistle and a shout: “Hey, buster! Over here!”

The words were not English, but I understood-well enough. The yell came from an archway across the corridor and a little farther on. I hesitated, then moved toward it because Peewee did so.

Aman about forty-five was loafing in this doorway. He was no Neanderthal; he was civilized-or somewhat so. He wore a long heavy woolen tunic, belted in at the waist, forming a sort of

kilt. His legs below that were wrapped in wool and he was shod in heavy short boots, much worn. At the belt and supported by a shoulder sling was a short, heavy sword; there was a dagger on the other side of the belt. His hair was short and he was clean-shaven save for a few days’ gray stubble. His expression was neither friendly nor unfriendly; it was sharply watchful.

“Thanks,” he said gruffly. “Are you the jailer?” Peewee gasped. “Why, that’s Latin!”

What do you do when you meet a Legionary? Right after a cave man? I answered: “No, I am a prisoner myself.” I said it in Spanish and repeated it in pretty fair classical Latin. I used Spanish because Peewee hadn’t been quite correct. It was not Latin he spoke, not the Latin of Ovid and Gaius Julius Caesar. Nor was it Spanish. It was in between, with an atrocious accent and other differences. But I could worry out the meaning.

He sucked his lip and answered, “That’s bad. I’ve been trying for three days to attract attention and all I get is another prisoner. But that’s how the die rolls. Say, that’s a funny accent you have.”

“Sorry, amigo, but I have trouble understanding you, too.” I repeated it in Latin, then split the difference. I added, in improvised lingua franca, “Speak slowly, will you?” “I’ll speak as I please. And don’t call me ‘amico’; I’m a Roman citizen -so don’t get gay.”

That’s a free translation. His advice was more vulgar-I think. It was close to a Spanish phrase which certainly is vulgar. “What’s he saying?” demanded Peewee. “It is Latin, isn’t it? Translate!”

I was glad she hadn’t caught it. “Why, Peewee, don’t you know ‘the language of poetry and science’?” “Oh, don’t be a smartie! Tell me.”

“Don’t crowd me, hon. I’ll tell you later. I’m having trouble following it.”

“What is that barbarian grunting?” the Roman said pleasantly. “Talk language, boy. Or will you have ten with the flat of the sword?”

He seemed to be leaning on nothing-so I felt the air. It was solid; I decided not to worry about his threat. “I’m talking as best I can. We spoke to each other in our own language.”  “Pig grunts. Talk Latin. If you can.” He looked at Peewee as if just noticing her. “Your daughter? Want to sell her? If she had meat on her bones, she might be worth a half denario.” Peewee clouded up. “I understood that!” she said fiercely. “Come out here and fight!”

“Try it in Latin,” I advised her. “If he understands you, he’ll probably spank you.” She looked uneasy. “You wouldn’t let him?”

“You know I wouldn’t.” “Let’s go back.”

“That’s what I said earlier.” I escorted her past the cave man’s lair to our suite. “Peewee, I’m going back and see what our noble Roman has to say. Do you mind?” “I certainly do!”

“Be reasonable, hon. If we could be hurt by them, the Mother Thing would know it. After all, she told us they were here.” “I’ll go with you.”

“What for? I’ll tell you everything I learn. This may be a chance to find out what this silliness means. What’s he doing here? Have they kept him in deep-freeze a couple of thousand years? How long has he been awake? What does he know that we don’t? We’re in a bad spot; all the data I can dig up we need. You can help by keeping out. If you’re scared, send for the

Mother Thing.”

She pouted. “I’m not scared. All right-if that’s the way you want it.” “I do. Eat your dinner.”

Jo-Jo the dogface boy was not in sight; I gave his door a wide berth. If a ship can go anywhere in no time, could it skip a dimension and go anywhere to any time? How would the math work out? The soldier was still lounging at his door. He looked up. “Didn’t you hear me say to stick around?”

“I heard you,” I admitted, “but we’re not going to get anywhere if you take that attitude. I’m not one of your privates.” “Lucky for you!”

“Do we talk peacefully? Or do I leave?”

He looked me over. “Peace. But don’t get smart with me, barbarian.”

He called himself “Iunio.” He had served in Spain and Gaul, then transferred to the VIth Legion, the “Victrix”-which he felt that even a barbarian should know of. His legion’s garrison was Eboracum, north of Londinium in Britain, but he had been on advance duty as a brevet centurion (he pronounced it “centurio”)-his permanent rank was about like top sergeant. He was smaller than I am but I would not want to meet him in an alley. Nor at the palisades of a castra.

He had a low opinion of Britons and all barbarians including me (“nothing personal-some of my best friends are barbarians”), women, the British climate, high brass, and priests; he thought well of Caesar, Rome, the gods, and his own professional ability. The army wasn’t what it used to be and the slump came from treating auxiliaries like Roman citizens.

He had been guarding the building of a wall to hold back barbarians-a nasty lot who would sneak up and slit your throat and eat you-which no doubt had happened to him, since he was now in the nether regions.

I thought he was talking about Hadrian’s Wall, but it was three days’ march north of there, where the seas were closest together. The climate there was terrible and the natives were bloodthirsty beasts who dyed their bodies and didn’t appreciate civilization-you’d think the Eagles were trying to steal their dinky island. Provincial … like me. No offense meant.

Nevertheless he had bought a little barbarian to wife and had been looking forward to garrison duty at Eboracum-when this happened. Iunio shrugged. “Perhaps if I had been careful with lustrations and sacrifices, my luck wouldn’t have run out. But I figure that if a man does his duty and keeps himself and his weapons clean, the rest is the C.O.’s worry. Careful of that doorway; it’s witched.”

The longer he talked the easier it was to understand him. The “-us” endings turned to “-o” and his vocabulary was not that of De Bello Gallico -“horse” wasn’t “equus”; it was “caballo.” His idioms bothered me, plus the fact that his Latin was diluted by a dozen barbarian tongues. But you can blank out every third word in a newspaper and still catch the gist.

I learned a lot about the daily life and petty politics of the Victrix and nothing that I wanted to know. Iunio did not know how he had gotten where he was nor why-except that he was dead and awaiting disposition in a receiving barracks somewhere in the nether world-a theory which I was not yet prepared to accept.

He knew the year of his “death”-Year Eight of the Emperor and Eight Hundred and Ninety-Nine of Rome. I wrote out the dates in Roman numerals to make sure. But I did not remember when Rome was founded nor could I identify the “Caesar” even by his full name-there have been so many Caesars. But Hadrian’s Wall had been built and Britain was still occupied; that placed lunio close to the third century.

He wasn’t interested in the cave man across the way-it embodied to him the worst vice of a barbarian: cowardice. I didn’t argue but I would be timid, too, if I had saber-toothed tigers yowling at my door. (Did they have sabertooths then? Make it “cave bears.”)

Iunio went back and returned with hard dark bread, cheese, and a cup. He did not offer me any and I don’t think it was the barrier. He poured a little of his drink on the floor and started to chomp. It was a mud floor; the walls were rough stone and the ceiling was supported by wooden beams. It may have been a copy of dwellings during the occupation of Britain, but I’m no

expert.

I didn’t stay much longer. Not only did bread and cheese remind me that I was hungry, but I offended lunio. I don’t know what set him off, but he discussed me with cold thoroughness,   my eating habits, ancestry, appearance, conduct, and method of earning a living. Iunio was pleasant as long as you agreed with him, ignored insults, and deferred to him. Many older people demand this, even in buying a thirty-nine-cent can of talcum; you learn to give it without thinking-otherwise you get a reputation as a fresh kid and potential juvenile delinquent. The less respect an older person deserves the more certain he is to demand it from anyone younger. So I left, as lunio didn’t know anything helpful anyhow. As I went back I saw the cave   man peering out his cave. I said, “Take it easy, Jo-Jo,” and went on.

I bumped into another invisible barrier blocking our archway. I felt it, then said quietly, “I want to go in.” The barrier melted away and I walked in-then found that it was back in place.  My rubber soles made no noise and I didn’t call out because Peewee might be asleep. Her door was open and I peeped in. She was sitting tailor-fashion on that incredible Oriental

divan, rocking Madame Pompadour and crying.

I backed away, then returned whistling, making a racket, and calling to her. She popped out of her door, with smiling face and no trace of tears. “Hi, Kip! It took you long enough.” “That guy talks too much. What’s new?”

“Nothing. I ate and you didn’t come back, so I took a nap. You woke me. What did you find out?” “Let me order dinner and I’ll tell you while I eat.”

I was chasing the last bit of gravy when a bellhop robot came for us. It was like the other one except that it had in glowing gold on its front that triangle with three spirals. “Follow me,” it said in English.

I looked at Peewee. “Didn’t the Mother Thing say she was coming back?” “Why, I thought so.”

The machine repeated, “Follow me. Your presence is required.”

I laid my ears back. I have taken lots of orders, some of which I shouldn’t have, but I had never yet taken orders from a piece of machinery. “Go climb a rope!” I said. “You’ll have to drag me.”

This is not what to say to a robot. It did.

Peewee yelled, “Mother Thing! Where are you? Help us!”

Her birdsong came out of the machine. (“It’s all right, dears. The servant will lead you to me.”)

I quit struggling and started to walk. That refugee from an appliance dealer took us into another lift, then into a corridor whose walls whizzed past as soon as we entered. It nudged us through an enormous archway topped by the triangle and spirals and herded us into a pen near one wall. The pen was not apparent until we moved-more of that annoying solid air.

It was the biggest room I have ever been in, triangular, unbroken by post or pillar, with ceiling so high and walls so distant that I half expected local thunderstorms. An enormous room makes me feel like an ant; I was glad to be near a wall. The room was not empty-hundreds in it-but it looked empty because they were all near the walls; the giant floor was bare.

But there were three wormfaces out in the center-Wormface’s trial was in progress.

I don’t know if our own Wormface was there. I would not have known even if they had not been a long way off as the difference between two wormfaces is the difference between having your throat cut and being beheaded. But, as we learned, the presence or absence of the individual offender was the least important part of a trial. Wormface was being tried, present or not-alive or dead.

The Mother Thing was speaking. I could see her tiny figure, also far out on the floor but apart from the wormfaces. Her birdsong voice reached me faintly but I heard her words clearly-in English; from somewhere near us her translated words were piped to us. The feel of her was in the English translation just as it was in her bird tones.

She was telling what she knew of wormface conduct, as dispassionately as if describing something under a microscope, like a traffic officer testifying: “At 9:17 on the fifth, while on duty at-” etc. The facts. The Mother Thing was finishing her account of events on Pluto. She chopped it off at the point of explosion.

Another voice spoke, in English. It was flat with a nasal twang and reminded me of a Vermont grocer we had dealt with one summer when I was a kid. He was a man who never smiled nor frowned and what little he said was all in the same tone, whether it was, “She is a good woman,” or, “That man would cheat his own son,” or, “Eggs are fifty-nine cents,” cold as a cash register. This voice was that sort.

It said to the Mother Thing: “Have you finished?” “I have finished.”

“The other witnesses will be heard. Clifford Russell-“

I jumped, as if that grocer had caught me in the candy jar. The voice went on: “-listen carefully.” Another voice started.

My own-it was the account I had dictated, flat on my back on Vega Five.

But it wasn’t all of it; it was just that which concerned wormfaces. Adjectives and whole sentences had been cut-as if someone had taken scissors to a tape recording. The facts were there; what I thought about them was missing.

It started with ships landing in the pasture back of our house; it ended with that last wormface stumbling blindly down a hole. It wasn’t long, as so much had been left out-our hike across the Moon, for example. My description of Wormface was left in but had been trimmed so much that I could have been talking about Venus de Milo instead of the ugliest thing in creation.

My recorded voice ended and the Yankee-grocer voice said, “Were those your words?” “Huh? Yes.”

“Is the account correct?” “Yes, but-“

“Is it correct?” “Yes.”

“Is it complete?”

I wanted to say that it certainly was not-but I was beginning to understand the system. “Yes.” “Patricia Wynant Reisfeld-“

Peewee’s story started earlier and covered all those days when she had been in contact with wormfaces while I was not. But it was not much longer, for, while Peewee has a sharp eye and a sharper memory, she is loaded with opinions. Opinions were left out.

When Peewee had agreed that her evidence was correct and complete the Yankee voice stated, “All witnesses have been heard, all known facts have been integrated. The three individuals may speak for themselves.”

I think the wormfaces picked a spokesman, perhaps the Wormface, if he was alive and there. Their answer, as translated into English, did not have the guttural accent with which

Wormface spoke English; nevertheless it was a wormface speaking. That bone-chilling yet highly intelligent viciousness, as unmistakable as a punch in the teeth, was in every syllable.

Their spokesman was so far away that I was not upset by his looks and after the first stomach-twisting shock of that voice I was able to listen more or less judicially. He started by denying that this court had jurisdiction over his sort. He was responsible only to his mother-queen and she only to their queen-groups-that’s how the English came out.

That defense, he claimed, was sufficient. However, if the “Three Galaxies” confederation existed-which he had no reason to believe other than that he was now being detained unlawfully before this hiveful of creatures met as a kangaroo court-if it existed, it still had no jurisdiction over the Only People, first, because the organization did not extend to his part of space; second, because even if it were there, the Only People had never joined and therefore its rules (if it had rules) could not apply; and third, it was inconceivable that their queen-group would associate itself with this improbable “Three Galaxies” because people do not contract with animals.

This defense was also sufficient.

But disregarding for the sake of argument these complete and sufficient defenses, this trial was a mockery because no offense existed even under the so-called rules of the alleged “Three Galaxies.” They (the wormfaces) had been operating in their own part of space engaged in occupying a useful but empty planet, Earth. No possible crime could lie in colonizing land inhabited merely by animals. As for the agent of Three Galaxies, she had butted in; she had not been harmed; she had merely been kept from interfering and had been detained only for the purpose of returning her where she belonged.

He should have stopped. Any of these defenses might have stood up, especially the last one. I used to think of the human race as “lords of creation”-but things had happened to me since. I was not sure that this assemblage would think that humans had rights compared with wormfaces. Certainly the wormfaces were ahead of us in many ways. When we clear jungle to make farms, do we worry if baboons are there first?

But he discarded these defenses, explained that they were intellectual exercises to show how foolish the whole thing was under any rules, from any point of view. He would now make his defense.

It was an attack.

The viciousness in his voice rose to a crescendo of hatred that made every word slam like a blow. How dared they do this? They were mice voting to bell the cat! (I know-but that’s how it came out in translation.) They were animals to be eaten, or merely vermin to be exterminated. Their mercy would be rejected if offered, no negotiation was possible, their crimes would never be forgotten, the Only People would destroy them!

I looked around to see how the jury was taking it. This almost-empty hall had hundreds of creatures around the three sides and many were close to us. I had been too busy with the trial to do more than glance at them. Now I looked, for the wormface’s blast was so disturbing that I welcomed a distraction.

They were all sorts and I’m not sure that any two were alike. There was one twenty feet from me who was as horrible as Wormface and amazingly like him-except that this creature’s   grisly appearance did not inspire disgust. There were others almost human in appearance, although they were greatly in the minority. There was one really likely-looking chick as human as I am-except for iridescent skin and odd and skimpy notions of dress. She was so pretty that I would have sworn that the iridescence was just make-up-but I probably would have been wrong. I wondered in what language the diatribe was reaching her? Certainly not English.

Perhaps she felt my stare, for she looked around and unsmilingly examined me, as I might a chimpanzee in a cage. I guess the attraction wasn’t mutual.

There was every gradation from pseudo-wormface to the iridescent girl -not only the range between, but also way out in left field; some had their own private aquaria.

I could not tell how the invective affected them. The girl creature was taking it quietly, but what can you say about a walrus thing with octopus arms? If he twitches, is he angry? Or laughing? Or itches where the twitch is?

The Yankee-voiced spokesman let the wormface rave on.

Peewee was holding my hand. Now she grabbed my ear, tilted her face and whispered, “He talks nasty.” She sounded awed.

The wormface ended with a blast of hate that must have overtaxed the translator for instead of English we heard a wordless scream. The Yankee voice said flatly, “But do you have anything to say in your defense?”

The scream was repeated, then the wormface became coherent. “I have made my defense-that no defense is necessary.” The emotionless voice went on, to the Mother Thing. “Do you speak for them?”

She answered reluctantly, “My lord peers … I am forced to say … that I found them to be quite naughty.” She sounded grieved. “You find against them?”

“I do.”

“Then you may not be heard. Such is the Law.” ” ‘Three Galaxies, One Law.’ I may not speak.”

The flat voice went on, “Will any witness speak favorably?” There was silence.

That was my chance to be noble. We humans were their victims; we were in a position to speak up, point out that from their standpoint they hadn’t done anything wrong, and ask mercy-if they would promise to behave in the future.

Well, I didn’t. I’ve heard all the usual Sweetness and Light that kids get pushed at them-how they should always forgive, how there’s some good in the worst of us, etc. But when I see a black widow, I step on it; I don’t plead with it to be a good little spider and please stop poisoning people. Ablack widow spider can’t help it-but that’s the point.

The voice said to the wormfaces: “Is there any race anywhere which might speak for you? If so, it will be summoned.” The spokesman wormface spat at the idea. That another race might be character witnesses for them disgusted him. “So be it,” answered the Yankee voice. “Are the facts sufficient to permit a decision?”

Almost immediately the voice answered itself: “Yes.” “What is the decision?”

Again it answered itself: “Their planet shall be rotated.”

It didn’t sound like much-shucks, all planets rotate-and the flat voice held no expression. But the verdict scared me. The whole room seemed to shudder.

The Mother Thing turned and came toward us. It was a long way but she reached us quickly. Peewee flung herself on her; the solid air that penned us solidified still more until we three were in a private room, a silvery hemisphere.

Peewee was trembling and gasping and the Mother Thing comforted her. When Peewee had control of herself, I said nervously, “Mother Thing? What did he mean? ‘Their planet shall be rotated.’ “

She looked at me without letting go of Peewee and her great soft eyes were sternly sad. (“It means that their planet is tilted ninety degrees out of the space-time of your senses and mine.”)

Her voice sounded like a funeral dirge played softly on a flute. Yet the verdict did not seem tragic to me. I knew what she meant; her meaning was even clearer in Vegan than in English. If you rotate a plane figure about an axis in its plane-it disappears. It is no longer in a plane and Mr. A. Square of Flatland is permanently out of touch with it.

But it doesn’t cease to exist; it just is no longer where it was. It struck me that the wormfaces were getting off easy. I had halfway expected their planet to be blown up (and I didn’t doubt

that Three Galaxies could do so), or something equally drastic. As it was, the wormfaces were to be run out of town and would never find their way back-there are so many, many dimensions-but they wouldn’t be hurt; they were just being placed in Coventry.

But the Mother Thing sounded as if she had taken unwilling part in a hanging. So I asked her.

(“You do not understand, dear gentle Kip-they do not take their star with them.”) “Oh-” was all I could say.

Peewee turned white.

Stars are the source of life-planets are merely life’s containers. Chop off the star … and the planet gets colder … and colder … and colder-then still colder. How long until the very air freezes? How many hours or days to absolute zero? I shivered and got goose pimples. Worse than Pluto-

“Mother Thing? How long before they do this?” I had a queasy misgiving that I should have spoken, that even wormfaces did not deserve this. Blow them up, shoot them down-but don’t freeze them.

(“It is done,”) she sang in that same dirgelike way. “What?”

(“The agent charged with executing the decision waits for the word … the message goes out the instant we hear it. They were rotated out of our world even before I turned to join you. It is better so.”)

I gulped and heard an echo in my mind: “-‘twere well it were done quickly.”

But the Mother Thing was saying rapidly, (“Think no more on ‘t, for now you must be brave!”) “Huh? What, Mother Thing? What happens now?”

(“You’ll be summoned any moment-for your own trial.”)

I simply stared, I could not speak-I had thought it was all over. Peewee looked still thinner and whiter but did not cry. She wet her lips and said quietly, “You’ll come with us, Mother Thing?”

(“Oh, my children! I cannot. You must face this alone.”)

I found my voice. “But what are we being tried for? We haven’t hurt anybody. We haven’t done a thing.” (“Not you personally. Your race is on trial. Through you.”)

Peewee turned away from her and looked at me-and I felt a thrill of tragic pride that in our moment of extremity she had turned, not to the Mother Thing, but to me, another human being.

I knew that she was thinking of the same thing I was: a ship, a ship hanging close to Earth, only an instant away and yet perhaps uncounted trillion miles in some pocket of folded space, where no DEW line gives warning, where no radar can reach.

The Earth, green and gold and lovely, turning lazily in the warm light of the Sun- Aflat voice- No more Sun.

No stars.

The orphaned Moon would bobble once, then continue around the Sun, a gravestone to the hopes of men. The few at Lunar Base and Luna City and Tombaugh Station would last weeks or even months, the only human beings left alive. Then they would go-if not of suffocation, then of grief and loneliness.

Peewee said shrilly, “Kip, she’s not serious! Tell me she’s not!”

I said hoarsely, “Mother Thing-are the executioners already waiting?”

She did not answer. She said to Peewee, (“It is very serious, my daughter. But do not be afraid. I exacted a promise before I surrendered you. If things go against your race, you two will return with me and be suffered to live out your little lives in my home. So stand up and tell the truth … and do not be afraid.”)

The flat voice entered the closed space: “The human beings are summoned.”

Chapter 11

We walked out onto that vast floor. The farther we went the more I felt like a fly on a plate. Having Peewee with me was a help; nevertheless it was that nightmare where you find yourself not decently dressed in a public place. Peewee clutched my hand and held Madame Pompadour pressed tightly to her. I wished that I had suited-up in Oscar-I wouldn’t have felt quite so under a microscope with Oscar around me.

Just before we left, the Mother Thing placed her hand against my forehead and started to hold me with her eyes. I pushed her hand aside and looked away. “No,” I told her. “No treatments! I’m not going to-oh, I know you mean well but I won’t take an anesthetic. Thanks.”

She did not insist; she simply turned to Peewee. Peewee looked uncertain, then shook her head. “We’re ready,” she piped.

The farther out we got on that great bare floor the more I regretted that I had not let the Mother Thing do whatever it was that kept one from worrying. At least I should have insisted that Peewee take it.

Coming at us from the other walls were two other flies; as they got closer I recognized them: the Neanderthal and the Legionary. The cave man was being dragged invisibly; the Roman covered ground in a long, slow, easy lope. We all arrived at the center at the same time and were stopped about twenty feet apart, Peewee and I at one point of a triangle, the Roman and the cave man each at another.

I called out, “Hail, Iunio!”

“Silence, barbarian.” He looked around him, his eyes estimating the crowd at the walls.

He was no longer in casual dress. The untidy leggings were gone; strapped to his right shin was armor. Over the tunic he wore full cuirass and his head was brave with plumed helmet. All metal was burnished, all leather was clean.

He had approached with his shield on his back, route-march style. But even as we were stopped he unslung it and raised it on his left arm. He did not draw his sword as his right hand held his javelin at the ready carried easily while his wary eyes assessed the foe.

To his left the cave man hunkered himself small, as an animal crouches who has no place to hide.

“Iunio!” I called out. “Listen!” The sight of those two had me still more worried. The cave man I could not talk to but perhaps I could reason with the Roman. “Do you know why we are here?”

“I know,” he tossed over his shoulder. “Today the Gods try us in their arena. This is work for a soldier and a Roman citizen. You’re no help so keep out. No-watch behind me and shout. Caesar will reward you.”

I started to try to talk sense but was cut off by a giant voice from everywhere: “YOU ARE NOW BEING JUDGED!”

Peewee shivered and got closer. I twisted my left hand out of her clutch, substituted my right, and put my left arm around her shoulders. “Head up, partner,” I said softly. “Don’t let them scare you.”

“I’m not scared,” she whispered as she trembled. “Kip? You do the talking.” “Is that the way you want it?”

“Yes. You don’t get mad as fast as I do-and if I lost my temper … well, that’d be awful.” “Okay.”

We were interrupted by that flat, nasal twang. As before, it seemed close by. “This case derives from the one preceding it. The three temporal samples are from a small Lanador-type planet around a star in an out-center part of the Third Galaxy. It is a very primitive area having no civilized races. This race, as you see from the samples, is barbaric. It has been examined twice before and would not yet be up for routine examination had not new facts about it come out in the case which preceded it.”

The voice asked itself: “When was the last examination made?”

It answered itself: “Approximately one half-death of Thorium-230 ago.” It added, apparently to us only: “About eighty thousand of your years.”

Iunio jerked his head and looked around, as if trying to locate the voice. I concluded that he had heard the same figure in his corrupt Latin. Well, I was startled too-but I was numb to that sort of shock.

“Is it necessary again so soon?”

“It is. There has been a discontinuity. They are developing with unexpected speed.” The flat voice went on, speaking to us: “I am your judge. Many of the civilized beings you see around you are part of me. Others are spectators, some are students, and a few are here because they hope to catch me in a mistake.” The voice added, “This they have not managed to do in more than a million of your years.”

I blurted out, “You are more than a million years old?” I did not add that I didn’t believe it.

The voice answered, “I am older than that, but no part of me is that old. I am partly machine, which part can be repaired, replaced, recopied; I am partly alive, these parts die and are replaced. My living parts are more than a dozen dozens of dozens of civilized beings from throughout Three Galaxies, any dozen dozens of which may join with my non-living part to act. Today I am two hundred and nine qualified beings, who have at their instant disposal all knowledge accumulated in my non-living part and all its ability to analyze and integrate.”

I said sharply, “Are your decisions made unanimously?” I thought I saw a loophole-I never had much luck mixing up Dad and Mother but there had been times as a kid when I had managed to confuse issues by getting one to answer one way and the other to answer another.

The voice added evenly, “Decisions are always unanimous. It may help you to think of me as one person.” It addressed everyone: “Standard sampling has been followed. The contemporary sample is the double one; the intermediate sample for curve check is the clothed single sample and was taken by standard random at a spacing of approximately one half-death of Radium-226-” The voice supplemented: “-call it sixteen hundred of your years. The remote curve-check sample, by standard procedure, was taken at two dozen times that distance.”

The voice asked itself: “Why is curve-check spacing so short? Why not at least a dozen times that?” “Because this organism’s generations are very short. It mutates rapidly.”

The explanation appeared to satisfy for it went on, “The youngest sample will witness first.”

I thought he meant Peewee and so did she; she cringed. But the voice barked and the cave man jerked. He did not answer; he simply crouched more deeply into himself. The voice barked again.

It then said to itself, “I observe something.” “Speak.”

“This creature is not ancestor to those others.”

The voice of the machine almost seemed to betray emotion, as if my dour grocer had found salt in his sugar bin. “The sample was properly taken.” “Nevertheless,” it answered, “it is not a correct sample. You must review all pertinent data.”

For a long five seconds was silence. Then the voice spoke: “This poor creature is not ancestor to these others; he is cousin only. He has no future of his own. Let him be returned at once to the space-time whence he came.”

The Neanderthal was dragged rapidly away. I watched him out of sight with a feeling of loss. I had been afraid of him at first. Then I had despised him and was ashamed of him. He was  a coward, be was filthy, he stank. Adog was more civilized. But in the past five minutes I had decided that I had better love him, see his good points-for, unsavory as he was, he was human. Maybe he wasn’t my remote grandfather, but I was in no mood to disown even my sorriest relation.

The voice argued with itself, deciding whether the trial could proceed. Finally it stated: “Examination will continue. If enough facts are not developed, another remote sample of correct lineage will be summoned. Iunio.”

The Roman raised his javelin higher. “Who calls Iunio?” “Stand forth and bear witness.”

Just as I feared, lunio told the voice where to go and what to do. There was no protecting Peewee from his language; it echoed back in English-not that it mattered now whether Peewee was protected from “unladylike” influences.

The flat voice went on imperturbably: “Is this your voice? Is this your witnessing?” Immediately another voice started up which I recognized as that of the Roman, answering questions, giving accounts of battle, speaking of treatment of prisoners. This we got only in English but the translation held the arrogant timbre of Iunio’s voice.

Iunio shouted “Witchcraft!” and made horns at them.

The recording cut off. “The voice matches,” the machine said dryly. “The recording will be integrated.”

But it continued to peck at lunio, asking him details about who he was, why he was in Britain, what he had done there, and why it was necessary to serve Caesar. lunio gave short answers, then blew his top and gave none. He let out a rebel yell that bounced around that mammoth room, drew back and let fly his javelin.

It fell short. But I think he broke the Olympic record. I found myself cheering.

Iunio drew his sword while the javelin was still rising. He flung it up in a gladiatorial challenge, shouting, “Hail, Caesar!” and dropped into guard. He reviled them. He told them what he thought of vermin who were not citizens, not even barbarians!

I said to myself, “Oh, oh! There goes the game. Human race, you’ve had it.”

Iunio went on and on, calling on his gods to help him, each way worse than the last, threatening them with Caesar’s vengeance in gruesome detail. I hoped that, even though it was translated, Peewee would not understand much of it. But she probably did; she understood entirely too much.

I began to grow proud of him. That wormface, in diatribe, was evil; Iunio was not. Under bad grammar, worse language, and rough manner, that tough old sergeant had courage, human dignity, and a basic gallantry. He might be an old scoundrel-but he was my kind of scoundrel.

He finished by demanding that they come at him, one at a time-or let them form a turtle and he would take them all on at once. “I’ll make a funeral pyre of you! I’ll temper my blade in your guts! I, who am about to die, will show you a Roman’s grave-piled high with Caesar’s enemies!”

He had to catch his breath. I cheered again and Peewee joined in. He looked over his shoulder and grinned. “Slit their throats as I bring them down, boy! There’s work to do!” The cold voice said: “Let him now be returned to the space-time whence he came.”

Iunio looked startled as invisible hands pulled him along. He called on Mars and Jove and laid about him. The sword clattered to the floor-picked itself up and returned itself to his scabbard. lunio was moving rapidly away; I cupped my hands and yelled, “Good-bye, lunio!”

“Farewell, boy! They’re cowards!” He shook himself. “Nothing but filthy witchcraft!” Then he was gone. “Clifford Russell-“

“Huh? I’m here.” Peewee squeezed my hand. “Is this your voice?”

I said, “Wait a minute-“ “Yes? Speak.”

I took a breath. Peewee pushed closer and whispered, “Make it good, Kip. They mean it.”

“I’ll try, kid,” I whispered, then went on, “What is this? I was told you intend to judge the human race.” “That is correct.”

“But you can’t. You haven’t enough to go on. No better than witchcraft, just as lunio said. You brought in a cave man-then decided he was a mistake. That isn’t your only mistake. You had lunio here. Whatever he was-and I’m not ashamed of him; I’m proud of him-he’s got nothing to do with now. He’s been dead two thousand years, pretty near-if you’ve sent him back, I mean-and all that he was is dead with him. Good or bad, he’s not what the human race is now.”

“I know that. You two are the test sample of your race now.”

“Yes-but you can’t judge from us. Peewee and I are about as far from average as any specimens can be. We don’t claim to be angels, either one of us. If you condemn our race on what we have done, you do a great injustice. Judge us-or judge me, at least-“

“Me, too!”

“-on whatever I’ve done. But don’t hold my people responsible. That’s not scientific. That’s not valid mathematics.” “It is valid.”

“It is not. Human beings aren’t molecules; they’re all different.” I decided not to argue about jurisdiction; the wormfaces had ruined that approach. “Agreed, human beings are not molecules. But they are not individuals, either.”

“Yes, they are!”

“They are not independent individuals; they are parts of a single organism. Each cell in your body contains your whole pattern. From three samples of the organism you call the human race I can predict the future potentialities and limits of that race.”

“We have no limits! There’s no telling what our future will be.”

“It may be that you have no limits,” the voice agreed. “That is to be determined. But, if true, it is not a point in your favor. For we have limits.” “Huh?”

“You have misunderstood the purpose of this examination. You speak of ‘justice.’ I know what you think you mean. But no two races have ever agreed on the meaning of that term, no matter how they say it. It is not a concept I deal with here. This is not a court of justice.”

“Then what is it?”

“You would call it a ‘Security Council.’ Or you might call it a committee of vigilantes. It does not matter what you call it; my sole purpose is to examine your race and see if you threaten our survival. If you do, I will now dispose of you. The only certain way to avert a grave danger is to remove it while it is small. Things that I have learned about you suggest a possibility that you may someday threaten the security of Three Galaxies. I will now determine the facts.”

“But you said that you have to have at least three samples. The cave man was no good.”

“We have three samples, you two and the Roman. But the facts could be determined from one sample. The use of three is a custom from earlier times, a cautious habit of checking and rechecking. I cannot dispense ‘justice’; I can make sure not to produce error.”

I was about to say that he was wrong, even if he was a million years old. But the voice went on, “I continue the examination. Clifford Russell, is this your voice?”

My voice sounded then-and again it was my own dictated account, but this time everything was left in-purple adjectives, personal opinions, comments about other matters, every word and stutter.

I listened to enough of it, held up my hand. “All right, all right, I said it.” The recording stopped. “Do you now confirm it?”

“Eh? Yes.”

“Do you wish to add, subtract, or change?”

I thought hard. Aside from a few wisecracks that I had tucked in later it was a straight-forward account. “No. I stand on it.” “And is this also your voice?”

This one fooled me. It was that endless recording I had made for Prof Joe about-well, everything on Earth … history, customs, peoples, the works. Suddenly I knew why Prof Joe had worn the same badge the Mother Thing wore. What did they call that?-“Planting a stool pigeon.” Good Old Prof Joe, the no-good, had been a stoolie.

I felt sick.

“Let me hear more of it.”

They accommodated me. I didn’t really listen; I was trying to remember, not what I was hearing, but what else I might have said-what I had admitted that could be used against the human race. The Crusades? Slavery? The gas chambers at Dachau? How much had I said?

The recording droned on. Why, that thing had taken weeks to record; we could stand here until our feet went flat. “It’s my voice.”

“Do you stand on this, too? Or do you wish to correct, revise, or extend?” I said cautiously, “Can I do the whole thing over?”

“If you so choose.”

I started to say that I would, that they should wipe the tape and start over. But would they? Or would they keep both and compare them? I had no compunction about lying-“tell the truth and shame the devil” is no virtue when your family and friends and your whole race are at stake.

But could they tell if I lied?

“The Mother Thing said to tell the truth and not to be afraid.” “But she’s not on our side!”

“Oh, yes, she is.”

I had to answer. I was so confused that I couldn’t think. I had tried to tell the truth to Prof Joe … oh, maybe I had shaded things, not included every horrid thing that makes a headline. But it was essentially true.

Could I do better under pressure? Would they let me start fresh and accept any propaganda I cooked up? Or would the fact that I changed stories be used to condemn our race?  “I stand on it!”

“Let it be integrated. Patricia Wynant Reisfeld-“

Peewee took only moments to identify and allow to be integrated her recordings; she simply followed my example.

The machine voice said: “The facts have been integrated. By their own testimony, these are a savage and brutal people, given to all manner of atrocities. They eat each other, they starve each other, they kill each other. They have no art and only the most primitive of science, yet such is their violent nature that even with so little knowledge they are now energetically using it to exterminate each other, tribe against tribe. Their driving will is such that they may succeed. But if by some unlucky chance they fail, they will inevitably, in time, reach other stars. It is this possibility which must be calculated: how soon they will reach us, if they live, and what their potentialities will be then.”

The voice continued to us: “This is the indictment against you-your own savagery, combined with superior intelligence. What have you to say in your defense?”  I took a breath and tried to steady down. I knew that we had lost-yet I had to try.

I remembered how the Mother Thing had spoken. “My lord peers-“

“Correction. We are not your ‘lords,’ nor has it been established that you are our equals. If you wish to address someone, you may call me the ‘Moderator.’”

“Yes, Mr. Moderator-” I tried to remember what Socrates had said to his judges. He knew ahead of time that he was condemned just as we knew-but somehow, though he had been forced to drink hemlock, he had won and they had lost.

No! I couldn’t use his Apologia-all he had lost was his own life. This was everybody. “-you say we have no art. Have you seen the Parthenon?”

“Blown up in one of your wars.”

“Better see it before you rotate us-or you’ll be missing something. Have you read our poetry? ‘Our revels now are ended: these our actors, as I foretold you, were all spirits, and are   melted into air, into thin air: And, like the baseless fabric of this vision, the cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces, the solemn temples, the great globe itself … itself-yea-all which it

… inherit-shall dissolve-“

I broke down. I heard Peewee sobbing beside me. I don’t know why I picked that one-but they say the subconscious mind never does things “accidentally.” I guess it had to be that one. “As it well may,” commented the merciless voice.

“I don’t think it’s any of your business what we do-as long as we leave you alone-” My stammer was back and I was almost sobbing. “We have made it our business.”

“We aren’t under your government and-“

“Correction. Three Galaxies is not a government; conditions for government cannot obtain in so vast a space, such varied cultures. We have simply formed police districts for mutual protection.”

“But-even so, we haven’t troubled your cops. We were in our own backyards-I was in my own backyard!-when these wormface things came along and started troubling us. We haven’t hurt you.”

I stopped, wondering where to turn. I couldn’t guarantee good behavior, not for the whole human race-the machine knew it and I knew it.

“Inquiry.” It was talking to itself again. “These creatures appear to be identical with the Old Race, allowing for mutation. What part of the Third Galaxy are they from?”  It answered itself, naming co-ordinates that meant nothing to me. “But they are not of the Old Race; they are ephemerals. That is the danger; they change too fast.” “Didn’t the Old Race lose a ship out that way a few half-deaths of Thorium-230 ago? Could that account for the fact that the youngest sample failed to match?”

It answered firmly, “It is immaterial whether or not they may be descended from the Old Race. An examination is in progress; a decision must be made.” “The decision must be sure.”

“It will be.” The bodyless voice went on, to us: “Have either of you anything to add in your defense?”

I had been thinking of what had been said about the miserable state of our science. I wanted to point out that we had gone from muscle power to atomic power in only two centuries-but I was afraid that fact would be used against us. “Peewee, can you think of anything?”

She suddenly stepped forward and shrilled to the air, “Doesn’t it count that Kip saved the Mother Thing?” “No,” the cold voice answered. “It is irrelevant.”

“Well, it ought to count!” She was crying again. “You ought to be ashamed of yourselves! Bullies! Cowards! Oh, you’re worse than wormfaces!”

I pulled her back. She hid her head against my shoulder and shook. Then she whispered, “I’m sorry, Kip. I didn’t mean to. I guess I’ve ruined it.” “It was ruined anyhow, honey.”

“Have you anything more to say?” old no-face went on relentlessly.

I looked around at the hall. -the cloud-capped towers … the great globe itself- “Just this!” I said savagely. “It’s not a defense, you don’t want a defense. All right, take away our star- You will if you can and I guess you can. Go ahead! We’ll make a star! Then, someday, we’ll come back and hunt you down-all of you!”

“That’s telling ‘em. Kip! That’s telling them!”

Nobody bawled me out. I suddenly felt like a kid who has made a horrible mistake at a party and doesn’t know how to cover it up. But I meant it. Oh, I didn’t think we could do it. Not yet. But we’d try. “Die trying” is the proudest human thing.

“It is possible that you will,” that infuriating voice went on. “Are you through?” “I’m through.” We all were through … every one of us.

“Does anyone speak for them? Humans, will any race speak for you?” We didn’t know any other races. Dogs- Maybe dogs would.

“I speak for them!”

Peewee raised her head with a jerk. “Mother Thing!”

Suddenly she was in front of us. Peewee tried to run to her, bounced off that invisible barrier. I grabbed her. “Easy, hon. She isn’t there-it’s some sort of television.”

“My lord peers … you have the advantage of many minds and much knowledge-” It was odd to see her singing, hear her in English; the translation still held that singing quality.

“-but I know them. It is true that they are violent-especially the smaller one-but they are not more violent than is appropriate to their ages. Can we expect mature restraint in a race whose members all must die in early childhood? And are not we ourselves violent? Have we not this day killed our billions? Can any race survive without a willingness to fight? It is true that these creatures are often more violent than is necessary or wise. But, my peers, they all are so very young. Give them time to learn.”

“That is exactly what there is to fear, that they may learn. Your race is overly sentimental; it distorts your judgment.”

“Not true! We are compassionate, we are not foolish. I myself have been the proximate cause of how many, many adverse decisions? You know; it is in your records-I prefer not to remember. And I shall be again. When a branch is diseased beyond healing, it must be pruned. We are not sentimental; we are the best watchers you have ever found, for we do it without anger. Toward evil we have no mercy. But the mistakes of a child we treat with loving forbearance.”

“Have you finished?”

“I say that this branch need not be pruned! I have finished.”

The Mother Thing’s image vanished. The voice went on, “Does any other race speak for them?”

“I do.” Where she had been now stood a large green monkey. He stared at us and shook his head, then suddenly did a somersault and finished looking at us between his legs. “I’m no friend of theirs but I am a lover of ‘justice’-in which I differ from my colleagues in this Council.” He twirled rapidly several times. “As our sister has said, this race is young. The infants of   my own noble race bite and scratch each other-some even die from it. Even I behaved so, at one time.” He jumped into the air, landed on his hands, did a flip from that position. “Yet does anyone here deny that I am civilized?” He stopped, looked at us thoughtfully while scratching. “These are brutal savages and I don’t see how anyone could ever like them-but I say: give them their chance!”

His image disappeared.

The voice said, “Have you anything to add before a decision is reached?”

I started to say: No, get it over with-when Peewee grabbed my ear and whispered. I listened, nodded, and spoke. “Mr. Moderator-if the verdict is against us-can you hold off your hangmen long enough to let us go home? We know that you can send us home in only a few minutes.”

The voice did not answer quickly. “Why do you wish this? As I have explained, you are not personally on trial. It has been arranged to let you live.” “We know. We’d rather be home, that’s all-with our people.”

Again a tiny hesitation. “It shall be done.”

“Are the facts sufficient to permit a decision?” “Yes.”

“What is the decision?”

“This race will be re-examined in a dozen half-deaths of radium. Meanwhile there is danger to it from itself. Against this mischance it will be given assistance. During the probationary period it will be watched closely by Guardian Mother-” the machine trilled the true Vegan name of the Mother Thing “-the cop on that beat, who will report at once any ominous change. In the meantime we wish this race good progress in its long journey upward.

“Let them now be returned forthwith to the space-time whence they came.”

Chapter 12

I didn’t think it was safe to make our atmosphere descent in New Jersey without filing a flight plan. Princeton is near important targets; we might be homed-on by everything up to A- missiles. The Mother Thing got that indulgent chuckle in her song: (“I fancy we can avoid that.”)

She did. She put us down in a side street, sang good-bye and was gone. It’s not illegal to be out at night in space suits, even carrying a rag dolly. But it’s unusual-cops hauled us in. They phoned Peewee’s father and in twenty minutes we were in his study, drinking cocoa and talking and eating shredded wheat.

Peewee’s mother almost had a fit. While we told our story she kept gasping, “I can’t believe it!” until Professor Reisfeld said, “Stop it, Janice. Or go to bed.” I don’t blame her. Her   daughter disappears on the Moon and is given up for dead-then miraculously reappears on Earth. But Professor Reisfeld believed us. The way the Mother Thing had “understanding” he had “acceptance.” When a fact came along, he junked theories that failed to match.

He examined Peewee’s suit, had her switch on the helmet, shined a light to turn it opaque, all with a little smile. Then he reached for the phone. “Dario must see this.” “At midnight. Curt?”

“Please, Janice. Armageddon won’t wait for office hours.” “Professor Reisfeld?”

“Yes, Kip?”

“Uh, you may want to see other things first.” “That’s possible.”

I took things from Oscar’s pockets-two beacons, one for each of us, some metal “paper” covered with equations, two “happy things,” and two silvery spheres. We had stopped on Vega Five, spending most of the time under what I suppose was hypnosis while Prof Joe and another professor thing pumped us for what we knew of human mathematics. They hadn’t been learning math from us-oh, no! They wanted the language we use in mathematics, from radicals and vectors to those weird symbols in higher physics, so that they could teach us; the results were on the metal paper. First I showed Professor Reisfeld the beacons. “The Mother Thing’s beat now includes us. She says to use these if we need her. She’ll usually be close by-a thousand light-years at most. But even if she is far away, she’ll come.”

“Oh.” He looked at mine. It was neater and smaller than the one she haywired on Pluto. “Do we dare take it apart?” “Well, it’s got a lot of power tucked in it. It might explode.”

“Yes, it might.” He handed it back, looking wistful.

A“happy thing” can’t be explained. They look like those little abstract sculptures you feel as well as look at. Mine was like obsidian but warm and not hard; Peewee’s was more like jade. The surprise comes when you touch one to your head. I had Professor Reisfeld do so and he looked awed-the Mother Thing is all around you and you feel warm and safe and understood.

He said, “She loves you. The message wasn’t for me. Excuse me.” “Oh, she loves you, too.”

“Eh?”

“She loves everything small and young and fuzzy and helpless. That’s why she’s a ‘mother thing.’ “ I didn’t realize how it sounded. But he didn’t mind. “You say she is a police officer?”

“Well, she’s more of a juvenile welfare officer-this is a slum neighborhood we’re in, backward and pretty tough. Sometimes she has to do things she doesn’t like. But she’s a good cop and somebody has to do nasty jobs. She doesn’t shirk them.”

“I’m sure she wouldn’t.” “Would you like to try it again?” “Do you mind?”

“Oh, no, it doesn’t wear out.”

He did and got that warm happy look. He glanced at Peewee, asleep with her face in her cereal. “I need not have worried about my daughter, between the Mother Thing-and you.” “It was a team,” I explained. “We couldn’t have made it without Peewee. The kid’s got guts.”

“Too much, sometimes.”

“Other times you need that extra. These spheres are recorders. Do you have a tape recorder, Professor?”

“Certainly, sir.” We set it up and let a sphere talk to it. I wanted a tape because the spheres are one-shot-the molecules go random again. Then I showed him the metal paper. I had tried to read it, got maybe two inches into it, then just recognized a sign here and there. Professor Reisfeld got halfway down the first page, stopped. “I had better make those phone calls.”

At dawn a sliver of old Moon came up and I tried to judge where Tombaugh Station was. Peewee was asleep on her Daddy’s couch, wrapped in his bathrobe and clutching Madame Pompadour. He had tried to carry her to bed but she had wakened and become very, very difficult, so he put her down. Professor Reisfeld chewed an empty pipe and listened to my sphere whispering softly to his recorder. Occasionally he darted a question at me and I’d snap out of it.

Professor Giomi and Dr. Bruck were at the other end of the study, filling a blackboard, erasing and filling it again, while they argued over that metal paper. Geniuses are common at the Institute for Advanced Study but these two wouldn’t be noticed anywhere; Bruck looked like a truckdriver and Giomi like an excited Iunio. They both had that Okay-I-get-you that Professor Reisfeld had. They were excited but Dr. Bruck showed it only by a tic in his face-which Peewee’s Daddy told me was a guarantee of nervous breakdowns-not for Bruck, for other physicists.

Two mornings later we were still there. Professor Reisfeld had shaved; the others hadn’t. I napped and once I took a shower. Peewee’s Daddy listened to recordings-he was now replaying Peewee’s tape. Now and then Bruck and Giomi called him over, Giomi almost hysterical and Bruck stolid. Professor Reisfeld always asked a question or two, nodded and came back to his chair. I don’t think he could work that math-but he could soak up results and fit them with other pieces.

I wanted to go home once they were through with me but Professor Reisfeld said please stay; the Secretary General of the Federated Free Nations was coming.

I stayed. I didn’t call home because what was the use in upsetting them? I would rather have gone to New York City to meet the Secretary General, but Professor Reisfeld had invited him here-I began to realize that anybody really important would come if Professor Reisfeld asked him.

Mr. van Duivendijk was slender and tall. He shook hands and said, “I understand that you are Dr. Samuel C. Russell’s son.” “You know my father, sir?”

“I met him years ago, at the Hague.”

Dr. Bruck turned-he had barely nodded at the Secretary General. “You’re Sam Russell’s boy?” “Uh, you know him, too?”

“Of course. On the Statistical Interpretation of Imperfect Data. Brilliant.” He turned back and got more chalk on his sleeve. I hadn’t known that Dad had written such a thing, nor suspected that he knew the top man in the Federation. Sometimes I think Dad is eccentric.

Mr. van D. waited until the double domes came up for air, then said, “You have something, gentlemen?” “Yeah,” said Bruck.

“Superb!” agreed Giomi. “Such as?”

“Well-” Dr. Bruck pointed at a line of chalk. “That says you can damp out a nuclear reaction at a distance.” “What distance?”

“How about ten thousand miles? Or must you do it from the Moon?” “Oh, ten thousand miles is sufficient, I imagine.”

“You could do it from the Moon,” Giomi interrupted, “if you had enough power. Magnificent!” “It is,” agreed van Duivendijk. “Anything else?”

“What do you want?” demanded Bruck. “Egg in your suds?” “Well?”

“See that seventeenth line? It may mean anti-gravity, I ain’t promising. Or, if you rotate ninety degrees, this unstable Latin thinks it’s time travel.” “It is!”

“If he’s right, the power needed is a fair-sized star-so forget it.” Bruck stared at hen’s tracks. “Anew approach to matter conversion-possibly. How about a power pack for your vest pocket that turns out more ergs than the Brisbane reactors?”

“This can be done?”

“Ask your grandson. It won’t be soon.” Bruck scowled. “Dr. Bruck, why are you unhappy?” asked Mr. van D.

Bruck scowled harder. “Are you goin’ to make this Top Secret’? I don’t like classifying mathematics. It’s shameful.”

I batted my ears. I had explained to the Mother Thing about “classified” and I think I shocked her. I said that the FFN had to have secrets for survival, just like Three Galaxies. She couldn’t see it. Finally she had said that it wouldn’t make any difference in the long run. But I had worried because while I don’t like science being “secret,” I don’t want to be reckless, either.

Mr. van D. answered, “I don’t like secrecy. But I have to put up with it.” “I knew you would say that!”

“Please. Is this a U.S. government project?” “Eh? Of course not.”

“Nor a Federation one. Very well, you’ve shown me some equations. I can’t tell you not to publish them. They’re yours.” Bruck shook his head. “Not ours.” He pointed at me. “His.”

“I see.” The Secretary General looked at me. “I am a lawyer, young man. If you wish to publish, I see no way to stop you.” “Me? It’s not mine-I was just-well, a messenger.”

“You seem to have the only claim. Do you wish this published? Perhaps with all your names?” I got the impression that he wanted it published. “Well, sure. But the third name shouldn’t be mine; it should be-” I hesitated. You can’t put a birdsong down as author. “-uh, make it ‘Dr. M. Thing.’” “Who is he?”

“She’s a Vegan. But we could pretend it’s a Chinese name.”

The Secretary General stayed on, asking questions, listening to tapes. Then he made a phone call-to the Moon. I knew it could be done, I never expected to see it. “Van Duivendijk here … yes, the Secretary General. Get the Commanding General … Jim? … This connection is terrible … Jim, you sometimes order practice maneuvers … My call is unofficial but you might check a valley-” He turned to me; I answered quickly. “-a valley just past the mountains east of Tombaugh Station. I haven’t consulted the Security Council; this is between friends. But if   you go into that valley I very strongly suggest that it be done in force, with all weapons. It may have snakes in it. The snakes will be camouflaged. Call it a hunch. Yes, the kids are fine and so is Beatrix. I’ll phone Mary and tell her I talked with you.”

The Secretary General wanted my address. I couldn’t say when I would be home because I didn’t know how I would get there-I meant to hitchhike but didn’t say so. Mr. van D.’s eyebrows went up. “I think we owe you a ride home. Eh, Professor?”

“That would not be overdoing it.”

“Russell, I heard on your tape that you plan to study engineering-with a view to space.” “Yes, sir. I mean, ‘Yes, Mr. Secretary.’ “

“Have you considered studying law? Many young engineers want to space-not many lawyers. But the Law goes everywhere. Aman skilled in space law and meta-law would be in a strong position.”

“Why not both?” suggested Peewee’s Daddy. “I deplore this modern overspecialization.” “That’s an idea,” agreed Mr. van Duivendijk. “He could then write his own terms.”

I was about to say I should stick to electronics-when suddenly I knew what I wanted to do. “Uh, I don’t think I could handle both.” “Nonsense!” Professor Reisfeld said severely.

“Yes, sir. But I want to make space suits that work better. I’ve got some ideas.”

“Mmm, that’s mechanical engineering. And many other things, I imagine. But you’ll need an M.E. degree.” Professor Reisfeld frowned. “As I recall your tape, you passed College Boards but hadn’t been accepted by a good school.” He drummed his desk. “Isn’t that silly, Mr. Secretary? The lad goes to the Magellanic Clouds but can’t go to the school he wants.”

“Well, Professor? You pull while I push?”

“Yes. But wait.” Professor Reisfeld picked up his phone. “Susie, get me the President of M.I.T. I know it’s a holiday; I don’t care if he’s in Bombay or in bed; get him. Good girl.” He put down the phone. “She’s been with the Institute five years and on the University switchboard before that. She’ll get him.”

I felt embarrassed and excited. M.I.T.-anybody would jump at the chance. But tuition alone would stun you. I tried to explain that I didn’t have the money. “I’ll work the rest of this school and

next summer-I’ll save it.”

The phone rang. “Reisfeld here. Hi, Oppie. At the class reunion you made me promise to tell you if Bruck’s tic started bothering him. Hold onto your chair; I timed it at twenty-one to the minute. That’s a record… . Slow down; you won’t send anybody, unless I get my pound of flesh. If you start your lecture on academic freedom and ‘the right to know,’ I’ll hang up and call Berkeley. I can do business there-and I know I can here, over on the campus… . Not much, just a four-year scholarship, tuition and fees… . Don’t scream at me; use your discretionary fund-or make it a wash deal in bookkeeping. You’re over twenty-one; you can do arithmetic… . Nope, no hints. Buy a pig in a poke or your radiation lab won’t be in on it. Did I say ‘radiation lab’? I meant the entire physical science department. You can flee to South America, don’t let me sway you… . What? I’m an embezzler, too. Hold it.” Professor Reisfeld said to me, “You applied for M.I.T.?”

“Yes, sir, but-“

“He’s in your application files, ‘Clifford C. Russell.’ Send the letter to his home and have the head of your team fetch my copy… . Oh, a broad team, headed by a mathematical physicist- Farley, probably; he’s got imagination. This is the biggest thing since the apple konked Sir Isaac… . Sure, I’m a blackmailer, and you are a chair warmer and a luncheon speaker. When are you returning to the academic life? … Best to Beulah. ‘Bye.”

He hung up. “That’s settled. Kip, the one thing that confuses me is why those worm-faced monsters wanted me.”

I didn’t know how to say it. He had told me only the day before that he had been correlating odd data-unidentified sightings, unexpected opposition to space travel, many things that did not fit. Such a man is likely to get answers-and be listened to. If he had a weakness, it was modesty-which he hadn’t passed on to Peewee. If I told him that invaders from outer space had grown nervous over his intellectual curiosity, he would have pooh-poohed it. So I said, “They never told us, sir. But they thought you were important enough to grab.”

Mr. van Duivendijk stood up. “Curt, I won’t waste time listening to nonsense. Russell, I’m glad your schooling is arranged. If you need me, call me.” When he was gone, I tried to thank Professor Reisfeld. “I meant to pay my way, sir. I would have earned the money before school opens again.”

“In less than three weeks? Come now. Kip.” “I mean the rest of this year and-“

“Waste a year? No.”

“But I already-” I looked past his head at green leaves in their garden. “Professor … what date is it?” “Why, Labor Day, of course.”

(“-forthwith to the space-time whence they came.”)

Professor Reisfeld flipped water in my face. “Feeling better?” “I-I guess so. We were gone for weeks.”

“Kip, you’ve been through too much to let this shake you. You can talk it over with the stratosphere twins-” He gestured at Giomi and Bruck. “-but you won’t understand it. At least I didn’t. Why not assume that a hundred and sixty-seven thousand light-years leaves room for Tennessee windage amounting to only a hair’s breadth of a fraction of one per cent? Especially when the method doesn’t properly use space-time at all?”

When I left, Mrs. Reisfeld kissed me and Peewee blubbered and had Madame Pompadour say good-bye to Oscar, who was in the back seat because the Professor was driving me to the airport.

On the way he remarked, “Peewee is fond of you.” “Uh, I hope so.”

“And you? Or am I impertinent?”

“Am I fond of Peewee? I certainly am! She saved my life four or five times.” Peewee could drive you nuts. But she was gallant and loyal and smart-and had guts. “You won a life-saving medal or two yourself.”

I thought about it. “Seems to me I fumbled everything I tried. But I had help and an awful lot of luck.” I shivered at how luck alone had kept me out of the soup-real soup.  ” ‘Luck’ is a question-begging word,” he answered. “You spoke of the ‘amazing luck’ that you were listening when my daughter called for help. That wasn’t luck.”

“Huh? I mean, ‘Sir’?”

“Why were you on that frequency? Because you were wearing a space suit. Why were you wearing it? Because you were determined to space. When a space ship called, you answered.    If that is luck, then it is luck every time a batter hits a ball. Kip, ‘good luck’ follows careful preparation; ‘bad luck’ comes from sloppiness. You convinced a court older than Man himself that you and your kind were worth saving. Was that mere chance?”

“Uh … fact is, I got mad and almost ruined things. I was tired of being shoved around.”

“The best things in history are accomplished by people who get ‘tired of being shoved around.’ ” He frowned. “I’m glad you like Peewee. She is about twenty years old intellectually and six emotionally; she usually antagonizes people. So I’m glad she has gained a friend who is smarter than she is.”

My jaw dropped. “But, Professor, Peewee is much smarter than I am. She runs me ragged.”

He glanced at me. “She’s run me ragged for years-and I’m not stupid. Don’t downgrade yourself, Kip.” “It’s the truth.”

“So? The greatest mathematical psychologist of our time, a man who always wrote his own ticket even to retiring when it suited him-very difficult, when a man is in demand-this man married his star pupil. I doubt if their offspring is less bright than my own child.”

I had to untangle this to realize that he meant me. Then I didn’t know what to Say. How many kids really know their parents? Apparently I didn’t.

He went on, “Peewee is a handful, even for me. Here’s the airport. When you return for school, please plan on visiting us. Thanksgiving, too, if you will-no doubt you’ll go home Christmas.”

“Uh, thank you, sir. I’ll be back.” “Good.”

“Uh, about Peewee-if she gets too difficult, well, you’ve got the beacon. The Mother Thing can handle her.” “Mmm, that’s a thought.”

“Peewee tries to get around her but she never does. Oh-I almost forgot. Whom may I tell? Not about Peewee. About the whole thing.” “Isn’t that obvious?”

“Sir?”

“Tell anybody anything. You won’t very often. Almost no one will believe you.”

I rode home in a courier jet-those things go fast. Professor Reisfeld had insisted on lending me ten dollars when he found out that I had only a dollar sixty-seven, so I got a haircut at the bus station and bought two tickets to Centerville to keep Oscar out of the luggage compartment; he might have been damaged. The best thing about that scholarship was that now I

needn’t ever sell him-not that I would.

Centerville looked mighty good, from elms overhead to the chuckholes under foot. The driver stopped near our house because of Oscar; he’s clumsy to carry. I went to the barn and racked Oscar, told him I’d see him later, and went in the back door.

Mother wasn’t around. Dad was in his study. He looked up from reading. “Hi, Kip.” “Hi, Dad.”

“Nice trip?”

“Uh, I didn’t go to the lake.”

“I know. Dr. Reisfeld phoned-he briefed me thoroughly.”

“Oh. It was a nice trip-on the whole.” I saw that he was holding a volume of the Britannica, open to “Magellanic Clouds.”

He followed my glance. “I’ve never seen them,” he said regretfully. “I had a chance once, but I was busy except one cloudy night.” “When was that. Dad?”

“In South America, before you were born.” “I didn’t know you had been there.”

“It was a cloak-and-daggerish government job-not one to talk about. Are they beautiful?”

“Uh, not exactly.” I got another volume, turned to “Nebulae” and found the Great Nebula of Andromeda. “Here is beauty. That’s the way we look.” Dad sighed. “It must be lovely.”

“It is. I’ll tell you all about it. I’ve got a tape, too.”

“No hurry. You’ve had quite a trip. Three hundred and thirty-three thousand light-years-is that right?” “Oh, no, just half that.”

“I meant the round trip.”

“Oh. But we didn’t come back the same way.” “Eh?”

“I don’t know how to put it, but in these ships, if you make a jump, any jump, the short way back is the long way ‘round. You go straight ahead until you’re back where you started. Well, not ‘straight’ since space is curved-but straight as can be. That returns everything to zero.”

“Acosmic great-circle?”

“That’s the idea. All the way around in a straight line.”

“Mmm-” He frowned thoughtfully. “Kip, how far is it, around the Universe? The red-shift limit?”

I hesitated. “Dad, I asked-but the answer didn’t mean anything.” (The Mother Thing had said, “How can there be ‘distance’ where there is nothing?”) “It’s not a distance; it’s more of a condition. I didn’t travel it; I just went. You don’t go through, you slide past.”

Dad looked pensive. “I should know not to ask a mathematical question in words.”

I was about to suggest that Dr. Bruck could help when Mother sang out: “Hello, my darlings!” For a split second I thought I was hearing the Mother Thing.

She kissed Dad, she kissed me. “I’m glad you’re home, dear.” “Uh-” I turned to Dad.

“She knows.”

“Yes,” Mother agreed in a warm indulgent tone, “and I don’t mind where my big boy goes as long as he comes home safely. I know you’ll go as far as you want to.” She patted my cheek. “And I’ll always be proud of you. Myself, I’ve just been down to the corner for another chop.”

Next morning was Tuesday, I went to work early. As I expected, the fountain was a mess. I put on my white jacket and got cracking. Mr. Charton was on the phone; he hung up and came over. “Nice trip. Kip?”

“Very nice, Mr. Charton.”

“Kip, there’s something I’ve been meaning to say. Are you still anxious to go to the Moon?” I was startled. Then I decided that he couldn’t know.

Well, I hadn’t seen the Moon, hardly, I was still eager-though not as much in a hurry. “Yes, sir. But I’m going to college first.” “That’s what I mean. I- Well, I have no children. If you need money, say so.”

He had hinted at pharmacy school-but never this. And only last night Dad had told me that he had bought an education policy for me the day I was born-he had been waiting to see what I would do on my own. “Gee, Mr. Charton, that’s mighty nice of you!”

“I approve of your wanting an education.”

“Uh, I’ve got things lined up, sir. But I might need a loan someday.” “Or not a loan. Let me know.” He bustled away, plainly fussed.

I worked in a warm glow, sometimes touching the happy thing, tucked away in a pocket. Last night I had let Mother and Dad put it to their foreheads. Mother had cried; Dad said solemnly,  “I begin to understand, Kip.” I decided to let Mr. Charton try it when I could work around to it. I got the fountain shining and checked the air conditioner. It was okay.

About midafternoon Ace Quiggle came in, plunked himself down. “Hi, Space Pirate! What do you hear from the Galactic Overlords? Yuk yuk yukkity yuk!” What would he have said to a straight answer? I touched the happy thing and said, “What’ll it be. Ace?”

“My usual, of course, and snap it up!” “Achoc malt?”

“You know that. Look alive. Junior! Wake up and get hep to the world around you.”

“Sure thing, Ace.” There was no use fretting about Ace; his world was as narrow as the hole between his ears, no deeper than his own hog wallow. Two girls came in; I served them   cokes while Ace’s malt was in the mixer. He leered at them. “Ladies, do you know Commander Comet here?” One of them tittered; Ace smirked and went on: “I’m his manager. You want

heroing done, see me. Commander, I’ve been thinking about that ad you’re goin’ to run.”

“Huh?”

“Keep your ears open. ‘Have Space Suit-Will Travel,’ that doesn’t say enough. To make money out of that silly clown suit, we got to have oomph. So we add: “Bug-Eyed Monsters Exterminated-World Saving a Specialty-Rates on Request.’ Right?”

I shook my head. “No, Ace.”

“S’matter with you? No head for business?”

“Let’s stick to the facts. I don’t charge for world saving and don’t do it to order; it just happens. I’m not sure I’d do it on purpose-with you in it.” Both girls tittered. Ace scowled. “Smart guy, eh? Don’t you know that the customer is always right?”

“Always?”

“He certainly is. See that you remember it. Hurry up that malt!”

“Yes, Ace.” I reached for it; he shoved thirty-five cents at me; I pushed it back. “This is on the house.” I threw it in his face.

The End

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Coventry (full text) by Robert Heinlein

This is an interesting little story by Robert Heinlein that looks at a utopia where there are no prisons, or death sentences, or punishments. Instead, those that fail to adjust to society and have bad behaviors are sent instead to “Coventry”. Which is a geographical location outside of society where the individual can “do his own thing”.

Exile imposed on those who act to harm others, to a "reservation" where the Covenant is not observed. Coventry is surrounded by a heavily guarded force shield to prevent the exiles from leaving without permission. 

The concept behind this treatment is that the government has no right to "punish" its members, but an individual who is unwilling to abide by society's agreements may be ejected from the society. 

Exiles may re-enter the Covenant if they are willing to submit to psychological reorientation. Most of those entering Coventry expected a complete anarchy, but at least three separate governments had developed inside: New America, nominally a democracy but run as a political machine and dictatorship; Free State, a totalitarian state; and The Angels, the remnants of the Prophet's theocratic reign.

-"Coventry" A Heinlein Concordance

Coventry

“Have you anything to say before sentence is pronounced on you?” The mild eyes of the Senior Judge studied the face of the accused. His question was answered by a sullen silence.

“Very well-the jury has determined that you have violated a basic custom agreed to under the Covenant, and that through this act did damage another free citizen. It is the opinion of the jury and of the court that you did so knowingly, and aware of the probability of damage to a free citizen. Therefore, you are sentenced to choose between the Two Alternatives.”

Atrained observer might have detected a trace of dismay breaking through the mask of indifference with which the young man had faced his trial. Dismay was unreasonable; in view of his offence, the sentence was inevitable-but reasonable men do not receive the sentence.

After waiting a decent interval, the judge turned to the bailiff. “Take him away.”

The prisoner stood up suddenly, knocking over his chair. He glared wildly around at the company assembled and burst into speech.

“Hold on!” he yelled. “I’ve got something to say first!” In spite of his rough manner there was about him the noble dignity of a wild animal at bay. He stared at those around him, breathing heavily, as if they were dogs waiting to drag him down.

“Well?” he demanded, ‘Well? Do I get to talk, or don’t I? It ‘ud be the best joke of this whole comedy, if a condemned man couldn’t speak his mind at the last!”

“You may speak,” the Senior Judge told him, in the same unhurried tones with which he had pronounced sentence, ‘David MacKinnon, as long as you like, and in any manner that you like. There is no limit to that freedom, even for those who have broken the Covenant. Please speak into the recorder.”

MacKinnon glanced with distaste at the microphone near his face. The knowledge that any word he spoke would be recorded and analyzed inhibited him. “I don’t ask for records,” he snapped.

“But we must have them,” the judge replied patiently, ‘in order that others may determine whether, or not, we have dealt with you fairly, and according to the Covenant. Oblige us, please.” “Oh-very well!” He ungraciously conceded the requirement and directed his voice toward the instrument. “There’s no sense in me talking at all-but, just the same, I’m going to talk and

you’re going to listen … You talk about your precious “Covenant” as if it were something holy. I don’t agree to it and I don’t accept it. You act as if it had been sent down from Heaven in a

burst of light. My grandfathers fought in the Second Revolution-but they fought to abolish superstition… not to let sheep-minded fools set up new ones.

“There were men in those days!” He looked contemptuously around him. “What is there left today? Cautious, compromising “safe” weaklings with water in their veins. You’ve planned   your whole world so carefully that you’ve planned the fun and zest right out of it. Nobody is ever hungry, nobody ever gets hurt. Your ships can’t crack up and your crops can’t fail. You even have the weather tamed so it rains politely after midnight. Why wait till midnight, I don’t know … you all go to bed at nine o’clock!

“If one of you safe little people should have an unpleasant emotion-perish the thought! -You’d trot right over to the nearest psychodynamics clinic and get your soft little minds readjusted. Thank God I never succumbed to that dope habit. I’ll keep my own feelings, thanks, no matter how bad they taste.

“You won’t even make love without consulting a psychotechnician-Is her mind as flat and insipid as mine? Is there any emotional instability in her family? It’s enough to make a man gag. As for fighting over a woman-if any one had the guts to do that, he’d find a proctor at his elbow in two minutes, looking for the most convenient place to paralyze him, and inquiring with sickening humility, “May I do you a service, sir?”

The bailiff edged closer to MacKinnon. He turned on him. “Stand back, you. I’m not through yet.” He turned and added, ‘You’ve told me to choose between the Two Alternatives. Well, it’s no hard choice for me. Before I’d submit to treatment, before I’d enter one of your little, safe little, pleasant little reorientation homes and let my mind be pried into by a lot of soft-fingered doctors-before I did anything like that, I’d choose a nice, clean death. Oh, no-there is just one choice for me, not two. I take the choice of going to Coventry-and glad of it, too … I hope I never hear of the United States again!

“But there is just one thing I want to ask you before I go-Why do you bother to live anyhow? I would think that anyone of you would welcome an end to your silly, futile lives just from sheer boredom. That’s all.” He turned back to the bailiff. “Come on, you.”

“One moment, David MacKinnon.” The Senior Judge held up a restraining hand. “We have listened to you. Although custom does not compel it, I am minded to answer some of your statements. Will you listen?”

Unwilling, but less willing to appear loutish in the face of a request so obviously reasonable, the younger man consented.

The judge commenced to speak in gentle, scholarly words appropriate to a lecture room. “David MacKinnon, you have spoken in a fashion that doubtless seems wise to you. Nevertheless, your words were wild, and spoken in haste. I am moved to correct your obvious misstatements of fact. The Covenant is not a superstition, but a simple temporal contract entered into by those same revolutionists for pragmatic reasons. They wished to insure the maximum possible liberty for every person.

“You yourself have enjoyed that liberty. No possible act, nor mode of conduct, was forbidden to you, as long as your action did not damage another. Even an act specifically prohibited by law could not be held against you, unless the state was able to prove that your particular act damaged, or caused evident danger of damage, to a particular individual.

“Even if one should willfully and knowingly damage another-as you have done-the state does not attempt to sit in moral judgment, nor to punish. We have not the wisdom to do that, and  the chain of injustices that have always followed such moralistic coercion endanger the liberty of all. Instead, the convicted is given the choice of submitting to psychological readjustment to correct his tendency to wish to damage others, or of having the state withdraw itself from him-of sending him to Coventry.

“You complain that our way of living is dull and unromantic, and imply that we have deprived you of excitement to which you feel entitled. You are free to hold and express your esthetic opinion of our way of living, but you must not expect us to live to suit your tastes. You are free to seek danger and adventure if you wish-there is danger still in experimental laboratories; there is hardship in the mountains of the Moon, and death in the jungles of Venus-but you are not free to expose us to the violence of your nature.”

“Why make so much of it?” MacKinnon protested contemptuously. “You talk as if I had committed a murder-I simply punched a man in the nose for offending me outrageously!”

“I agree with your esthetic judgment of that individual,” the judge continued calmly, ‘and am personally rather gratified that you took a punch at him-but your psychometrical tests show that you believe yourself capable of judging morally your fellow citizens and feel justified in personally correcting and punishing their lapses. You are a dangerous individual, David    MacKinnon, a danger to all of us, for we can not predict whet damage you may do next. From a social standpoint, your delusion makes you as mad as the March Hare.

“You refuse treatment-therefore we withdraw our society from you, we cast you out, we divorce you. To Coventry with you.” He turned to the bailiff. “Take him away.”

MacKinnon peered out of a forward port of the big transport helicopter with repressed excitement in his heart. There! That must be it-that black band in the distance. The helicopter drew closer, and he became certain that he was seeing the Barrier-the mysterious, impenetrable wall that divided the United States from the reservation known as Coventry.

His guard looked up from the magazine he was reading and followed his gaze. “Nearly there, I see,” he said pleasantly. “Well, it won’t be long now.” “It can’t be any too soon for me!”

The guard looked at him quizzically, but with tolerance. “Pretty anxious to get on with it, eh?”

MacKinnon held his head high. “You’ve never brought a man to the Gateway who was more anxious to pass through!” “Mmm-maybe. They all say that, you know. Nobody goes through the Gate against his own will.”

“I mean it!”

“They all do. Some of them come back, just the same.”

“Say-maybe you can give me some dope as to conditions inside?”

“Sorry,” the guard said, shaking his head, ‘but that is no concern of the United States, nor of any of its employees. You’ll know soon enough.”

MacKinnon frowned a little. “It seems strange-I tried inquiring, but found no one who would admit that they had any notion about the inside. And yet you say that some come out. Surely some of them must talk…”

“That’s simple,” smiled the guard, ‘part of their reorientation is a subconscious compulsion not to discuss their experiences.”

“That’s a pretty scabby trick. Why should the government deliberately conspire to prevent me, and the people like me, from knowing what we are going up against?”

“Listen, buddy,” the guard answered, with mild exasperation, ‘you’ve told the rest of us to go to the devil. You’ve told us that you could get along without us. You are being given plenty of living room in some of the best land on this continent, and you are being allowed to take with you everything that you own, or your credit could buy. What the deuce else do you expect?”

MacKinnon’s face settled in obstinate lines. “What assurance have I that there will be any land left for me?”

“That’s your problem. The government sees to it that there is plenty of land for the population. The divvy-up is something you rugged individualists have to settle among yourselves. You’ve turned down our type of social co-operation; why should you expect the safeguards of our organization?” The guard turned back to his reading and ignored him.

They landed on a small field which lay close under the blank black wall. No gate was apparent, but a guardhouse was located at the side of the field. MacKinnon was the only passenger. While his escort went over to the guardhouse, he descended from the passenger compartment and went around to the freight hold. Two members of the crew were letting down a ramp from the cargo port. When he appeared, one of them eyed him, and said, ‘O.K., there’s your stuff. Help yourself.”

He sized up the job, and said, ‘It’s quite a lot, isn’t it? I’ll need some help. Will you give me a hand with it?”

The crew member addressed paused to light a cigarette before replying, ‘It’s your stuff. If you want it, get it out. We take off in ten minutes.” The two walked around him and reentered the ship.

“Why, you-” MacKinnon shut up and kept the rest of his anger to himself. The surly louts! Gone was the faintest trace of regret at leaving civilization. He’d show them! He could get along without them.

But it was twenty minutes and more before he stood beside his heaped up belongings and watched the ship rise. Fortunately the skipper had not been adamant about the time limit. He turned and commenced loading his steel tortoise. Under the romantic influence of the classic literature of a bygone day he had considered using a string of burros, but had been unable  to find a zoo that would sell them to him. It was just as well-he was completely ignorant of the limits, foibles, habits, vices, illnesses, and care of those useful little beasts, and unaware of his own ignorance. Master and servant would have vied in making each other unhappy.

The vehicle he had chosen was not an unreasonable substitute for burros. It was extremely rugged, easy to operate, and almost foolproof. It drew its power from six square yards of sunpower screens on its low curved roof. These drove a constant-load motor, or, when halted, replenished the storage battery against cloudy weather, or night travel. The bearings were ‘everlasting’, and every moving part, other than the caterpillar treads and the controls, were sealed up, secure from inexpert tinkering.

It could maintain a steady six miles per hour on smooth, level pavement. When confronted by hills, or rough terrain, it did not stop, but simply slowed until the task demanded equaled its steady power output.

The steel tortoise gave MacKinnon a feeling of Crusoe-like independence. It did not occur to him his chattel was the end product of the cumulative effort and intelligent co-operation of hundreds of thousands of men, living and dead. He had been used all his life to the unfailing service of much more intricate machinery, and honestly regarded the tortoise as a piece of equipment of the same primitive level as a wood-man’s axe, or a hunting knife. His talents had been devoted in the past to literary criticism rather than engineering, but that did not prevent him from believing that his native intelligence and the aid of a few reference books would be all that he would really need to duplicate the tortoise, if necessary.

Metal ores were necessary, he knew, but saw no obstacle in that, his knowledge of the difficulties of prospecting, mining, and metallurgy being as sketchy as his knowledge of burros. His goods filled every compartment of the compact little freighter. He checked the last item from his inventory and ran a satisfied eye down the list. Any explorer or adventurer of the past

might well be pleased with such equipment, he thought. He could imagine showing Jack London his knockdown cabin. See, Jack, he would say, it’s proof against any kind of weather-

perfectly insulated walls and floor-and can’t rust. It’s so light that you can set it up in five minutes by yourself, yet it’s so strong that you can sleep sound with the biggest grizzly in the world

snuffling right outside your door.

And London would scratch his head, and say, Dave, you’re a wonder. If I’d had that in the Yukon, it would have been a cinch!

He checked over the list again. Enough concentrated and desiccated food and vitamin concentrate to last six months. That would give him time enough to build hothouses for hydroponics, and get his seeds started. Medical supplies-he did not expect to need those, but foresight was always best. Reference books of all sorts. Alight sporting rifle-vintage: last century. His face clouded a little at this. The War Department had positively refused to sell him a portable blaster. When he had claimed the right of common social heritage, they had grudgingly provided him with the plans and specifications, and told him to build his own. Well, he would, the first spare time he got.

Everything else was in order. MacKinnon climbed into the cockpit, grasped the two hand controls, and swung the nose of the tortoise toward the guardhouse. He had been ignored since the ship had landed; he wanted to have the gate opened and to leave.

Several soldiers were gathered around the guardhouse. He picked out a legate by the silver stripe down the side of his kilt and spoke to him. “I’m ready to leave. Will you kindly open the Gate?”

“O.K.,” the officer answered him, and turned to a soldier who wore the plain gray kilt of a private’s field uniform. “Jenkins, tell the power house to dilate-about a number three opening, tell them,” he added, sizing up the dimensions of the tortoise.

He turned to MacKinnon. “It is my duty to tell you that you may return to civilization, even now, by agreeing to be hospitalized for your neurosis.” “I have no neurosis!”

“Very well. If you change your mind at any future time, return to the place where you entered. There is an alarm there with which you may signal to the guard that you wish the gate opened.”

“I can’t imagine needing to know that.”

The legate shrugged. “Perhaps not-but we send refugees to quarantine all the time. If I were making the rules, it might be harder to get out again.” He was cut off by the ringing of an alarm. The soldiers near them moved smartly away, drawing their blasters from their belts as they ran. The ugly snout of a fixed blaster poked out over the top of the guardhouse and pointed toward the Barrier.

The legate answered the question on MacKinnon’s face. “The power house is ready to open up.” He waved smartly toward that building, then turned back. “Drive straight through the center of the opening. It takes a lot of power to suspend the stasis; if you touch the edge, we’ll have to pick up the pieces.”

Atiny, bright dot appeared in the foot of the barrier opposite where they waited. It spread into a half circle across the lampblack nothingness. Now it was large enough for MacKinnon to see the countryside beyond through the arch it had formed. He peered eagerly.

The opening grew until it was twenty feet wide, then stopped. It framed a scene of rugged, barren hills. He took this in, and turned angrily on the legate. “I’ve been tricked!” he exclaimed. “That’s not fit land to support a man.”

“Don’t be hasty,” he told MacKinnon. “There’s good land beyond. Besides-you don’t have to enter. But if you are going, go!”

MacKinnon flushed, and pulled back on both hand controls. The treads bit in and the tortoise lumbered away, straight for the Gateway to Coventry.

When he was several yards beyond the Gate, he glanced back. The Barrier loomed behind him, with nothing to show where the opening had been. There was a little sheet metal shed adjacent to the point where he had passed through. He supposed that it contained the alarm the legate had mentioned, but he was not interested and turned his eyes back to his driving.

Stretching before him, twisting between rocky hills, was a road of sorts. It was not paved and the surface had not been repaired recently, but the grade averaged downhill and the tortoise was able to maintain a respectable speed. He continued down it, not because he fancied it, but because it was the only road which led out of surroundings obviously unsuited to his needs.

The road was untraveled. This suited him; he had no wish to encounter other human beings until he had located desirable land to settle on, and had staked out his claim. But the hills were not devoid of life; several times he caught glimpses of little dark shapes scurrying among the rocks, and occasionally bright, beady eyes stared back into his.

It did not occur to him at first that these timid little animals, streaking for cover at his coming, could replenish his larder-he was simply amused and warmed by their presence. When he did happen to consider that they might be used as food, the thought was at first repugnant to him-the custom of killing for ‘sport” had ceased to be customary long before his time; and

inasmuch as the development of cheap synthetic proteins in the latter half of the preceding century had spelled the economic ruin of the business of breeding animals for slaughter, it is doubtful if he had ever tasted animal tissue in his life.

But once considered, it was logical to act. He expected to live off the country; although he had plenty of food on hand for the immediate future, it would be wise to conserve it by using what the country offered. He suppressed his esthetic distaste and ethical misgivings, and determined to shoot one of the little animals at the first opportunity.

Accordingly, he dug out the rifle, loaded it, and placed it handy. With the usual perversity of the world-as-it-is, no game was evident for the next half hour. He was passing a little shoulder of rocky outcropping when he saw his prey. It peeked at him from behind a small boulder, its sober eyes wary but unperturbed. He stopped the tortoise and took careful aim, resting and steadying the rifle on the side of the cockpit. His quarry accommodated him by hopping out into full view.

He pulled the trigger, involuntarily tensing his muscles and squinting his eyes as he did so. Naturally, the shot went high and to the right.

But he was much too busy just then to be aware of it. It seemed that the whole world had exploded. His right shoulder was numb, his mouth stung as if he had been kicked there, and his ears rang in a strange and unpleasant fashion. He was surprised to find the gun still intact in his hands and apparently none the worse for the incident.

He put it down, clambered out of the car, and rushed up to where the small creature had been. There was no sign of it anywhere. He searched the immediate neighborhood, but did not find it. Mystified, he returned to his conveyance, having decided that the rifle was in some way defective, and that he should inspect it carefully before attempting to fire it again.

His recent target watched his actions cautiously from a vantage point yards away, to which it had stampeded at the sound of the shot. It was equally mystified by the startling events, being no more used to firearms than was MacKinnon.

Before he started the tortoise again, MacKinnon had to see to his upper lip, which was swollen and tender and bleeding from a deep scratch. This increased his conviction that the gun was defective. Nowhere in the romantic literature of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, to which he was addicted, had there been a warning that, when firing a gun heavy enough to drop a man in his tracks, it is well not to hold the right hand in such ~ manner that the recoil will cause the right thumb and thumb nail to strike the mouth.

He applied an antiseptic and a dressing of sorts, and went on his way, somewhat subdued. The arroyo by which he had entered the hills had widened out, and the hills were greener. He passed around one sharp turn in the road, and found a broad fertile valley spread out before him. It stretched away until it was lost in the warm day’s haze.

Much of the valley was cultivated, and he could make out human habitations. He continued toward it with mixed feelings. People meant fewer hardships, but it did not look as if staking out a claim would be as simple as he had hoped. However-Coventry was a big place.

He had reached the point where the road gave onto the floor of the valley, when two men stepped out into his path. They were carrying weapons of some sort at the ready. One of them called out to him:

“Halt!”

MacKinnon did so, and answered him as they came abreast. “What do you want?”

“Customs inspection. Pull over there by the office.” He indicated a small building set back a few feet from the road, which MacKinnon had not previously noticed. He looked from it back to the spokesman, and felt a slow, unreasoning heat spread up from his viscera. It rendered his none too stable judgment still more unsound.

“What the deuce are you talking about?” he snapped. “Stand aside and let me pass.”

The one who had remained silent raised his weapon and aimed it at MacKinnon’s chest. The other grabbed his arm and pulled the weapon out of line. “Don’t shoot the dumb fool, Joe,” he said testily. “You’re always too anxious.” Then to MacKinnon, ‘You’re resisting the law. Come on-be quick about it!”

“The law?” MacKinnon gave a bitter laugh and snatched his rifle from the seat. It never reached his shoulder-the man who had done all the talking fired casually, without apparently taking time to aim. MacKinnon’s rifle was smacked from his grasp and flew into the air, landing in the roadside ditch behind the tortoise.

The man who had remained silent followed the flight of the gun with detached interest, and remarked, ‘Nice shot, Blackie. Never touched him.”

“Oh, just luck,” the other demurred, but grinned his pleasure at the compliment. “Glad I didn’t nick him, though-saves writing out a report.” He reassumed an official manner, spoke again to MacKinnon, who had been sitting dumbfounded, rubbing his smarting hands. “Well, tough guy? Do you behave, or do we come up there and get you?”

MacKinnon gave in. He drove the tortoise to the designated spot, and waited sullenly for orders. “Get out and start unloading,” he was told. He obeyed, under compulsion. As he piled his precious possessions on the ground, the one addressed as Blackie separated the things into two piles, while Joe listed them on a printed form. He noticed presently that Joe listed only the items that went into the first pile. He understood this when Blackie told him to reload the tortoise with the items from that pile, and commenced himself to carry goods from the other pile into the building. He started to protest-Joe punched him in the mouth, coolly and without rancor. MacKinnon went down, but got up again, fighting. He was in such a blind rage that he would have tackled a charging rhino. Joe timed his rush, and clipped him again. This time he could not get up at once.

Blackie stepped over to a washstand in one corner of the office. He came back with a wet towel and chucked it at MacKinnon. “Wipe your face on that, bud, and get back in the buggy. We got to get going.”

MacKinnon had time to do a lot of serious thinking as he drove Blackie into town. Beyond a terse answer of ‘Prize court” to MacKinnon’s inquiry as to their destination, Blackie did not converse, nor did MacKinnon press him, anxious as he was to have information. His mouth pained him from repeated punishment, his head ached, and he was no longer tempted to precipitate action by hasty speech.

Evidently Coventry was not quite the frontier anarchy he had expected it to be. There was a government of sorts, apparently, but it resembled nothing that he had ever been used to. He had visualized a land of noble, independent spirits who gave each other wide berth and practiced mutual respect. There would be villains, of course, but they would be treated to summary, and probably lethal, justice as quickly as they demonstrated their ugly natures. He had a strong, though subconscious, assumption that virtue is necessarily triumphant.

But having found government, he expected it to follow the general pattern that he had been used to all his life-honest, conscientious, reasonably efficient, and invariably careful of a citizen’s rights and liberties. He was aware that government had not always been like that, but he had never experienced it-the idea was as remote and implausible as cannibalism, or chattel slavery.

Had he stopped to think about it, he might have realized that public servants in Coventry would never have been examined psychologically to determine their temperamental fitness for their duties, and, since every inhabitant of Coventry was there-as he was-for violating a basic custom and ref using treatment thereafter, it was a foregone conclusion that most of them would be erratic and arbitrary.

He pinned his hope on the knowledge that they were going to court. All he asked was a chance to tell his story to the judge.

His dependence on judicial procedure may appear inconsistent in view of how recently he had renounced all reliance on organized government, but while he could renounce government verbally, but he could not do away with a lifetime of environmental conditioning. He could curse the court that had humiliated him by condemning him to the Two Alternatives, but he expected courts to dispense justice. He could assert his own rugged independence, but he expected persons he encountered to behave as if they were bound by the Covenant-he had  met no other sort. He was no more able to discard his past history than he would have been to discard his accustomed body.

But he did not know it yet.

MacKinnon failed to stand up when the judge entered the court room. Court attendants quickly set him right, but not before he had provoked a glare from the bench. The judge’s appearance and manner were not reassuring. He was a well-fed man, of ruddy complexion, whose sadistic temper was evident in face and mien. They waited while he dealt drastically with several petty offenders. It seemed to MacKinnon, as he listened, that almost everything was against the law.

Nevertheless, he was relieved when his name was called. He stepped up and undertook at once to tell his story. The judge’s gavel cut him short.

“What is this case?” the judge demanded, his face set in grim lines. “Drunk and disorderly, apparently. I shall put a stop to this slackness among the young if it takes the last ounce of strength in my body!” He turned to the clerk. “Any previous offences?”

The clerk whispered in his ear. The judge threw MacKinnon a look of mixed annoyance and suspicion, then told the customs” guard to come forward. Blackie told a clear, straightforward tale with the ease of a man used to giving testimony. MacKinnon’s condition was attributed to resisting an officer in the execution of his duty. He submitted the inventory his colleague had prepared, but failed to mention the large quantity of goods which had been abstracted before the inventory was made.

The judge turned to MacKinnon. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?” “I certainly have, Doctor,” he began eagerly. “There isn’t a word of -,

Bang! The gavel cut him short. Acourt attendant hurried to MacKinnon’s side and attempted to explain to him the proper form to use in addressing the court. The explanation confused him. In his experience, ‘judge” naturally implied a medical man-a psychiatrist skilled in social problems. Nor had he heard of any special speech forms appropriate to a courtroom. But he amended his language as instructed.

“May it please the Honorable Court, this man is lying. He and his companion assaulted and robbed me. I was simply-‘Smugglers generally think they are being robbed when customs officials catch them,” the judge sneered. “Do you deny that you attempted to resist inspection?”

“No, Your Honor, but -“

“That will do. Penalty of fifty percent is added to the established scale of duty. Pay the clerk.” “But, Your Honor, I can’t -“

“Can’t you pay it?”

“I haven’t any money. I have only my possessions.”

“So?” He turned to the clerk. “Condemnation proceedings. Impound his goods. Ten days for vagrancy. The community can’t have these immigrant paupers roaming at large, and preying on law-abiding citizens. Next case!”

They hustled him away. It took the sound of a key grating in a barred door behind him to make him realize his predicament.

“Hi, pal, how’s the weather outside?” The detention cell had a prior inmate, a small, well-knit man who looked up from a game of solitaire to address MacKinnon. He sat astraddle a bench on which he had spread his cards, and studied the newcomer with unworried, bright, beady eyes.

“Clear enough outside-but stormy in the courtroom,” MacKinnon answered, trying to adopt the same bantering tone and not succeeding very well. His mouth hurt him and spoiled his grin.

The other swung a leg over the bench and approached him with a light, silent step. “Say, pal, you must ‘a” caught that in a gear box,” he commented, inspecting MacKinnon’s mouth. “Does it hurt?”

“Like the devil,” MacKinnon admitted.

“We’ll have to do something about that.” He went to the cell door and rattled it. “Hey! Lefty! The house is on fire! Come arunnin’!” The guard sauntered down and stood opposite their cell door. “Wha” d’yuh want, Fader?” he said noncommittally.

“My old school chum has been slapped in the face with a wrench, and the pain is inordinate. Here’s a chance for you to get right with Heaven by oozing down to the dispensary, snagging  a dressing and about five grains of neoanodyne.”

The guard’s expression was not encouraging. The prisoner looked grieved. “Why, Lefty,” he said, ‘I thought you would jump at a chance to do a little pure charity like that.” He waited for a moment, then added, ‘Tell you what-you do it, and I’ll show you how to work that puzzle about “How old is Ann?” Is it a go?”

“Show me first.”

“It would take too long. I’ll write it out and give it to you.”

When the guard returned, MacKinnon’s cellmate dressed his wounds with gentle deftness, talking the while. “They call me Fader Magee. What’s your name, pal?” “David MacKinnon. I’m sorry, but I didn’t quite catch your first name.”

“Fader. It isn’t,” he explained with a grin, ‘the name my mother gave me. It’s more a professional tribute to my shy and unobtrusive nature.” MacKinnon looked puzzled. “Professional tribute? What is your profession?”

Magee looked pained. “Why, Dave,” he said, ‘I didn’t ask you that. However,” he went on, ‘it’s probably the same as yours-self-preservation.”

Magee was a sympathetic listener, and MacKinnon welcomed the chance to tell someone about his troubles. He related the story of how he had decided to enter Coventry rather than submit to the sentence of the court, and how he had hardly arrived when he was hijacked and hauled into court. Magee nodded. “I’m not surprised,” he observed. “Aman has to have larceny in his heart, or he wouldn’t be a customs guard.”

“But what happens to my belongings?”   “They auction them off to pay the duty.”          “I wonder how much there will be left for me?”

Magee stared at him. “Left over? There won’t be anything left over. You’ll probably have to pay a deficiency judgment.” “Huh? What’s that?”

“It’s a device whereby the condemned pays for the execution,” Magee explained succinctly, if somewhat obscurely. “What it means to you is that when your ten days is up, you’ll still be in debt to the court. Then it’s the chain gang for you, my lad-you’ll work it off at a dollar a day.”

“Fader-you’re kidding me.”

“Wait and see. You’ve got a lot to learn, Dave.”

Coventry was an even more complex place than MacKinnon had gathered up to this time. Magee explained to him that there were actually three sovereign, independent jurisdictions. The jail where they were prisoners lay in the so-called New America. It had the forms of democratic government, but the treatment he had already received was a fair sample of the fashion in which it was administered.

“This place is heaven itself compared with the Free State,” Magee maintained. “I’ve been there-” The Free State was an absolute dictatorship; the head man of the ruling clique was designated the ‘Liberator’. Their watchwords were Duty and Obedience; an arbitrary discipline was enforced with a severity that left no room for any freedom of opinion. Governmental theory was vaguely derived from the old functionalist doctrines. The state was thought of as a single organism with a single head, a single brain, and a single purpose. Anything not compulsory was forbidden. “Honest so help me,” claimed Magee, ‘you can’t go to bed in that place without finding one of their damned secret police between the sheets.”

“But at that,” he continued, ‘it’s an easier place to live than with the Angels.” “The Angels?”

“Sure. We still got ‘em. Must have been two or three thousand die-hards that chose to go to Coventry after the Revolution-you know that. There’s still a colony up in the hills to the north, complete with Prophet Incarnate and the works. They aren’t bad hombres, but they’ll pray you into heaven even if it kills you.”

All three states had one curious characteristic in common-each one claimed to be the only legal government of the entire United States, and each looked forward to some future day when they would reclaim the ‘unredeemed” portion; i.e., outside Coventry. To the Angels, this was an event which would occur when the First Prophet returned to earth to lead them again. In New America it was hardly more than a convenient campaign plank, to be forgotten after each election. But in the Free State it was a fixed policy.

Pursuant to this purpose there had been a whole series of wars between the Free State and New America. The Liberator held, quite logically, that New America was an unredeemed section, and that is was necessary to bring it under the rule of the Free State before the advantages of their culture could be extended to the outside.

Magee’s words demolished MacKinnon’s dream of finding an anarchistic utopia within the barrier, but he could not let his fond illusion die without a protest. “But see here, Fader,” he persisted, ‘isn’t there some place where a man can live quietly by himself without all this insufferable interference?”

“No-‘considered Fader, ‘no … not unless you took to the hills and hid. Then you ‘ud be all right, as long as you steered clear of the Angels. But it would be pretty slim pickin’s, living off the country. Ever tried it?”

“No … not exactly-but I’ve read all the classics: Zane Grey, and Emerson Hough, and so forth.”

“Well … maybe you could do it. But if you really want to go off and be a hermit, you ‘ud do better to try it on the Outside, where there aren’t so many objections to it.”

“No’-MacKinnon’s backbone stiffened at once-‘no, I’ll never do that. I’ll never submit to psychological reorientation just to have a chance to be let alone. If I could go back to where I was before a couple of months ago, before I was arrested, it might be all right to go off to the Rockies, or look up an abandoned farm somewhere… But with that diagnosis staring me in the face … after being told I wasn’t fit for human society until I had had my emotions re-tailored to fit a cautious little pattern, I couldn’t face it. Not if it meant going to a sanitarium”

“I see,” agreed Fader, nodding, ‘you want to go to Coventry, but you don’t want the Barrier to shut you off from the rest of the world.” “No, that’s not quite fair … Well, maybe, in a way. Say, you don’t think I’m not fit to associate with, do you?”

“You look all right to me,” Magee reassured him, with a grin, ‘but I’m in Coventry too, remember. Maybe I’m no judge.” “You don’t talk as if you liked it much. Why are you here?”

Magee held up a gently admonishing finger. “Tut! Tut! That is the one question you must never ask a man here. You must assume that he came here because he knew how swell everything is here.”

“Still … you don’t seem to like it.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t like it. I do like it; it has flavor. Its little incongruities are a source of innocent merriment. And anytime they turn on the heat I can always go back through the Gate and rest up for a while in a nice quiet hospital, until things quiet down.”

MacKinnon was puzzled again. “Turn on the heat? Do they supply too hot weather here?”

“Huh? Oh. I didn’t mean weather control-there isn’t any of that here, except what leaks over from outside. I was just using an old figure of speech.” “What does it mean?”

Magee smiled to himself. “You’ll find out.”

After supper-bread, stew in a metal dish, a small apple-Magee introduced MacKinnon to the mysteries of cribbage. Fortunately, MacKinnon had no cash to lose. Presently Magee put the cards down without shuffling them. “Dave,” he said, ‘are you enjoying the hospitality offered by this institution?”

“Hardly-Why?”                     “I suggest that we check out.” “Agood idea, but how?”

“That’s what I’ve been thinking about. Do you suppose you could take another poke on that battered phiz of yours, in a good cause?” MacKinnon cautiously fingered his face. “I suppose so-if necessary. It can’t do me much more harm, anyhow.”

“That’s mother’s little man! Now listen-this guard, Lefty, in addition to being kind o” unbright, is sensitive about his appearance. When they turn out the lights, you -“

“Let me out of here! Let me out of here!” MacKinnon beat on the bars and screamed. No answer came. He renewed the racket, his voice an hysterical falsetto. Lefty arrived to investigate, grumbling.

“What the hell’s eating on you?” he demanded, peering through the bars.

MacKinnon changed to tearful petition. “Oh, Lefty, please let me out of here. Please! I can’t stand the dark. It’s dark in here-please don’t leave me alone.” He flung himself, sobbing, on the bars.

The guard cursed to himself. “Another slugnutty. Listen, you-shut up, and go to sleep, or I’ll come in there, and give you something to yelp for!” He started to leave. MacKinnon changed instantly to the vindictive, unpredictable anger of the irresponsible. “You big ugly baboon! You rat-faced idiot! Where’d you get that nose?”

Lefty turned back, fury in his face. He started to speak. MacKinnon cut him short. “Yah! Yah! Yah!” he gloated, like a nasty little boy, ‘Lefty’s mother was scared by a warthog-The guard swung at the spot where MacKinnon’s face was pressed between the bars of the door. MacKinnon ducked and grabbed simultaneously. Off balance at meeting no resistance, the guard rocked forward, thrusting his forearm between the bars. MacKinnon’s fingers slid along his arm, and got a firm purchase on Lefty’s wrist.

He threw himself backwards, dragging the guard with him, until Lefty was jammed up against the outside of the barred door, with one arm inside, to the wrist of which MacKinnon clung as if welded.

The yell which formed in Lefty’s throat miscarried; Magee had already acted. Out of the darkness, silent as death, his slim hands had snaked between the bars and imbedded themselves in the guard’s fleshy neck. Lefty heaved, and almost broke free, but MacKinnon threw his weight to the right and twisted the arm he gripped in an agonizing, bone-breaking leverage.

It seemed to MacKinnon that they remained thus, like some grotesque game of statues, for an endless period. His pulse pounded in his ears until he feared that it must be heard by others, and bring rescue to Lefty. Magee spoke at last:

“That’s enough,” he whispered. “Go through his pockets.”

He made an awkward job if it, for his hands were numb and trembling from the strain, and it was anything but convenient to work between the bars. But the keys were there, in the last pocket he tried. He passed them to Magee, who let the guard slip to the floor, and accepted them.

Magee made a quick job of it. The door swung open with a distressing creak. Dave stepped over Lefty’s body, but Magee kneeled down, unhooked a truncheon from the guard’s belt, and cracked him behind the ear with it. MacKinnon paused.

“Did you kill him?” he asked.

“Cripes, no,” Magee answered softly, ‘Lefty is a friend of mine. Let’s go.”

They hurried down the dimly lighted passageway between cells toward the door leading to the administrative offices-their only outlet. Lefty had carelessly left it ajar, and light shone through the crack, but as they silently approached it, they heard ponderous footsteps from the far side. Dave looked hurriedly for cover, but the best he could manage was to slink back into the corner formed by the cell block and the wall. He glanced around for Magee, but he had disappeared.

The door swung open; a man stepped through, paused, and looked around. MacKinnon saw that he was carrying a blacklight, and wearing its complement-rectifying spectacles. He realized then that the darkness gave him no cover. The blacklight swung his way; he tensed to spring-He heard a dull ‘clunk!” The guard sighed, swayed gently, then collapsed into a loose pile. Magee stood over him, poised on the balls of his feet, and surveyed his work, while caressing the business end of the truncheon with the cupped fingers of his left hand.

“That will do,” he decided. “Shall we go, Dave?”

He eased through the door without waiting for an answer; MacKinnon was close behind him. The lighted corridor led away to the right and ended in a large double door to the street. On the left wall, near the street door, a smaller office door stood open.

Magee drew MacKinnon to him. “It’s a cinch,” he whispered. “There’ll be nobody in there now but the desk sergeant. We get past him, then out that door, and into the ozone-” He motioned Dave to keep behind him, and crept silently up to the office door. After drawing a small mirror from a pocket in his belt, he lay down on the floor, placed his head near the doorframe, and cautiously extended the tiny mirror an inch or two past the edge.

Apparently he was satisfied with the reconnaissance the improvised periscope afforded, for he drew himself back onto his knees and turned his head so that MacKinnon could see the words shaped by his silent lips. “It’s all right,” he breathed, ‘there is only-Two hundred pounds of uniformed nemesis landed on his shoulders. Aclanging alarm sounded through the corridor. Magee went down fighting, but he was outclassed and caught off guard. He jerked his head free and shouted, ‘Run for it, kid!”

MacKinnon could hear running feet somewhere, but could see nothing but the struggling figures before him. He shook his head and shoulders like a dazed animal, then kicked the larger of the two contestants in the face. The man screamed and let go his hold. MacKinnon grasped his small companion by the scruff of the neck and hauled him roughly to his feet.

Magee’s eyes were still merry. “Well played, my lad,” he commended in clipped syllables, as they burst out the street door, ‘- if hardly cricket! Where did you learn La Savate?”    MacKinnon had no time to answer, being fully occupied in keeping up with Magee’s weaving, deceptively rapid progress. They ducked across the street, down an alley, and between two

buildings.

The succeeding minutes, or hours, were confusion to MacKinnon. He remembered afterwards crawling along a roof top and letting himself down to crouch in the blackness of an interior court, but he could not remember how they had gotten on the roof. He also recalled spending an interminable period alone, compressed inside a most unsavory refuse bin, and his   terror when footsteps approached the bin and a light flashed through a crack.

Acrash and the sound of footsteps in flight immediately thereafter led him to guess that Fader had drawn the pursuit away from him. But when Fader did return, and open the top of the bin, MacKinnon almost throttled him before identification was established.

When the active pursuit had been shaken off, Magee guided him across town, showing a sophisticated knowledge of back ways and shortcuts, and a genius for taking full advantage of cover. They reached the outskirts of the town in a dilapidated quarter, far from the civic center. Magee stopped. “I guess this is the end of the line,” kid,” he told Dave. “If you follow this street, you’ll come to open country shortly. That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?”

“I suppose so,” MacKinnon replied uneasily, and peered down the street. Then he turned back to speak again to Magee. But Magee was gone. He had faded away into the shadows. There was neither sight nor sound of him.

MacKinnon started in the suggested direction with a heavy heart. There was no possible reason to expect Magee to stay with him; the service Dave had done him with a lucky kick had been repaid with interest-yet he had lost the only friendly companionship he had found in a strange place. He felt lonely and depressed.

He continued along, keeping to the shadows, and watching carefully for shapes that might be patrolmen. He had gone a few hundred yards, and was beginning to worry about how far it might be to open countryside, when he was startled into gooseflesh by a hiss from a dark doorway.

He did his best to repress the panic that beset him, and was telling himself that policemen never hiss, when a shadow detached itself from the blackness and touched him on the arm. “Dave,” it said softly.

MacKinnon felt a childlike sense of relief and well-being. “Fader!”

“I changed my mind, Dave. The gendarmes would have you in tow before morning. You don’t know the ropes … so I came back.” Dave was both pleased and crestfallen. “Hell’s bells, Fader,” he protested, ‘you shouldn’t worry about me. I’ll get along.”

Magee shook him roughly by the arm. “Don’t be a chump. Green as you are, you’d start to holler about your civil rights, or something, and get clipped in the mouth again.

“Now see here,” he went on, ‘I’m going to take you to some friends of mine who will hide you until you’re smartened up to the tricks around here. But they’re on the wrong side of the law, see? You’ll have to be all three of the three sacred monkeys-see no evil, hear no evil, tell no evil. Think you can do it?”

“Yes, but -“

“No “buts” about it. Come along!”

The entrance was in the rear of an old warehouse. Steps led down into a little sunken pit. From this open areaway-foul with accumulated refuse-a door let into the back wall of the building. Magee tapped lightly but systematically, waited and listened. Presently he whispered, ‘Psst! It’s the Fader.”

The door opened quickly, and Magee was encircled by two great, fat arms. He was lifted off his feet, while the owner of those arms planted a resounding buss on his cheek. “Fader!” she exclaimed, ‘are you all right, lad? We’ve missed you.”

“Now that’s a proper welcome, Mother,” he answered, when he was back on his own feet, ‘but I want you to meet a friend of mine. Mother Johnston, this is David MacKinnon.” “May I do you a service?” David acknowledged, with automatic formality, but Mother Johnston’s eyes tightened with instant suspicion.

“Is he stooled?” she snapped.

“No, Mother, he’s a new immigrant-but I vouch for him. He’s on the dodge, and I’ve brought him here to cool.” She softened a little under his sweetly persuasive tones. “Well -“

Magee pinched her cheek. “That’s a good girl! When are you going to marry me?”

She slapped his hand away. “Even if I were forty years younger, I’d not marry such a scamp as you! Come along then,” she continued to MacKinnon, ‘as long as you’re a friend of the Fader-though it’s no credit to you!” She waddled quickly ahead of them, down a flight of stairs, while calling out for someone to open the door at its foot.

The room was poorly lighted and was furnished principally with a long table and some chairs, at which an odd dozen people were seated, drinking and talking. It reminded MacKinnon of prints he had seen of old English pubs in the days before the Collapse.

Magee was greeted with a babble of boisterous welcome. “Fader!’-‘It’s the kid himself!’-‘How d’ja do it this time, Fader? Crawl down the drains?’-‘Set ‘em up, Mother-the Fader’s back!” He accepted the ovation with a wave of his hand and a shout of inclusive greeting, then turned to MacKinnon. “Folks,” he said, his voice cutting through the confusion, ‘I want you to know

Dave-the best pal that ever kicked a jailer at the right moment. If it hadn’t been for Dave, I wouldn’t be here.”

Dave found himself seated between two others at the table and a stein of beer thrust into his hand by a not uncomely young woman. He started to thank her, but she had hurried off to   help Mother Johnston take care of the sudden influx of orders. Seated opposite him was a rather surly young man who had taken little part in the greeting to Magee. He looked MacKinnon over with a face expressionless except for a recurrent tic which caused his right eye to wink spasmodically every few seconds.

“What’s your line?” he demanded.

“Leave him alone, Alec,” Magee cut in swiftly, but in a friendly tone. “He’s just arrived inside; I told you that. But he’s all right,” he continued, raising his voice to include the others present, ‘he’s been here less than twenty-four hours, but he’s broken jail, beat up two customs busies, and sassed old Judge Fleishacker right to his face. How’s that for a busy day?”

Dave was the center of approving interest, but the party with the tic persisted. “That’s all very well, but I asked him a fair question: What’s his line? If it’s the same as mine, I won’t stand for it-it’s too crowded now.”

“That cheap racket you’re in is always crowded, but he’s not in it. Forget about his line.”

“Why don’t he answer for himself,” Alec countered suspiciously. He half stood up. “I don’t believe he’s stooled -“

It appeared that Magee was cleaning his nails with the point of a slender knife. “Put your nose back in your glass, Alec,” he remarked in a conversational tone, without looking up, ‘-or must I cut it off and put it there?”

The other fingered something nervously in his hand. Magee seemed not to notice it, but nevertheless told him, ‘If you think you can use a vibrator on me faster than I use steel, go ahead-  it will be an interesting experiment.”

The man facing him stood uncertainly for a moment longer, his tic working incessantly. Mother Johnston came up behind him and pushed him down by the shoulders, saying, ‘Boys! Boys! Is that any way to behave?-and in front of a guest, too! Fader, put that toad sticker away-I’m ashamed of you.”

The knife was gone from his hands. “You’re right as always, Mother,” he grinned. “Ask Molly to fill up my glass again.”

An old chap sitting on MacKinnon’s right had followed these events with alcoholic uncertainty, but he seemed to have gathered something of the gist of it, for now he fixed Dave with serum-filled eye, and enquired, ‘Boy, are you stooled to the rogue?” His sweetly sour breath reached MacKinnon as the old man leaned toward him and emphasized his question with a trembling, joint-swollen finger.

Dave looked to Magee for advice and enlightenment. Magee answered for him. “No, he’s not-Mother Johnston knew that when she let him in. He’s here for sanctuary-as our customs provide!”

An uneasy stir ran around the room. Molly paused in her serving and listened openly. But the old man seemed satisfied. “True … true enough,” he agreed, and took another pull at his drink, ‘sanctuary may be given when needed, if-‘His words were lost in a mumble.

The nervous tension slackened. Most of those present were subconsciously glad to follow the lead of the old man, and excuse the intrusion on the score of necessity. Magee turned back to Dave. “I thought that what you didn’t know couldn’t hurt you-or us-but the matter has been opened.”

“But what did he mean?”

“Gramps asked you if you had been stooled to the rogue-whether or not you were a member of the ancient and honorable fraternity of thieves, cutthroats, and pickpockets!”

Magee stared into Dave’s face with a look of sardonic amusement. Dave looked uncertainly from Magee to the others, saw them exchange glances, and wondered what answer was expected of him. Alec broke the pause. “Well,” he sneered, ‘what are you waiting for? Go ahead and put the question to him-or are the great Fader’s friends free to use this club without so much as a by-your-leave?”

“I thought I told you to quiet down, Alec,” the Fader replied evenly. “Besides-you’re skipping a requirement. All the comrades present must first decide whether or not to put the question at all.”

Aquiet little man with a chronic worried look in his eyes answered him. “I don’t think that quite applies, Fader. If he had come himself, or fallen into our hands-in that case, yes. But you brought him here. I think I speak for all when I say he should answer the question. Unless someone objects, I will ask him myself.” He allowed an interval to pass. No one spoke up. “Very well then … Dave, you have seen too much and heard too much. Will you leave us now-or will you stay and take the oath of our guild? I must warn you that once stooled you are stooled for life-and there is but one punishment for betraying the rogue.”

He drew his thumb across his throat in an age-old deadly gesture. Gramps made an appropriate sound effect by sucking air wetly through his teeth, and chuckled. Dave looked around. Magee’s face gave him no help. “What is it that I have to swear to?” he temporized.

The parley was brought to an abrupt ending by the sound of pounding outside. There was a shout, muffled by two closed doors and a stairway, of ‘Open up down there!” Magee got lightly to his feet and beckoned to Dave.

“That’s for us, kid,” he said. “Come along.”

He stepped over to a ponderous, old-fashioned radiophonograph which stood against the wall, reached under it, fiddled for a moment, then swung out one side panel of it. Dave saw that the mechanism had been cunningly rearranged in such a fashion that a man could squeeze inside it. Magee urged him into it, slammed the panel closed, and left him.

His face was pressed up close to the slotted grill which was intended to cover the sound box. Molly had cleared off the two extra glasses from the table, and was dumping one drink so that it spread along the table top and erased the rings their glasses had made.

MacKinnon saw the Fader slide under the table, and reached up. Then he was gone. Apparently he had, in some fashion, attached himself to the underside of the table.

Mother Johnston made a great-to-do of opening up. The lower door she opened at once, with much noise. Then she clumped slowly up the steps, pausing, wheezing, and complaining aloud. He heard her unlock the outer door.

“Afine time to be waking honest people up!” she protested. “It’s hard enough to get the work done and make both ends meet, without dropping what I’m doing every five minutes, and -“ “Enough of that, old girl,” a man’s voice answered, ‘just get along downstairs. We have business with you.”

“What sort of business?” she demanded.

“It might be selling liquor without a license, but it’s not-this time.”

“I don’t-this is a private club. The members own the liquor; I simply serve it to them.”

“That’s as may be. It’s those members I want to talk to. Get out of the way now, and be spry about it.”

They came pushing into the room with Mother Johnston, still voluble, carried along in by the van. The speaker was a sergeant of police; he was accompanied by a patrolman. Following them were two other uniformed men, but they were soldiers. MacKinnon judged by the markings on their kilts that they were corporal and private-provided the insignia in New America were similar to those used by the United States Army.

The sergeant paid no attention to Mother Johnston. “All right, you men,” he called out, ‘line up!”

They did so, ungraciously but promptly. Molly and Mother Johnston watched them, and moved closer to each other. The police sergeant called out, ‘All right, corporal-take charge!” The boy who washed up in the kitchen had been staring round-eyed. He dropped a glass. It bounced around on the hard floor, giving out bell-like sounds in the silence.

The man who had questioned Dave spoke up. “What’s all this?”

The sergeant answered with a pleased grin. “Conscription-that’s what it is. You are all enlisted in the army for the duration.” “Press gang!” It was an involuntary gasp that came from no particular source.

The corporal stepped briskly forward. “Form a column of twos,” he directed. But the little man with the worried eyes was not done. “I don’t understand this,” he objected. “We signed an armistice with the Free State three weeks ago.”

“That’s not your worry,” countered the sergeant, ‘nor mine. We are picking up every able-bodied man not in essential industry. Come along.” “Then you can’t take me.”

“Why not?”

He held up the stump of a missing hand. The sergeant glanced from it to the corporal, who nodded grudgingly, and said, ‘Okay-but report to the office in the morning, and register.”

He started to march them out when Alec broke ranks and backed up to the wall, screaming, ‘You can’t do this to me! I won’t go!” His deadly little vibrator was exposed in his hand, and the right side of his face was drawn up in a spastic wink that left his teeth bare.

“Get him, Steeves,” ordered the corporal. The private stepped forward, but stopped when Alec brandished the vibrator at him. He had no desire to have a vibroblade between his ribs, and there was no doubt as to the uncontrolled dangerousness of his hysterical opponent.

The corporal, looking phlegmatic, almost bored, levelled a small tube at a spot on the wall over Alec’s head. Dave heard a soft pop!, and a thin tinkle. Alec stood motionless for a few

seconds, his face even more strained, as if he were exerting the limit of his will against some unseen force, then slid quietly to the floor. The tonic spasm in his face relaxed, and his features smoothed into those of a tired and petulant, and very bewildered, little boy.

“Two of you birds carry him,” directed the corporal. “Let’s get going.”

The sergeant was the last to leave. He turned at the door and spoke to Mother Johnston. “Have you seen the Fader lately?” “The Fader?” She seemed puzzled. “Why, he’s in jail.”

“Ah, yes… so he is.” He went out.

Magee refused the drink that Mother Johnston offered him.

Dave was surprised to see that he appeared worried for the first time. “I don’t understand it,” Magee muttered, half to himself, then addressed the one-handed man. “Ed-bring me up to date.”

“Not much news since they tagged you, Fader. The armistice was before that. I thought from the papers that things were going to be straightened out for once.”

“So did I. But the government must expect war if they are going in for general conscription.” He stood up. “I’ve got to have more data. Al!” The kitchen boy stuck his head into the room. “What ‘cha want, Fader?”

“Go out and make palaver with five or six of the beggars. Look up their “king”. You know where he makes his pitch?” “Sure-over by the auditorium.”

“Find out what’s stirring, but don’t let them know I sent you., “Right, Fader. It’s in the bag.” The boy swaggered out. “Molly.”

“Yes, Fader?”

“Will you go out, and do the same thing with some of the business girls? I want to know what they hear from their customers.” She nodded agreement. He went on, ‘Better look up that   little redhead that has her beat up on Union Square. She can get secrets out of a dead man. Here-” He pulled a wad of bills out of his pocket and handed her several. “You better take this grease … You might have to pay off a cop to get back out of the district.”

Magee was not disposed to talk, and insisted that Dave get some sleep. He was easily persuaded, not having slept since he entered Coventry. That seemed like a lifetime past; he was exhausted. Mother Johnston fixed him a shakedown in a dark, stuffy room on the same underground level. It had none of the hygienic comforts to which he was accustomed-air- conditioning, restful music, hydraulic mattress, nor soundproofing-and he missed his usual relaxing soak and auto-massage, but he was too tired to care. He slept in clothing and under covers for the first time in his life.

He woke up with a headache, a taste in his mouth like tired sin, and a sense of impending disaster. At first he could not remember where he was-he thought he was still in detention Outside. His surrounds were inexplicably sordid; he was about to ring for the attendant and complain, when his memory pieced in the events of the day before. Then he got up and discovered that his bones and muscles were painfully sore, and-which was worse-that he was, by his standards, filthy dirty. He itched.

He entered the common room, and found Magee sitting at the table. He greeted Dave. “Hi, kid. I was about to wake you. You’ve slept almost all day. We’ve got a lot to talk about.” “Okay-shortly. Where’s the ‘fresher?”

“Over there.”

It was not Dave’s idea of a refreshing chamber, but he managed to take a sketchy shower in spite of the slimy floor. Then he discovered that there was no air blast installed, and he was forced to dry himself unsatisfactorily with his handkerchief. He had no choice in clothes. He must put back on the ones he had taken off, or go naked. He recalled that he had seen no nudity anywhere in Coventry, even at sports-a difference in customs, no doubt.

He put his clothes back on, though his skin crawled at the touch of the once-used linen.

But Mother Johnston had thrown together an appetizing breakfast for him. He let coffee restore his courage as Magee talked. It was, according to Fader, a serious situation. New America and the Free State had compromised their differences and had formed an alliance. They quite seriously proposed to break out of Coventry and attack the United States.

MacKinnon looked up at this. “That’s ridiculous, isn’t it? They would be outnumbered enormously. Besides, how about the Barrier?”

“I don’t know-yet. But they have some reason to think that they can break through the Barrier … and there are rumors that whatever it is can be used as a weapon, too, so that a small army might be able to whip the whole United States.”

MacKinnon looked puzzled. “Well,” he observed, ‘I haven’t any opinion of a weapon I know nothing about, but as to the Barrier … I’m not a mathematical physicist, but I was always told that it was theoretically impossible to break the Barrier-that it was just a nothingness that there was no way to touch. Of course, you can fly over it, but even that is supposed to be deadly to life.”

“Suppose they had found some way to shield from the effects of the Barrier’s field?” suggested Magee. “Anyhow, that’s not the point, for us. The point is: they’ve made this combine; the Free State supplies the techniques and most of the officers; and New America, with its bigger population, supplies most of the men. And that means to us that we don’t dare show our faces any place, or we are in the army before you can blink.

“Which brings me to what I was going to suggest. I’m going to duck out of here as soon as it gets dark, and light out for the Gateway, before they send somebody after me who is bright enough to look under a table. I thought maybe you might want to come along.”

“Back to the psychologists?” MacKinnon was honestly aghast.

“Sure-why not? What have you got to lose? This whole damn place is going to be just like the Free State in a couple of days-and a Joe of your temperament would be in hot water all the time. What’s so bad about a nice, quiet hospital room as a place to hide out until things quiet down? You don’t have to pay any attention to the psych boys-just make animal noises at ‘em every time one sticks his nose into your room, until they get discouraged.”

Dave shook his head. “No,” he said slowly, ‘I can’t do that.” “Then what will you do?”

“I don’t know yet. Take to the hills I guess. Go to live with the Angels if it comes to a showdown. I wouldn’t mind them praying for my soul as long as they left my mind alone.”

They were each silent for a while. Magee was mildly annoyed at MacKinnon’s bullheaded stubbornness in the face of what seemed to him a reasonable offer. Dave continued busily to stow away grilled ham, while considering his position. He cut off another bite. “My, but this is good,” he remarked, to break the awkward silence, ‘I don’t know when I’ve had anything taste so good-Say!’-

“What?” inquired Magee, looking up, and seeing the concern written on MacKinnon’s face. “This ham-is it synthetic, or is it real meat?”

“Why, it’s real. What about it?”

Dave did not answer. He managed to reach the refreshing room before that which he had eaten departed from him.

Before he left, Magee gave Dave some money with which he could have purchased for him things that he would need in order to take to the hills. MacKinnon protested, but the Fader cut him short. “Quit being a damn fool, Dave. I can’t use New American money on the Outside, and you can’t stay alive in the hills without proper equipment. You lie doggo here for a few days

while Al, or Molly, picks up what you need, and you’ll stand a chance-unless you’ll change your mind and come with me?”

Dave shook his head at this, and accepted the money.

It was lonely after Magee left. Mother Johnston and Dave were alone in the club, and the empty chairs reminded him depressingly of the men who had been impressed. He wished that Gramps or the one-handed man would show up. Even Alec, with his nasty temper, would have been company-he wondered if Alec had been punished for resisting the draft.

Mother Johnston inveigled him into playing checkers in an attempt to relieve his evident low spirits. He felt obliged to agree to her gentle conspiracy, but his mind wandered. It was all very well for the Senior Judge to tell him to seek adventure in interplanetary exploration, but only engineers and technicians were eligible for such billets. Perhaps he should have gone in for science, or engineering, instead of literature; then he might now be on Venus, contending against the forces of nature in high adventure, instead of hiding from uniformed bullies. It    wasn’t fair. No-he must not kid himself; there was no room for an expert in literary history in the raw frontier of the planets; that was not human injustice, that was a hard fact of nature, and he might as well face it.

He thought bitterly of the man whose nose he had broken, and thereby landed himself in Coventry. Maybe he was an ‘upholstered parasite” after all-but the recollection of the phrase brought back the same unreasoning anger that had gotten him into trouble. He was glad that he had socked that so-and-so! What right had he to go around sneering and calling people things like that?

He found himself thinking in the same vindictive spirit of his father, although he would have been at a loss to explain the connection. The connection was not superficially evident, for his father would never have stooped to name-calling. Instead, he would have offered the sweetest of smiles, and quoted something nauseating in the way of sweetness-and light. Dave’s father was one of the nastiest little tyrants that ever dominated a household under the guise of loving-kindness. He was of the more-in-sorrow-than-in-anger, this-hurts-me-more-than-it- does-you school, and all his life had invariably been able to find an altruistic rationalization for always having his own way. Convinced of his own infallible righteousness, he had never valued his son’s point of view on anything, but had dominated him in everything-always from the highest moralistic motives.

He had had two main bad effects on his son: the boy’s natural independence, crushed at home, rebelled blindly at every sort of discipline, authority, or criticism which he encountered elsewhere and subconsciously identified with the not-to-be-criticized paternal authority. Secondly, through years of association Dave imitated his father’s most dangerous social vice-that of passing unselfcritical moral judgments on the actions of others.

When Dave was arrested for breaking a basic custom; to wit, atavistic violence; his father washed his hands of him with the statement that he had tried his best to ‘make a man of him’, and could not be blamed for his son’s failure to profit by his instruction.

Afaint knock caused them to put away the checker board in a hurry. Mother Johnston paused before answering. “That’s not our knock,” she considered, ‘but it’s not loud enough to be the noises. Be ready to hide.”

MacKinnon waited by the fox hole where he had hidden the night before, while Mother Johnston went to investigate. He heard her unbar and unlock the upper door, then she called out to him in a low but urgent voice, ‘Dave! Come here, Dave-hurry!”

It was Fader, unconscious, with his own bloody trail behind him.

Mother Johnston was attempting to pick up the limp form. MacKinnon crowded in, and between the two of them they managed to get him downstairs and to lay him on the long table. He came to for a moment as they straightened his limbs. “Hi, Dave,” he whispered, managing to achieve the ghost of his debonair grin. “Somebody trumped my ace.”

“You keep quiet!” Mother Johnston snapped at him, then in a lower voice to Dave, ‘Oh, the poor darling-Dave, we must get him to the Doctor.”

“Can’t … do … that,” muttered the Fader. “Got … to get to the … Gate-” His voice trailed off. Mother Johnston’s fingers had been busy all the while, as if activated by some separate intelligence. Asmall pair of scissors, drawn from some hiding place about her large person, clipped away at his clothing, exposing the superficial extent of the damage. She examined the trauma critically.

“This is no job for me,” she decided, ‘and he must sleep while we move him. Dave, get that hypodermic kit out of the medicine chest in the ‘fresher.” “No, Mother!” It was Magee, his voice strong and vibrant.

“Get me a pepper pill,” he went on. “There’s -, ‘But Fader -“

He cut her short. “I’ve got to get to the Doctor all right, but how the devil will I get there if I don’t walk?” “We would carry you.”

“Thanks, Mother,” he told her, his voice softened. “I know you would-but the police would be curious. Get me that pill.”

Dave followed her into the ‘fresher, and questioned her while she rummaged through the medicine chest. “Why don’t we just send for a doctor?” “There is only one doctor we can trust, and that’s the Doctor. Besides, none of the others are worth the powder to blast them.”

Magee was out again when they came back into the room. Mother Johnston slapped his face until he came around, blinking and cursing. Then she fed him the pill.

The powerful stimulant, improbable offspring of common coal tar, took hold almost at once. To all surface appearance Magee was a well man. He sat up and tried his own pulse, searching it out in his left wrist with steady, sensitive fingers. “Regular as a metronome,” he announced, ‘the old ticker can stand that dosage all right.”

He waited while Mother Johnston applied sterile packs to his wounds, then said good-bye. MacKinnon looked at Mother Johnston. She nodded. “I’m going with you,” he told the Fader.

“What for? It will just double the risk.”

“You’re in no fit shape to travel alone-stimulant, or no stimulant.” “Nuts. I’d have to look after you.”

“I’m going with you.”

Magee shrugged his shoulders and capitulated.

Mother Johnston wiped her perspiring face, and kissed both of them.

Until they were well out of town their progress reminded MacKinnon of their nightmare flight of the previous evening. Thereafter they continued to the north-northwest by a highway which ran toward the foothills, and they left the highway only when necessary to avoid the sparse traffic. Once they were almost surprised by a police patrol car, equipped with blacklight and almost invisible, but the Fader sensed it in time and they crouched behind a low wall which separated the adjacent field from the road.

Dave inquired how he had known the patrol was near. Magee chuckled. “Damned if I know,” he said, ‘but I believe I could smell a cop staked out in a herd of goats.”

The Fader talked less and less as the night progressed. His usually untroubled countenance became lined and old as the effect of the drug wore off. It seemed to Dave as if this unaccustomed expression gave him a clearer insight into the man’s character-that the mask of pain was his true face rather than the unworried features Magee habitually showed the world. He wondered for the ninth time what the Fader had done to cause a court to adjudge him socially insane.

This question was uppermost in his mind with respect to every person he met in Coventry. The answer was obvious in most cases; their types of instability were gross and showed up at once. Mother Johnston had been an enigma until she had explained it herself. She had followed her husband into Coventry. Now that she was a widow, she preferred to remain with the friends she knew and the customs and conditions she was adjusted to, rather than change for -another and possibly less pleasing environment.

Magee sat down beside the road. “It’s no use, kid,” he admitted, ‘I can’t make it.” “The hell we can’t. I’ll carry you.”

Magee grinned faintly. “No, I mean it.” Dave persisted. “How much farther is it?”

“Matter of two or three miles, maybe.”

“Climb aboard.” He took Magee pickaback and started on. The first few hundred yards were not too difficult; Magee was forty pounds lighter than Dave. After that the strain of the additional load began to tell. His arms cramped from supporting Magee’s knees; his arches complained at the weight and the unnatural load distribution; and his breathing was made difficult by   the clasp of Magee’s arms around his neck.

Two miles to go-maybe more. Let your weight fall forward, and your foot must follow it, else you fall to the ground. It’s automatic-as automatic as pulling teeth. How long is a mile?    Nothing in a rocket ship, thirty seconds in a pleasure car, a ten minute crawl in a steel snail, fifteen minutes to trained troops in good condition. How far is it with a man on your back, on a rough road, when you are tired to start with?

Five thousand, two hundred, and eighty feet-a meaningless figure. But every step takes twenty-four inches off the total. The remainder is still incomprehensible-an infinity. Count them. Count them till you go crazy-till the figures speak themselves outside your head, and the jar! … jar! …jar! … of your enormous, benumbed feet beats in your brain. Count them backwards, subtracting two each time-no, that’s worse; each remainder is still an unattainable, inconceivable figure.

His world closed in, lost its history and held no future. There was nothing, nothing at all, but the torturing necessity of picking up his foot again and placing it forward. No feeling but the heartbreaking expenditure of will necessary to achieve that meaningless act.

He was brought suddenly to awareness when Magee’s arms relaxed from around his neck. He leaned forward, and dropped to one knee to keep from spilling his burden, then eased it slowly to the ground. He thought for a moment that the Fader was dead-he could not locate his pulse, and the slack face and limp body were sufficiently corpse-like, but he pressed an ear to Magee’s chest, and heard with relief the steady flub-dub of his heart.

He tied Magee’s wrists together with his handkerchief, and forced his own head through the encircled arms. But he was unable, in his exhausted condition, to wrestle the slack weight into position on his back. Fader regained consciousness while MacKinnon was struggling. His first words were, ‘Take it easy, Dave. What’s the trouble?”

Dave explained. “Better untie my wrists,” advised the Fader, ‘I think I can walk for a while.”

And walk he did, for nearly three hundred yards, before he was forced to give up again. “Look, Dave,” he said, after he had partially recovered, ‘did you bring along any more of those pepper pills?”

“Yes-but you can’t take any more dosage. It would kill you.”

“Yeah, I know-so they say. But that isn’t the idea-yet. I was going to suggest that you might take one.” “Why, of course! Good grief, Fader, but I’m dumb.”

Magee seemed no heavier than a light coat, the morning star shone brighter, and his strength seemed inexhaustible. Even when they left the highway and started up the cart trail that led to the Doctor’s home in the foothills, the going was tolerable and the burden not too great. MacKinnon knew that the drugs burned the working tissue of his body long after his proper reserves were gone, and that it would take him days to recover from the reckless expenditure, but he did not mind. No price was too high to pay for the moment when he at last arrived at the gate of the Doctor’s home-on his own two feet, his charge alive and conscious.

MacKinnon was not allowed to see Magee for four days. In the meantime, he was encouraged to keep the routine of a semi-invalid himself in order to recover the twenty-five pounds he had lost in two days and two nights, and to make up for the heavy strain on his heart during the last night. Ahigh-caloric diet, sun baths, rest, and peaceful surroundings plus his natural good health caused him to regain weight and strength rapidly, but he ‘enjoyed ill health” exceedingly because of the companionship of the Doctor himself-and Persephone.

Persephone’s calendar age was fifteen. Dave never knew whether to think of her as much older, or much younger. She had been born in Coventry, and had lived her short life in the  house of the Doctor, her mother having died in childbirth in that same house. She was completely childlike in many respects, being without experience in the civilized world Outside, and having had very little contact with the inhabitants of Coventry, except when she saw them as patients of the Doctor. But she had been allowed to read unchecked from the library of a sophisticated and protean-minded man of science. MacKinnon was continually being surprised at the extent of her academic and scientific knowledge-much greater than his own. She made him feel as if he were conversing with some aged and omniscient matriarch, then she would come out with some naive concept of the outer world, and he would be brought up sharply with the realization that she was, in fact, an inexperienced child.

He was mildly romantic about her, not seriously, of course, in view of her barely nubile age, but she was pleasant to see, and he was hungry for feminine companionship. He was quite young enough himself to feel continual interest in the delightful differences, mental and physical, between male and female.

Consequently, it was a blow to his pride as sharp as had been the sentence to Coventry to discover that she classed him with the other inhabitants of Coventry as a poor unfortunate who needed help and sympathy because he was not quite right in his head.

He was furious and for one whole day he sulked alone, but the human necessity for self-justification and approval forced him to seek her out and attempt to reason with her. He explained carefully and with emotional candor the circumstances leading up to his trial and conviction, and embellished the account with his own philosophy and evaluations, then confidently awaited her approval.

It was not forthcoming. “I don’t understand your viewpoint,” she said. “You broke his nose, yet he had done you no harm of any sort. You expect me to approve that?” “But Persephone,” he protested, ‘you ignore the fact that he called me a most insulting name.”

“I don’t see the connection,” she said. “He made a noise with his mouth-a verbal label. If the label does not fit you, the noise is meaningless. If the label is true in your case-if you are the thing that the noise refers to, you are neither more, nor less, that thing by reason of some one uttering the verbal label. In short, he did not damage you.

“But what you did to him was another matter entirely. You broke his nose. That is damage. In self-protection the rest of society must seek you out, and determine whether or not you are so unstable as to be likely to damage some one else in the future. If you are, you must be quarantined for treatment, or leave society-whichever you prefer.”

“You think I’m crazy, don’t you?” he accused.

“Crazy? Not the way you mean it. You haven’t paresis, or a brain tumor, or any other lesion that the Doctor could find. But from the viewpoint of your semantic reactions you are as socially unsane as any fanatic witch burner.”

“Come now-that’s not just!”

“What is justice?” She picked up the kitten she had been playing with. “I’m going in-it’s getting chilly.” Off she went into the house, her bare feet noiseless in the grass.

Had the science of semantics developed as rapidly as psychodynamics and its implementing arts of propaganda and mob psychology, the United States might never have fallen into dictatorship, then been forced to undergo the Second Revolution. All of the scientific principles embodied in the Covenant which marked the end of the revolution were formulated as far back as the first quarter of the twentieth century.

But the work of the pioneer semanticists, C. K. Ogden, Alfred Korzybski, and others, were known to but a handful of students, whereas psycho-dynamics, under the impetus of repeated wars and the frenzy of high-pressure merchandising, progressed by leaps and bounds.

Semantics, ‘the meaning of meaning’, gave a method for the first time of applying the scientific method to every act of everyday life. Because semantics dealt with spoken and written  words as a determining aspect of human behavior it was at first mistakenly thought by many to be concerned only with words and of interest only to professional word manipulators, such as advertising copy writers and professors of etymology. Ahandful of unorthodox psychiatrists attempted to apply it to personal human problems, but their work was swept away by the epidemic mass psychoses that destroyed Europe and returned the United States to the Dark Ages.

The Covenant was the first scientific social document ever drawn up by man, and due credit must be given to its principal author, Dr Micah Novak, the same Novak who served as staff psychologist in the revolution. The revolutionists wished to establish maximum personal liberty. How could they accomplish that to a degree of high mathematical probability? First they junked the concept of ‘justice’. Examined semantically ‘justice” has no referent-there is no observable phenomenon in the space-time-matter continuum to which one can point, and say, ‘This is justice.” Science can deal only with that which can be observed and measured. Justice is not such a matter; therefore it can never have the same meaning to one as to another; any ‘noises” said about it will only add to confusion.

But damage, physical or economic, can be pointed to and measured. Citizens were forbidden by the Covenant to damage another. Any act not leading to damage, physical or economic,

to some particular person, they declared to be lawful.

Since they had abandoned the concept of ‘justice’, there could be no rational standards of punishment. Penology took its place with lycanthropy and other forgotten witchcrafts. Yet, since  it was not practical to permit a source of danger to remain in the community, social offenders were examined and potential repeaters were given their choice of psychological readjustment, or of having society withdraw itself from them-Coventry.

Early drafts of the Covenant contained the assumption that the socially unsane would naturally be hospitalized and readjusted, particularly since current psychiatry was quite competent to cure all non-lesional psychoses and cure or alleviate lesional psychoses, but Novak set his face against this.

“No!” he protested. “The government must never again be permitted to tamper with the mind of any citizen without his consent, or else we set up a greater tyranny than we had before. Every man must be free to accept, or reject, the Covenant, even though we think him insane!”

The next time David MacKinnon looked up Persephone he found her in a state of extreme agitation. His own wounded pride was forgotten at once. “Why, my dear,” he said, ‘whatever in the world is the matter?”

Gradually he gathered that she had been present at a conversation between Magee and the Doctor, and had heard, for the first time, of the impending military operation against the United States. He patted her hand. “So that’s all it is,” he observed in a relieved voice. “I thought something was wrong with you yourself.”

““That’s all-” David MacKinnon, do you mean to stand there and tell me that you knew about this, and don’t consider it worth worrying about?” “Me? Why should I? And for that matter, what could I do?”

“What could you do? You could go outside and warn them-that’s what you could do … As to why you should-Dave, you’re impossible!” She burst into tears and ran from the room. He stared after her, mouth open, then borrowed from his remotest ancestor by observing to himself that women are hard to figure out.

Persephone did not appear at lunch. MacKinnon asked the Doctor where she was. “Had her lunch,” the Doctor told him, between mouthfuls. “Started for the Gateway.” “What! Why did you let her do that?”

“Free agent. Wouldn’t have obeyed me anyway. She’ll be all right.”

Dave did not hear the last, being already out of the room and running out of the house. He found her just backing her little motorcycle runabout out of its shed. “Persephone!” “What do you want?” she asked with frozen dignity beyond her years.

“You mustn’t do this! That’s where the Fader got hurt!” “I am going. Please stand aside.”

“Then I’m going with you.” “Why should you?”

“To take care of you.”

She sniffed. “As if anyone would dare to touch me.”

There was a measure of truth in what she said. The Doctor, and every member of his household, enjoyed a personal immunity unlike that of anyone else in Coventry. As a natural consequence of the set-up, Coventry had almost no competent medical men. The number of physicians who committed social damage was small. The proportion of such who declined psychiatric treatment was negligible, and this negligible remainder were almost sure to be unreliable bunglers in their profession. The Doctor was a natural healer, in voluntary exile in order that he might enjoy the opportunity to practice his art in the richest available field. He cared nothing for dry research; what he wanted was patients, the sicker the better, that he might make them well again.

He was above custom and above law. In the Free State the Liberator depended on him for insulin to hold his own death from diabetes at arm’s length. In New America his beneficiaries were equally powerful. Even among the Angels of the Lord the Prophet himself accepted the dicta of the Doctor without question.

But MacKinnon was not satisfied. Some ignorant fool, he was afraid, might do the child some harm without realizing her protected status. He got no further chance to protest; she started the little runabout suddenly, and forced him to jump out of its path. When he had recovered his balance, she was far down the lane. He could not catch her.

She was back in less than four hours. He had expected that; if a person as elusive as Fader had not been able to reach the Gate at night, it was not likely that a young girl could do so in daylight.

His first feeling was one of simple relief, then he eagerly awaited an opportunity to speak to her. During her absence he had been turning over the situation in his mind. It was a foregone conclusion that she would fail; he wished to rehabilitate himself in her eyes; therefore, he would help her in the project nearest her heart-he himself would carry the warning to the  Outside!

Perhaps she would ask for such help. In fact, it seemed likely. But the time she returned he had convinced himself that she was certain to ask his help. He would agree-with simple dignity-and off he would go, perhaps to be wounded, or killed, but an heroic figure, even if he failed.

He pictured himself subconsciously as a blend of Sydney Carton, the White Knight, the man who carried the message to Garcia and just a dash of d’Artagnan. But she did not ask him-she would not even give him a chance to talk with her.

She did not appear at dinner. After dinner she was closeted with the Doctor in his study. When she reappeared she went directly to her room. He finally concluded that he might as well go to bed himself.

To bed, and then to sleep, and take it up again in the morning-But it’s not as simple as that. The unfriendly walls stared back at him, and the other, critical half of his mind decided to make a night of it. Fool! She doesn’t want your help. Why should she? What have you got that Fader hasn’t got?-and better. To her, you are just one of the screwloose multitude you’ve seen all around you in this place.

But I’m not crazy!-just because I choose not to submit to the dictation of others doesn’t make me crazy. Doesn’t it, though? All the rest of them in here are lamebrains, what’s so fancy  about you? Not all of them-how about the Doctor, and-don’t kid yourself, chump, the Doctor and Mother Johnston are here for their own reasons; they weren’t sentenced. And Persephone was born here.

How about Magee?-He was certainly rational-or seemed so. He found himself resenting, with illogical bitterness, Magee’s apparent stability. Why should he be any different from the rest of us?

The rest of us? He had classed himself with the other inhabitants of Coventry. All right, all right, admit it, you fool-you’re just like the rest of them; turned out because the decent people won’t have you-and too damned stubborn to admit that you need treatment. But the thought of treatment turned him cold, and made him think of his father again. Why should that be? He recalled something the Doctor had said to him a couple of days before:

“What you need, son, is to stand up to your father and tell him off. Pity more children don’t tell their parents to go to hell!”

He turned on the light and tried to read. But it was no use. Why should Persephonie care what happened to the people Outside?-She didn’t know them; she had no friends there. If he had no obligations to them, how could she possibly care? No obligations? You had a soft, easy life for many years-all they asked was that you behave yourself. For that matter, where would you be now, if the Doctor had stopped to ask whether or not he owed you anything?

He was still wearily chewing the bitter cud of self-examination when the first cold and colorless light of morning filtered in. He got up, threw a robe around him, and tiptoed down the hall to Magee’s room. The door was ajar. He stuck his head in, and whispered, ‘Fader-Are you awake?”

“Come in, kid,” Magee answered quietly. “What’s the trouble? No can sleep?”

“No -, ‘Neither can I. Sit down, and we’ll carry the banner together.” “Fader, I’m going to make a break for it. I’m going Outside.”

“Huh? When?” “Right away.”

“Risky business, kid. Wait a few days, and I’ll try it with you.”                  “No, I can’t wait for you to get well. I’m going out to warn the United States!”

Magee’s eyed widened a little, but his voice was unchanged. “You haven’t let that spindly kid sell you a bill of goods, Dave?”

“No. Not exactly. I’m doing this for myself-It’s something I need to do. See here, Fader, what about this weapon? Have they really got something that could threaten the United States?” “I’m afraid so,” Magee admitted. “I don’t know much about it, but it makes blasters look sick. More range-I don’t know what they expect to do about the Barrier, but I saw ‘em stringing

heavy power lines before I got winged. Say, if you do get outside, here’s a chap you might look up; in fact, be sure to. He’s got influence.” Magee scrawled something on a scrap of paper,

folded the scrap, and handed it to MacKinnon, who pocketed it absent-mindedly and went on:

“How closely is the Gate guarded, Fader?”

“You can’t get out the Gate; that’s out of the question. Here’s what you will have to do-” He tore off another piece of paper and commenced sketching and explaining. Dave shook hands with Magee before he left. “You’ll say goodbye for me, won’t you? And thank the Doctor? I’d rather just slide out before anyone is up.”                 “Of course, kid,” the Fader assured him.

MacKinnon crouched behind bushes and peered cautiously at the little band of Angels filing into the bleak, ugly church. He shivered, both from fear and from the icy morning air. But his need was greater than his fear. Those zealots had food-and he must have it.

The first two days after he left the house of the Doctor had been easy enough. True, he had caught cold from sleeping on the ground; it had settled in his lungs and slowed him down. But he did not mind that now if only he could refrain from sneezing or coughing until the little band of faithful were safe inside the temple. He watched them pass-dour-looking men, women  and skirts that dragged the ground and whose work lined faces were framed in shawls-sallow drudges with too many children. The light had gone out of their faces. Even the children  were sober.

The last of them filed inside, leaving only the sexton in the churchyard, busy with some obscure duty. After an interminable time, during which MacKinnon pressed a finger against his upper lip in a frantic attempt to forestall a sneeze, the sexton entered the grim building and closed the doors.

McKinnon crept out of his hiding place and hurried to the house he had previously selected, on the edge of the clearing, farthest from the church.

The dog was suspicious, but he quieted him. The house was locked, but the rear door could be forced. He was a little giddy at the sight of food when he found it-hard bread, and strong, unsalted butter made from goat’s milk. Amisstep two days before had landed him in a mountain stream. The mishap had not seemed important until he discovered that his food tablets were a pulpy mess. He had eaten them the rest of the day, then mold had taken them, and he had thrown the remainder away.

The bread lasted him through three more sleeps, but the butter melted and he was unable to carry it. He soaked as much of it as he could into the bread, then licked up the rest, after which he was very thirsty.

Some hours after the last of the bread was gone, he reached his first objective-the main river to which all other streams in Coventry were tributary. Some place, down stream, it dived under the black curtain of the Barrier, and continued seaward. With the gateway closed and guarded, its outlet constituted the only possible egress to a man unassisted.

In the meantime it was water, and thirst was upon him again, and his cold was worse. But he would have to wait until dark to drink; there were figures down there by the bank-some in uniform, he thought. One of them made fast a little skiff to a landing. He marked it for his own and watched it with jealous eyes. It was still there when the sun went down.

The early morning sun struck his nose and he sneezed. He came wide awake, raised his head, and looked around. The little skiff he had appropriated floated in midstream. There were no oars. He could not remember whether or not there had been any oars. The current was fairly strong; it seemed as if he should have drifted clear to the Barrier in the night. Perhaps he had passed under it-no, that was ridiculous.

Then he saw it, less than a mile away, black and ominous-but the most welcome sight he had seen in days. He was too weak and feverish to enjoy it, but it renewed the determination that kept him going.

The little boat scraped against bottom. He saw that the current at a bend had brought him to the bank. He hopped awkwardly out, his congealed joints complaining, and drew the bow of the skiff up onto the sand. Then he thought better of it, pushed it out once more, shoved as hard as he was able and watched it disappear around the meander. No need to advertise where he had landed.

He slept most of that day, rousing himself once to move out of the sun when it grew too hot. But the sun had cooked much of the cold out of his bones, and he felt much better by nightfall. Although the Barrier was only a mile or so away, it took most of the night to reach it by following the river bank. He knew when he had reached it by the clouds of steam that rose from the

water. When the sun came up, he considered the situation. The Barrier stretched across the water, but the juncture between it and the surface of the stream was hidden by billowing

clouds. Someplace, down under the surface of the water-how far down he did not know-somewhere down there, the Barrier ceased, and its raw edge turned the water it touched to

steam.

Slowly, reluctantly and most unheroically, he commenced to strip off his clothes. The time had come and he did not relish it. He came across the scrap of paper that Magee had handed him, and attempted to examine it. But it had been pulped by his involuntary dip in the mountain stream and was quite illegible. He chucked it away. It did not seem to matter.

He shivered as he stood hesitating on the bank, although the sun was warm. Then his mind was made up for him; he spied a patrol on the far bank. Perhaps they had seen him, perhaps not. He dived.

Down, down, as far as his strength would take him. Down and try to touch bottom, to be sure of avoiding that searing, deadly base. He felt mud with his hands. Now to swim under it. Perhaps it was death to pass under it, as well as over it; he would soon know. But which way was it? There was no direction down here.

He stayed down until his congested lungs refused. Then he rose part way, and felt scalding water on his face. For a timeless interval of unutterable sorrow and loneliness he realized that he was trapped between heat and water-trapped under the Barrier.

Two private soldiers gossiped idly on a small dock which lay under the face of the Barrier. The river which poured out from beneath it held no interest for them, they had watched it for many dull tours of guard duty. An alarm clanged behind them and brought them to alertness. “What sector, Jack?”

“This bank. There he is now-see!”

They fished him out and had him spread out on the dock by the time the sergeant of the guard arrived. “Alive, or dead?” he enquired. “Dead, I think,” answered the one who was not busy giving artificial resuscitation.

The sergeant clucked in a manner incongruous to his battered face, and said, ‘Too bad. I’ve ordered the ambulance; send him up to the infirmary anyhow.”

The nurse tried to keep him quiet, but MacKinnon made such an uproar that she was forced to get the ward surgeon. “Here! Here! What’s all this nonsense?” the medico rebuked him, while reaching for his pulse. Dave managed to convince him that he would not quiet down, not accept a soporific until he had told his story. They struck a working agreement that MacKinnon was to be allowed to talk-‘But keep it short, mind you!’-and the doctor would pass the word along to his next superior, and in return Dave would submit to a hypodermic.

The next morning two other men, unidentified, were brought to MacKinnon by the surgeon. They listened to his full story and questioned him in detail. He was transferred to corps area

headquarters that afternoon by ambulance. There he was questioned again. He was regaining his strength rapidly, but he was growing quite tired of the whole rigmarole, and wanted assurance that his warning was being taken seriously. The latest of his interrogators reassured him. “Compose yourself,” he told Dave, ‘you are to see the commanding officer this afternoon.”

The corps area commander, a nice little chap with a quick, birdlike manner and a most unmilitary appearance, listened gravely while MacKinnon recited his story for what seemed to him the fiftieth time. He nodded agreement when David finished. “Rest assured, David MacKinnon, that all necessary steps are being taken.”

“But how about their weapon?”

“That is taken care of-and as for the Barrier, it may not be as easy to break as our neighbors think. But your efforts are appreciated. May I do you some service?”

“Well, no-not for myself, but there are two of my friends in there-‘He asked that something be done to rescue Magee, and that Persephone be enabled to come out, if she wished.              “I know of that girl,” the general remarked. “We will get in touch with her. If at any time she wishes to become a citizen, it can be arranged. As for Magee, that is another matter-‘He touched

the stud of his desk visiphone. “Send Captain Randall in.”

Aneat, trim figure in the uniform of a captain of the United States Army entered with a light step. MacKinnon glanced at him with casual, polite interest, then his expression went to pieces. “Fader!” he yelled.

Their mutual greeting was hardly sufficiently decorous for the private office of a commanding general, but the general did not seem to mind. When they had calmed down, MacKinnon had to ask the question uppermost in his mind. “But see here, Fader, all this doesn’t make sense-‘He paused, staring, then pointed a finger accusingly, ‘I know! You’re in the secret service!”

The Fader grinned cheerfully. “Did you think,” he observed, ‘that the United States Army would leave a plague spot like that unwatched?” The general cleared his throat. “What do you plan to do now, David MacKinnon?”

“Eh! Me? Why, I don’t have any plans-‘He thought for a moment, then turned to his friend. “Do you know, Fader, I believe I’ll turn in for psychological treatment after all. You’re on the Outside -“

“I don’t believe that will be necessary,” interrupted the general gently. “No? Why not, sir?”

“You have cured yourself. You may not be aware of it, but four psychotechnicians have interviewed you. Their reports agree. I am authorized to tell you that your status as a free citizen has been restored, if you wish it.”

The general and Captain ‘the Fader” Randall managed tactfully between them to terminate the interview. Randall walked back to the infirmary with his friend. Dave wanted a thousand questions answered at once. “But Fader,” he demanded, ‘you must have gotten out before I did.”

“Aday or two.”

“Then my job was unnecessary!”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Randall contradicted. “I might not have gotten through. As a matter of fact, they had all the details even before I reported. There are others-Anyhow,” he continued, to change the subject, ‘now that you are here, what will you do?”

“Me? It’s too soon to say … It won’t be classical literature, that’s a cinch. If I wasn’t such a dummy in maths, I might still try for interplanetary.”

“Well, we can talk about it tonight,” suggested Fader, glancing at his chrono. “I’ve got to run along, but I’ll stop by later, and we’ll go over to the mess for dinner.” He was out the door with speed reminiscent of the thieves” kitchen. Dave watched him, then said suddenly, ‘Hey! Fader! Why couldn’t I get into the secret ser -, But the Fader was gone-he must ask himself.

The End

I hope that you enjoyed this little piece. I have many other stories in my fictional index here…

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Tunnel in the Sky (full text) by Robert Heinlein

Here is the full text of the wonderful Robert Heinlein science fiction story titled “Tunnel in the Sky”. In it, he describes the use of a dimensional portal from which students can use to travel to another planet. In this fictional story, the students enter the portal, but something happens. They get stranded on this strange planet and need to learn how to survive from scratch. It’s a great fun read and easy escapist adventure reading.

Tunnel in the Sky

1. The Marching Hordes

The bulletin board outside lecture hall 1712-Aof Patrick Henry High School showed a flashing red light. Rod Walker pushed his way into a knot of students and tried to see what the special notice had to say. He received an elbow in the stomach, accompanied by: “Hey! Quit shoving!”

“Sorry. Take it easy, Jimmy.” Rod locked the elbow in a bone breaker but put no pressure on, craned his neck to look over Jimmy Throxton’s head. “What’s on the board?” “No class today.”

“Why not?”

Avoice near the board answered him. “Because tomorrow it’s ‘Hail, Caesar, we who are about to die-’”

“So?” Rod felt his stomach tighten as it always did before an examination. Someone moved aside and he managed to read the notice: PATRICK HENRYHIGH SCHOOL

Department of Social Studies

SPECIAL NOTICE to all students Course 410 (elective senior seminar) Advanced Survival, instr. Dr. Matson, 1712-AMWF

  1. There will be no class Friday the 14th.
  • Twenty-Four Hour Notice is hereby given of final examination in Solo Survival. Students will present themselves for physical check at 0900 Saturday in the dispensary of Templeton Gate and will start passing through the gate at 1000, using three-minute intervals by lot.
  • TEST CONDITIONS:
  • ANYplanet, ANYclimate, ANYterrain;
  • NO rules, ALL weapons, ANYequipment;
  • TEAMING IS PERMITTED but teams will not be allowed to pass through the gate in company;
  • TEST DURATION is not less than forty-eight hours, not more than ten days.
  • Dr. Matson will be available for advice and consultation until 1700 Friday.
  • Test may be postponed Only on recommendation of examining physician, but any student may withdraw from the course without administrative penalty up until 1000 Saturday.
  • Good luck and long life to you all!

(s) B. P. Matson, Sc.D. Approved:

J. R. ROERICH, for the Board

Rod Walker reread the notice slowly, while trying to quiet the quiver in his nerves. He checked off the test conditions-why, those were not “conditions” but a total lack of conditions, no limits of any sort! They could dump you through the gate and the next instant you might be facing a polar bear at forty below-or wrestling an Octopus deep in warm salt water.

Or, he added, faced up to some three-headed horror on a planet you had never heard of.

He heard a soprano voice complaining, “‘Twenty-four hour notice!’ Why, it’s less than twenty hours now. That’s not fair.” Another girl answered, “What’s the difference? I wish we were starting this minute. I won’t get a wink of sleep tonight.”  “If we are supposed to have twenty-four hours to get ready, then we ought to have them. Fair is fair.”

Another student, a tall, husky Zulu girl, chuckled softly. “Go on in. Tell the Deacon that.”

Rod backed out of the press, taking Jimmy Throxton with him. He felt that he knew what “Deacon” Matson would say … something about the irrelevancy of fairness to survival. He chewed over the bait in paragraph five; nobody would say boo if he dropped the course. After all, “Advanced Survival’ was properly a college. course; he would graduate without it.

But he knew down deep that if he lost his nerve now, he would never take the course later. Jimmy said nervously, “What d’you think of it, Rod?”

“All right, I guess. But I’d like to know whether or not to wear my long-handled underwear. Do you suppose the Deacon would give us a hint?” “Him? Not him! He thinks a broken leg is the height of humor. That man would eat his own grandmother- without salt.”

“Oh, come now! He’d use salt. Say, Jim? You saw what it said about teaming.”

“Yeah… what about it?” Jimmy’s eyes shifted away. Rod felt a moment’s irritation. He was making a suggestion as delicate as a proposal of marriage, an offer to put his own life in the same basket with Jimmy’s. The greatest risk in a solo test was that a fellow just had to sleep sometime … but a team could split it up and stand watch over each other.

Jimmy must know that Rod was better than he was, with any weapon or bare hands; the proposition was to his advantage. Yet here he was hesitating as if he thought Rod might handicap him. “What’s the matter, Jim?” Rod said bleakly. “Figure you’re safer going it alone?”

“Uh, no, not exactly.”

“You mean you’d rather not team with me?” “No, no, I didn’t mean that!”

“Then what did you mean?”

“I meant- Look, Rod, I surely do thank you. I won’t forget it. But that notice said something else, too.” “What?”

“It said we could dump this durned course and still graduate. And I just happened to remember that I don’t need it for the retail clothing business.” “Huh? I thought you had ambitions to become a wideangled lawyer?’

“So exotic jurisprudence loses its brightest jewel… so what do I care? It will make my old man very happy to learn that I’ve decided to stick with the family business.” “You mean you’re scared.”

“Well, that’s one way of putting it. Aren’t you?”

Rod took a deep breath. “Yes. I’m scared.”

“Good! Now let’s both give a classic demonstration of how to survive and stay alive by marching down to the Registrar’s office and bravely signing our names to withdrawal slips.” “Uh, no. You go ahead.”

“You mean you’re sticking?” “I guess so.”

“Look, Rod, have you looked over the statistics on last year’s classes?”

“No. And I don’t want to. So long.” Rod turned sharply and headed for the classroom door, leaving Jimmy to stare after him with a troubled look.

The lecture room was occupied by a dozen or so of the seminar’s students. Doctor Matson, the “Deacon,” was squatting tailor-fashion on one corner of his desk and holding forth informally. He was a small man and spare, with a leathery face, a patch over one eye, and most of three fingers missing from his left hand. On his chest were miniature ribbons, marking service in three famous first expeditions; one carried a tiny diamond cluster that showed him to be the last living member of that group.

Rod slipped into the second row. The Deacon’s eye flicked at him as he went on talking. “I don’t understand the complaints,” he said jovially. “The test conditions say ‘all weapons’ so you can protect yourself any way you like… from a slingshot to a cobalt bomb. I think final examination should be bare hands, not so much as a nail file. But the Board of Education doesn’t agree, so we do it this sissy way instead.” He shrugged and grinned.

“Uh, Doctor, I take it then that the Board knows that we are going to run into dangerous animals?” “Eh? You surely will! The most dangerous animal known.”

“Doctor, if you mean that literally-“ “Oh, I do, I do!”

“Then I take it that we are either being sent to Mithra and will have to watch out for snow apes, or we are going to stay on Terra and be dumped where we can expect leopards. Am I right?” The Deacon shook his head despairingly. “My boy, you had better cancel and take this course over. Those dumb brutes aren’t dangerous.”

“But Jasper says, in Predators and Prey, that the two trickiest, most dangerous-“

“Jasper’s maiden aunt! I’m talking about the real King of the Beasts, the only animal that is always dangerous, even when not hungry. The two-legged brute. Take a look around you!”  The instructor leaned forward. “I’ve said this nineteen dozen times but you still don’t believe it. Man is the one animal that can’t be tamed. He goes along for years as peaceful as a cow,

when it suits him. Then when it suits him not to be, he makes a leopard look like a tabby cat. Which goes double for the female of the species. Take another look around you. All friends.

We’ve been on group-survival field tests together; we can depend on each other. So? Read about the Donner Party, or the First Venus Expedition. Anyhow, the test area will have several

other classes in it, all strangers to you.” Doctor Matson fixed his eye on Rod. “I hate to see some of you take this test, I really do. Some of you are city dwellers by nature; I’m afraid I have

not managed to get it through your heads that there are no policemen where you are going. Nor will I be around to give you a hand if you make some silly mistake.”

His eye moved on; Rod wondered if the Deacon meant him. Sometimes he felt that the Deacon took delight in rawhiding him. But Rod knew that it was serious; the course was required for all the Outlands professions for the good reason that the Outlands were places where you were smart – or you were dead. Rod had chosen to take this course before entering college because he hoped that it would help him to get a scholarship – but that did not mean that he thought it was just a formality. He looked around, wondering who would be willing to team  with him now that Jimmy had dropped out. There was a couple in front of him, Bob Baxter and Carmen Garcia. He checked them off, as they undoubtedly would team together; they planned to become medical missionaries and intended to marry as soon as they could.

How about Johann Braun? He would make a real partner, all right-strong, fast on his feet, and smart. But Rod did not trust him, nor did he think that Braun would want him. He began to see that he might have made a mistake in not cultivating other friends in the class besides Jimmy.

That big Zulu girl, Caroline something-unpronounceable. Strong as an ox and absolutely fearless. But it would not do to team with a girl; girls were likely to mistake a cold business deal for a romantic gambit. His eyes moved on until at last he was forced to conclude that there was no one there to whom he wished to suggest partnership.

“Prof, how about a hint? Should we take suntan oil? Or chilblain lotion?”

Matson grinned and drawled, “Son, I’ll tell you every bit that I know. This test area was picked by a teacher in Europe… and I picked one for his class. But I don’t know what it is any more than you do. Send me a post card.”

“But-” The boy who had spoken stopped. Then he suddenly stood up. “Prof, this isn’t a fair test. I’m checking out.” “What’s unfair about it? Not that we meant to make it fair.”

“Well, you could dump us any place-“ “That’s right.”

“-the back side of the Moon, in vacuum up to our chins. Or onto a chlorine planet. Or the middle of an ocean. I don’t know whether to take a space suit, or a canoe. So the deuce with it. Real life isn’t like that.”

“It isn’t, eh?” Matson said softly. “That’s what Jonah said when the whale swallowed him.” He added, “But I will give you some hints. We mean this test to be passed by anyone bright enough to deserve it. So we won’t let you walk into a poisonous atmosphere, or a vacuum, without a mask. If you are dumped into water, land won’t be too far to swim. And so on. While I don’t know where you are going, I did see the list of test areas for this year’s classes. Asmart man can survive in any of them. You ought to realize, son, that the Board of Education would have nothing to gain by killing off all its candidates for the key professions.”

The student sat down again as suddenly as he had stood up. The instructor said, “Change your mind again?” “Uh, yes, sir. If it’s a fair test, I’ll take it.”

Matson shook his head. “You’ve already flunked it. You’re excused. Don’t bother the Registrar; I’ll notify him.”

The boy started to protest; Matson inclined his head toward the door. “Out!” There was an embarrassed silence while he left the room, then Matson said briskly, “This is a class in applied philosophy and I am sole judge of who is ready and who is not. Anybody who thinks of the world in terms of what it ‘ought’ to be, rather than what it is, isn’t ready for final examination. You’ve got to relax and roll with the punch … not get yourself all worn out with adrenalin exhaustion at the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. Any more questions?”

There were a few more but it became evident that Matson either truthfully did not know the nature of the test area, or was guarding the knowledge; his answers gained them nothing. He refused to advise as to weapons, saying simply that the school armorer would be at the gate ready to issue all usual weapons, while any unusual ones were up to the individual. “Remember, though, your best weapon is between your ears and under your scalp – provided it’s loaded.”

The group started to drift away; Rod got up to leave.

Matson caught his eye and said, “Walker, are you planning to take the test?” “Why, yes, of course, sir.”

“Come here a moment.” He led him into his office, closed the door and sat down. He looked up at Rod, fiddled with a paperweight on his desk and said slowly, “Rod, you’re a good boy

… but sometimes that isn’t enough.”

Rod said nothing.

“Tell me,” Matson continued, “why you want to take this test?”

“Sir?”

“‘Sir’ yourself,” Matson answered grumpily. “Answer my question.”

Rod stared, knowing that he had gone over this with Matson before he was accepted for the course. But he explained again his ambition to study for an Outlands profession. “So I have to qualify in survival. I couldn’t even get a degree in colonial administration without it, much less any of the planetography or planetology specialities.”

“Want to be an explorer, huh?” “Yes, sir.”

“Like me.”

“Yes, Sir. Like you.”

“Hmm… would you believe me if I told you that it was the worst mistake I ever made?” “Huh? No, sir!”

“I didn’t think you would. Son, the cutest trick of all is how to know then what you know now. No way to, of course. But I’m telling you straight: I think you’ve been born into the wrong age. “Sir?”

“I think you are a romantic. Now this is a very romantic age, so there is no room in it for romantics; it calls for practical men. Ahundred years ago you would have made a banker or lawyer or professor and you could have worked out your romanticism by reading fanciful tales and dreaming about what you might have been if you hadn’t had the misfortune to be born into a humdrum period. But this happens to be a period when adventure and romance are a part of daily existence. Naturally it takes very practical people to cope with it.”

Rod was beginning to get annoyed. “What’s the matter with me?”

“Nothing. I like you. I don’t want to see you get hurt. But you are ‘way too emotional, too sentimental to be a real survivor type.”

Matson pushed a hand toward him. “Now keep your shirt on. I know you can make fire by rubbing a couple of dry words together. I’m well aware that you won merit badges in practically everything. I’m sure you can devise a water filter with your bare hands and know which side of the tree the moss grows on. But I’m not sure that you can beware of the Truce of the Bear.”

“‘The Truce of the Bear?’”

“Never mind. Son, I think you ought to cancel this course. If you must, you can repeat it in college.” Rod looked stubborn. Matson sighed. “I could drop you. Perhaps I should.”

“But why, sir?”

“That’s the point. I couldn’t give a reason. On the record, you’re as promising a student as I have ever had.” He stood up and put out his hand. “Good luck. And remember- when it gets down to fundamentals, do what you have to do and shed no tears.”

Rod should have gone straight home. His family lived in an out-county of Greater New York City, located on the Grand Canyon plateau through Hoboken Gate. But his commuting route required him to change at Emigrants’ Gap and he found himself unable to resist stopping to rubberneck.

When he stepped out of the tube from school he should have turned right, taken the rotary lift to the level above, and stepped through to Arizona Strip. But he was thinking about supplies, equipment, and weapons for tomorrow’s examination; his steps automatically bore left, he got on the slideway leading to the great hall of the planetary gates.

He told himself that he would watch for only ten minutes; he would not be late for dinner. He picked his way through the crowd and entered the great hall- not Onto the emigration floor itself, but onto the spectator’s balcony facing the gates. This was the new gate househe was in, the one opened for traffic in ‘68; the original Emigrants’ Gap, now used for Terran traffic and trade with Luna, stood on the Jersey Flats a few kilometers east alongside the pile that powered it.

The balcony faced the six gates. It could seat eighty-six hundred people but was half filled and crowded only in the center. It was here, of course, that Rod wished to

sit so that he might see through all six gates. He wormed his way down the middle aisle, squatted by the railing, then spotted someone leaving a front row seat. Rod grabbed it, earning  a dirty look from a man who had started for it from the other aisle.

Rod fed coins into the arm of the seat; it opened out, he sat down and looked around. He was opposite the replica Statue of Liberty, twin to the one that had stood for a century where now was Bedloe Crater. Her torch reached to the distant ceiling; on both her right and her left three great gates let emigrants into the outer worlds.

Rod did not glance at the statue; he looked at the gates. It was late afternoon and heavily overcast at east coast North America, but gate one was open to some planetary spot having glaring noonday sun; Rod could catch glimpses through it of men dressed in shorts and sun hats and nothing else. Gate number two had a pressure lock rigged over it; it carried a big skull & crossbones sign and the symbol for chlorine. Ared light burned over it. While he watched, the red light flickered out and a blue light replaced it; the door slowly opened and a traveling capsule for a chlorine-breather crawled out. Waiting to meet it were eight humans in diplomatic full dress. One carried a gold baton.

Rod considered spending another half pluton to find out who the important visitor was, but his attention was diverted to gate five. An auxiliary gate had been set up on the floor, facing gate five a nd almost under the balcony. Two high steel fences joined the two gates, forming with them an alley as wide as the gates and as long as the space between, about fifteen meters   by seventy-five. This pen was packed with humanity moving from the temporary gate toward and through gate five-and onto some planet light-years away. They poured out of nowhere, for the floor back of the auxiliary gate was bare, hurried like cattle between the two fences, spilled through gate five and were gone. Asquad of brawny Mongol policemen, each armed with a staff as tall ashimself, was spread out along each fence. They were using their staves to hurry the emigrants and they were not being gentle. Almost underneath Rod one of them    prodded an old coolie so hard that he stumbled and fell. The man had been carrying his belongings, his equipment for a new world, in two bundles supported from a pole balanced on   his right shoulder.

The old coolie fell to his skinny knees, tried to get up, fell flat. Rod thought sure he would be trampled, but

somehow he was on his feet again- minus his baggage. He tried to hold his place in the torrent and recover his possessions, but the guard prodded him again and he was forced to move on barehanded. Rod lost sight of him before he had moved five meters.

There were local police outside the fence but they did not interfere. This narrow stretch between the two gates was, for the time, extraterritory; the local police had no jurisdiction. But one of them did seem annoyed at the brutality shown the old man; he put his face to the steel mesh and called out something in lingua terra. The

Mongol cop answered savagely in the same simple language, telling the North American what he could do about it, then went back to shoving and shouting and prodding still more briskly.

The crowd streaming through the pen were Asiatics- Japanese, Indonesians, Siamese, some East Indians, a few Eurasians, but predominantly South Chinese. To Rod they all looked much alike- tiny women with babies on hip or back, or often one on back and one in arms, endless runny-nosed and shaven-headed children, fathers with household goods ill enormous back packs or pushed ahead on barrows. There were a few dispirited ponies dragging two-wheeled carts much too big for them but most of the torrent had only that which they could carry.

Rod had heard an old story which asserted that if all the Chinese on Terra were marched four abreast past a given point the column would never pass that point, as more Chinese would be born fast enough to replace those who had marched past. Rod had taken his slide rule and applied arithmetic to check it- to find, of course, that the story was nonsense; even if one ignored deaths, while counting all births, the last Chinese would pass the reviewing stand in less than four years. Nevertheless, while watching this mob being herded like brutes into a slaughterhouse, Rod felt that the old canard was true even though its mathematics was faulty. There seemed to be no end to them.

He decided to risk that half pluton to find out what was going on. He slid the coin into a slot in the chair’s speaker; the voice of the commentator reached his ears:

“-the visiting minister. The prince royal was met by officials of the Terran Corporation including the Director General himself and now is being escorted to the locks of the Ratoonian enclave. After the television reception tonight staff level conversations will start. Aspokesman close to the Director General has pointed out that, in view of the impossibility of conflict of

interest between oxygen types such as ourselves and the Ratoonians, any outcome of the conference must be to our advantage, the question being to what extent.

“If you will turn your attention again to gate five, we will repeat what we said earlier: gate five is on fortyeight hour loan to the Australasian Republic. The temporary gate you see erected below is hyperfolded to a point in central Australia in the Arunta Desert, where this emigration has been mounting in a great encampment for the past several weeks. His Serene Majesty Chairman Fung Chee Mu of the Australasian Republic has informed the Corporation that his government intends to move in excess of two million people in forty-eight hours, a truly impressive figure, more than forty thousand each hour. The target figure for this year for all planetary emigration gates taken together – Emigrants’ Gap, Peter the Great, and   Witwatersrand Gates – is only seventy million emigrants or an average of eight thousand per hour. This movement proposes a rate live times as great using only one gate!”

The commentator continued: “Yet when we watch the speed, efficiency and the, uh- forthrightness with which they are carrying out this evolution it seems likely that they will achieve their goal. Our own figures show them to be slightly ahead of quota for the first nine hours. During those same nine hours there have been one hundred seven births and eighty-two deaths among the emigrants, the high death rate, of course, being incident to the temporary hazards of the emigration.

“The planet of destination, GO-8703-IV, to be called henceforth ‘Heavenly Mountains’ according to Chairman Fung, is classed as a bounty planet and no attempt had been made to colonize it. The Corporation has been assured that the colonists are volunteers.” It seemed to Rod that the announcer’s tone was ironical. “This is understandable when one considers the phenomenal population pressure of the Australasian Republic. Abrief historical rundown may be in order. After the removal of the remnants of the former Australian population to New Zealand, pursuant to the Peiping Peace Treaty, the first amazing effort of the new government was the creation of the great inland sea

Rod muted the speaker and looked back at the floor below. He did not care to hear school-book figures on how the Australian Desert had been made to blossom like the rose … and nevertheless haa been converted into a slum with more people in it than all of North America. Something new was happening at gate four-Gate four had been occupied by a moving cargo belt when he had come in; now the belt had crawled away and lost itself in the bowels of the terminal and an emigration party was lining up to go through.

This was no poverty-stricken band of refugees chivvied along by police; here each family had its own wagon… long, sweeping, boat-tight Conestogas drawn by three-pair teams and housed in sturdy glass canvas square and businesslike Studebakers with steel bodies, high mudcutter wheels, and pulled by one or two-pair teams. The draft animals were Morgans and lordly Clydesdales and jug-headed Missouri mules with strong shoulders and shrewd, suspicious eyes. Dogs trotted between wheels, wagons were piled high with household goods and implements and children, poultry protested the indignities of fate in cages tied on behind, and a little Shetland pony, riderless but carrying his saddle and just a bit too tall to run underneath with the dogs, stayed close to the tailgate of one family’s rig.

Rod wondered at the absence of cattle and stepped up the speaker again. But the announcer was still droning about the fertility of Australasians; he muted it again and watched.  Wagons had moved onto the floor and taken up tight echelon position close to the gate, ready to move, with the tail of the train somewhere out of sight below. The gate was not yet ready and drivers were getting down and gathering at the Salvation Army booth under the skirts ot the Goddess of Liberty, for a cup of coffee and some banter. It occurred to Rod that there probably was no coffee where they were going and might not be for years, since Terra never exported food – on the contrary, food and fissionable metals were almost the only  permissible imports; until an Outland colony produced a surplus of one or the other it could expect precious little help from Terra.

It was extremely expensive in terms of uranium to keep an interstellar gate open and the people in this wagon train could expect to be out of commercial touch with Earth until such a time as they had developed surpluses valuable enough in trade to warrant reopening the gate at regular intervals. Until that time they were on their own and must make do with what they   could take with them … which made horses more practical than helicopters, picks and shovels more useful than bulldozers. Machinery gets out of order and requires a complex technology to keep it going- but good old “hayburners” keep right on breeding, cropping grass, and pulling loads.

Deacon Matson had told the survival class that the real hardships of primitive Outlands were not the lack of plumbing, heating, power, light, nor weather conditioning, but the shortage of simple things like coffee and tobacco.

Rod did not smoke and coffee he could take or let alone; he could not imagine getting fretful over its absence. He scrunched down in his seat, trying to see through the gate to guess the cause of the hold up. He could not see well, as the arching canvas of a prairie schooner blocked his view, but it did seem that the gate operator had a phase error; it looked as if the sky was where the ground ought to be. The extradimensional distortions necessary to match places on two planets many light-years apart were not simply a matter of expenditure of enormous quantities of energy; they were precision problems fussy beyond belief, involving high mathematics and high art-the math was done by machine but the gate operator always had to adjust the last couple of decimal places by prayer and intuition.

In addition to the dozen-odd proper motions of each of the planets involved, motions which could usually be added and canceled out, there was also the rotation of each planet. The problem was to make the last hyperfold so that the two planets were internally tangent at the points selected as gates, with their axes parallel and their rotations in the same direction. Theoretically it was possible to match two points in contra-rotation, twisting the insubstantial fabric of space-time in exact step with “real’ motions; practically such a solution was not only terribly wasteful of energy but almost unworkable- the ground surface beyond the gate tended to skid away like a slidewalk and tilt at odd angles.

Rod did not have the mathematics to appreciate the difficulties. Being only about to finish high school his training had gone no farther than tensor calculus, statistical mechanics, simple transfinities, generalized geometries of six dimensions, and, on the practical side, analysis for electronics, primary cybernetics and robotics, and basic design of analog computers; he had had no advanced mathematics as yet. He was not aware of his ignorance and simply concluded that the gate operator must be thumb-fingered. He looked back at the emigrant   party.

The drivers were still gathered at the booth, drinking coffee and munching doughnuts. Most of the men were growing beards; Rod concluded from the beavers that the party had been training for several months. The captain of the party sported a little goatee, mustaches, and rather long hair, but it seemed to Rod that he could not be many years older than Rod himself. He was a professional, of course, required to hold a degree in Outlands arts- hunting, scouting, jackleg mechanics, gunsmithing, farming, first aid, group psychology, survival group tactics, law, and a dozen other things the race has found indispensable when stripped for action.

This captain’s mount was a Palomino mare, lovely as a sunrise, and the captain was dressed as a California don of an earlier century-possibly as a compliment to his horse. Awarning light flashed at the gate’s annunciator panel and he swung into saddle, still eating a doughnut, and cantered down the wagons for a final inspection, riding toward Rod. His back was straight, his seat deep and easy, his bearing confident. Carried low on a fancy belt he wore two razor guns, each in a silver-chased holster that matched the ornate silver of his bridle and saddle.

Rod held his breath until the captain passed out of sight under the balcony, then sighed and considered studying to be like him, rather than for one of the more intellectual Outlands professions. He did not know just what he did want to be … except that he meant to get off Earth as soon as he possibly could and get out there where things were going on!

Which reminded him that the first hurdle was tomorrow; in a few days he would either be eligible to matriculate for whatever it was he decided on, or he would be-but no use worrying about that. He remembered uneasily that it was getting late and he had not even decided on equipment, nor picked his weapons. This party captain carried razor guns; should he carry one? No, this party would fight as a unit, if it had to fight. Its leader carried that type of weapon to enforce his authority-not for solo survival. Well, what should he take?

Asiren sounded and the drivers returned to their wagons. The captain came back at a brisk trot. “Reins up!” he called out. “Reeeeeeiiiins up!” He took station by the gate, facing the head of the train; the mare stood quivering and tending to dance.

The Salvation Army lassie came out from behind her counter carrying a baby girl. She called to the party captain but her voice did not carry to the balcony.

The captain’s voice did carry. “Number four! Doyle! Come get your child!” Ared-headed man with a spade beard climbed down from the fourth wagon and sheepishly reclaimed the youngster to a chorus of cheers and cat calls. He passed the baby up to his wife, who upped its skirt and commenced paddling its bottom. Doyle climbed to his seat and took his reins.

“Call off!” the captain sang out. “One.”

“Tuh!”

“Three!”

“Foah!”

“Five!”

The count passed under the balcony, passed down the chute out of hearing. In a few moments it came back, running down this time, ending with a shouted “ONE!” The captain held up his right arm and watched the lights of the order panel.

Alight turned green. He brought his arm down smartly with a shout of “Roll ‘em! Ho!” The Palomino took off like a race horse, cut under the nose of the nigh lead horse of the first team,

and shot through the gate.

Whips cracked. Rod could hear shouts of “Git, Molly! Git, Ned!” and “No, no, you jugheads!” The train began to roll. By the time the last one on the floor was through the gate and the much larger number which had been in the chute below had begun to show it was rolling at a gallop, with the drivers bracing their feet wide and their wives riding the brakes. Rod tried to count them, made it possibly sixty-three wagons as the last one rumbled through the gate… and was gone, already half a galaxy away.

He sighed and sat back with a warm feeling sharpened with undefined sorrow. Then he stepped up the speaker volume: “-onto New Canaan, the premium planet described by the great Langford as ‘The rose without thorns.’ These colonists have paid a premium of sixteen thousand four hundred per person-not counting exempt or co-opted members-for the privilege of seeking their fortunes and protecting their posterity by moving to New Canaan. The machines predict that the premium will increase for another twenty-eight years; therefore, if you are considering giving your children the priceless boon of citizenship on New Canaan, the time to act is now. For a beautiful projection reel showing this planet send one pluton to ‘Information, Box One, Emigrants’ Gap, New Jersey County, Greater New York.’ For a complete descriptive listing of all planets now open plus a speclal list of those to be opened in the near future add another half pluton. Those seeing this broadcast in person may obtain these items at the information booth in the foyer outside the great hall.”

Rod did not listen. He had long since sent for every free item and most of the non-free ones issued by the Commission for Emigration and Trade. Just now he was wondering why the gate to New Canaan had not relaxed.

He found out at once. Stock barricades rose up out of the floor, forming a fenced passage from gate four to the chute under him. Then a herd of cattle filled the gate and came flooding toward him, bawling and snorting. They were prime Hereford steers, destined to become tender steaks and delicious roasts for a rich but slightly hungry Earth. After them and among them rode New Canaan cowpunchers armed with long goads with which they urged the beasts to greater speed- the undesirability of running weight off the animals was offset by the extreme cost of keeping the gate open, a cost which had to be charged against the cattle.

Rod discovered that the speaker had shut itself off; the half hour he had paid for was finished. He sat up with sudden guilt, realizing that he would have to hurry or he would be late for supper. He rushed out, stepping on feet and mumbling apologies, and caught the slide-way to Hoboken Gate.

This gate, being merdy for Terra-surface commuting, was permanently dilated and required no operator, since the two points brought into coincidence were joined by a rigid frame, the solid Earth. Rod showed his commuter’s ticket to the electronic monitor and stepped through to Arizona, in company with a crowd of neighbors.

“The (almost) solid Earth-” The gate robot took into account tidal distortions but could not anticipate minor seismic variables. As Rod stepped through he felt his feet quiver as if to a

small earthquake, then the terra was again firma. But he was still in an airlock at sea-level pressure. The radiation from massed bodies triggered the mechanism, the lock closed and air

pressure dropped. Rod yawned heavily to adjust to the pressure of Grand Canyon plateau, North Rim, less than three quarters that of New Jersey. But despite the fact that he made the

change twice a day he found himself rubbing his right ear to get rid of an ear ache.

The lock opened, he stepped out. Having come two thousand miles in a split second he now had ten minutes by slide tube and a fifteen minute walk to get home. He decided to dogtrot and be on time after all. He might have made it if there had not been several thousand other people trying to use the same facilities.

2.      The Fifth Way

Rocket ships did not conquer space; they merely challenged it. Arocket leaving Earth at seven miles per second is terribly slow for the vast reaches beyond. Only the Moon is reasonably near-four days, more or less. Mars is thirty-seven weeks away, Saturn a dreary six years, Pluto an impossible half century, by the elliptical orbits possible to rockets.

Ortega’s torch ships brought the Solar System within reach. Based on mass conversion, Einstein’s deathless e= Mc2, they could boost for the entire trip at any acceleration the pilot could stand. At an easy one gravity the inner planets were only hours from Earth, far Pluto only eighteen days. It was a change like that from horseback to jet plane.

The shortcoming of this brave new toy was that there was not much anywhere to go. The Solar system, from a human standpoint, is made up of remarkably unattractive real estate-save for lovely Terra herself, lush and green and beautiful. The steel-limbed Jovians enjoy gravity 2.5 times ours and their poisonous air at inhuman pressure keeps them in health. Martians prosper in near vacuum, the rock lizards of Luna do not breathe at all. But these planets are not for men.

Men prosper on an oxygen planet close enough to a G-type star for the weather to cycle around the freezing point of water… that is to say, on Earth.

When you are already there why go anywhere? The reason was babies, too many babies. Malthus pointed it out long ago; food increases by arithmetical progression, people increase by geometrical progression. By World War I half the world lived on the edge of starvation; by World War II Earth’s population was increasing by 55,000 people every day; before World War III, as early as 1954, the increase had jumped to 100,000 mouths and stomachs per day, 35,000,000 additional people each year … and the population of Terra had climbed well beyond   that which its farm lands could support.

The hydrogen, germ, and nerve gas horrors that followed were not truly political. The true meaning was more that of beggars fighting over a crust of bread.

The author of Gulliver’s Travels sardonically proposed that Irish babies be fattened for English tables; other students urged less drastic ways of curbing population – none of which made the slightest difference. Life, all life, has the twin drives to survive and to reproduce. Intelligence is an aimless byproduct except as it serves these basic drives.

But intelligence can be made to serve the mindless demands of life. Our Galaxy contains in excess of one hundred thousand Earth-type planets, each as warm and motherly to men as sweet Terra. Ortega’s torch ships could reach the stars. Mankind could colonize, even as the hungry millions of Europe had crossed the Atlantic and raised more babies in the New World.

Some did … hundreds of thousands. But the entire race, working as a team, cannot build and launch a hundred ships a day, each fit for a thousand colonists, and keep it up day after day, year after year, time without end. Even with the hands and the will (which the race never had) there is not that much steel, aluminum, and uranium in Earth’s crust. There is not one hundredth of the necessary amount.

But intelligence can find solutions where there are none. Psychologists once locked an ape in a room, for which they had arranged only four ways of escaping. Then they spied on him to see which of the four he would find.

The ape escaped a fifth way.

Dr. Jesse Evelyn Ramsbotham had not been trying to solve the baby problem; he had been trying to build a time machine. He had two reasons: first, because time machines are an impossibility; second, because his hands would sweat and he would stammer whenever in the presence of a nubile female. He was not aware that the first reason was compensation for the second, in fact he was not aware of the second reason – it was a subject his conscious mind avoided.

It is useless to speculate as to the course of history had Jesse Evelyn Ramsbotham’s parents had the good sense to name their son Bill instead of loading him with two girlish names. He might have become an All-American halfback and ended up selling bonds and adding his quota of babies to a sum already disastrous. Instead he became a mathematical physicist.

Progress in physics is achieved by denying the obvious and accepting the impossible. Any nineteenth century physicist could have given unassailable reasons why atom bombs were impossible if his reason were not affronted at the question; any twentieth century physicist could explain why time travel was incompatible with the real world of space-time. But Ramsbotham began fiddling with the three greatest Einsteinian equations, the two relativity equations for distance and duration and the mass-conversion equation; each contained the velocity of light. “Velocity” is first derivative, the differential of distance with respect to time; he converted those equations into differential equations, then played games with them. He would feed the results to the Rakitiac computer, remote successor to Univac, Eniac and Maniac. While he was doing these things his hands never sweated nor did he stammer, except when he was forced to deal with the young lady who was chief programmer for the giant computer.

His first model produced a time-stasis or low-entropy field no bigger than a football-but a lighted cigarette placed inside with full power setting was still burning a week later. Ramsbotham picked up the cigarette, resumed smoking and thought about it.

Next he tried a day-old chick, with colleagues to witness. Three months later the chick was unaged and no hungrier than chicks usually are. He reversed the phase relation and cut in power for the shortest time he could manage with his bread-boarded hook-up.

In less than a second the newly-hatched chick was long dead, starved and decayed.

He was aware that he had simply changed the slope of a curve, but he was convinced that he was on the track of true time travel. He never did find it, although once he thought that he had-he repeated by request his demonstration with a chick for some of his colleagues; that night two of them picked the lock on his lab, let the

little thing out and replaced it with an egg. Ramsbotham might have been permanently convinced that he had found time travel and then spent the rest of his life in a blind alley had they not cracked the egg and showed him that it was hard-boiled.

But he did not give up. He made a larger model and tried to arrange a dilation, or anomaly (he did not call it a “Gate”) which would let him get in and out of the field himself.

When he threw on power, the space between the curving magnetodes of his rig no longer showed the wall beyond, but a steaming jungle. He jumped to the conclusion that this must be  a forest of the Carboniferous Period. It had often occurred to him that the difference between space and time might simply be human prejudice, but this was not one of the times; he believed what he wanted to believe.

He hurriedly got a pistol and with much bravery and no sense crawled between the magnetodes.

Ten minutes later he was arrested for waving firearms around in Rio de Janeiro’s civic botanical gardens. Alack of the Portuguese language increased both his difficulties and the length of time he spent in a tropical pokey, but three days later through the help of the North American consul he was on his way home. He thought and filled notebooks with equations and question marks on the whole trip.

The short cut to the stars had been found.

Ramsbotham’s discoveries eliminated the basic cause of war and solved the problem of what to do with all those dimpled babies. Ahundred thousand planets were no farther away  than the other side of the street. Virgin continents, raw wildernesses, fecund jungles, killing deserts, frozen tundras, and implacable mountains lay just beyond the city gates, and the human race was again going out where the street lights do not shine, out where there was no friendly cop on the corner nor indeed a corner, out where there were no well-hung, tender steaks, no boneless hams, no packaged, processed foods suitable for delicate minds and pampered bodies. The biped omnivore again had need of his biting, tearing, animal teeth, for the race was spilling out (as it had so often before) to kill or be killed, eat or be eaten.

But the human race’s one great talent is survival. The race, as always, adjusted to conditions, and the most urbanized, mechanized, and civilized, most upholstered and luxurious culture in all history trained its best children, its potential leaders, in primitive pioneer survival-man naked against nature.

Rod Walker knew about Dr. J. E. Ramsbotham, just as he knew about Einstein, Newton, and Columbus, but he thought about Ramsbotham no oftener than he thought about Columbus. These were figures in books, each larger than life and stuffed with straw, not real. He used the Ramsbotham Gate between Jersey and the Arizona Strip without thinking of its inventor the same way his ancestors used elevators without thinking of the name “Otis.” If he thought about the miracle at all, it was a half-formed irritation that the Arizona side of Hoboken Gate was  so far from his parents’ home. It was known as Kaibab Gate on this side and was seven miles north of the Walker residence.

At the time the house had been built the location was at the extreme limit of tube delivery and other city utilities. Being an old house, its living room was above ground, with only bedrooms, pantry, and bombproof buried. The living room had formerly stuck nakedly above ground, an ellipsoid monocoque shell, but, as Greater New York spread, the neighborhood had been zoned for underground apartments and construction above ground which would interfere with semblance of virgin forest had been forbidden.

The Walkers had gone along to the extent of covering the living room with soil and planting it with casual native foliage, but they had refused to cover up their view window. It was the chief charm of the house, as it looked out at the great canyon. The community corporation had tried to coerce them into covering it up and had offered to replace it with a simulacrum window such as the underground apartments used, with a relayed view of the canyon. But Rod’s father was a stubborn man and maintained that with weather, women, and wine there was  nothing “just as good.” His window was still intact.

Rod found the family sitting in front of the window, watching a storm work its way up the canyon-his mother, his father, and, to his great surprise, his sister. Helen was ten years older than he and an assault captain in the Amazons; she was seldom home.

The warmth of his greeting was not influenced by his realization that her arrival would probably cause his own lateness to pass with little comment. “Sis! Hey, this is swell- I thought you were on Thule.”

“I was … until a few hours ago.” Rod tried to shake hands; his sister gathered him in a bear hug and bussed him on the mouth, squeezing him against the raised ornaments of her chrome corselet. She was still in uniform, a fact that caused him to think that she had just arrived-on her rare visits home she usually went slopping around in an old bathrobe and go- ahead slippers, her hair caught up in a knot. Now she was still in dress

armor and kilt and had dumped her side arms, gauntlets, and pluined helmet on the floor. She looked him over proudly. “My, but you’ve grown! You’re almost as tall as I am.”

“I’m taller.”

“Want to bet? No, don’t try to wiggle away from me; I’ll twist your arm. Slip off your shoes and stand back to back.” “Sit down, children,” their father said mildly. “Rod, why were you late?”

“Uh …” He had worked out a diversion involving telling about the examination coming up, but he did not use it as his sister intervened. “Don’t heckle him, Pater. Ask for excuses and you’ll get them. I learned that when I was a sublieutenant.”

“Quiet, daughter. I can raise him without your help.” Rod was surprised by his father’s edgy answer, was more surprised by Helen’s answer: “So? Really?” Her tone was odd.

Rod saw his mother raise a hand, seem about to speak, then close her mouth. She looked upset. His sister and father looked at each other; neither spoke. Rod looked from one to the other, said slowly, “Say, what’s all this?”

His father glanced at him. “Nothing. We’ll say no more about it. Dinner is waiting. Coming, dear?” He turned to his wife, handed her up from her chair, offered her his arm. “Just a minute,” Rod said insistently. “I was late because I was hanging around the Gap.”

“Very well. You know better, but I said we would say no more about it.” He turned toward the lift. “But I wanted to tell you something else, Dad. I won’t be home for the next week or so.”      “Very well- eh? What did you say?”

“I’ll be away for a while, sir. Maybe ten days or a bit longer.”

His father looked perplexed, then shook his head. “Whatever your plans are, you will have to change them. I can’t let you go away at this time.” “But, Dad-“

“I’m sorry, but that is definite.” “But, Dad, I have to!”

“No.”

Rod looked frustrated. His sister said suddenly, “Pater, wouldn’t it be well to find out why he wants to be away?” “Now, daughter-“

“Dad, I’m taking my solo survival, starting tomorrow morning!”

Mrs. Walker gasped, then began to weep. Her husband said, “There, there, my dear!” then turned to his son and said harshly, “You’ve upset your mother.”

“But, Dad, I…” Rod shut up, thinking bitterly that no one seemed to give a hoot about his end of it. Mter all, he was the one who was going to have to sink or swim. Alot they knew or- “You see, Pater,” his sister was saying. “He does have to be away. He has no choice, because-“

“I see nothing of the sort! Rod, I meant to speak about this earlier, but I had not realized that your test would take place so soon. When I signed permission for you to take that course, I had, I must admit, a mental reservation. I felt that the experience would be valuable later when and if you took the course in college. But I never intended to let you come up against the final test while still in high school. You are too young.

Rod was shocked speechless. But his sister again spoke for him. “Fiddlesticks!” “Eh? Now, daughter, please remember that-“

“Repeat fiddlesticks! Any girl in my company has been up against things as rough and many of them are not much older than Buddy. What are you trying to do, Pater? Break his nerve?” “You have no reason to… I think we had best discuss this later.”

“I think that is a good idea.” Captain Walker took her brother’s arm and they followed their parents down to the refectory. Dinner was on the table, still warm in its delivery containers; they took their places, standing, and Mr. Walker solemnly lighted the Peace Lamp. The family was evangelical Monist by inheritance, each of Rod’s grandfathers having been converted in the second great wave of proselyting that swept out of Persia in the last decade of the previous century, and Rod’s father took seriously his duties as family priest.

As the ritual proceeded Rod made his responses automatically, his mind on this new problem. His sister chimed in heartily but his mother’s answers could hardly be heard. Nevertheless the warm symbolism had its effect; Rod felt himself calming down. By the time his father intoned the last “-one Principle, one family, one flesh!” he felt like eating. He sat

down and took the cover off his plate.

Ayeast cutlet, molded to look like a chop and stripped with real bacon, a big baked potato, and a grilled green lobia garnished with baby’s buttons … Rod’s mouth watered as he reached for the catsup.

He noticed that Mother was not eating much, which surprised him. Dad was not eating much either but Dad often just picked at his food … he became aware with sudden warm pity that Dad was thinner and greyer than ever. How old was Dad?

His attention was diverted by a story his sister was telling: “-and so the Commandant told me I would have to clamp down. And I said to her, ‘Ma’am, girls will be girls. It I have to bust a petty officer everytime one of them does something like that, pretty soon I won’t have anything but privates. And Sergeant Dvorak is the best gunner I have.”’

“Just a second,” her father interrupted. “I thought you said ‘Kelly,’ not ‘Dvorak.’”

“I did and she did. Pretending to misunderstand which sergeant she meant was my secret weapon-for I had Dvorak cold for the same offense, and Tiny Dvorak (she’s bigger than I am) is the Squadron’s white hope for the annual corps-wide competition for best trooper. Of course, losing her stripes would put her, and us, out of the running.

“So I straightened out the ‘mix up’ in my best wide-eyed, thick-headed manner, let the old gal sit for a moment trying not to bite her nails, then told her that I had both women confined to barracks until that gang of college boys was through installing the new ‘scope, and sang her a song about how the quality of mercy is not strained, it droppeth as the gentle rain from

heaven, and made myself responsible for seeing to it that she was not again embarrassed by scandalous-her word, not mine-scandalous incidents … especially when she was showing quadrant commanders around.

“So she grumpily allowed as how the company commander was responsible for her company and she would hold me to it and now would I get out and let her work on the quarterly training report in peace? So I threw her my best parade ground salute and got out so fast I left a hole in the air.”

“I wonder,” Mr. Walker said judicially, “if you should oppose your commanding officer in such matters? After all, she is older and presumably wiser than you are.”

Helen made a little pile of the last of her baby’s buttons, scooped them up and swallowed them. “Fiddlesticks squared and cubed. Pardon me, Pater, but if you had any military service   you would know better. I am as tough as blazes to my girls myself… and it just makes them boast about how they’ve got the worst fire-eater in twenty planets. But if they’re in trouble   higher up, I’ve got to take care of my kids. There always comes a day when there is something sticky up ahead and I have to stand up and walk toward it. And it will be all right because I’ll have Kelly on my right flank and Dvorak on my left and each of them trying to take care of Maw Walker all by her ownself. I know what I’m doing. ‘Walker’s Werewolves’ are a team.”

Mrs. Walker shivered. “Gracious, darling, I wish you had never taken up a calling so … well, so dangerous.”

Helen shrugged. “The death rate is the same for us as for anybody … one person, one death, sooner or later. What would you want, Mum? With eighteen million more women than men on this continent did you want me to sit and knit until my knight comes riding? Out where I operate, there are more men than women; I’ll wing one yet, old and ugly as I am.

Rod asked curiously, “Sis, would you really give up your commission to get married?”

“Would I! I won’t even count his arms and legs. If he is still warm and can nod his head, he’s had it. My target is six babies and a farm.” Rod looked her over. “I’d say your chances are good. You’re quite pretty even if your ankles are thick.”

“Thanks, pardner. Thank you too much. What’s for dessert, Mum?” “I didn’t look. Will you open it, dear?”

Dessert turned out to be iced mangorines, which pleased Rod. His sister went on talking. “The Service isn’t a bad shake, on active duty. It’s garrison duty that wears. My kids get fat and sloppy and restless and start fighting with each other from sheer boredom. For my choice, barracks casualties are more to be dreaded than combat. I’m hoping that our squadron will be tagged to take part in the pacification of Byer’s Planet.”

Mr. Walker looked at his wife, then at his daughter. “You have upset your mother again, my dear. Quite a bit of this talk has hardly been appropriate under the Light of Peace.”  “I was asked questions, I answered.”

“Well, perhaps so.”

Helen glanced up. “Isn’t it time to turn it out, anyway? We all seem to have finished eating.” “Why, if you like. Though it is hardly reverent to hurry.”

“The Principle knows we haven’t all eternity.” She turned to Rod. “How about making yourself scarce, mate? I want to make palaver with the folks.” “Gee, Sis, you act as if I was-“

“Get lost, Buddy. I’ll see you later.”

Rod left, feeling affronted. He saw Helen blow out the pax lamp as he did so. He was still making lists when his sister came to his room. “Hi, kid.”

“Oh. Hello, Sis.”

“What are you doing? Figuring what to take on your solo?” “Sort of.”

“Mind if I get comfortable?” She brushed articles from his bed and sprawled on it. “We’ll go into that later.” Rod thought it over. “Does that mean Dad won’t object?”

“Yes. I pounded his head until he saw the light. But,

as I said, well go into that later. I’ve got something to tell you, youngster.” “Such as?”

“The first thing is this. Our parents are not as stupid as you probably think they are. Fact is, they are pretty bright.” “I never said they were stupid!” Rod answered, comfortably aware of what his thoughts had been.

“No. But I heard what went on before dinner and so did you. Dad was throwing his weight around and not listening. But, Buddy, it has probably never occurred to you that it is hard work to be a parent, maybe the hardest job of all- particularly when you have no talent for it, which Dad hasn’t. He knows it and works hard at it and is conscientious. Mostly he does mighty well. Sometimes he slips, like tonight. But, what you did not know is this: Dad is going to die.”

“What?” Rod looked stricken. “I didn’t know he was ill!”

“You weren’t meant to know. Now climb down off the ceiling; there is a way out. Dad is terribly ill, and he would die in a few weeks at the most- unless something drastic is done. But something is going to be. So relax.”

She explained the situation bluntly: Mr. Walker was suffering from a degenerative disease under which he was slowly starving to death. His condition was incurable by current medical art; he might linger on, growing weaker each day, for weeks or months- but he would certainly die soon.

Rod leaned his head on his hands and chastised himself. Dad dying … and he hadn’t even noticed. They had kept it from him, like a baby, and he had been too stupid to see it.

His sister touched his shoulder. “Cut it out. If there is anything stupider than flogging yourself over something you can’t help, I’ve yet to meet it. Anyhow, we are doing something about it.” “What? I thought you said nothing could be done?”

“Shut up and let your mind coast. The folks are going to make a Ramsbotham jump, five hundred to one, twenty years for two weeks. They’ve already signed a contract with Entropy, Incorporated. Dad has resigned from General Synthetics and is closing up his affairs; they’ll kiss the world good-by this coming Wednesday- which is why he was being sterh about your plans to be away at that time. You’re the apple of his eye- Heaven knows why.”

Rod tried to sort out too many new ideas at once. Atime jump … of course! It would let Dad stay alive another twenty years. But- “Say, Sis, this doesn’t get them anything! Sure, it’s twenty years but it will be just two weeks to them … and Dad will be as sick as ever. I know what I’m talking about; they did the same thing for Hank Robbin’s great grandfather and he died anyhow, right after they took him out of the stasis. Hank told me.”

Captain Walker shrugged. “Probably a hopeless case to start with. But Dad’s specialist, Dr. Hensley, says that he is morally certain that Dad’s case is not hopeless twenty years from now. I don’t know anything about metabolic medicine, but Hensley says that they are on the verge and that twenty years from now they ought to be able to patch Dad up as easily they can graft on a new leg today.”

“You really think so?”

“How should I know? In things like this you hire the best expert you can, then follow his advice. The point is, if we don’t do it, Dad is finished. So we do it.”

“Yeah. Sure, sure, we’ve got to.”

She eyed him closely and added, “All right. Now do you want to talk with them about it?” “Huh?” He was startled by the shift. “Why? Are they waiting for me?”

“No. I persuaded them that it was best to keep it from you until it happened. Then I came straight in and told you. Now you can do as you please- pretend you don’t know, or go have Mum cry over you, and listen to a lot of last-minute, man-to-man advice from Dad that you will never take. About midnight, with your nerves frazzled, you can get back to your preparations for   your survival test. Play it your own way- but I’ve rigged it so you can avoid that, if you want to. Easier on everybody. Myself, I like a cat’s way of saying good-by.”

Rod’s mind was in a turmoil. Not to say good-by seemed unnatural, ungrateful, untrue to family sentiment- but the prospect of saying good-by seemed almost unbearably embarrassing. “What’s that about a cat?”

“When a cat greets you, he makes a big operation of it, humping, stropping your legs, buzzing like mischief. But when he leaves, he just walks off and never looks back. Cats are smart.” “Well . .”

“I suggest,” she added, “that you remember that they are doing this for their convenience, not yours. “But Dad has to-“

“Surely, Dad must, if he is to get well.” She considered pointing out that the enormous expense of the time jump would leave Rod practically penniless; she decided that this was better left undiscussed. “But Mum does not have to.”

“But she has to go with Dad!”

“So? Use arithmetic. She prefers leaving you alone for twenty years in order to be with Dad for two weeks. Or turn it around: she prefers having you orphaned to having herself widowed for the same length of time.”

“I don’t think that’s quite fair to Mum,” Rod answered slowly.

“I wasn’t criticizing. She’s making the right decision. Nevertheless, they both have a strong feeling of guilt about you and-“ “About me?”

“About you. I don’t figure into it. If you insist on saying good-by, their guilt will come out as self-justification and self-righteousness and they will find ways to take it out on you and everybody will have a bad time. I don’t want that. You are all my family.”

“Uh, maybe you know best.”

“I didn’t get straight A’s in emotional logic and military leadership for nothing. Man is not a rational animal; he is a rationalizing animal. Now let’s see what you plan to take with you.”   She looked over his lists and equipment, then whistled softly. “Whew! Rod, I never saw so much plunder. You won’t be able to move. Who are you? Tweedledum preparing for battle, or

the White Knight?”

“Well, I was going to thin it down,” he answered uncomfortably. “I should think so!”

“Uh, Sis, what sort of gun should I carry?” “Huh? Why the deuce do you want a gun?”

“Why, for what I might run into, of course. Wild animals and things. Deacon Matson practically said that we could expect dangerous animals.”

“I doubt if he advised you to carry a gun. From his teputation, Dr. Matson is a practical man. See here, infant, on this tour you are the rabbit, trying to escape the fox. You aren’t the fox.” “What do you mean?”

“Your only purpose is to stay alive. Not to be brave, not to fight, not to dominate the wilds- but just stay breathing. One time in a hundred a gnn might save your life; the other ninety-nine it will just tempt you into folly. Oh, no doubt Matson would take one, and I would, too. But we are salted; we know when not to use one. But consider this. That test area is going to be crawling with trigger-happy young squirts. If one shoots you, it won’t matter that you have a gun, too- because you will be dead. But if you carry a gun, it makes you feel cocky; you won’t take proper cover. If you don’t have one, then you’ll know that you are the rabbit. You’ll be careful.”

“Did you take a gun on your solo test?”

“I did. And I lost it the first day. Which saved my life.” “How?”

“Because when I was caught without one I ran away from a Bessmer’s griffin instead of trying to shoot it. You savvy Bessmer’s griffin?” “Uh, Spica V?”

“Spica IV. I don’t know how much outer zoology they are teaching you kids these days-from the ignoramuses we get for recruits I’ve reached the conclusion that this new-fangled ‘functional education’ has abolished studying in favor of developing their cute little personalities.

“Why I had one girl who wanted to- never mind; the thing about the griffin is that it does not really have vital organs. Its nervous system is decentralized, even its assimilation system. To   kill it quickly you would have to grind it into hamburger. Shooting merely tickles it. But not know that; if I had had my gun I would have found out the hard way. As it was, it treed me for three days, which did my figure good and gave me time to think over the philosophy, ethics, and pragmatics of self-preservation.”

Rod did not argue, but he still had a conviction that a gun was a handy thing to have around. It made him feel good, taller, stronger and more confident, to have one slapping against his thigh. He didn’t have to use it- not unless he just had to. And he knew enough to take cover; nobody in the class could do a silent sneak the way he could. While Sis was a good soldier, still she didn’t know everything and-

But Sis was still talking. “I know how good a gun feels. It makes you bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, three meters tall and covered with hair. You’re ready for anything and kind of hoping   you’ll find it. Which is exactly what is dangerous about it-because you aren’t anything of the sort. You are a feeble, hairless embryo, remarkably easy to kill. You could carry an assault gun with two thousand meters precision range and isotope charges that will blow up a hill, but you still would not have eyes in the back of your head like a janus bird, nor be able to see in the dark like the Thetis pygmies. Death can cuddle up behind you while you are drawing a bead on something in front.”

“But, Sis, your own company carries guns.

“Guns, radar, bombs, black scopes, gas, warpers, and some things which we light-heartedly hope are secret. What of it? You aren’t going to storm a city. Buddy, sometimes I send a girl out on an infiltration patrol, object: information-go out, find out, come back alive. How do you suppose I equip her?”

“Never mind. In the first place I don’t pick an eager young recruit; I send some unkillable old-timer. She peels down to her underwear, darkens her skin if it is not dark, and goes out bare- handed and bare-footed, without so much as a fly swatter. I have yet to lose a scout that way. Helpless and unprotected you do grow eye’s in the back of your head, and your nerve ends reach out and feel everything around you. I learned that when I was a brash young j.o., from a salty trooper old enough to be my mother.”

Impressed, Rod said slowly, “Deacon Matson told us he would make us take this test bare-handed, if he could.” “Dr. Matson is a man of sense.

“Well, what would you take?”

“Test conditions again?”

Rod stated them. Captain Walker frowned. “Mmm … not much to go on. Two to ten days probably means about five. The climate won’t be hopelessly extreme. I suppose you own a Baby Bunting?”

“No, but I’ve got a combat parka suit. I thought I would carry it, then if the test area turned out not to be cold, I’d leave it at the gate. I’d hate to lose it; it weighs only half a kilo and cost quite  a bit.”

“Don’t worry about that. There is no point in being the best dressed ghost in Limbo. Okay, besides your parka I would make it four kilos of rations, five of water, two kilos of sundries like pills and matches, all in a vest pack … and a knife.”

“‘That isn’t much for five days, much less ten.”

“It is all you can carry and still be light on your feet. “Let’s see your knife, dear.”

Rod had several knives, but one was “his” knife, a lovely all-purpose one with a 21-cm. molysteel blade and a fine balance. He handed it to his sister, who cradled it lightly. “Nice!” she said, and glanced around the room.

“Over there by the outflow.”

“I see.” She whipped it past her ear, let fly, and the blade sank into the target, sung and quivered. She reached down and drew another from her boot top. “This is a good one, too.” She threw and it bit into the target a blade’s width from the first.

She retrieved both knives, stood balancing them, one on each hand. She flipped her own so that the grip was toward Rod. “This is my pet, ‘Lady Macbeth.’ I carried her on my own solo, Buddy. I want you to carry her on yours.

“You want to trade knives? All right.” Rod felt a sharp twinge at parting with “Colonel Bowie” and a feeling of dismay that some other knife might let him down. But it was not an offer that he could refuse, not from Sis.

“My very dear! I wouldn’t deprive you of your own knife, not on your solo. I want you to carry both, Buddy. You won’t starve nor die of thirst, but a spare knife may be worth its weight in thorium.”

“Gee, Sis! But I shouldn’t take your knife, either- you said you were expecting active duty. I can carry a spare of my own”

“I won’t need it. My girls haven’t let me use a knife in years. I want you to have Lady Macbeth on your test.” She removed the scabbard from her boot top, sheathed the blade; and handed it to him. “Wear it in good health, brother.”

3.      Through the Tunnel

Rod arrived at templeton gate the next morning feeling not his best. He had intended to get a good night’s sleep in preparation for his ordeal, but his sister’s arrival in conjunction with overwhelming changes in his family had defeated his intention. As with most children Rod had taken his family and home for granted; he had not thought about them much, nor placed a conscious value on them, any more than a fish treasures water. They simply were.

Now suddenly they were not.

Helen and he had talked late. She had begun to have stron~ misgivings about her decision to let him know of the c ange on the eve of his test. She had weighed it, decided. that it was the “right” thing to do, then had learned the ages-old sour truth that right and wrong can sometimes be determined only through hindsight. It had not been fair, she later concluded, to load anything else on his mind just before his test; But it had not seemed fair, either, to let him leave without knowing… to return to an empty house.

The decision was necessarily hers; she had been his guardian since earlier that same day. The papers had been signed and sealed; the court had given approval. Now she found with  a sigh that being a “parent” was not unalloyed pleasure; it was more like the soul-searching that had gone into her first duty as member of a court martial.

When she saw that her “baby” was not quieting, she had insisted that he go to bed anyhow, then had given him a long back rub, combining it with hypnotic instructions to sleep, then had gone quietly away when he seemed asleep.

But Rod had not been asleep; he had simply wanted to be alone. His mind raced like an engine with no load for the best part of an hour, niggling uselessly at the matter of his father’s illness, wondering what it was going to be like to greet them again after twenty years- why, he would be almost as old as Mum! – switching over to useless mental preparations for unknown test conditions.

At last he realized that he had to sleep- forced himself to run through mental relaxing exercises, emptying his mind and hypnotizing himself. It took longer than ever before but finally he entered a great, golden, warm cloud and was asleep.

His bed mechanism had to call him twice. He woke bleary-eyed and was still so after a needle shower. He looked in a mirror, decided that shaving did not matter where he was going and anyhow he was late-then decided to shave after all … being painfully shy about his sparse young growth.

Mum was not up, but she hardly ever got up as early as that. Dad rarely ate breakfast these days … Rod recalled why with a twinge. But he had expected Sis to show up. Glumly he opened his tray and discovered that Mum had forgotten to dial an order, something that had not happened twice in his memory. He placed his order and waited for service- another ten minutes lost.

Helen showed up as he was leaving, dressed surprisingly in a dress. “Good morning.”

“Hi, Sis. Say, you’ll have to order your own tucker. Mother didn’t and I didn’t know what you wanted.” “Oh, I had breakfast hours ago. I was waiting to see you off.”

“Oh. Well, so long. I’ve got to run, I’m late.”

“I won’t hold you up.” She came over and embraced him. “Take it easy, mate. That’s the important thing. More people have died from worry than ever bled to death. And if you do have to strike, strike low.”

“Uh, I’ll remember.”

“See that you do. I’m going to get my leave extended today so that I’ll be here when you come back.” She kissed him. “Now run.”

Dr. Matson was sitting at a desk outside the dispensary at Templeton Gate, checking names on his roll. He looked up as Rod arrived. “Why, hello, Walker. I thought maybe you had decided to be smart.”

‘I’m sorry I’m late, sir. Things happened.”

“Don’t fret about it. Knew a man once who didn’t get shot at sunrise because he overslept the appointment.” “Really? Who was he?”

“Young fellow I used to know. Myself.”

“Hunh? You really did, sir? You mean you were-“

“Not a word of truth in it. Good stories are rarely true. Get on in there and take your physical, before you get the docs irritated.”

They thumped him and x-rayed him and made a wavy pattern from his brain and did all the indignities that examining physicians do. The senior examiner listened to his heart and felt his moist hand. “Scared, son?”

“Of course I am!” Rod blurted.

“Of course you are. If you weren’t, I wouldn’t pass you. What’s that bandage on your leg?”

“Uh-” The bandage concealed Helen’s knife “Lady Macbeth.” Rod sheepishly admitted the fact. “Take it off.”

“Sir?”

“I’ve known candidates to pull dodges like that to cover up a disqualification. So let’s have a look.”

Rod started removing it; the physician let him continue until he was sure that it was a cache for a weapon and not a wound dressing. “Get your clothes on. Report to your instructor.

Rod put on his vest pack of rations and sundries, fastened his canteen under it. It was a belt canteen of flexible synthetic divided into half-litre pockets. The weight was taken by shoulder straps and a tube ran up the left suspender, ending in a nipple near his mouth, so that he might drink wit out taking it off. He planned, if possible, to stretch his meager supply through the whole test, avoiding the hazards of contaminated water and the greater hazards of the water hole- assuming that fresh water could be found at all.

He wrapped twenty meters of line, light, strong, and thin, around his waist. Shorts, overshirt, trousers, and boot moccasins completed his costume; he belted “Colonel Bowie” on outside. Dressed, he looked fleshier than he was; only his knife showed. He carried his parka suit over his left arm. It was an efficient garment, hooded, with built-in boots and gloves, and with pressure seams to let him use bare hands when necessary, but it was much too warm to wear until he needed it. Rod had learned early in the game that Eskimos don’t dare to sweat.

Dr. Matson was outside the dispensary door. “The

late Mr. Walker,” he commented, then glanced at the bulkiness of Rod’s torso. “Body armor, son?” “No, sir. Just a vest pack.” “How much penalty you carrying?”

“Eleven kilograms. Mostly water and rations.”

“Mmm . . well, it will get heavier before it gets lighter. No Handy-Dandy Young Pioneer’s Kit? No collapsible patent wigwam?” Rod blushed. “No, sir.”

“You can leave that snow suit. Ill mail it to your home.”

“Uh, thank you, sir.” Rod passed it over, adding, wasn’t sure I’d need it, but I brought it along, just in case.

“You did need it.” “Sir?”

“I’ve already flunked five for showing up without their snuggies… and four for showing up with vacuum suits. Both ways for being stupid. They ought to know that the Board would not dump them into vacuum or chlorine or such without specifying space suits in the test notice. We’re looking for graduates, not casualties. On the other hand, cold weather is within the limits of useful test conditions.”

Rod glanced at the suit he had passed over. “You’re sure I won’t need it, sir?”

“Quite. Except that you would have flunked if you hadn’t fetched it. Now bear a hand and draw whatever pig shooter you favor; the armorer is anxious to close up shop. What gun have you picked?”

Rod gulped. “Uh, I was thinking about not taking one, Deacon- I mean ‘Doctor.’”

“You can call me ‘Deacon’ to my face- ten days from now. But this notion of yours interests me. How did you reach that conclusion?” “Uh, why, you see, sir… well, my sister suggested it.”

“So? I must meet your sister. What’s her name?”

“Assault Captain Helen Walker,” Rod said proudly, “Corps of Amazons.” Matson wrote it down. “Get on in there. They are ready for the drawing.

Rod hesitated. “Sir,” he said with sudden misgiving, “if I did carry a gun, what sort would you advise?”

Matson looked disgusted. “I spend a year trying to spoonfeed you kids with stuff I learned the hard way. Comes examination and you ask me to slip you the answers. I can no more answer that than I would have been justified yesterday in telling you to bring a snow suit.”

“Sorry, sir.

“No reason why you shouldn’t ask; it’s just that I won’t answer. Let’s change the subject. This sister of yours she must be quite a girl.” “Oh, she is, sir.”

“Mmm … maybe if I had met a girl like that I wouldn’t be a cranky old bachelor now. Get in there and draw your number. Number one goes through in six minutes.”

“Yes, Doctor.” His way led him past the school armorer, who had set up a booth outside the door. The old chap was wiping off a noiseless Summerfield. Rod caught his eye. “Howdy, Guns.”

“Hi, Jack. Kind of late, aren’t you? What’ll it be?”

Rod’s eye ran over the rows of beautiful weapons. Maybe just a little needle gun with poisoned pellets . He wouldn’t have to use it .

Then he realized that Dr. Matson had answered his question, with a very broad hint. “Uh, I’m already heeled, Guns. Thanks.” “Okay. Well, good luck, and hurry back.”

“Thanks a lot.” He went into the gate room.

The seminar had numbered more than fifty students; there were about twenty waiting to take the examination. He started to look around, was stopped by a gate attendant who called out, “Over here! Draw your number.”

The lots were capsules in a bowl. Rod reached in, drew one out, and broke it open. “Number seven.” “Lucky seven! Congratulations. Your name, please.”

Rod gave his name and turned away, looking for a seat, since it appeared that he had twenty minutes or so to wait. He walked back, staring with interest at what his schoolmates deemed appropriate for survival, any and all conditions.

Johann Braun was seated with empty seats on each side of him. The reason for the empty seats crouched at his feet- a big, lean, heavily-muscled boxer dog with unfriendly eyes. Slung over Braun’s shoulder was a General Electric Thunderbolt, a shoulder model with telescopic sights and cone-of-fire control; its power pack Braun wore as a back pack. At his belt were binoculars, knife, first aid kit, and three pouches.

Rod stopped and admired the gun, wondering how much the lovely thing had cost. The dog raised his head and growled. Braun put a hand on the dog’s head. “Keep your distance,” he warned. “Thor is a one-man dog.”

Rod gave back a pace. “Yo, you are certainly equipped.”

The big blond youth gave a satisfied smile. “Thor and I are going to live off the country.” “You don’t need him, with that cannon.

“Oh, yes, I do. Thor’s my burglar alarm. With him at my side I can sleep sound. You’d be surprised at the things he can do. Thor’s smarter than most people.” “Shouldn’t wonder.”

“The Deacon gave me some guff that the two of us made a team and should go through separately. I explained to him that Thor would tear the joint apart if they tried to separate us.” Braun caressed the dog’s ears. “I’d rather team with Thor than with a platoon of Combat Pioneers.”

“Say, Yo, how about letting me try that stinger? After we come out, I mean.

“I don’t mind. It really is a honey. You can pick off a sparrow in the air as easily as you can drop a moose at a thousand meters. Say, you’re making Thor nervous. See you later.”

Rod took the hint, moved on and sat down. He looked around, having in mind that he might still arrange a survival team. Near the shuttered arch of the gateway there was a priest with a boy kneeling in front of him, with four others waiting.

The boy who had been receiving the blessing stood up- and Rod stood up hastily. “Hey! Jimmy!”

Jimmy Throxton looked around, caught his eye and grinned, hurried over. “Rod!” he said, “I thought you had ducked out on me. Look, you haven’t teamed?” “Still want to?”

“Huh? Sure.”

“Swell! I can declare the team as I go through as long as you don’t have number two. You don’t, do you?” “No”

“Good! Because I’m-“

“NUMBER ONE!” the gate attendant called out. “‘Throxton, James.’”

Jimmy Throxton looked startled. “Oh, gee!” He hitched at his gun belt and turned quickly away, then called over his shoulder, “See you on the other side!” He trotted toward the gate, now unshuttered.

Rod called out, “Hey, Jimmy! How are we going to find-” But it was too late. Well, if Jimmy had sense enough to drive nails, he would keep an eye on the exit.

“Number two! Mshiyeni, Caroline.” Across the room the big Zulu girl who had occurred to Rod as a possible team mate got up and headed for the gate. She was dressed simply in shirt and shorts, with her feet and legs and hands bare. She did not appear to be armed but she was carrying an overnight bag.

Someone called out, “Hey, Carol! What you got in the trunk?” She threw him a grin. “Rocks.”

“Ham sandwiches, I’ll bet. Save me one. “I’ll save you a rock, sweetheart.”

Too soon the attendant called out, “Number seven- Walker, Roderick L.”

Rod went quickly to the gate. The attendant shoved a paper into his hand, then shook hands. “Good luck, kid. Keep your eyes open.” He gave Rod a slap on the back that urged him through the opening, dilated to man size.

Rod found himself on the other side and, to his surprise, still indoors. But that shock was not as great as immediate unsteadiness and nausea; the gravity acceleration was much less than earth-normal.

He fought to keep from throwing up and tried to figure things out. Where was he? On Luna? On one of Jupiter’s moons? Or somewhere ‘way out there?

The Moon, most likely- Luna. Many of the longer jumps were relayed through Luna because of the danger of mixing with a primary, particularly with binaries. But surely they weren’t going to leave him here; Matson had promised them no airless test areas.

On the floor lay an open valise; he recognized it absent-mindedly as the one Caroline had been carrying. At last he remembered to look at the paper he had been handed.  It read:

SOLO SURVIVAL TEST-Recall Instructions

  1. You must pass through the door ahead in the three minutes allowed you before another candidate is started through. An overlapping delay will disqualify you.
  2. Recall will be by standard visual and sound signals. You are warned that the area remains hazardous even after recall is sounded.
  3. The exit gate will not be the entrance gate. Exit may be as much as twenty kilometers in the direction of sunrise.
  4. There is no truce zone outside the gate. Test starts at once. Watch out for stobor. Good luck!

-B. P.M.

Rod was still gulping at low gravity and staring at the paper when a door opened at the far end of the long, narrow room he was in. Aman shouted, “Hurry up! You’ll lose your place.”

Rod tried to hurry, staggered and then recovered too much and almost fell. He had experienced low gravity on field trips and his family had once vacationed on Luna, but he was not used to it; with difficulty he managed to skate toward the far door.

Beyond the door was another gate room. The attendant glanced at the timer over the gate and said, “Twenty seconds. Give me that instruction sheet.”

Rod hung onto it. “I’ll use the twenty seconds.”-as much as twenty kilometers in the direction of sunrise. Anominal eastward direction-call it “east.” But what the deuce was, or were, “stobor”?

“Time! Through you go.” The attendant snatched the paper, shutters rolled back, and Rod was shoved through a dilated gate.

He fell to his hands and knees; the gravity beyond was something close to earth-normal and the change had caught him unprepared. But he stayed down, held perfectly still and made no sound while he quickly looked around him. He was in a wide clearing covered with high grass and containing scattered trees and bushes; beyond was dense forest.

He twisted his neck in a hasty survey. Earth-type planet, near normal acceleration, probably a G-type sun in the sky … heavy vegetation, no fauna in sight- but that didn’t mean anything; there might be hundreds within hearing. Even a stobor, whatever that was.

The gate was behind him, tall dark-green shutters which were in reality a long way off. They stood unsupported in the tall grass, an anomalism unrelated to the primitive scene. Rod considered wriggling around behind the gate, knowing that the tangency was one-sided and that he would be able to see through the locus from the other side, see anyone who came out without himself being seen.

Which reminded him that he himself could be seen from that exceptional point; he decided to move.

Where was Jimmy? Jimmy ought to be behind the gate, watching for him to come out… or watching from some other spy point. The only certain method of rendezvous was for Jimmy to have waited for Rod’s appearance; Rod had no way to find him now.

Rod looked around more slowly and tried to spot anything that might give a hint as to Jimmy’s whereabouts. Nothing … but when his scanning came back to the gate, the gate was no longer there.

Rod felt cold ripple of adrenalin shock trickle down his back and out his finger tips. He forced himself to quiet down and told himself that it was better this way. He had a theory to account for the disappearance of the gate; they were, he decided, refocusing it between each pair of students, scattering them possibly kilometers apart.

No, that could not be true- “twenty kilometers toward sunrise” had to relate to a small area.

Or did it? He reminded himself that the orientation given in the sheet handed him might not be that which appeared in some other student’s instruction sheet. He relaxed to the fact that he did not really know anything… he did not know where he was, nor where Jimmy was, nor any other member of the class, he did not know what he might find here, save that it was a place where a man might stay alive if he were smart- and lucky.

Just now his business was to stay alive, for a period that he might as well figure as ten Earth days. He wiped Jimmy Throxton out of his mind, wiped out everything but the necessity of remaining unceasingly alert to all of his surroundings. He noted wind direction as shown by grass plumes and started crawling cautiously down wind.

The decision to go down wind had been difficult. To go up wind had been his first thought, that being the natural direction for a stalk. But his sister’s advice had already paid off; he felt naked and helpless without a gun and it had reminded him that he was not the hunter. His scent would carry in any case; if he went down wind he stood a chance of seeing what might be stalking him, while his unguarded rear would be comparatively safe.

Something ahead in the grass!

He froze and watched. It had been the tiniest movement; he waited. There it was again, moving slowly from right to left across his front. It looked like a dark spike with a tuft of hair on the tip, a tail possibly, carried aloft.

He never saw what manner of creature owned the tail, if it was a tail. It stopped suddenly at a point Rod judged to be directly down wind, then moved off rapidly and he lost Sight of it. He waited a few minutes, then resumed crawling.

It was extremely hot work and sweat poured down him and soaked his overshirt and trousers. He began to want a drink very badly but reminded himself that five litres of water would not last long if he started drinking the first hour of the test. The sky was overcast with high cirrus haze, but the primary or “sun”- he decided to call it the Sun- seemed to burn through fiercely. It was low in the sky behind him; he wondered what it would be like overhead? Kill a man, maybe. Oh, well, it would be cooler in that forest ahead, or at least not be the same chance of sunstroke.

There was lower ground ahead of him and hawklike birds were circling above the spot, round and round. He held still and watched. Brothers, he said softly, if you are behaving like vultures back home, there is something dead ahead of me and you are waiting to make sure it stays dead before you drop in for lunch. If so, I had better swing wide, for it is bound to attract other things… some of which I might not want to meet.

He started easing to the right, quartering the light breeze. It took him onto higher ground and close to a rock outcropping. Rod decided to spy out what was in the lower place below, making use of cover to let him reach an overhanging rock.

It looked mightily like a man on the ground and a child near him. Rod reached, fumbled in his vest pack, got out a tiny 8-power monocular, took a better look. The man was Johann Braun, the “child” was his boxer dog. There was no doubt but that they were dead, for Braun was lying like a tossed rag doll, with his head twisted around and one leg bent under. His throat and the side of his head were a dark red stain.

While Rod watched, a doglike creature trotted out, sniffed at the boxer, and began tearing at it … then the first of the buzzard creatures landed to join the feast. Rod took the glass from his eye, feeling queasy. Old Yo had not lasted long- jumped by a “stobor” maybe- and his smart dog had not saved him. Too bad! But it did prove that there were carnivores around and it behooved him to be careful if he did not want to have jackals and vultures arguing over the leavings!

He remembered something and put the glass back to his eye. Yo’s proud Thunderbolt gun was nowhere in sight and the corpse was not wearing the power pack that energized it. Rod gave a low whistle in his mind and thought. The only animal who would bother to steal a gun ran around on two legs. Rod reminded himself that a Thunderbolt could kill at almost any line-of-sight range- and now somebody had it who obviously took advantage of the absence of law and order in a survival test area.

Well, the only thing to do was not to be in line of sight. He backed off the rock and slid into the bushes.

The forest had appeared to be two kilometers away, or less, when he had started. He was close to it when he became uncomfortably aware that sunset was almost upon him. He  became less cautious, more hurried, as he planned to spend the night in a tree. This called for light to climb by, since he relished a night on the ground inside the forest still less than he liked the idea of crouching helpless in the grass.

It had not taken all day to crawl this far. Although it had been morning when he had left Templeton Gate the time of day there had nothing to do with the time of day here. He had been shoved through into late afternoon; it was dusk when he reached the tall trees.

So dusky that he decided that he must accept a calculated risk for what he must do. He stopped at the edge of the forest, still in the high grass, and dug into his pack for his climbers. His sister had caused him to leave behind most of the gadgets, gimmicks, and special-purpose devices that he had considered bringing; she had not argued at these. They were climbing spikes of a style basically old, but refined, made small and light-the pair weighed less than a tenth of a kilogram- and made foldable and compact, from a titanium alloy, hard and strong.

He unfolded them, snapped them under his arches and around his shins, and locked them in place. Then he eyed the tree he had picked, a tall giant deep enough in the mass to allow the possibility of crossing to another tree if the odds made a back-door departure safer and having a trunk which, in spite of its height, he felt sure he could get his arms around.

Having picked his route, he straightened up and at a fast dogtrot headed for the nearest tree. He went past it, cut left for another tree, passed it and cut right toward the tree he wanted. He was about fifteen meters from it when something charged him.

He closed the gap with instantaneous apportation which would have done credit to a Ramsbotham hyperfold. He reached the first branch, ten meters above ground, in what amounted to levitation. From there on he climbed more conventionally, digging the spurs into the tree’s smooth bark and setting his feet more comfortably on branches when they began to be close enough together to form a ladder.

About twenty meters above ground he stopped and looked down. The branches interfered and it was darker under the trees than it had been out in the open; nevertheless he could see, prowling around the tree, the denizen that had favored him with attention.

Rod tried to get a better view, but the light was failing rapidly. But it looked like… well, if he had not been certain that he was on some uncolonized planet ‘way out behind and beyond, he would have said that it was a lion.

Except that it looked eight times as big as any lion ought to look.

He hoped that, whatever it was, it could not climb trees. Oh, quit fretting, Rod!- if it had been able to climb you would have been lunch meat five minutes ago. Get busy and rig a place to sleep before it gets pitch dark. He moved up the tree, keeping an eye out for the spot he needed.

He found it presently, just as he was beginning to think that he would have to go farther down. He needed two stout branches far enough apart and near enough the same level to let him stretch a hammock. Having found such, he worked quickly to beat the failing light. From a pocket of his vest pack he took out his hammock, a web strong as spider silk and almost as   thin and light. Using the line around his waist he stretched it, made sure his lashings would hold and then started to get into it.

Adouble-jointed acrobat with prehensile toes might have found it easy; a slack-wire artist would simply have walked into it and sat down. But Rod found that he needed sky hooks. He almost fell out of the tree.

The hammock was a practical piece of equipment and Rod had slept in it before. His sister had approved it, remarking that it was a better model than the field hammock they gave her girls. “Just don’t sit up in your sleep.”

“I won’t,” Rod had assured her. “Anyway, I always fasten the chest belt.”

But he had never slung it in this fashion. There was nothing to stand on under the hammock, no tree limb above it close enough to let him chin himself into it. After several awkward and breath-catching attempts he began to wonder whether he should perch like a bird the rest of the night, or drape himself in the notch of a limb. He did not consider spending the night on the ground- not with that thing prowling around.

There was another limb higher up almost directly over the hammock. Maybe if he tossed the end of his line over it and used it to steady himself …

He tried it. But it was almost pitch dark now; the only reason he did not lose his line was that one end was bent to the hammock. At last he gave up and made one more attempt to crawl into the hammock by main force and extreme care. Bracing both hands wide on each side of the head rope he scooted his feet out slowly and cautiously. Presently he had his legs inside the hammock, then his buttocks. From there on it was a matter of keeping his center of gravity low and making no sudden moves while he insinuated his body farther down into the  cocoon.

At last he could feel himself fully and firmly supported. He took a deep breath, sighed, and let himself relax. It was the first time he had felt either safe or comfortable since passing through the gate.

After a few minutes of delicious rest Rod located the nipple of his canteen and allowed himself two swallows of water, after which he prepared supper. This consisted in digging out a quarter-kilo brick of field ration, eleven hundred calories of yeast protein, fat, starch, and glucose, plus trace requirements. The label on it, invisible in the dark, certified that it was “tasty, tempting and pleasing in texture,” whereas chewing an old shoe would have attracted a gourmet quite as much.

But real hunger gave Rod the best of sauces. He did not let any crumb escape and ended by licking the wrapper. He thought about opening another one, quelled the longing, allowed himself one more mouthful of water, then pulled the insect hood of the hammock down over his face and fastened it under the chest belt. He was immune to most insect-carried Terran diseases and was comfortably aware that humans were not subject to most Outlands diseases, but he did not want the night fliers to use his face as a drinking fountain, nor even as a parade ground.

He was too hot even in his light clothing. He considered shucking down to his shorts; this planet, or this part of this planet, seemed quite tropical. But it was awkward; tonight he must stay as he was, even if it meant wasting a day’s ration of water in sweat. He wondered what planet this was, then tried to peer through the roof of the forest to see if he could recognize stars. But either the trees were impenetrable or the sky was overcast; he could see nothing. He attempted to draw everything out of his mind and sleep.

Ten minutes later he was wider awake than ever. Busy with his hammock, busy with his dinner, he had not paid attention to distant sounds; now he became aware of all the voices of the night. Insects buzzed and sang and strummed, foliage rustled and whispered, something coughed below him. The cough was answered by insane laughter that ran raggedly up, then down, and died in asthmatic choking.

Rod hoped that it was a bird.

He found himself straining to hear every sound, near and far, holding his breath. He told himself angrily to stop it; he was safe from at least nine-tenths of potential enemies. Even a

snake, if this place ran to such, would be unlikely to crawl out to the hammock, still less likely to attack- if he held still. Snakes, button-brained as they were, showed little interest in anything too big to swalow. The chances of anything big enough to hurt him-and interested in hurting him- being in this treetop were slim. So forget those funny noises, pal, and go to sleep. After all, they’re no more important than traffic noises in a city.

He reminded himself of the Deacon’s lecture on alarm reaction, the thesis that most forms of death could be traced to the body’s coming too urgently to battle stations, remaining too long at full alert. Or, as his sister had put it, more people worry themselves to death than bleed to death. He set himself conscientiously to running through the mental routines intended to produce sleep.

He almost made it. The sound that pulled him out of warm drowsiness came from far away; involuntarily he roused himself to hear it. It sounded almost human… no, it was human-the terrible sound of a grown man crying with heartbreak, the deep, retching, bass sobs that tear the chest.

Rod wondered what he ought to do. It was none of his business and everyone there was on his own-but it went against the grain to hear such agony from a fellow human and ignore it. Should he climb down and feel his way through the dark to wherever the poor wretch was? Stumbling into tree roots, he reminded himself, and falling into holes and maybe walking straight into the jaws of something hungry and big.

Well, should he? Did he have any right not to?

It was solved for him by the sobs being answered by more sobs, this time closer and much louder. This new voice did not sound human, much as it was like the first, and it scared him almost out of his hammock. The chest strap saved him.

The second voice was joined by a third, farther away. In a few moments the peace of the night had changed to sobbing, howling ululation of mass fear and agony and defeat unbearable. Rod knew now that this was nothing human, nor anything he had ever heard, or heard of, before. He suddenly had a deep conviction that these were the stobor he had been warned to avoid.

But what were they? How was he to avoid them? The one closest seemed to be higher up than he was and no farther than the next tree … good grief, it might even be this tree! When you meet a stobor in the dark what do you do? Spit in its face? Or ask it to waltz?

One thing was certain: anything that made that much noise in the jungle was not afraid of anything; therefore it behooved him to be afraid of it. But, there being nothing he could do, Rod lay quiet, his fear evidenced only by tense muscles, gooseflesh, and cold sweat. The hellish concert continued with the “stobor” closest to him sounding almost in his pocket. It seemed to have moved closer.

With just a bit more prodding Rod would have been ready to sprout wings and fly. Only at home on the North American continent of Terra had he ever spent a night alone in the wilderness. There the hazards were known and minor … a few predictable bears, an occasional lazy rattlesnake, dangers easily avoided.

But how could he guard against the utterly unknown? That stobor- he decided that he might as well call it that- that stobor might be moving toward him now, sizing him up with night eyes, deciding whether to drag him home, or eat him where it killed him.

Should he move? And maybe move right into the fangs of the stobor? Or should he wait, helpless, for the stobor to pounce? It was possible that the stobor could not attack him in the tree. But it was equally possible that stobor were completely arboreal and his one chance lay in climbing down quickly and spending the night on the ground.

What was a stobor? How did it fight? Where and when was it dangerous? The Deacon evidently expected the class to know what to do about them. Maybe they had studied the stobor those days he was out of school right after New Year’s? Or maybe he had just plain forgotten… and would pay for it with his skin. Rod was good at Outlands zoology-but there was just too much to learn it all. Why, the zoology of Terra alone used to give oldstyle zoologists more than they could handle; how could they expect him to soak up all there was to learn about dozens of planets?

It wasn’t fair!

When Rod heard himself think that ancient and useless protest he had a sudden vision of the Deacon’s kindly, cynical smile. He heard his dry drawl: Fair? You expected this to be fair, son? This is not a game. I tried to tell you that you were a city boy, too soft and stupid for this. You would not listen.

He felt a gust of anger at his instructor; it drove fear out of his mind. Jimmy was right; the Deacon would eat his own grandmother! Acold, heartless fish! All right, what would the Deacon do?

Again he heard his teacher’s voice inside his head, an answer Matson had once given to a question put by another classmate: “There wasn’t anything I could do, so I took a nap.

Rod squirmed around, rested his hand on “Colonel Bowie” and tried to take a nap. The unholy chorus made it almost impossible, but he did decide that the stobor in his tree- or was it the next tree?- did not seem to be coming closer. Not that it could come much closer without breathing on his neck, but at least it did not seem disposed to attack.

After a long time he fell into restless sleep, sleep that was no improvement, for he dreamed that he had a ring of sobbing, ululating stobor around him, staring at him, waiting for him to move. But he was trussed up tight and could not move.

The worst of it was that every time he turned his head to see what a stobor looked like it would fade back into the dark, giving him just a hint of red eyes, long teeth. He woke with an icy shock, tried to sit up, found himself restrained by his chest strap, forced himself to lie back. What was it? What had happened?

In his suddenly-awakened state it took time to realize what had happened: the noise had stopped. He could not hear the cry of a single stobor, near or far. Rod found it more disturbing than their clamor, since a noisy stobor advertised its location whereas a silent one could be anywhere- why, the nearest one could now be sitting on the branch behind his head. He twisted his head around, pulled the insect netting off his face to see better. But it was too dark; stobor might be queued up three abreast for all he could tell.

Nevertheless the silence was a great relief. Rod felt himself relax as he listened to the other night sounds, noises that seemed almost friendly after that devils’ choir. He decided that it must be almost morning and that he would do well to stay awake.

Presently he was asleep.

He awoke with the certainty that someone was looking at him. When he realized where he was and that it was still dark, he decided that it was a dream. He stirred, looked around, and tried to go back to sleep.

Something was looking at him!

His eyes, made sensitive by darkness, saw the thing as a vague shape on the branch at his foot. Black on black, he could not make out its outline- but two faintly luminous eyes stared unwinkingly back into his.

“-nothing I could do, so I took a nap.” Rod did not take a nap. For a time measured in eons he and the thing in the tree locked eyes. Rod tightened his grip on his knife and held still, tried to quell the noise of his pounding heart, tried to figure out how he could fight back from a hammock. The beast did not move, made no sound; it simply stared and seemed prepared to  do it all night.

When the ordeal had gone on so long that Rod felt a mounting impulse to shout and get it over, the creature moved with light scratching sounds toward the trunk and was gone. Rod could feel the branch shift; he judged that the beast must weigh as much as he did.

Again he resolved to stay awake. Wasn’t it getting less dark? He tried to tell himself so, but he still could not see his own fingers. He decided to count to ten thousand and bring on the dawn.

Something large went down the tree very fast, followed at once by another, and still a third. They did not stop at Rod’s bedroom but went straight down the trunk. Rod put his knife back and muttered, “Noisy neighbors! You’d think this was Emigrants’ Gap.” He waited but the frantic procession never came back.

He was awakened by sunlight in his face. It made him sneeze; he tried to sit up, was caught by his safety belt, became wide awake and regretted it. His nose was stopped up, his eyes burned, his mouth tasted like a ditch, his teeth were slimy, and his back ached. When he moved to ease it he found that his legs ached, too- and his arms- and his head. His neck refused to turn to the right.

Nevertheless he felt happy that the long night was gone. His surroundings were no longer terrifying, but almost idyllic. So high up that he could not see the ground he was still well below the roof of the jungle and could not see sky; he floated in a leafly cloud. The morning ray that brushed his face was alone, so thoroughly did trees shut out the sky.

This reminded him that he had to mark the direction of sunrise. Hmm … not too simple. Would he be able to see the sun from the floor of the jungle? Maybe he should climb down quickly, get out in the open, and mark the direction while the sun was still Jow. But he noticed that the shaft which had wakened him was framed by a limb notch of another forest giant about fifteen meters away. Very well, that tree was “east” of his tree; he could line them up again when he reached the ground.

Getting out of his hammock was almost as hard as getting in; sore muscles resented the effort. At last he was balanced precariously on one limb. He crawled to the trunk, pulled himself painfully erect and, steadied by the trunk, took half-hearted setting-up exercises to work the knots out. Everything loosened up but his neck, which still had a crick like a toothache.

He ate and drank sitting on the limb with his back to the trunk. He kept no special lookout, rationalizing that night feeders would be bedded down and day feeders would hardly be prowling the tree tops-not big ones, anyway; they would be on the ground, stalking herbivores. The truth was that his green hide-away looked too peaceful to be dangerous.

He continued to sit after he finished eating, considered drinking more of his precious water, even considered crawling back into his hammock. Despite the longest night he had ever had he was bone tired and the day was already hot and sleepy and humid; why not stretch out? His only purpose was to survive; how better than by sleeping and thereby saving food and water?

He might have done so had he known what time it was. His watch told him that it was five minutes before twelve, but he could not make up his mind whether that was noon on Sunday or midnight coming into Monday. He was sure that this planet spun much more slowly than did Mother Earth; the night before had been at least as long as a full Earth day.

Therefore the test had been going on at least twentysix hours and possibly thirty-eight- and recall could be any time after forty-eight hours. Why, it might be today, before sunset, and here he was in fine shape, still alive, still with food and water he could trust.

He felt good about it. What did a stobor have that a man did not have more of and better? Aside from a loud voice, he added.

But the exit gate might be as much as twenty kilometers “east” of where he had come in; therefore it behooved him to reach quickly a point ten kilometers east of where he had come in; he would lay money that that would land him within a kilometer or two of the exit. Move along, hole up, and wait- why, he might sleep at home tonight, after a hot bath!

He started unlashing his hammock while reminding himself that he must keep track of hours between sunrise and sunset today in order to estimate the length of the local day. Then he thought no more about it as he had trouble folding the hammock. It had to be packed carefully to fit into a pocket of his vest pack. The filmy stuff should have been spread on a table, but where he was the largest, flattest area was the palm of his hand.

But he got it done, lumpy but packed, and started down. He paused on the lowest branch, looked around. The oversized and hungry thing that had chased him up the tree did not seem to be around, but the undergrowth was too dense for him to be sure. He made a note that he must, all day long and every day, keep a climbable tree in mind not too far away; a few seconds woolgathering might use up his luck.

Okay, now for orientation- Let’s see, there was the tree he had used to mark “east.” Or was it? Could it be that one over there? He realized that he did not know and swore at himself for not checking it by compass. The truth was that he had forgotten that he was carrying a compass. He got it out now, but it told him nothing,

Since east by compass bore no necessary relation to direction of sunrise on this planet. The rays of the primary did not penetrate where he was; the forest was bathed by a dim religious light unmarked by shadows.

Well, the clearing could not be far away. He would just have to check. He descended by climbing spurs, dropped to spongy ground, and headed the way it should be. He counted his paces while keeping an eye peeled for hostiles.

One hundred paces later he turned back, retracing his own spoor. He found “his” tree; this time he examined it. There was where he had come down; he could see his prints. Which side had he gone up? There should be spur marks.

He found them … and was amazed at his own feat; they started high as his head. “I must have hit that trunk like a cat!” But it showed the direction from which he had come; five minutes later he was at the edge of the open country he had crossed the day before.

The sun made shadows here, which straightened him out and he checked by compass. By luck, east was “east” and he need only follow his compass. It took him back into the forest. He traveled standing up. The belly sneak which he had used the day before was not needed here; he depended on moving noiselessly, using cover, and keeping an eye out behind as

well as in front. He zigzagged in order to stay close to trees neither too big ilor too small but corrected his course frequently by compass.

One part of his mind counted paces. At fifteen hundred broken-country steps to a kilometer Rod figured that fifteen thousand should bring him to his best-guess location for the exit gate, where he planned to set up housekeeping until recall.

But, even with part of his mind counting paces and watching a compass and a much larger part watching for carnivores, snakes, and other hazards, Rod still could enjoy the day and place. He was over his jitters of the night before, feeling good and rather cocky. Even though he tried to be fully alert, the place did not feel dangerous now-stobor or no stobor.

It was, he decided, jungle of semi-rainforest type, not dense enough to require chopping one’s way. It was interlaced with game paths but he avoided these on the assumption that carnivores might lie waiting for lunch to come down the path-Rod had no wish to volunteer.

The place seemed thick with game, mostly of antelope type in many sizes and shapes. They were hard to spot; they faded into the bush with natural camouflage, but the glimpses he got convinced him that they were plentiful. He avoided them as he was not hunting and was aware that even a vegetarian could be dangerous with hooves and horns in self or herd defense.

The world above was inhabited, too, with birds and climbers. He spotted families of what looked like monkeys and speculated that this world would probably have developed its own race of humanoids. He wondered again what planet it was? Terrestrial to several decimal places it certainly seemed to be-except for the inconveniently long day- and probably one just   opened, or it would be swarming with colonists. It would be a premium planet certainly; that clearing he had come through yesterday would make good farm land once it was burned off. Maybe he would come back some day and help clean out the stobor.

In the meantime he watched where he put his hands and feet, never walked under a low branch without checking it, and tried to make his eyes and ears as efficient as a rabbit’s. He understood now what his sister had meant about how being unarmed makes a person careful, and realized also how little chance he would have to use a gun if he let himself be surprised.

It was this hyperacuteness that made him decide that he was being stalked.

At first it was just uneasiness, then it became a conviction. Several times he waited by a tree, stood frozen and listened; twice he did a sneak through bushes and doubled back on his tracks. But whatever it was seemed as good as he was at silent movement and taking cover and (he had to admit) a notch better.

He thought about taking to the trees and outwaiting it. But his wish to reach his objective outweighed his caution; he convinced himself that he would be safer if he pushed on. He continued to pay special attention to his rear, but after a while he decided that he was no longer being followed.

When he had covered, by his estimate, four kilometers, he began to smell water. He came to a ravine which sliced across his route. Game tracks led him to think it might lead down to a watering place, just the sort of danger area he wished to avoid, so Rod crossed quickly and went down the shoulder of the ravine instead. It led to a bank overlooking water; he could hear the stream before he reached it.

He took to the bushes and moved on his belly to a point where he could peer out from cover. He was about ten meters higher than the water. The ground dropped off on his right as well  as in front; there the ravine joined the stream and an eddy pool formed the watering place he had expected. No animals were in sight but there was plenty of sign; a mud flat was chewed with hoof marks.

But he had no intention of drinking where it was easy; would be too easy to die there. What troubled him was that he must cross the stream to reach the probable recall area. It was a small river or wide brook, not too wide to swim, probably not too deep to wade if he picked his spot. But he would not do either one unless forced- and not then without testing the water by chucking a lure into it … a freshly killed animal. The streams near his home were safe, but a tropical stream must be assumed to have local versions of alligator, pirahna, or even worse.

The stream was too wide to cross through the tree tops. He lay still and considered the problem, then decided that he would work his way upstream and hope that it would narrow, or split into two smaller streams which he could tackle one at a time.

It was the last thing he thought about for some time.

When Rod regained consciousness it was quickly; a jackal-like creature was sniffing at him. Rod lashed out with one hand and reached for his knife with the other. The dog brute backed away, snarling, then disappeared in the leaves.

His knife was gone! The realization brought him groggily alert; he sat up. It made his head swim and hurt. He felt it and his fingers came away bloody. Further gingerly investigation showed a big and very tender swelling on the back of his skull, hair matted with blood, and failed to tell him whether or not his skull was fractured. He gave no thanks that he had been left alive; he was sure that the blow had been intended to kill.

But not only his knife was gone. He was naked, save for his shorts. Gone were his precious water, his vest pack with rations and a dozen other invaluable articles- his antibiotics, his salt, his compass, his climbers, his matches, his hammock … everything.

His first feeling of sick dismay was replaced by anger. Losing food and gear was no more than to be expected, since he had been such a fool as to forget his rear while he looked at the stream- but taking the watch his father had given him, that was stealing; he would make somebody pay for that!

His anger made him feel better. It was not until then that he noticed that the bandage on his left shin was undisturbed.

He felt it. Sure enough! Whoever it was who had hijacked him had not considered a bandage worth stealing; Rod unwrapped it and cradled Lady Macbeth in his hand. Somebody was going to be sorry.

4.      Savage

Rod Walker was crouching on a tree limb. He had not moved for two hours, he might not move for as long a time. In a clearing near him a small herd of yearling bachelor buck were cropping grass; if one came close enough Rod intended to dine on buck. He was very hungry.

He was thirsty, too, not having drunk that day. Besides that, he was slightly feverish. Three long, imperfectly healed scratches on his left arm accounted for the fever, but Rod paid fever and scratches no attention – he was alive; he planned to stay alive.

Abuck moved closer to him; Rod became quiveringly alert. But the little buck tossed his head, looked at the branch, and moved away. He did not appear to see Rod; perhaps his mother had taught him to be careful of overhanging branches-or perhaps a hundred thousand generations of harsh survival had printed it in his genes.

Rod swore under his breath and lay still. One of them was bound to make a mistake eventually; then he would eat. It had been days since he had thought about anything but food … food and how to keep his skin intact, how to drink without laying himself open to ambush, how to sleep without waking up in a fellow-denizen’s belly.

The healing wounds on his arm marked how expensive his tuition had been. He had let himself get too far from a tree once too often, had not even had time to draw his knife. Instead he had made an impossible leap and had chinned himself with the wounded arm. The thing that had clawed him he believed to be the same sort as the creature that had treed him the day of his arrival; furthermore he believed it to be a lion. He had a theory about that, but had not yet been able to act on it.

He was gaunt almost to emaciation and had lost track of time. He realized that the time limit of the survival test had probably- almost certainly- passed, but he did not know how long he had lain in the crotch of a tree, waiting for his arm to heal, nor exactly how long it had been since he had come down, forced by thirst and hunger. He supposed that the recall signal had probably been given during one of his unconscious periods, but he did not worry nor even think about it. He was no longer interested in survival tests; he was interested in survival.

Despite his weakened condition his chances were better now than when he had arrived. He was becoming sophisticated, no longer afraid of things he had been afraid of, most acutely wary of others which had seemed harrnless. The creatures with the ungodly voices which he had dubbed “stobor” no longer fretted him; he had seen one, had disturbed it by accident in daylight and it had given voice. It was not as big as his hand, and reminded him of a horned lizard except that it had the habits of a tree toad. Its one talent was its voice; it could blow up a bladder at its neck to three times its own size, then give out with that amazing, frightening sob.

But that was all it could do.

Rod had guessed that it was a love call, then had filed the matter. He still called them “stobor.”

He had learned about a forest vine much like a morning glory, but its leaves carried a sting worse than that of a nettle, toxic and producing numbness. Another vine had large grape-like fruits, deliciously tempting and pleasant to the palate; Rod had learned the hard way that they were a powerful purgative.

He knew, from his own narrow brushes and from kills left half-eaten on the ground, that there were carnivores around even though he had never had a good look at one. So far as he knew there were no carnivorous tree-climbers large enough to tackle a man, but he could not be certain; he slept with one eye open.

The behavior of this herd caused him to suspect that there must be carnivores that hunted as he was now hunting, even though he had had the good fortune not to tangle with one. The little buck had wandered all over the clearing, passed close by lesser trees, yet no one of them had grazed under the tree Rod was in.

Steady, boy … here comes one. Rod felt the grip of “Lady Macbeth,” got ready to drop onto the graceful little creature as it passed under. But five meters away it hesitated, seemed to realize that it was straying from its mates, and started to turn.

Rod let fly.

He could hear the meaty tunk! as blade bit into muscle; he could see the hilt firm against the shoulder of the buck. He dropped to the ground, hit running and moved in to finish the kill. The buck whipped its head up, turned and fled. Rod dived, did not touch it. When he rolled to his feet the clearing was empty. His mind was filled with bitter thoughts; he had promised

himself never to throw his knife when there was any possibility of not being able to recover it, but he did not let regrets slow him; he got to work on the tracking problem.

Rod had been taught the first law of hunting sportsmanship, that a wounded animal must always be tracked down and finished, not left to suffer and die slowly. But there was no trace of “sportsmanship” in his present conduct; he undertook to track the buck because he intended to eat it, and-much more urgently- because he had to recover that knife in order to stay alive.

The buck had not bled at once and its tracks were mixed up with hundreds of other tracks. Rod returned three times to the clearing and started over before he picked up the first blood spoor. After that it was easier but he was far behind now and the stampeded buck moved much faster than he could track. His quarry stayed with the herd until it stopped in a new pasture a half kilometer away. Rod stopped still in cover and looked them over. His quarry did not seem to be among them.

But blood sign led in among them; he followed it and they stampeded again. He had trouble picking it up; when he did he found that it led into brush instead of following the herd. This made it easier and harder- easier because he no longer had to sort one spoor from many, harder because pushing through the brush was hard in itself and much more dangerous, since he must never forget that he himself was hunted as well as hunter, and lastly because the signs were so much harder to spot there. But it cheered him up, knowing that only a weakened animal would leave the herd and try to hide. He expected to find it down before long.

But the beast did not drop; it seemed to have a will to live as strong as his own. He followed it endlessly and was beginning to wonder what he would do if it grew dark before the buck gave up. He had to have that knife.

He suddenly saw that there were two spoors.

Something had stepped beside a fresh, split-hooved track of the little antelope; something had stepped on a drop of blood. Quivering, his subconscious “bush radar” at full power, Rod moved silently forward. He found new marks again … a man!

The print of a shod human foot- and so wild had he become that it gave him no feeling of relief; it made him more wary than ever.

Twenty minutes later he found them, the human and the buck. The buck was down, having died or perhaps been finished off by the second stalker. The human, whom Rod judged to be  a boy somewhat younger and smaller than himself, was kneeling over it, slicing its belly open. Rod faded back into the bush. From there he watched and thought. The other hunter seemed much preoccupied with the kill … and that tree hung over the place where the butchering was going on-

Afew minutes later Rod was again on a branch, without a knife but with a long thorn held in his teeth. He looked down, saw that his rival was almost under him, and transferred the thorn to his right hand. Then he waited.

The hunter below him laid the knife aside and bent to turn the carcass. Rod dropped.

He felt body armor which had been concealed by his victim’s shirt. Instantly he transferred his attention to the bare neck, pushing the thorn firmly against vertebrae. “Hold still or you’ve had it!”

The body under him suddenly quit struggling. “That’s better,” Rod said approvingly. “Cry pax?”

No answer. Rod jabbed the thorn again. “I’m not playing games, he said harshly. “I’m giving you one chance stay alive. Cry pax and mean it, and well both eat. Give me any trouble and you’ll never eat again. It doesn’t make the least difference.”

There was a moments hesitation, then a muffled voice said, “Pax.”

Keeping the thorn pressed against his prisoner’s neck, Rod reached out for the knife which had been used to gut the buck. It was, he saw, his own Lady Macbeth. He sheathed it, felt around under the body he rested on, found another where he expected it, pulled it and kept in his hand. He chucked away the thorn and stood up. “You can get up.”

The youngster got up and faced him sullenly. “Give me my knife.” “Later … if you are a good boy.”

“I said ‘Pax.’”

“So you did. Turn around, I want to make sure you don’t have a gun on you.” “I left- I’ve nothing but my knife. Give it to me.”

“Left it where?”

The kid did not answer. Rod said, “Okay, turn around,” and threatened with the borrowed knife. He was obeyed. Rod quickly patted all the likely hiding places, confirmed that the youngster was wearing armor under clothes and over the entire torso. Rod himself was dressed only in tan, scratches, torn and filthy shorts, and a few scars. “Don’t you find that junk pretty hot this weather?” he asked cheerfully. “Okay, you can turn around. Keep your distance.”

The youngster turned around, still with a very sour expression. “What’s your name, bud?” “Uh, Jack.”

“Jack what? Mine’s Rod Walker.” “Jack Daudet.”

“What school, Jack?” “Ponce de Leon Institute.”

“Mine’s Patrick Henry High School.” “Matson’s class?”

“The Deacon himself.”

“I’ve heard of him.” Jack seemed impressed.

“Who hasn’t? Look, let’s quit jawing; we’ll have the whole county around our ears. Let’s eat. You keep watch that way; I’ll keep watch behind you.” “Then give me my knife. I need it to eat.”

“Not so fast. I’ll cut you off a hunk or two. Special Waldorf service.

Rod continued the incision Jack had started, carried it on up and laid the hide back from the right shoulder, hacked off a couple of large chunks of lean. He tossed one to Jack, hunkered down and gnawed his own piece while keeping sharp lookout. “You keeping your eyes peeled?” he asked.

“Sure.”

Rod tore off a rubbery mouthful of warm meat. “Jack, how did they let a runt like you take the test? You aren’t old enough.” “I’ll bet I’m as old as you are!”

“I doubt it.”

“Well … I’m qualified.” “You don’t look it.”

“I’m here, I’m alive.”

Rod grinned. “You’ve made your point. I’ll shut up. Once his portion was resting comfortably inside, Rod got up, split the skull and dug out the brains. “Want a handful?” “Sure.”

Rod passed over a fair division of the dessert. Jack accepted it, hesitated, then blurted out, “Want some salt?” “Salt!” You’ve got salt?”

Jack appeared to regret the indiscretion. “Some. Go easy on it.” Rod held out his handful. “Put some on. Whatever you can spare.”

Jack produced a pocket shaker from between shirt and armor, sprinkled a little on Rod’s portion, then shrugged and made it liberal. “Didn’t you bring salt along?”

“Me?” Rod answered, tearing his eyes from the mouthwatering sight. “Oh, sure! But- Well, I had an accident.” He decided that there was no use admitting that he had been caught off guard.

Jack put the shaker firmly out of sight. They munched quietly, each watching half their surroundings. After a while Rod said softly, “Jackal behind you, Jack.” “Nothing else?”

“No. But it’s time we whacked up the meat and got Out of here; we’re attracting attention. How much can you use?” “Uh, a haunch and a chunk of liver. I can’t carry any more.”

“And you can’t eat more before it spoils, anyway.” Rod started butchering the hind quarters. He cut a slice of hide from the belly, used it to sling his share around his neck. “Well, so long, kid. Here’s your knife. Thanks for the salt.”

“Oh, that’s all right.”

“Tasted mighty good. Well, keep your eyes open.” “Same to you. Good luck.”

Rod stood still. Then he said almost reluctantly, “Uh, Jack, you wouldn’t want to team up, would you?” He regretted it as soon as he said it, remembering how easily he had surprised the kid.

Jack chewed a lip. “Well … I don’t know.”

Rod felt affronted. “What’s the matter? Afraid of me?” Didn’t the kid see that Rod was doing him a favor? “Oh, no! You’re all right, I guess.”

Rod had an unpleasant suspicion. “You think I’m trymg to get a share of your salt, don’t you?” “Huh? Not at all. Look, I’ll divvy some salt with you.”

“I wouldn’t touch it! I just thought-” Rod stopped. He had been thinking that they had both missed recall; it looked like a long pull. “I didn’t mean to make you mad, Rod. You’re right. We ought to team.”

“Don’t put yourself out! I can get along.”

“I’ll bet you can. But let’s team up. Is it a deal?”

“Well … Shake.”

Once the contract was made Rod assumed leadership. There was no discussion; he simply did so and Jack let it stand. “You lead off,” Rod ordered, “and I’ll cover our rear.” “Okay. Where are we heading?”

“That high ground downstream. There are good trees there, better for all night than around here. I want us to have time to settle in before dark-so a quick sneak and no talking.” Jack hesitated. “Okay. Are you dead set on spending the night in a tree?”

Rod curled his lip. “Want to spend it on the ground? How did you stay alive this long?”

“I spent a couple of nights in trees,” Jack answered mildly. “But I’ve got a better place now, maybe.” “Huh? What sort?”

“Asort of a cave.”

Rod thought about it. Caves could be death traps. But the prospect of being able to stretch out swayed him. “Won’t hurt to look, if it’s not too far.” “It’s not far.”

5.      The Nova

Jack’s hideaway was in a bluff overlooking the stream by which Rod had been robbed. At this point the bluffs walled a pocket valley and the stream meandered between low banks cut in an alluvial field between the bluffs. The cave was formed by an overhang of limestone which roofed a room water-carved from shale in one bluff. The wall below it was too sheer to climb; the overhanging limestone protected it above and the stream curved in sharply ahnost to the foot of the bluff. The only way to reach it was to descend the bluff farther upstream to the field edging the creek, then make a climbing traverse of the shale bank where it was somewhat less steep just upstream of the cave.

They slanted cautiously up the shale, squeezed under an overhang at the top, and stepped out on a hard slaty floor. The room was open on one side and fairly long and deep, but it squeezed in to a waist-high crawl space; only at the edge was there room to stand up. Jack grabbed some gravel, threw it into the dark hole, waited with knife ready. “Nobody home, I guess.” They dropped to hands and knees, crawled inside. “How do you like it?”

“It’s swell … provided we stand watches. Something could come up the way we did. You’ve been lucky.”

“Maybe.” Jack felt around in the gloom, dragged out dry branches of thorn bush, blocked the pathway, jamming them under the overhang. “That’s my alarm.” “It wouldn’t stop anything that got a whiff of you and really wanted to come in.”

“No. But I would wake up and let it have some rocks in the face. I keep a stack over there. I’ve got a couple of scare-flares, too.” “I thought- Didn’t you say you had a gun?”

“I didn’t say, but I do. But I don’t believe in shooting when you can’t see.”

“It looks all right. In fact it looks good, I guess I did myself a favor when I teamed with you.” Rod looked around. “You’ve had a fire!” “I’ve risked it a couple of times, in daylight. I get so tired of raw meat.”

Rod sighed deeply. “I know. Say, do you suppose?”

“It’s almost dark. I’ve never lighted one when it could show. How about roast liver for breakfast, instead? With salt?”

Rod’s mouth watered. “You’re right, Jack. I do want to get a drink before it is too dark, though. How about coming along and we cover each other?” “No need. There’s a skin back there. Help yourself.”

Rod congratulated himself on having teamed with a perfect housekeeper. The skin was of a small animal, not identifiable when distended with water. Jack had scraped the hide but it was uncured and decidedly unsavory. Rod was not aware that the water tasted bad; he drank deeply, wiped his mouth with his hand and delt at peace.

They did not sleep at once, but sat in the dark and compared notes. Jack’s class had come through one day earlier, but with the same instructions. Jack agreed that recall was long overdue.

“I suppose I missed it while I was off my head,” Rod commented. “I don’t know how long I was foggy… I guess I didn’t miss dying by much.” “That’s not it, Rod.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve been okay and keeping track of the time. There never was any recall.” “You’re sure?”

“How could I miss? The siren can be heard for twenty kilometers, they use a smoke flare by day and a searchlight at night, and the law says they have to keep it up at least a week unless everybody returns… which certainly did not happen this time.”

“Maybe we are out of range. Matter of fact- well, I don’t know about you, but I’m lost. I admit it”

“I’m not. I’m about four kilometers from where they let my class through; I could show you the spot. Rod, let’s face it; something has gone wrong. There is no way of telling how long we are going to be here.” Jack added quiefly, “That’s why I thought it was a good idea to team.”

Rod chewed it over, decided it was time to haul out his theory. “Me, too.”

“Yes. Solo is actually safer, for a few days. But if we are stuck here indefinitely, then-“ “Not what I meant, Jack.”

“Huh?”

“Do you know what planet this is?”

“No. I’ve thought about it, of course. It has to be one of the new list and it is compatible with-“ “I know what one it is.”

“Huh? Which one?”

“It’s Earth. Terra herself.”

There was a long silence. At last Jack said, “Rod, are you all right? Are you still feverish?”

“I’m fine, now that I’ve got a full belly and a big drink of water. Look, Jack, I know it sounds silly, but you just listen and I’ll add it up. We’re on Earth and I think I know about where, too. I don’t think they meant to sound recall; they meant us to figure out where we are and walk out. It’s a twist Deacon Matson would love.”

“But-“

“Keep quiet, can’t you? Yapping like a girl. Terrestrial planet, right?” “Yes, but-“

“Stow it and let me talk. G-type star. Planetary rotation same as Earth.” “But it’s not!”

“I made the same mistake. The first night I thought was a week long. But the truth was I was scared out of my skin and that made it seem endless. Now I know better. The rotation matches.”

“No, it doesn’t. My watch shows it to be about twenty-six hours.”

“You had better have your watch fixed when we get back. You banged it against a tree or something.” “But- Oh, go ahead. Keep talking; it’s your tape.

“You’ll see. Flora compatible. Fauna compatible. I know how they did it and why and where they put us. It’s an economy measure.”

“Awhat?”

“Economy. Too many people complaining about school taxes being too high. Of course, keeping an interstellar gate open is expensive and uranium doesn’t grow on trees. I see their  point. But Deacon Matson says it is false economy. He says, sure, it’s expensive- but that the only thing more expensive than a properly trained explorer or pioneer leader is an improperly trained dead one.

“He told us after class one day,” Rod went on, “that the penny-pinchers wanted to run the practices and tests in selected areas on Earth, but the Deacon claims that the essence of survival in the Outlands is the skill to cope with the unknown. He said that if tests were held on Earth, the candidates would just study up on terrestrial environments. He said any Boy Scout could learn the six basic Earth environments and how to beat them out of books … but that it was criminal to call that survival training and then dump a man in an unEarthly environment on his first professional assigninent. He said that it was as ridiculous as just teaching a kid to play chess and then send him out to fight a duel.”

“He’s right,” Jack answered. “Commander Benboe talks the same way.”

“Sure he’s right. He swore that if they went ahead with this policy this would be the last year he would teach. But they pulled a gimmick on him.” “How?”

“It’s a good one. What the Deacon forgot is that any environment is as unknown as any other if you don’t have the slightest idea where you are. So they rigged it so that we could not know. First they shot us to Luna; the Moon gates are always open and that doesn’t cost anything extra. Of course that made us think we were in for a long jump. Besides, it confused us; we wouldn’t know we were being dumped back into the gravity field we had left- for that was what they did next; they shoved us back on Earth. Where? Africa, I’d say. I think they used the

Luna Link to jump us to Witwatersrand Gate outside Johannesburg and there they were all set with a matched-in temporary link to drop us into the bush. Tshaka Memorial Park or some other primitive preserve, on a guess. Everything matches. Awide variety of antelope-type game, carnivores to feed on them- I’ve seen a couple of lions and-“

“You have?”

“Well, they will do for lions until I get a chance to skin one. But they threw in other dodges to confuse us, too. The sky would give the show away, particularly if we got a look at Luna. So they’ve hung an overcast over us. You can bet there are cloud generators not far away. Then they threw us one more curve. Were you warned against ‘stobor’?”

“Yes”

“See any?”

“Well, I’m not sure what stobor are.”

“Neither am I. Nor any of us, I’ll bet. ‘Stobor’ is the bogeyman, chucked in to keep our pretty little heads busy. There aren’t any ‘stobor’ on Terra so naturally we must be somewhere else. Even a suspicious character like me would be misled by that. In fact, I was. I even picked out something I didn’t recognize and called it that, just as they meant me to do.”

“You make it sound logical, Rod.”

“Because it is logical. Once you realize that this is Earth-” He patted the floor of the cave. “-but that they have been trying to keep us from knowing it, everything falls into place. Now here is what we do. I was going to tackle it alone, as soon as I could- I haven’t been able to move around much on account of this bad arm- but I decided to take you along, before you got hurt. Here’s my plan. I think this is Africa, but it might be South America, or anywhere in the tropics. It does not matter, because we simply follow this creek downstream, keeping our eyes    open because there really are hazards; you can get just as dead here as in the Outlands. It may take a week, or a month, but one day well come to a bridge. We’ll follow the road it serves until somebody happens along. Once in town we’ll check in with the authorities and get them to flip us home … and we get our solo test certificates. Simple.”

“You make it sound too simple,” Jack said slowly.

“Oh, we’ll have our troubles. But we can do it, now that we know what to do. I didn’t want to bring this up before, but do you have salt enough to cure a few kilos of meat? If we did not have to hunt every day, we could travel faster. Or maybe you brought some Kwik-Kure?”

“I did, but-“

“Good!”

“Wait a minute, Rod. That won’t do.” “Huh? We’re a team, aren’t we?”

“Take it easy. Look, Rod, everything you said is logical, but-“ “No ‘buts’ about it.”

“It’s logical … but it’s all wrong!” “Huh? Now, listen, Jack-“

“You listen. You’ve done all the talking so far.” “But- Well, all right, say your say.”

“You said that the sky would give it away, so they threw an overcast over the area.

“Yes. That’s what they must have done, nights at least. They wouldn’t risk natural weather; it might give the show away.

“What I’m trying to tell you is that it did give the show away. It hasn’t been overcast every night, though maybe you were in deep forest and missed the few times it has been clear. But I’ve seen the night sky, Rod. I’ve seen stars.

“So? Well?”

“They aren’t our stars, Rod. I’m sorry.”

Rod chewed his lip. “You probably don’t know southern constellations very well?” he suggested.

“I knew the Southern Cross before I could read. These aren’t our stars, Rod; I know. There is a pentagon of bright stars above where the sun sets; there is nothing like that to be seen from Earth. And besides, anybody would recognise Luna, if it was there.”

Rod tried to remember what phase the Moon should be in. He gave up, as he had only a vague notion of elapsed time. “Maybe the Moon was down?” “Not a chance. I didn’t see our Moon, Rod, but I saw moons . . two of them, little ones and moving fast, like the moons of Mars.”

“You don’t mean this is Mars?” Rod said scornfully.

“Think I’m crazy? Anyhow, the stars from Mars are exactly like the stars from Earth. Rod, what are we jawing about? It was beginning to clear when the sun went down; let’s crawl out and have a look. Maybe you’ll believe your eyes.

Rod shut up and followed Jack. From inside nothing was visible but dark trees across the stream, but from the edge of the shelf part of the sky could be seen. Rod lookedup and blinked. “Mind the edge,” Jack warned softly.

Rod did not answer. Framed by the ledge above him and by tree tops across the stream was a pattern of six stars, a lopsided pentagon with a star in its center. The six stars were as bright and unmistakable as the seven stars of Earth’s Big Dipper … nor did it take a degree in astrography to know that this constellation had never been seen from Terra.

Rod stared while the hard convictions he had formed fell in ruins. He felt lost and alone. The trees across the way seemed frightening. He turned to Jack, his cocky sophistication gone. “You’ve convinced me,” he said dully. “What do we do now?”

Jack did not answer.

“Well?” Rod insisted. “No good standing here.”

“Rod,” Jack answered, “that star in the middle of the Pentagon-it wasn’t there before.” “Huh? You probably don’t remember.”

“No, no, I’m sure! Rod, you know what? We’re seeing a nova.”

Rod was unable to arouse the pure joy of scientific discovery; his mind was muddled with reorganizing his personal universe. Amere stellar explosion meant nothing. “Probably one of your moonlets.”

“Not a chance. The moons are big enough to show disks. It’s a nova; it has to be. What amazing luck to see one!”

“I don’t see anything lucky about it,” Rod answered moodily. “It doesn’t mean anything to us. It’s probably a hundred light-years away, maybe more.” “Yes, but doesn’t it thrill you?”

“No.” He stooped down and went inside. Jack took another look, then followed. There was silence, moody on Rod’s part. At last Jack said, “Think I’ll turn in.”

“I just can’t see,” Rod answered irrelevantly, “how I could be so wrong. It was a logical certainty.”

“Forget it,” Jack advised. “My analytics instructor says that all logic is mere tautology. She says it is impossible to learn anything through logic that you did not already know.” “Then what use is logic?” Rod demanded.

“Ask me an easy one. Look, partner, I’m dead for sleep; I want to turn in.”

“All right. But, Jack, if this isn’t Africa- and I’ve got to admit it isn’t- what do we do? They’ve gone off and left us.”

“Do? We do what we’ve been doing. Eat, sleep, stay alive. This is a listed planet; if we just keep breathing, someday somebody will show up. It might be just a power breakdown; they may pick us tomorrow.”

“In that case, then-“

“In that case, let’s shut up and go to sleep.”

6.      “I Think He Is Dead”

Rod was awakened by heavenly odors. he rolled over, blinked at light streaming under the overhang, managed by great effort to put himself back into the matrix of the day before. Jack, he saw, was squatting by a tiny fire on the edge of the shelf; the wonderful fragrance came from toasting liver.

Rod got to his knees, discovering that he was slightly stiff from having fought dream stobor in his sleep. These nightmare stobor were bug-eyed monsters fit for a planet suddenly strange and threatening. Nevertheless he had had a fine night’s sleep and his spirits could not be daunted in the presence of the tantalizing aroma drifting in.

Jack looked up. “I thought you were going to sleep all day. Brush your teeth, comb your hair, take a quick shower, and get on out here. Breakfast is ready.” Jack looked him over again. “Better shave, too.”

Rod grinned and ran his hand over his chin. “You’re jealous of my manly beard, youngster. Wait a year or two and you’ll find out what a nuisance it is. Shaving, the common cold, and taxes … my old man says those are the three eternal problems the race is never going to lick.” Rod felt a twinge at the thought of his parents, a stirring of conscience that he had not thought of them in he could not remember how long. “Can I help, pal?”

“Sit down and grab the salt. This piece is for you.” “Let’s split it.”

“Eat and don’t argue. I’ll fix me some.” Rod accepted the charred and smoky chunk, tossed it in his hands and blew on it. He looked around for salt. Jack Was slicing a second piece; Rod’s eyes passed over the operation then whipped back.

The knife Jack was using was “Colonel Bowie.”

The realization was accompanied by action; Rod’s hand darted out and caught Jack’s wrist in an anger-hard grip. “You stole my knife!” Jack did not move. “Rod… have you gone crazy?”

“You slugged me and stole my knife.”

Jack made no attempt to fight, nor even to struggle. “You aren’t awake yet, Rod. Your knife is on your belt. This is another knife … mine. Rod did not bother to look down. “The one I’m wearing is Lady Macbeth. I mean the knife you’re using, Colonel Bowie- my knife.”

“Let go my wrist.” “Drop it!”

“Rod… you can probably make me drop this knife. You’re bigger and you’ve got the jump on me. But yesterday you teamed with me. You’re busting that team right now. If you don’t let go right away, the team is broken. Then you’ll have to kill me … because if you don’t, I’ll trail you. I’ll keep on trailing you until I find you asleep. Then you’ve had it.”

They faced each other across the little fire, eyes locked. Rod breathed hard and tried to think. The evidence was against Jack. But had this little runt tracked him, slugged him, stolen everything he had? It looked like it.

Yet it did not feel like it. He told himself that he could handle the kid if his story did not ring true. He let go Jack’s wrist. “All right,” he said angrily, “tell me how you got my knife.”

Jack went on slicing liver. “It’s not much of a story and I don’t know that it is your knife. But it was not mine to start with- you’ve seen mine. I use this one as a kitchen knife. Its balance is wrong.

“Colonel Bowie! Balanced wrong? That’s the best throwing knife you ever saw!”

“Do you want to hear this? I ran across this hombre in the bush, just as the jackals were getting to him. I don’t know what got him-stobor, maybe; he was pretty well clawed and half eaten. He wasn’t one of my class, for his face wasn’t marked and I could tell. He was carrying a Thunderbolt and-“

“Wait a minute. AThunderbolt gun?”

“I said so, didn’t I? I guess he tried to use it and had no luck. Anyhow, I took what I could use- this knife and a couple of other things; I’ll show you. I left the Thunderbolt; the power pack was exhausted and it was junk.”

“Jack, look at me. You’re not lying?”

Jack shrugged. “I can take you to the spot. There might not be anything left of him, but the Thunderbolt ought to be there.” Rod stuck out his hand. “I’m sorry. I jumped to conclusions.”

Jack looked at his hand, did not shake it. “I don’t think you are much of a team mate. We had better call it quits.” The knife flipped over, landed at Rod’s toes. “Take your toadsticker and be on your way.”

Rod did not pick up the knife. “Don’t get sore, Jack. I made an honest mistake.”

“It was a mistake, all right. You didn’t trust me and I’m not likely to trust you again. You can’t build a team on that.” Jack hesitated. “Finish your breakfast and shove off. It’s better that way.” “Jack, I truly am sorry. I apologize. But it was a mistake anybody could make- you haven’t heard my side of the story.”

“You didn’t wait to hear my story!”

“So I was wrong, I said I was wrong.” Rod hurriedly told how he had been stripped of his survival gear. “-so naturally, when I saw Colonel Bowie, I assumed that you must have jumped me. That’s logical, isn’t it?” Jack did not answer; Rod persisted: “Well? Isn’t it?”

Jack said slowly, “You used ‘logic’ again. What you call ‘logic.’ Rod, you use the stuff the way some people use dope. Why don’t you use your head, instead?” Rod flushed and kept still. Jack went on, “If I had swiped your knife, would I have let you see it? For that matter, would I have teamed with you?”

“No, I guess not. Jack, I jumped at a conclusion and lost my temper.”

“Commander Benboe says,” Jack answered bleakly, “that losing your temper and jumping at conclusions is a one-way ticket to the cemetery.” Rod looked sheepish. ”Deacon Matson talks the same way.”

“Maybe they’re right. So let’s not do it again, huh? Every dog gets one bite, but only one.” Rod looked up, saw Jack’s dirty paw stuck out at him. “You mean we’re partners again?”

“Shake. I think we had better be; we don’t have much choice.” They solemnly shook hands. Then Rod picked up Colonel Bowie, looked at it longingly, and handed it hilt first to Jack.  “I guess it’s yours, after all.”

“Huh? Oh, no. I’m glad you’ve got it back.”

“No,” Rod insisted. “You came by it fair and square.

“Don’t be silly, Rod. I’ve got ‘Bluebeard’; that’s the knife for me.”

“It’s yours. I’ve got Lady Macbeth.”

Jack frowned. “We’re partners, right?” “Huh? Sure.”

“So We share everything. Bluebeard belongs just as much to you as to me. And Colonel Bowie belongs to both of us. But you are used to it, so it’s best for the team for you to wear it. Does that appeal to your lopsided sense of logic?”

“Well…”

“So shut up and eat your breakfast. Shall I toast you another slice? That one is cold.”

Rod picked up the scorched chunk of liver, brushed dirt and ashes from it. “This is all right.” “Throw it in the stream and have a hot piece. Liver won’t keep anyhow.”

Comfortably stuffed, and warmed by companionship, Rod stretched out on the shelf after breakfast and stared at the sky. Jack put out the fire and tossed the remnants of their meal downstream. Something broke water and snapped at the liver even as it struck. Jack turned to Rod. “Well, what do we do today?”

“Mmm… what we’ve got on hand ought to be fit to eat tomorrow morning. We don’t need to make a kill today.”

“I hunt every second day, usually, since I found this place. Second-day meat is better than first, but by the third … phewy!” “Sure. Well, what do you want to do?”

“Well, let’s see. First I’d like to buy a tall, thick chocolate malted milk- or maybe a fruit salad. Both. I’d eat those-“ “Stop it, you’re breaking my heart!”

“Then I’d have a hot bath and get all dressed up and flip out to Hollywood and see a couple of good shows. That superspectacle that Dirk Manleigh is starring in and then a good adventure show. After that I’d have another malted milk … strawberry, this time, and then-“

“Shut up!’

“You asked me what I wanted to do.”

“Yes, but I expected you to stick to possibilities.”

“Then why didn’t you say so? Is that ‘logical’? I thought you always used logic?” “Say, lay off, will you? I apologized.”

“Yeah, you apologized,” Jack admitted darkly. “But I’ve got some mad I haven’t used up yet.” “Well! Are you the sort of pal who keeps raking up the past?”

“Only when you least expect it. Seriously, Rod, I think we ought to hunt today.”

“But you agreed we didn’t need to. It’s wrong, and dangerous besides, to make a kill you don’t need.” “I think we ought to hunt people.”

Rod pulled his ear. “Say that again.”

“We ought to spend the day hunting people.”

“Huh? Well, anything for fun I always say. What do we do when we find them? Scalp them, or just shout ‘Beaver!’?” “Scalping is more definite. Rod, how long will we be here?”

“Huh? All we know is that something has gone seriously cockeyed with the recall schedule. You say we’ve been here three weeks. I would say it was longer but you have kept a notch calendar and I haven’t. Therefore …” He stopped.

“Therefore what?”

“Therefore nothing. They might have had some technical trouble, which they may clear up and recall us this morning. Deacon Matson and his fun-loving colleagues might have thought it was cute to double the period and not mention it. The Dalai Lama might have bombed the whiskers off the rest of the World and the Gates may be radioactive ruins. Or maybe the three- headed serpent men of the Lesser Magellanic Cloud have landed and have the situation well in hand- for them. When you haven’t data, guessing is illogical. We might be here forever.”

Jack nodded. “That’s my point.”

“Which point? We know we may be marooned; that’s obvious.”

“Rod, a two-man team is just right for a few weeks. But suppose this runs into months? Suppose one of us breaks a leg? Or even if we don’t, how long is that thorn-bush alarm going to work? We ought to wall off that path and make this spot accessible only by rope ladder, With somebody here all the time to let the ladder down. We ought to locate a salt lick and think about curing hides and things like that- that water skin I made is getting high already. For a long pull we ought to have at least four people.”

Rod scratched his gaunt ribs thoughtfully. “I know. I thought about it last night, after you jerked the rug out from under my optimistic theory. But I was waiting for you to bring it up.” “Why?”

“This is your cave. You’ve got all the fancy equipment, a gun and pills and other stuff I haven’t seen. You’ve got salt. All I’ve got is a knife- two knives now, thanks to you. I’d look sweet suggesting that you share four ways.”

“We’re a team, Rod.’

“Mmm… yes. And we both figure the team would be strengthened with a couple of recruits. Well, how many people are there out there?” He gestured at the wall of green across the creek.

“My class put through seventeen boys and eleven girls. Commander Benboe told us there would be four classes in the same test area. “That’s more than the Deacon bothered to tell us. However, my class put through about twenty.”

Jack looked thoughtful. “Around a hundred people, probably.” “Not counting casualties.”

“Not counting casualties. Maybe two-thirds boys, one-third girls. Plenty of choice, if we can find them.” “No girls on this team, Jack.”

“What have you got against girls?”

“Me? Nothing at all. Girls are swell on picnics, they are just right on long winter evenings. I’m one of the most enthusiastic supporters of the female race. But for a hitch like this, they are pure poison.”

Jack did not say anything. Rod went on, “Use your head, brother. You get some pretty little darling on this team and we’ll have more grief inside than stobor, or such, can give us from outside. Quarrels and petty jealousies and maybe a couple of boys knifing each other. It will be tough enough without that trouble.”

“Well,” Jack answered thoughifully, “suppose the first one we locate is a girl? What are you going to do? Tip your hat and say, ‘It’s a fine day, ma’am. Now drop dead and don’t bother me.’?”

Rod drew a pentagon in the ashes, put a star in the middle, then rubbed it out. “I don’t know,” he said slowly. “Let’s hope we get our team working before we meet any. And let’s hope they set up their own teams.”

“I think we ought to have a policy.”

“I’m clean out of policies. You would just accuse me of trying to be logical. Got any ideas about how to find anybody?” “Maybe. Somebody has been hunting upstream from here.”

“So? Know who it is?”

“I’ve seen him only at a distance. Nobody from my class. Half a head shorter than you are, light hair, pink skin- and a bad sunburn. Sound familiar?” “Could be anybody,” Rod answered, thinking fretfully that the description did sound familiar. “Shall we see if we can pick up some sign of him?”

“I can put him in your lap. But I’m not sure we want him.” “Why not? If he’s lasted this long, he must be competent.”

 “Frankly, I don’t see how he has. He’s noisy when he moves and he has been living in one tree for the past week.” “Not necessarily bad technique.”

“It is when you drop your bones and leavings out of the tree. It was jackals sniffing around that tipped me off to where he was living.” “Hmm… well, if we don’t like him, we don’t have to invite him.”

“True.”

Before they set out Jack dug around in the gloomy cave and produced a climbing line. “Rod, could this be yours?” Rod looked it over. “It’s just like the one I had. Why?”

“I got it the way I got Colonel Bowie, off the casualty. If it is not yours, at least it is a replacement.” Jack got another, wrapped it around and over body armor. Rod suspected that Jack had slept in the armor, but he said nothing. If Jack considered such marginal protection more important than agility, that was Jack’s business- each to his own methods, as the Deacon would say.

The tree stood in a semi-clearing but Jack brought Rod to it through bushes which came close to the trunk and made the final approach as a belly sneak. Jack pulled Rod’s head over and whispered in his ear, “If we lie still for three or four hours, I’m betting that he will either come down or go up.

“Okay. You watch our rear.”

For an hour nothing happened. Rod tried to ignore tiny flies that seemed to be all bite. Silently he shifted position to ward off stiffness and once had to kill a sneeze. At last he said, “Pssst!”

“Yeah, Rod?”

“Where those two big branches meet the trunk, could that be his nest?” “Maybe.”

“You see a hand sticking out?”

“Where? Uh, I think I see what you see. It might just be leaves.”

“I think it’s a hand and I think he is dead; it hasn’t moved since we got here.” “Asleep?”

“Person asleep ordinarily doesn’t hold still that long. I’m going up. Cover me. If that hand moves, yell.” “You ought not to risk it, Rod.”

“You keep your eyes peeled.” He crept forward..

The owner of the hand was Jimmy Throxton, as Rod had suspected since hearing the description. Jimmy was not dead, but he was unconscious and Rod could not rouse him.

Jim lay in an aerie half natural, half artificial; Rod could see that Jim had cut small branches and improved the triple crotch formed by two limbs and trunk. He lay cradled in this eagle’s nest, one hand trailing out.

Getting him down was awkward; he weighed as much as Rod did. Rod put a sling under Jim’s armpits and took a turn around a branch, checking the line by friction to lower him- but the hard part was getting Jim out of his musty bed without dropping him.

Halfway down the burden fouled and Jack had to climb and free it. But with much sweat all three reached the ground and Jim was still breathing.

Rod had to carry him. Jack offered to take turns but the disparity in sizes was obvious; Rod said angrily for Jack to cover them, front, rear, all sides; Rod would be helpless if they had the luck to be surprised by one of the pseudo-lions.

The worst part was the climbing traverse over loose shale up to the cave. Rod was fagged from carrying the limp and heavy load more than a kilometer over rough ground; he had to rest before he could tackle it. When he did, Jack said anxiously, “Don’t drop him in the drink! It won’t be worthwhile fishing him out- I know.”

“So do I. Don’t give silly advice.” “Sorry.”

Rod started up, as much worried for his own hide as for Jim’s. He did not know what it was that lived in that stream; he did know that it was hungry. There was a bad time when he reached the spot where the jutting limestone made it necessary to stoop to reach the shelf. He got down as low as possible, attempted it, felt the burden on his back catch on the rock, started to slip.

Jack’s hand steadied him and shoved him from behind. Then they were sprawled safe on the shelf and Rod gasped and tried to stop the trembling of his abused muscles. They bedded Jimmy down and Jack took his pulse. “Fast and thready. I don’t think he’s going to make it.”

“What medicines do you have?”

“Two of the neosulfas and verdomycin. But I don’t know what to give him.” “Give him all three and pray.

“He might be allergic to one of them.”

“He’ll be more allergic to dying. I’ll bet he’s running six degrees of fever. Come on.”

Rod supported Jim’s shoulders, pinched his ear lobe, brought him partly out of coma. Between them they managed to get the capsules into Jim’s mouth, got him to drink and wash them down. After that there was nothing they could do but let him rest.

They took turns watching him through the night. About dawn his fever broke, he roused and asked for water. Rod held him while Jack handled the waterskin. Jim drank deeply, then went back to sleep.

They never left him alone. Jack did the nursing and Rod hunted each day, trying to find items young and tender and suited to an invalid’s palate. By the second day Jim, although weak and helpless, was able to talk without drifting off to sleep in the middle. Rod returned in the afternoon with the carcass of a small animal which seemed to be a clumsy cross between a cat and a rabbit. He encountered Jack heading down to fill the water skin. “Hi.”

‘Hi. I see you had luck. Say, Rod, go easy when you skin it. We need a new water bag. Is it cut much?” “Not at all. I knocked it over with a rock.”

“Good!”

“How’s the patient?”

“Healthier by the minute. I’ll be up shortly.” “Want me to cover you while you fill the skin?” “I’ll be careful. Go up to Jim.”

Rod went up, laid his kill on the shelf, crawled inside. “Feeling better?” “Swell. I’ll wrestle you two falls out of three.”

“Next week. Jack taking good care of you?”

“You bet. Say, Rod, I don’t know how to thank you two. If it hadn’t been for-“

“Then don’t try. You don’t owe me anything, ever. And Jack’s my partner, so it’s right with Jack.” “Jack is swell.”

“Jack is a good boy. They don’t come better. He and I really hit it off.”

Jim looked surprised, opened his mouth, closed it suddenly. “What’s the matter?” Rod asked. “Something bite you? Or are you feeling bad again?” “What,” Jim said slowly, “did you say about Jack?”

“Huh? I said they don’t come any better. He and I team up like bacon and eggs. Anumber-one kid, that boy.” Jimmy Throxton looked at him. “Rod … were you born that stupid? Or did you have to study?”

“Huh?”

“Jack is a girl.”

4.      ‘I Should Have Baked a Cake”

There followed a long silence. “Well,” said Jim, “close your mouth before something flies in.” “Jimmy, you’re still out of your head.”

“I may be out of my head, but not so I can’t tell a girl from a boy. When that day comes, I won’t be sick; I’ll be dead.” “But …”

Jim shrugged. “Ask her.”

Ashadow fell across the opening; Rod turned and saw Jack scrambling up to the shelf. “Fresh water, Jimmy!” “Thanks, kid.” Jim added to Rod, “Go on, dopy!”

Jack looked from one to the other. “Why the tableau? What are you staring for, Rod?” “Jack,” he said slowly, “what is your name?”

“Huh? Jack Daudet. I told you that.”

“No, no! What’s your full name, your legal name?” Jack looked from Rod to Jimmy’s grinning face and back again. “My full name is… Jacqueline Marie Daudet- if it’s any business of yours. Want to make something of it?”

Rod took a deep breath. “Jacqueline,” he said carefully, “I didn’t know. I-“ “You weren’t supposed to.”

“Look, if I’ve said anything to offend you, I surely didn’t mean to.”

“You haven’t said anything to offend me, you big stupid dear. Except about your knife.” “I didn’t mean that.”

“You mean about girls being poison? Well, did it ever occur to you that maybe boys are pure poison, too? Under these circumstances? No, of course it didn’t. But I don’t mind your knowing now… now that there are three of us.”

“But, Jacqueline-“

“Call me ‘Jack,’ please.” She twisted her shoulders uncomfortably. “Now that you know, I won’t have to wear this beetle case any longer. Turn your backs, both of you. “Uh …” Rod turned his back. Jimmy rolled over, eyes to the wall.

In a few moments Jacqueline said, “Okay.” Rod turned around. In shirt and trousers, without torso armor, her shoulders seemed narrower and she herself was slender now and pleasantly curved. She was scratching her ribs. “I haven’t been able to scratch properly since I met you, Rod Walker,” she said accusingly. “Sometimes I almost died.”

“I didn’t make you wear it.”

“Suppose I hadn’t? Would you have teamed with me?” “Uh… well, it’s like this. I …” He stopped.

“You see?” She suddenly looked worried. “We’re still partners?” “Huh? Oh, sure, sure!”

“Then shake on it again. This time we shake with Jimmy, too. Right, Jim?” “You bet, Jack.”

They made a three-cornered handshake. Jack pressed her left hand over the combined fists and said solemnly, “All for one!” Rod drew Colonel Bowie with his left hand, laid the flat of the blade on the stacked hands. “And one for all!”

“Plus sales tax,” Jimmy added. “Do we get it notarized?”

Jacqueline’s eyes were swimming with tears. “Jimmy Throxton,” she said fiercely, “someday I am going to make you take life seriously!”  “I take life seriously,” he objected. “I just don’t want life to take me seriously. When you’re on borrowed time, you can’t afford not to laugh.” “We’re all on borrowed time,” Rod answered him. “Shut up, Jimmy. You talk too much.”

“Look who’s preaching! The Decibel Kid himself.”

“Well… you ought not to make fun of Jacqueiine. She’s done a lot for you. “She has indeed!”

“Then-“

“‘Then’ nothing!” Jacqueline said sharply. “My name is ‘Jack.’ Rod. Forget ‘Jacqueline.’ If either of you starts treating me with gallantry we’ll have all those troubles you warned me about. ‘Pure poison’ was the expression you used, as I recall.”

“But you can reasonably expect-“

“Are you going to be ‘logical’ again? Let’s be practical instead. Help me skin this beast and make a new water bag.”

The following day Jimmy took over housekeeping and Jack and Rod started hunting together. Jim wanted to come along; he ran into a double veto. There was little advantage in hunting as a threesome whereas Jack and Rod paired off so well that a hunt was never hours of waiting, but merely a matter of finding game. Jack would drive and Rod would kill; they would  pick their quarry from the fringe of a herd, Jack would sneak around and panic the animals, usually driving one into Rod’s arms.

They still hunted with the knife, even though Jack’s gun was a good choice for primitive survival, being an air gun that threw poisoned darts. Since the darts could be recovered and re- envenomed, it was a gun which would last almost indefinitely; she had chosen it for this reason over cartridge or energy guns.

Rod had admired it but decided against hunting with it. “The air pressure might bleed off and let you down.” “It never has. And you can pump it up again awfully fast.”

“Mmm… yes. But if we use it, someday the last dart will be lost no matter how careful we are … and that might be the day we would need it bad. We may be here a long time, what do you say we save it?”

“You’re the boss, Rod.”

“No, I’m not. We all have equal say.”

“Yes, you are. Jimmy and I agreed on that. Somebody has to boss.”

Hunting took an hour or so every second day; they spent most of daylight hours searching for another team mate, quartering the area and doing it systematically. Once they drove scavengers from a kill which seemed to have been butchered by knife; they followed a spoor from that and determined that it was a human spoor, but were forced by darkness to return to the cave. They tried to pick it up the next day, but it had rained hard in the night; they never found it.

Another time they found ashes of a fire, but Rod judged them to be at least two weeks old.

After a week of fruitless searching they returned one

late afternoon. Jimmy looked up from the fire he had started. “How goes the census?” ‘Don’t ask,” Rod answered, throwing himself down wearily. “What’s for dinner?”

“Raw buck, roast buck, and burned buck. I tried baking some of it in wet clay. It didn’t work out too well, but I’ve got some awfully good baked clay for dessert.” ‘Thanks. If that is the word.”

“Jim,” Jack said, “we ought to try to bake pots with that clay.”

“I did. Big crack in my first effort. But I’ll get the hang it. Look, children,” he went on, “has it ever occurred to your bright little minds that you might be going about this the wrong way?” “What’s wrong with it?” Rod demanded.

“Nothing … if it is exercise you are after. You are and scurrying over the countryside, getting in and nowhere else. Maybe it would be better to sit back and let them come to you.” “How?”

“Send up a smoke signal.”

“We’ve discussed that We don’t want just anybody and we don’t want to advertise where we live. We want people who will strengthen the team.”

“That is what the engineers call a self-defeating criterion. The superior woodsman you want is just the laddy you will never find by hunting for him. He may find you, as you go tramping noisily through the brush, kicking rocks and stepping on twigs and scaring the birds. He may shadow you to see what you are up to. But you won’t find him.”

“Rod, there is something to that,” Jack said.

“We found you easily enough,” Rod said to Jim. “Maybe you aren’t the high type we need.”

“I wasn’t myself at the time,” Jimmy answered blandly. “Wait till I get my strength back and my true nature will show. Ugh-Ugh, the ape man, that’s me. Half Neanderthal and half sleek black leopard.” He beat his chest and coughed.

“Are those the proportions? The Neanderthal strain seems dominant.” “Don’t be disrespectful. Remember, you are my debtor.”

“I think you read the backs of those cards. They are getting to be like waffles.” When rescued, Jimmy had had on him a pack of playing cards, and had later explained that they were survival equipment.

“In the first place,” he had said, “if I got lost I could sit down and play solitaire. Pretty soon somebody would come along and-“ “Tell you to play the black ten on the red jack. We’ve heard that one.”

“Quiet, Rod. In the second place, Jack, I expected to team with old Stoneface here. I can always beat him at cribbage but he doesn’t believe it. I figured that during the test I could win all his next year’s allowance. Survival tactics.”

Whatever his reasoning, Jimmy had had the cards. The three played a family game each evening at a million plutons a point. Jacqueline stayed more or less even but Rod owed Jimmy several hundred millions. They continued the discussion that evening over their game. Rod was still wary of advertising their hide-out.

“We might burn a smoke signal somewhere, though,” he said thoughtfully. “Then keep watch from a safe spot. Cut ‘em, Jim.”

“Consider the relative risks- a five, just what I needed! If you put the fire far enough away to keep this place secret, then it means a trek back and forth at least twice a day. With all that running around you’ll use up your luck; one day you won’t come back. It’s not that I’m fond you, but it would bust up the game. Whose crib?”

“Jack’s. But if we burn it close by and in sight, then we sit up here safe and snug. I’ll have my back to the wall facing the path, with Jack’s phht gun in my lap. If an unfriendly face sticks up- blooie! Long pig for dinner. But if we like them, we cut them into the game.

“Your count.”

“Fifteen-six, fifteen-twelve, a pair, six for jacks and the right jack. That’s going to cost you another million, my friend.” “One of those jacks is a queen,” Rod said darkly.

“Sure enough? You know, it’s getting too dark to play. Want to concede?”

They adopted Jim’s scheme. It gave more time for cribbage and ran Rod’s debt up into billions. The signal fire was kept burning on the shelf at the downstream end, the prevailing wind being such that smoke usually did not blow back into the cave- when the wind did shift was unbearable; they were forced to flee, eyes streaming.

This happened three times in four days. Their advertising had roused no customers and they were all get’ting tired of dragging up dead wood for fuel and green branches for smoke. The third time they fled from smoke Jimmy said, “Rod, I give up. You win. This is not the way to do it.”

“No!”

“Huh? Have a heart, chum. I can’t live on smoke- no vitamins. Let’s run up a flag instead. I’ll contribute my shirt.” Rod thought about it. “We’ll do that.”

“Hey, wait a minute. I was speaking rhetorically. I’m the delicate type. I sunburn easily.”

“You can take it easy and work up a tan. We’ll use your shirt as a signal flag. But we’ll keep the fire going, too. Not up on the shelf, but down there- on that mud flat, maybe.” “And have the smoke blow right back into our summer cottage.”

“Well, farther downstream. We’ll make a bigger fire and a column of smoke that can be seen a long way. The flag we will put up right over the cave.” “Thereby inviting eviction proceedings from large, hairy individuals with no feeling for property rights.”

“We took that chance when we decided to use a smoke signal. Let’s get busy.”

Rod picked a tall tree on the bluff above. He climbed to where the trunk had thinned down so much that it would hardly take his weight, then spent a tedious hour topping it with his knife.  He tied the sleeves of Jim’s shirt to it, then worked down, cutting foliage away as he went. Presently the branches became too large to handle with his knife, but the stripped main stem stuck up for several meters; the shirt could be seen for a long distance up and down stream. The shirt caught the wind and billowed; Rod eyed it, tired but satisfied- it was unquestionably  a signal flag.

Jimmy and Jacqueline had built a new smudge farther downstream, carrying fire from the shelf for the purpose. Jacqueline still had a few matches and Jim had a pocket torch almost   fully charged but the realization that they were marooned caused them to be miserly. Rod went down and joined them. The smoke was enormously greater now that they were not limited in space, and fuel was easier to fetch.

Rod looked them over. Jacqueline’s face, sweaty and none too clean to start with, was now black with smoke, while Jimmy’s pink skin showed the soot even more. “Acouple of pyromaniacs.”

“You ordered smoke,” Jimmy told him. “I plan to make the burning of Rome look like a bonfire. Fetch me a violin and a toga.” “Violins weren’t invented then. Nero played a lyre.”

“Let’s not be small. We’re getting a nice mushroom cloud effect, don’t you think?’

“Come on, Rod,” Jacqueline urged, Wiping her face without improving it. “It’s fun!” She dipped a green branch in the stream, threw it on the pyre. Athick cloud of smoke and steam concealed her. “More dry wood, Jimmy.”

“Coming!”

Rod joined in, soon was as dirty and scorched as the other two and having more fun than he had had since the test started. When the sun dropped below the tree tops they at last quit trying to make the fire bigger and better and smokier and reluctantly headed up to their cave. Only then did Rod realize that he had forgotten to remain alert.

Oh well, he assured himself, dangerous animals would avoid a fire.

While they ate they could see the dying fire still sending up smoke. After dinner Jimmy got out his cards, tried to riffle the limp mass. “Anyone interested in a friendly game? The customary small stakes.”

“I’m too tired,” Rod answered. “Just chalk up my usual losses.”

“That’s not a sporting attitude. Why, you won a game just last week. How about you, Jack?” Jacqueline started to answer; Rod suddenly motioned for silence. “Sssh! I heard something.”

The other two froze and silently got out their knives. Rod put Colonel Bowie in his teeth and crawled out to the edge. The pathway was clear and the thorn barricade was undisturbed. He leaned out and looked around, trying to locate the sound.

“Ahoy below!” a voice called out, not loudly. Rod felt himself tense. He glanced back, saw Jimmy moving diagonally over to cover the pathway. Jacqueline had her dart gun and was hurriedly pumping it up.

Rod answered, “Who’s there?”

There was a short silence. Then the voice answered, “Bob Baxter and Carmen Garcia. Who are you?” Rod sighed with relief. “Rod Walker, Jimmy Throxton. And one other, not our class . . Jack Daudet.” Baxter seemed to think this over. “Uh, can we join you? For tonight, at least?”

“Sure!”

“How can we get down there? Carmen can’t climb very well; she’s got a bad foot.” “You’re right above us?”

“I think so. I can’t see you.”

“Stay there. I’ll come up.” Rod turned, grinned at the others. “Company for dinner! Get a fire going, Jim.” Jimmy clucked mournfully. “And hardly a thing in the house. I should have baked a cake.”

By the time they returned Jimmy had roast meat waitmg. Carmen’s semi-crippled condition had delayed them. It was just a sprained ankle but it caused her to crawl up the traverse on her hands, and progress to that point had been slow and painful.

When she realized that the stranger in the party was another woman she burst into tears. Jackie glared at the males, for no cause that Rod could see, then led her into the remote corner of the cave where she herself slept.

There they whispered while Bob Baxter compared notes with Rod and Jim.

Bob and Carmen had had no unusual trouble until Carmen had hurt her ankle two days earlier… except for the obvious fact that something had gone wrong and they were stranded. “I lost my grip,” he admitted, “when I realized that they weren’t picking us up. But Carmen snapped me out of it. Carmen is a very practical kid.”

‘Girls are always the practical ones,” Jimmy agreed. Now take me- I’m the poetical type.” ‘Blank verse, I’d say,” Rod suggested.

“Jealousy ill becomes you, Rod. Bob, old bean, can I interest you in another slice? Rare, or well carbonized?” “Either way. We haven’t had much to eat the last couple of days. Boy, does this taste good!”

“My own sauce,” Jimmy said modestly. “I raise my own herbs, you know. First you melt a lump of butter slowly in a pan, then you-“

“Shut up, Jimmy. Bob, do you and Carmen want to team with us? As I see it, we can’t count on ever getting back. Therefore we ought to make plans for the future.’ “I think you are right.”

“Rod is always right,” Jimmy agreed. “‘Plans for the future-‘ Hmm, yes… Bob, do you and Carmen play cribbage?” “No”

“Never mind. I’ll teach you.”

5.      “Fish, or Cut Bait”

The decision to keep on burning the smoke signal and thereby to call in as many recruits as possible was never voted on; it formed itself. The next morning Rod intended to bring the matter up but Jimmy and Bob rebuilt the smoke fire from its embers while down to fetch fresh water. Rod let the accomplished fact stand; two girls drifted in separately that day.

Nor was there any formal contract to team nor any selection of a team captain; Rod continued to direct operations and Bob Baxter accepted the arrangement. Rod did not think about it as he was too busy. The problems of food, shelter, and safety for their growing population left him no time to worry about it

The arrival of Bob and Carmen cleaned out the larder; it was necessary to hunt the next day. Bob Baxter offered to go, but Rod decided to take Jackie as usual. “You rest today. Don’t let Carmen put her weight on that bad ankle and don’t let Jimmy go down alone to tend the fire. He thinks he is well again but he is not.”

“I see that.”

Jack and Rod went out, made their kill quickly. But Rod failed to kill clean and when Jacqueline moved in to help finish the thrashing, wounded buck she was kicked in the ribs. She insisted that she was not hurt; nevertheless her side was sore the following morning and Bob Baxter expressed the opinion that she had cracked a rib.

In the meantime two new mouths to feed had been added, just as Rod found himself with three on the sick list. But one of the new mouths was a big, grinning one belonging to Caroline Mshiyeni; Rod picked her as his hunting partner.

Jackie looked sour. She got Rod aside and whispered, ‘You haven’t any reason to do this to me. I can hunt. My side is all right, just a little stiff.” “It is, huh? So it slows you down when I need you. I can’t chance it, Jack.”

She glanced at Caroline, stuck out her lip and looked stubborn. Rod said urgently, “Jack, remember what I said about petty jealousies? So help me, you make trouble and I’ll paddle you.” “You aren’t big enough!”

“I’ll get help. Now, look- are we partners?” “Well, I thought so.”

“Then be one and don’t cause trouble.”

She shrugged. “All right. Don’t rub it in- I’ll stay home.”

“I want you to do more than that. Take that old bandage of mine- it’s around somewhere- and let Bob Baxter strap your ribs.” “No!”

“Then let Carmen do it. They’re both quack doctors, sort of.” He raised his voice. “Ready, Carol?” “Quiverin’ and bristlin’.”

Rod told Caroline how he and Jacqueline hunted, explained what he expected of her. They located, and avoided, two family herds; old bulls were tough and poor eating and attempting to kill anything but the bull was foolishly dangerous. About noon they found a yearling herd upwind; they split and placed themselves cross wind for the kill. Rod waited for Caroline to flush the game, drive it to him.

He continued to wait. He was getting fidgets when Caroline showed up, moving silently. She motioned for him to follow. He did so, hard put to keep up with her and still move quietly. Presently she stopped; he caught up and saw that she had already made a kill. He looked at it and fought down the anger he felt.

Caroline spoke. “Nice tender one, I think. Suit you, Rod?” He nodded. “Couldn’t be better. Aclean kill, too. Carol?” “Huh?”

“I think you are better at this than I am.

“Oh, shucks, it was just luck.” She grinned and looked sheepish.

“I don’t believe in luck. Any time you want to lead the hunt, let me know. But be darn sure you let me know.” She looked at his unsmiling face, said slowly, “By any chance are you bawling me out?”

“You could call it that. I’m saying that any time you want to lead the hunt, you tell me. Don’t switch in the middle. Don’t ever. I mean it.” “What’s the matter with you, Rod? Getting your feelings hurt just because I got there first- that’s silly!”

Rod sighed. “Maybe that’s it. Or maybe I don’t like having a girl take the kill away from me. But I’m dead sure about one thing: I don’t like having a partner on a hunt who can’t be depended on. Too many ways to get hurt. I’d rather hunt alone.”

“Maybe I’d rather hunt alone! I don’t need any help.”

“I’m sure you don’t. Let’s forget it, huh, and get this carcass back to camp.”

Caroline did not say anything while they butchered. When they had the waste trimmed away and were ready to pack as much as possible back to the others Rod said, “You lead off. I’ll watch behind.”

“Rod?”

“Huh?” “I’m sorry”

“What? Oh, forget it.”

“I won’t ever do it again. Look, I’ll tell everybody you made the kill.”

He stopped and put a hand on her arm. “Why tell anybody anything? It’s nobody’s business how we organize our hunt as long as we bring home the meat.” “You’re still angry with me.”

“I never was angry,” he lied. “I just don’t want us to get each other crossed up.” “Roddie, I’ll never cross you up again! Promise.”

Girls stayed in the majority to the end of the week. The cave, comfortable for three, adequate for twice that number, was crowded for the number that was daily accumulating. Rod decided to make it a girls’ dormitory and moved the males out into the open on the field at the foot of the path up the shale. The spot was unprotected against weather and animals but it did guard the only access to the cave. Weather was no problem; protection against animals was set up as well as could be managed by organizing a night watch whose duty it was to keep fires burning between the bluff and the creek on the upstream side and in the bottleneck downstream. Rod did not like the arrangements, but they were the best he could do at the time. He  sent Bob Baxter and Roy Kilroy downstream to scout for caves and Caroline and Margery Chung upstream for the same purpose. Neither party was successful in the one-day limit he

had imposed; the two girls brought back another straggler.

Agroup of four boys came in a week after Jim’s shirt had been requisitioned; it brought the number up to twenty-five and shifted the balance to more boys than girls. The four newcomers could have been classed as men rather than boys, since they were two or three years older than the average. Three of the four classes in this survival-test area had been about to graduate from secondary schools; the fourth class, which included these four, came from Outlands Arts College of Teller University.

“Adult” is a slippery term. Some cultures have placed adult age as low as eleven years, others as high as thirty-five-and some have not recognized any such age as long as an ancestor remamed alive. Rod did not think of these new arrivals as senior to him. There were already a few from Teller U. in the group, but Rod was only vaguely aware Which ones they were- they fitted in. He was too busy with the snowballing problems of his growing colony to worry about their backgrounds on remote Terra.

The four were Jock McGowan, a brawny youth who seemed all hands and feet, his younger brother Bruce, and Chad Ames and Dick Burke. They had arrived late in the day and Rod had not had time to get acquainted, nor was there time the following morning, as a group of four girls and five boys poured in on them unexpectedly. This had increased his administrative problems almost to the breaking point; the cave would hardly sleep four more females. It was necessary to find, or build, more shelter.

Rod went over to the four young men lounging near the cooking fire. He squatted on his heels and asked, “Any of you know anything about building?” He addressed them all, but the others waited for Jock McGowan to speak. “Some,” Jock admitted. “I reckon I could build anything I wanted to.” “Nothing hard,” Rod explained. “Just stone walls. Ever tried your hand at masonry?”

“Sure. What of it?”

“Well, here’s the idea. We’ve got to have better living arrangements right away- we’ve got people pouring out of our ears. The first thing we are going to do is to throw a wall from the bluff to the creek across this flat area. After that we will build huts, but the first thing is a kraal to stop dangerous animals.”

McGowan laughed. “That will be some wall. Have you seen this dingus that looks like an elongated cougar? One of those babies would go over your wall before you could say ‘scat.’”

“I know about them,” Rod admitted, “and I don’t like them.” He rubbed the long white scars on his left arm. “They probably could go over any wall we could build. So we’ll rig a surprise for them.” He picked up a twig and started drawing in the dirt. “We build the wall and bring it around to here. Then, inside for about six meters, we set up sharpened poles. Anything comes over the wall splits its gut on the poles.”

Jock McGowan looked at the diagram. “Futile.” “Silly,” agreed his brother.

Rod flushed but answered, “Got a better idea?” “That’s beside the point.”

“Well,” Rod answered slowly, “unless somebody comes down with a better scheme, or unless we find really good caves, we’ve got to fortify this spot the best we can … so we’ll do this. I’m going to set the girls to cutting and sharpening stakes. The rest of us will start on the wall. If we tear into it we ought to have a lot of it built before dark. Do you four want to work together? There will be one party collecting rock and another digging clay and making clay mortar. Take your choice.”

Again three of them waited. Jock McGowan lay back and laced his hands under his head. “Sorry. I’ve got a date to hunt today.” Rod felt himself turning red. “We don’t need a kill today,” he said carefully.

“Nobody asked you, youngster.”

Rod felt the cold tenseness he always felt in a hunt He was uncomfortably aware that an audience had gathered. He tried to keep his voice steady and said, “Maybe I’ve made a mistake. I-“

“You have.”

“I thought you four had teamed with the rest of us. Well?” “Maybe. Maybe not.”

“You’ll have to fish or cut bait. If you join, you work like anybody else. If not- well, you’re welcome to breakfast and stop in again some time. But be on your way. I won’t have you lounging around while everybody else, is working.”

Jock McGowan sucked his teeth, dug at a crevice with his tongue. His hands were still locked back of his head. “What you don’t understand, sonny boy, is that nobody gives the McGowans orders. Nobody. Right, Bruce?”

“Right, Jock.”

“Right, Chad? Dick?”

The other two grunted approval. McGowan continued to stare up at the sky. “So,” he said softly, “I go where I want to go and stay as long as I like. The question is not whether we are going to join up with you, but what ones am going to let team with us. But not you, sonny boy; you are still wet behind your ears.

“Get up and get Qut of here!” Rod started to stand up. He was wearing Colonel Bowie, as always, but he did not reach for it. He began to straighten up from squatting.

Jock McGowan’s eyes flicked toward his brother. Rod was hit low… and found himself flat on his face with his breath knocked out. He felt the sharp kiss of a knife against his ribs; he held still. Bruce called out, “How about it, Jock?”

Rod could not see Jock McGowan. But he heard him answer, “Just keep him there.” “Right, Jock.”

Jock McGowan was wearing both gun and knife. Rod now heard him say, “Anybody want to dance? Any trouble out of the rest of you lugs?”

Rod still could not see Jock, but he could figure from the naked, startled expressions of a dozen others that McGowan must have rolled to his feet and covered them with his gun. Everybody in camp carried knives; most had guns as well and Rod could see that Roy Kilroy was wearing his- although most guns were kept when not in use in the cave in a little arsenal which Carmen superintended.

But neither guns nor knives were of use; it had happened too fast, shifting from wordy wrangling to violence with no warning. Rod could see none of his special friends from where he was; those whom he could see did not seem disposed to risk death to rescue him.

Jock McGowan said briskly, “Chad- Dick- got ‘em all covered?” “Right, Skipper.”

“Keep ‘em that way while I take care of this cholo.” His hairy legs appeared in front of Rod’s face. “Pulled his teeth, Bruce?” “Not yet.”

“I’ll do it. Roll over, sonny boy, and let me at your knife. Let him turn over, Bruce.”

Bruce McGowan eased up on Rod and Jock bent down. As he reached for Rod’s knife a tiny steel flower blossomed in Jock’s side below his ribs. Rod heard nothing, not even the small sound it must have made when it struck. Jock straightened up with a shriek, clutched at his side.

Bruce yelled, Jock! What’s the matter?”

“They got me.” He crumpled to the ground like loose clothing.

Rod still had a man with a knife on his back but the moment was enough; he rolled and grabbed in one violent movement and the situation was reversed, with Bruce’s right wrist locked in Rod’s fist, with Colonel Bowie threatening Bruce’s face.

Aloud contralto voice sang out, “Take it easy down there! We got you covered.”

Rod glanced up. Caroline stood on the shelf at the top of the path to the cave, with a rifle at her shoulder. At the downstream end of the shelf Jacqueline sat with her little dart gun in her lap; she was frantically pumping up again. She raised it, drew a bead on some one past Rod’s shoulder.

Rod called out, “Don’t shoot!” He looked around. “Drop it, you two!”

Chad Ames and Dick Burke dropped their guns. Rod added, “Roy! Grant Cowper! Gather up their toys. Get their knives, too.” He turned back to Bruce McGowan, pricked him under the chin. “Let’s have your knife.” Bruce turned it loose; Rod took it and got to his feet.

Everyone who had been up in the cave was swarming down, Caroline in the lead. Jock McGowan was writhing on the ground, face turned blue and gasping in the sort of paralysis induced by the poison used on darts. Bob Baxter hurried up, glanced at him, then said to Rod, “I’ll take care of that cut in your ribs in a moment.” He bent over Jock McGowan.

Caroline said indignantly, “You aren’t going to try to save him?” “Of course.”

“Why? Let’s chuck him in the stream.”

Baxter glanced at Rod. Rod felt a strong urge to order Caroline’s suggestion carried out. But he answered, “Do what you can for him, Bob. Where’s Jack? Jack- you’ve got antidote for your darts, haven’t you? Get it.”

Jacqueline looked scornfully at the figure on the ground. “What for? He’s not hurt.” “Huh?”

“Just a pin prick. Apractice dart- that’s all I keep in Betsey. My hunting darts are put away so that nobody can hurt themselves- and I didn’t have time to get them.” She prodded Jock with a toe. “He’s not poisoned. He’s scaring himself to death.”

Caroline chortled and waved the rifle she carried. “And this one is empty. Not even a good club.” Baxter said to Jackie, “Are you sure? The reactions look typical.”

“Sure I’m sure! See the mark on the end sticking out? Atarget dart.”

Baxter leaned over his patient, started slapping his face. “Snap out of it, McGowan! Stand up. I want to get that dart out of you.”

McGowan groaned and managed to stand. Baxter took the dart between thumb and forefinger, jerked it free; Jock yelled. Baxter slapped him again. “Don’t you faint on me,” he growled. ‘you’re lucky. Let it drain and you’ll be all right.” He turned to Rod. “You’re next.”

“Huh? There’s nothing the matter with me.”

“That stuff on your ribs is paint, I suppose.” He looked around. “Carmen, get my kit.” “I brought it down.”

“Good. Rod, sit down and lean forward. This is going to hurt a little.”

It did hurt. Rod tried to chat to avoid showing that he minded it. “Carol,” he asked, “I don’t see how you and Jackie worked out a plan so fast. That was smooth.”

“Huh? We didn’t work out a plan; we both just did what we could and did it fast.” She turned to Jacqueline and gave her a clap on the shoulder that nearly knocked her over. “This kid is solid, Roddie, solid!”

Jacqueline recovered, looked pleased and tried not to show it. “Aw, Carol!” “Anyway I thank you both.”

“Apleasure. I wish that pea shooter had been loaded. Rod, what are you going to do with them?” “Well … ummph!”

“Whoops!” said Baxter, behind him. “I said it was going to hurt. I had better put one more clip in. I’d like to put a dressing on that, but we can’t, so you lay off heavy work for a while and sleep on your stomach.”

“Unh!” said Rod.

“That’s the last. You can get up now. Take it easy and give it a chance to scab.”

“I still think,” Caroline insisted, “that we ought to make them swim the creek. We could make bets on whether or not any of ‘em make it across.” “Carol, you’re uncivilized.”

“I never claimed to be civilized. But I know which end wags and which end bites.”

Rod ignored her and went to look at the prisoners. Roy Kilroy had caused them to lie down one on top of the other; it rendered them undignified and helpless. “Let them sit up.” Kilroy and Grant Cowper had been guarding them. Cowper said, “You heard the Captain. Sit up.” They unsnarled and sat up, looking glum.

Rod looked at Jock McGowan. “What do you think we ought to do with you?”

McGowan said nothing. The puncture in his side was oozing blood and he was pale. Rod said slowly, “Some think we ought to chuck you in the stream. That’s the same as condemning you to death- but if we are going to, we ought to shoot you or hang you. I don’t favor letting anybody be eaten alive. Should we hang you?”

Bruce McGowan blurted out, “We haven’t done anything.”

“No. But you sure tried. You aren’t safe to have around other people.”

Somebody called out, “Oh, let’s shoot them and get it over with!” Rod ignored it. Grant Cowper came close to Rod and said, “We ought to vote on this. They ought to have a trial.” Rod shook his head. “No.” He went on to the prisoners,

I don’t favor punishing you- this is personal. But we can’t risk having you around either.” He turned to Cowper. “Give them their knives.” “Rod? You’re not going to fight them?”

“Of course not.” He turned back. “You can have your knives; we’re keeping your guns. When we turn you loose, head downstream and keep going. Keep going for at least a week. If you ever show your faces again, you won’t get a chance to explain. Understand me?’

Jock McGowan nodded. Dick Burke gulped and said, “But turning us out with just knives is the same as killing us.

“Nonsense! No guns. And remember, if you turn back this way, even to hunt, it’s once too many. There may be somebody trailing you- with a gun.

“Loaded this time!” added Caroline. “Hey, Roddie, I want that job. Can I? Please?” “Shut up, Carol. Roy, you and Grant start them on their way.”

As exiles and guards, plus sightseers, moved off they ran into Jimmy Throxton coming back into camp. He stopped and stared. “What’s the procession? Rod what have you done to your ribs, boy? Scratching yourself again?”

Several people tried to tell him at once. He got the gist of it and shook his head mournfully. “And there I was, good as gold, looking for pretty rocks for our garden wall. Every time there’s a party people forget to ask me. Discrimination.”

“Stow it, Jim. It’s not funny.”

“That’s what I said. It’s discrimination.”

Rod got the group started on the wall with an hour or more of daylight wasted. He tried to work on the wall despite Bob Baxter’s medical orders, but found that he was not up to it; not only was his wound painful but also he felt shaky with reaction.

Grant Cowper looked him up during the noon break. “Skipper, can I talk with you? Privately?” Rod moved aside with him. “What’s on your mind?”

“Mmm … Rod, you were lucky this morning. You know that, don’t you? No offense intended.” “Sure, I know. What about it?”

“Uh, do you know why you had trouble?”

“What? Of course I know- now. I trusted somebody when I should not have.”

Cowper shook his head. “Not at all. Rod, what do you know about theory of government?” Rod looked surprised. “I’ve had the usual civics courses. Why?”

“I doubt if I’ve mentioned it, but the course I’m majoring in at Teller U. is colonial administration. One thing we study is how authority comes about in human society and how it is maintained. I’m not criticizing but to be blunt, you almost lost your life because you’ve never studied such things.”

Rod felt annoyed. “What are you driving at?”

“Take it easy. But the fact remains that you didn’t have any authority. McGowan knew it and wouldn’t take orders. Everybody else knew it, too. When it came to a showdown, nobody knew whether to back you up or not. Because you don’t have a milligram of real authority.”

“Just a moment! Are you saying I’m not leader of this team?”

“You are de facto leader, no doubt about it. But you’ve never been elected to the job. That’s your weakness.” Rod chewed this over. “I know,” he said slowly. “It’s just that we have been so confounded busy.”

“Sure, I know. I’d be the last person to criticize. But a captain ought to be properly elected.”

Rod sighed. “I meant to hold an election but I thought getting the wall built was more urgent. All right, let’s call them together.” “Oh, you don’t need to do it this minute.”

“Why not? The sooner the better, apparently.” “Tonight, when it’s too dark to work, is soon enough.” “Well … okay.”

When they stopped for supper Rod announced that there would be an organization and planning meeting. No one seemed surprised, although he himself had mentioned it to no one.

He felt annoyed and had to remind himself that there was nothing secret about it; Grant had been under no obligation to keep it quiet. He set guards and fire tenders, then came back into

the circle of firelight and called out, “Quiet, everybody! Let’s get started. If you guys on watch can’t hear, be sure to speak up” He hesitated. “We’re going to hold an election. Somebody

pointed out that I never have been elected captain of this survival team. Well, if any of you have your noses out of joint, I’m sorry. I was doing the best I could. But you are entitled to elect a

captain. All right, any nominations?”

Jiminy Throxton shouted, “I nominate Rod Walker!” Caroline’s voice answered, “I second it! Move the nominations be closed.” Rod said hastily, “Carol, your motion is out of order.”

“Why?”

Before he could answer Roy Kilroy spoke up. “Rod, can I have the floor a moment? Privileged question.” Rod turned, saw that Roy was squatting beside Grant Cowper. “Sure. State your question.”

“Matter of procedure. The first thing is to elect a temporary chairman.”

Rod thought quickly. “I guess you’re right. Jimmy, your nomination is thrown out. Nominations for temporary chairman are in order.” “Rod Walker for temporary chairman!”

“Oh, shut up, Jimmy! I don’t want to be temporary chairman.”

Roy Kilroy was elected. He took the imaginary gavel and announced, “The chair recognizes Brother Cowper for a statement of aims and purposes of this meeting.” Jimmy Throxton called out, “What do we want any speeches for? Let’s elect Rod and go to bed. I’m tired- and I’ve got a two-hour watch coming up.”

“Out of order. The chair recognizes Grant Cowper.” Cowper stood up. The firelight caught his handsome features and curly, short beard. Rod rubbed the scraggly growth on his own chin and wished that he looked like Cowper. The young man was dressed only in walking shorts and soft bush shoes but he carried himself with the easy dignity of a distinguished speaker before some important body. “Friends,” he said, “brothers and sisters, we are gathered here tonight not to elect a survival-team captain, but to found a new nation.”

He paused to let the idea sink in. “You know the situation we are in. We fervently hope to be rescued, none more so than I. I will even go so far as to say that I think we will be rescued … eventually. But we have no way of knowing, we have no data on which to base an intelligent guess, as to when we will be rescued.

“It might be tomorrow … it might be our descendants a thousand years from now.” He said the last very solemnly.

“But when the main body of our great race re-establishes contact with us, it is up to us, this little group here tonight, whether they find a civilized society or flea-bitten animals without language, without arts, with the light of reason grown dim … or no survivors at all, nothing but bones picked clean.”

“Not mine!” called out Caroline. Kilroy gave her a dirty look and called for order.

“Not yours, Caroline,” Cowper agreed gravely. “Nor mine. Not any of us. Because tonight we will take the step that will keep this colony alive. We are poor in things; we will make what we need. We are rich in knowledge; among us we hold the basic knowledge of our great race. We must preserve it … we will!”

Caroline cut through Cowper’s dramatic pause with a stage whisper. “Talks pretty, doesn’t he? Maybe I’ll marry him.”

He did not try to fit this heckling into his speech. “What is the prime knowledge acquired by our race? That without which the rest is useless? What flame must we guard like vestal virgins?”

Some one called out, “Fire.” Cowper shook his head. “Writing!”

“The decimal system.” “Atomics!”

“The wheel, of course.

“No, none of those. They are all important, but they are not the keystone. The greatest invention of mankind is government. It is also the hardest of all. More individualistic than cats, nevertheless we have learned to cooperate more efficiently than ants or bees or termites. Wilder, bloodier, and more deadly than sharks, we have learned to live together as peacefully  as lambs. But these things are not easy. That is why that which we do tonight will decide our future … and perhaps the future of our children, our children’s children, our descendants far

into the womb of time. We are not picking a temporary survival leader; we are setting up a government. We must do it with care. We must pick a chief executive for our new nation, a mayor of our city-state. But we must draw up a constitution, sign articles binding us together. We must organize and plan.”

“Hear, hear!”

“Bravo!”

“We must establish law, appoint judges, arrange for orderly administration of our code. Take for example, this morning-” Cowper turned to Rod and gave him a friendly smile. “Nothing personal, Rod, you understand that. I think you acted with wisdom and I was happy that you tempered justice with mercy. Yet no one could have criticized if you had yielded to your  impulse and killed all four of those, uh … anti-social individuals. But justice should not be subject to the whims of a dictator. We can’t stake our lives on your temper … good or bad. You see that, don’t you?”

Rod did not answer He felt that he was being accused of bad temper, of being a tyrant and dictator, of being a danger to the group. But he could not put his finger on it. Grant Cowper’s remarks had been friendly … yet they felt intensely personal and critical.

Cowper insisted on an answer. “You do see that, Rod? Don’t you? You don’t want to continue to have absolute power over the lives and persons of our community? You don’t want that? Do you?” He waited.

“Huh? Oh, yeah, sure! I mean, I agree with you.”

“Good! I was sure you would understand. And I must ay that I think you have done a very good job in getting us together. I don’t agree with any who have criticized you. You were doing your best and we should let bygones be bygones.” Cowper grinned that friendly grin and Rod felt as if he were being smothered with kisses.

Cowper turned to Kilroy. “That’s all I have to say, Mr. Chairman.” He flashed his grin and added as he sat down, “Sorry I talked so long, folks. I had to get it off my chest.” Kilroy clapped his hands once. “The chair will entertam nominations for- Hey, Grant, if we don’t call it ‘captain,’ then what should we call it?”

“Mmm …” Cowper said judicially. “‘President’ seems a little pompous. I think ‘mayor’ would be about right-mayor of our city-state, our village.” “The chair will entertain nominations for mayor.

“Hey!” demanded Jimmy Throxton. “Doesn’t anybody else get to shoot off his face?” “Out of order.”

“No,” Cowper objected, “I don’t think you should rule Jimmy out of order, Roy. Anyone who has something to contribute should be encouraged to speak. We mustn’t act hastily.” “Okay, Throxton, speak your piece.”

“Oh, I didn’t want to sound off. I just didn’t like the squeeze play.”

“All right, the chair stands corrected. Anybody else? If not, we will entertain-“ “One moment, Mr. Chairman!”

Rod saw that it was Arthur Nielsen, one of the Teller University group. He managed to look neat even in these circumstances but he had strayed into camp bereft of all equipment, without even a knife. He had been quite hungry.

Kilroy looked at him. “You want to talk, Waxie?” “Nielsen is the name. Or Arthur. As you know. Yes.” “Okay. Keep it short.”

“I shall keep it as short as circumstances permit. Fellow associates, we have here a unique opportunity, probably one which has not occurred before in history. As Cowper pointed out, we must proceed with care. But, already we have set out on the wrong foot. Our object should be to found the first truly scientific community. Yet what do I find? You are proposing to

select an executive by counting noses! Leaders should not be chosen by popular whim; they should be determined by rigorous scientific criteria. Once selected, those leaders must have full scientific freedom to direct the bio-group in accordance with natural law, unhampered by such artificial anachronisms as statutes, constitutions, and courts of law. We have here an adequate supply of healthy females; we have the means to breed scientifically a new race, a super race, a race which, if I may say so-“

Ahandful of mud struck Nielsen in the chest; he stopped suddenly. “I saw who did that!” he said angrily. Just the sort of nincompoop who always-“ “Order, order, please!” Kilroy shouted. “No mudsling or I’ll appoint a squad of sergeants-at-arms. Are you through, Waxie?”

“I was just getting started.”

“Just a moment,” put in Cowper. “Point of order Mr. Chairman. Arthur has a right to be heard. But I think he speaking before the wrong body. We’re going to have a constitutional committee, I’m sure. He should present his arguments to them. Then, if we like them, we can adopt his ideas.”

“You’re right, Grant. Sit down, Waxie.” “Huh? I appeal!”

Roy Kilroy said briskly, “The chair has ruled this out of order at this time and the speaker has appealed to the house, a priority motion not debatable. All in favor of supporting the chair’s ruling, which is for Waxie to shut up, make it known by saying ‘Aye.’”

There was a shouted chorus of assent. “Opposed: ‘No.’ Sit down, Waxie.” Kilroy looked around. “Anybody else?”

“Yes”

“I can’t see. Who is it?”

“Bill Kennedy, Ponce de Leon class. I don’t agree with Nielsen except on one point: we are fiddling around with the wrong things. Sure, we need a group captain but, aside from whatever  it takes to eat, we shouldn’t think about anything but how to get back. I don’t want a scientific society; I’d settle for a hot bath and decent food.”

There was scattered applause. The chairman said, “I’d like a bath, too … and I’d fight anybody for a dish of cornflakes. But, Bill, how do you suggest that we go about it?”

“Huh? We set up a crash-priority project and build a gate. Everybody works on it.”

There was silence, then several talked at once: “Crazy! No uranium.” – “We might find uranium.” – “Where do we get the tools? Shucks, I don’t even have a screwdriver.” – “But where are we?” – “It is just a matter of-“

“Quiet!” yelled Kilroy. “Bill, do you know how to build a gate?” “No”

“I doubt if anybody does.”

“That’s a defeatist attitude. Surely some of you educated blokes from Teller have studied the subject. You should get together, pool what you know, and put us to work. Sure, it may take a long time. But that’s what we ought to do.”

Cowper said, just a minute, Roy. Bill, I don’t dispute what you say; every idea should be explored. We’re bound to set up a planning committee. Maybe we had better elect a mayor, or a captain, or whatever you want to call him-and then dig into your scheme when we can discuss it in detail. I think it has merit and should be discussed at length. What do you think?”

“Why, sure, Grant. Let’s get on with the election. I just didn’t want that silly stuff about breeding a superman to be the last word.” “Mr. Chairman! I protest-“

“Shut up, Waxie. Are you ready with nominations for mayor? If there is no objection, the chair rules debate closed and will entertain nominations.” “I nominate Grant Cowper!”

“Second!”

“I second the nomination.” “Okay, I third it!”

“Let’s make it unanimous! Question, question!”

Jimmy Throxton’s voice cut through the shouting, “I NOMINATE ROD WALKER!” Bob Baxter stood up. “Mr. Chairman?”

“Quiet, everybody. Mr. Baxter.” “I second Rod Walker.”

“Okay. Two nominations, Grant Cowper and Rod Walker. Are there any more?”

There was a brief silence. Then Rod spoke up. “Just a second, Roy.” He found that his voice was trembling and he took two deep breaths before he went on. “I don’t want it. I’ve had all the grief I want for a while and I’d like a rest. Thanks anyhow, Bob. Thanks, Jimmy.”

“Any further nominations?”

“Just a sec, Roy … point of personal privilege.” Grant Cowper stood up. “Rod, I know how you feel. Nobody in his right mind seeks public office … except as a duty, willingness to serve. If you withdraw, I’m going to exercise the same privilege; I don’t want the headaches any more than you do.”

“Now wait a minute, Grant. You-“

“You wait a minute. I don’t think either one of us should withdraw; we ought to perform any duty that is handed to us, just as we stand a night watch when it’s our turn. But I think we ought to have more nominations.” He looked around. “Since that mix-up this morning we have as many girls as men . . yet both of the candidates are male. That’s not right. Uh, Mr. Chairman, I nominate Caroline Mshiyeni.”

“Huh? Hey, Grant, don’t be silly. I’d look good as a lady mayoress, wouldn’t I? Anyhow, I’m for Roddie.”

“That’s your privilege, Caroline. But you ought to let yourself be placed before the body, just like Rod and myself.” “Nobody’s going to vote for me!”

“That’s where you’re wrong. I’m going to vote for you. But we still ought to have more candidates.” “Three nominations before the house,” Kilroy announced. “Any more? If not, I declare the-“

“Mr. Chairman!”

“Huh? Okay, Waxie, you want to nominate somebody?” “Yes.”

“Who?” “Me”

“You want to nominate yourself?”

“I certainly do. What’s funny about that? I am running on a platform of strict scientific government. I want the rational minds in this group to have someone to vote for.” Kilroy looked puzzled. “I’m not sure that is correct parliamentary procedure. I’m afraid I’ll have to over-“

“Never mind, never mind!” Caroline chortled. “I nominate him. But I’m going to vote for Roddie,” she added.          Kilroy sighed. “Okay, four candidates. I guess we’ll have to have a show of hands. We don’t have anything for ballots.” Bob Baxter stood up. “Objection, Mr. Chairman. I call for a secret ballot. We can find some way to do it.”

Away was found. Pebbles would signify Rod, a bare twig was a note for Cowper, a green leaf meant Caroline, while one of Jimmy’s ceramic attempts was offered as a ballot box. “How about Nielsen?” Kilroy asked.

Jimmy spoke up. “Uh, maybe this would do: I made another pot the same time I made this one, only it busted. Ill get chunks of it and all the crackpots are votes for Waxie.” “Mr. Chairman, I resent the insinua-“

“Save it, Waxie. Pieces of baked clay for you, pebbles for Walker, twigs for Grant, leaves for Carol. Get your votes, folks, then file past and drop them in the ballot box. Shorty, you and Margery act as tellers.”

The tellers solemnly counted the ballots by firelight. There were five votes for Rod, one for Nielsen, none for Caroline, and twenty-two for Cowper. Rod shook hands with Cowper and faded back into the darkness so that no one would see his face. Caroline looked at the results and said, “Hey, Grant! You promised to vote for me. What happened? Did you vote for yourself? Huh? How about that?”

Rod said nothing. He had voted for Cowper and was certain that the new mayor had not returned the compliment … he was sure who his five friends were. Dog take it!-he had seen it coming; why hadn’t Grant let him bow out?

Grant ignored Caroline’s comment. He briskly assumed the chair and said, “Thank you. Thank you all. know you want to get to sleep, so I will limit myself tonight to appointing a few committees-“

Rod did not get to sleep at once. He told himself that there was no disgrace in losing an election- shucks, hadn’t his old man lost the time he had run for community corporation board? He told himself, too, that trying to ride herd on those apes was enough to drive a man crazy and he was well out of it- he had never wanted the job! Nevertheless there was a lump in his middle and a deep sense of personal failure.

It seemed that he had just gone to sleep … his father was looking at him saying, “You know we are proud of you, son. Still, if you had had the foresight to-” when someone touched his arm.

He was awake, alert, and had Colonel Bowie out at once.

“Put away that toothpick,” Jimmy whispered, “before you hurt somebody. Me, I mean.” “What’s up?”

“I’m up, I’ve. got the fire watch. You’re about to be, because we are holding a session of the inner sanctum.” “Huh?”

“Shut up and come along. Keep quiet, people are asleep.”

The inner sanctum turned out to be Jimmy, Caroline, Jacqueline, Bob Baxter, and Carmen Garcia. They gathered inside the ring of fire but as far from the sleepers as possible. Rod looked around at his friends.

“What’s this all about?”

“It’s about this,” Jimmy said seriously. “You’re our Captain. And we like that election as much as I like a crooked deck of cards.” “That’s right,” agreed Caroline. “All that fancy talk!”

“Huh? Everybody got to talk. Everybody got to vote.” “Yes,” agreed Baxter. “Yes … and no.”

“It was all proper. I have no kick.”

“I didn’t expect you to kick, Rod. Nevertheless well, I don’t know how much politicking you’ve seen, Rod. I haven’t seen much myself, except in church matters and we Quakers don’t do things that way; we wait until the Spirit moves. But, despite all the rigamarole, that was a slick piece of railroading. This morning you would have been elected overwhelmingly; tonight you did not stand a chance.”

“The point is,” Jimmy put in, “do we stand for it?” “What can we do?”

“What can we do? We don’t have to stay here. We’ve still got our own group; we can walk out and find another place … a bigger cave maybe.” ‘Yes, sir!” agreed Caroline. “Right tonight.”

Rod thought about it. The idea was tempting; they didn’t need the others … guys like Nielsen- and Cowper. The discovery that his friends were loyal to him, loyal to the extent that they would consider exile rather than let him down choked him up. He turned to Jacqueline. “How about you, Jackie?”

“We’re partners, Rod. Always.”

“Bob- do you want to do this? You and Carmen?” “Yes. Well . .

“‘Well’ what?”

“Rod, we’re sticking with you. This election is all very well- but you took us in when we needed it and teamed with us. We’ll never forget it. Furthermore I think that you make a sounder team captain than Cowper is likely to make. But there is one thing.”

“Yes.”

“If you decide that we leave, Carmen and I will appreciate it if you put it off a day.” “Why?” demanded Caroline. “Now is the time.”

“Well- they’ve set this up as a formal colony, a village with a mayor. Everybody knows that a regularly elected mayor can perform weddings.” “Oh!” said Caroline. “Pardon my big mouth.”

“Carmen and I can take care of the religious end- it’s not very complicated in our church. But, just in case we ever are rescued, we would like it better and our folks would like it if the civil requirements were all perfectly regular and legal. You see?”

Rod nodded. “I see.”

“But if you say to leave tonight …”

“I don’t,” Rod answered with sudden decision. “We’ll stay and get you two properly married. Then-“ “Then we all shove off in a shower of rice,” Caroline finished.

“Then we’ll see. Cowper may turn out to be a good mayor. We won’t leave just because I lost an election.” He looked around at their faces. “But … but I certainly do thank you. I-“ He could not go on. Carmen stepped forward and kissed him quickly. “Goodnight, Rod. Thanks.”

4.      “A Joyful Omen”

Mayor Cowper got off to a good start. He approved, took over, and embellished a suggestion that Carmen and Bob should have their own quarters. He suspended work on the wall and set the whole village to constructing a honeymoon cottage. Not until his deputy, Roy Kilroy, reminded him did he send out hunting parties.

He worked hard himself, having set the wedding for that evening and having decreed that the building must be finished by sundown. Finished it was by vandalizing part of the wall to  supply building stone when the supply ran short Construction was necessarily simple since they had no tools, no mortar but clay mud, no way to cut timbers. It was a stone box as tall as   a man and a couple of meters square, with a hole for a door. The roof was laid up from the heaviest poles that could be cut from a growth upstream of giant grass much like bamboo- the colonists simply called it “bamboo.” This was thatched and plastered with mud; it sagged badly.

But it was a house and even had a door which could be closed- a woven grass mat stiffened with bamboo. It neither hinged nor locked but it filled the hole and could be held in place with  a stone and a pole. The floor was clean sand covered with fresh broad leaves.

As a doghouse for a St. Bernard it would have been about right; as a dwelling for humans it was not much. But it was better than that which most human beings had enjoyed through the history and prehistory of the race. Bob and Carmen did not look at it critically.

When work was knocked off for lunch Rod selfconsciously sat down near a group around Cowper. He had wrestled with his conscience for a long time in the night and had decided that the only thing to do was to eat sour grapes and pretend to like them. He could start by not avoiding Cowper.

Margery Chung was cook for the day; she cut Rod a chunk of scorched meat. He thanked her and started to gnaw it. Cowper was talking. Rod was not trying to overhear but there seemed to be no reason not to listen.

“-which is the only way we will get the necessary discipline into the group. I’m sure you agree. Cowper glanced up, caught Rod’s eye, looked annoyed, then grinned. “Hello, Rod.” “Hi, Grant.”

“Look, old man, we’re having an executive committee meeting. Would you mind finding somewhere else to eat lunch?” Rod stood up blushing. “Oh! Sure.”

Cowper seemed to consider it. “Nothing private, of course- just getting things done. On second thought maybe you should sit in and give us your advice.” “Huh? Oh, no! I didn’t know anything was going on.” Rod started to move away.

Cowper did not insist. “Got to keep working, lots to do. See you later, then. Any time.” He grinned and turned away.

Rod wandered off, feeling conspicuous. He heard himself hailed and turned gratefully, joined Jimmy Throxton. “Come outside the wall,” Jimmy said quietly. “The Secret Six are having a picnic. Seen the happy couple?”

“You mean Carmen and Bob?”

“Know any other happy couples? Oh, there they are- staring hungrily at their future mansion. See you outside.”

Rod went beyond the wall, found Jacqueline and Caroline sitting near the water and eating. From habit he glanced around, sizing up possible cover for carnivores and figuring escape routes back into the kraal, but his alertness was not conscious as there seemed no danger in the open so near other people. He joined the girls and sat down on a rock. “Hi, kids.”

“Hello, Rod.”

“H’lo, Roddie,” Caroline seconded. “‘What news on the Rialto?’”

“None, I guess. Say, did Grant appoint an executive committee last night?”

“He appointed about a thousand committees but no executive committee unless he did it after we adjourned. Why an executive committee? This gang needs one the way I need a bicycle.”

“Who is on it, Rod?” asked Jacqueline.

Rod thought back and named the faces he had seen around Cowper. She looked thoughtful. “Those are his own special buddies from Teller U.” “Yes, I guess so.

“I don’t like it,” she answered. “What’s the harm?”

“Maybe none … maybe. It is about what we could expect. But I’d feel better if all the classes were on it, not just that older bunch. You know.” “Shucks, Jack, you’ve got to give him some leeway.”

“I don’t see why, put in Caroline. “That bunch you named are the same ones Hizzonor appointed as chairmen of the other committees. It’s a tight little clique. You notice none of us unsavory characters got named to any important cominittee- I’m on waste disposal and camp sanitation, Jackie is on food preparation, and you aren’t on any. You should have been on the constitution, codification, and organization committee, but he made himself chairman and left you out. Add it up.”

Rod did not answer. Caroline went on, “I’ll add it if you won’t. First thing you know there will be a nominating committee. Then we’ll find that only those of a certain age, say twenty-one, can hold office. Pretty soon that executive committee will turn into a senate (called something else, probably) with a veto that can be upset only by a three-quarters majority that we will never get. That’s the way my Uncle Phil would have rigged it.”

“Your Uncle Phil?”

“Boy, there was a politician! I never liked him- he had kissed so many babies his lips were puckered. I used to hide when he came into our house. But I’d like to put him up against Hizzonor. It’ud be a battle of dinosaurs. Look, Rod, they’ve got us roped and tied; I say we should fade out right after the wedding.” She turned to Jacqueline. “Right… pardner?”

“Sure … if Rod says so.”

“Well, I don’t say so. Look, Carol, I don’t like the situation. To tell the truth … well, I was pretty sour at being kicked out of the captaincy. But I can’t let the rest of you pull out on that account. There aren’t enough of us to form another colony, not safely.”

“Why, Roddie, there are three times as many people still back in those trees as there are here in camp. This time we’ll build up slowly and be choosy about whom we take. Six is a good start. We’ll get by.”

“Not six, Carol. Four.”

“Huh? Six! We shook on it last night before Jimmy woke you.”

Rod shook his head. “Carol, how can we expect Bob and Carmen to walk out … right after the rest have made them a wedding present of a house of their own?” “Well … darn it, we’d build them another house!”

“They would go with us, Carol- but it’s too much to ask.”

“I think,” Jacqueline said grudgingly, “that Rod has something, Carol.”

The argument was ended by the appearance of Bob, Carmen, and Jimmy. They had been delayed, explained Jimmy, by the necessity of inspecting the house. “As if I didn’t know every rock in it. Oh, my back!”

“I appreciate it, Jim,” Carmen said softly. “I’ll rub your back.” “Sold!” Jimmy lay face down.

“Hey!” protested Caroline. “I carried more rocks than he did. Mostly he stood aromid and bossed.” “Supervisory work is exceptionally tiring,” Jimmy said smugly. “You get Bob to rub your back.”

Neither got a back rub as Roy Kilroy called to them from the wall. “Hey! You down there- lunch hour is over. Let’s get back to work.” “Sorry, Jimmy. Later.” Carmen turned away.

Jimmy scrambled to his feet. “Bob, Carmen- don’t go ‘way yet. I want to say something.” They stopped. Rod waved to Kilroy. “With you in a moment!” He turned back to the others.

Jimmy seemed to have difficulty in choosing words. “Uh, Carmen … Bob. The future Baxters. You know we think a lot of you. We think it’s swell that you are going to get married- every family ought to have a marriage. But … well, shopping isn’t what it might be around here and we didn’t know what to get you. So we talked it over and decided to give you this. It’s from all of us. Awedding present.” Jimmy jammed a hand in his pocket, hauled out his dirty, dog-eared playing cards and handed them to Carmen.

Bob Baxter looked startled. “Gosh, Jimmy, we can’t take your cards-your only cards.” “I- we want you to have them.”

“But-“

“Be quiet, Bob!” Carmen said and took the cards. “Thank you, Jimmy. Thank you very much. Thank you all.” She looked around. “Our getting married isn’t going to make any difference, you know. It’s still one family. We’ll expect you all … to come play cards … at our house just as-” She stopped suddenly and started to cry, buried her head on Bob’s shoulder. He patted it. Jimmy looked as if he wanted to cry and Rod felt nakedly embarrassed.

They started back, Carmen with an arm around Jimmy and the other around her bethrothed. Rod hung back with the other two. “Did Jimmy,” he whispered, “say anything to either of you about this?”

“No,” Jacqueline answered.

“Not me,” Caroline agreed. “I was going to give ‘em my stew pan, but now I’ll wait a day or two.” Caroline’s “bag of rocks” had turned out to contain an odd assortment for survival- among other things, a thin-page diary, a tiny mouth organ, and a half-litre sauce pan. She produced other unlikely but useful items from time to time. Why she had picked them and how she had managed to hang on to them after she discarded the bag were minor mysteries, but, as Deacon Matson had often told the class: “Each to his own methods. Survival is an art, not a science.” It was undeniable that she had appeared at the cave healthy, well fed, and with her clothing surprisingly neat and clean in view of the month she had been on the land.

“They won’t expect you to give up your stew pan, Caroline.”

“I can’t use it now that the crowd is so big, and they can set up housekeeping with it. Anyhow, I want to.”

“I’m going to give her two needles and some thread. Bob made her leave her sewing kit behind in favor of medical supplies. But I’ll wait a while, too.” “I haven’t anything I can give them,” Rod said miserably.

Jacqueline turned gentle eyes on him. “You can make them a water skin for their house, Rod,” she said softly. “They would like that. We can use some of my KwikKure so that it will last.” Rod cheered up at once. “Say, that’s a swell idea!”

“We are gathered here,” Grant Cowper said cheerfully, “to join these two people in the holy bonds of matrimony. I won’t give the usual warning because we all know that no impediment exists to this union. In fact it is the finest thing that could happen to our little community, a joyful omen of things to come, a promise for the future, a guarantee that we are firmly resolved to keep the torch of civilization, now freshly lighted on this planet, forever burning in the future. It means that-“

Rod stopped listening. He was standing at the groom’s right as best man. His duties had not been onerous but now he found that he had an overwhelming desire to sneeze. He worked his features around, then in desperation rubbed his upper lip violently and overcame it. He sighed silently and was glad for the first time that Grant Cowper had this responsibility. Grant seemed to know the right words and he did not.

The bride was attended by Caroline Mshiyeni. Both girls carried bouquets of a flame-colored wild bloom. Caroline was in shorts and shirt as usual and the bride was dressed in the conventional blue denim trousers and overshirt. Her hair was arranged en brosse; her scrubbed face shone in the firelight and she was radiantly beautiful.

“Who giveth this woman?”

Jimmy Throxton stepped forward and said hoarsely, “I do!” “The ring, please.”

Rod had it on his little finger; with considerable fumbling he got it off. It was a Ponce de Leon senior-class ring, borrowed from Bill Kennedy. He handed it to Cowper. “Carmen Eleanora, do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, for better and for worse, in sickness and in health, till death do you part?”  “I do.”

“Robert Edward, do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife? Will you keep her and cherish her, cleaving unto her only, until death do you part?” “I do. I mean, I will. Both.”

“Take her hand in yours. Place the ring on her finger. Repeat after me- Rod’s sneeze was coming back again; he missed part of it.

“-so, by authority vested in me as duly elected Chief Magistrate of this sovereign community, I pronounce you man and wife! Kiss her, chum, before I beat you to it.”

Carol and Jackie both were crying; Rod wondered what had gone wrong. He missed his turn at kissing the bride, but she turned to him presently, put an arm around his neck and kissed him. He found himself shaking hands with Bob very solemnly. “Well, I guess that does it. Don’t forget you are supposed to carry her through the door.”

“I won’t forget.”

“Well, you told me to remind you. Uh, may the Principle bless you both.”

5.               “I So Move”

There was no more talk of leaving. Even Caroline dropped the subject.

But on other subjects talk was endless. Cowper held a town meeting every evening. These started with committee reports- the committee on food resources and natural conservation, the committees on artifacts and inventory, on waste disposal and camp sanitation, on exterior security, on human resources and labor allotment, on recruitment and immigration, on conservation of arts and sciences, on constitution, codification, and justice, on food preparation, on housing and city planning- Cowper seemed to enjoy the endless talk and Rod was forced to admit that the others appeared to have a good time, too- he surprised himself by discovering that he too looked forward to the evenings. It was the village’s social life, the only recreation. Each session produced wordy battles, personal remarks and caustic criticisms; what was lacking in the gentlemanly formality found in older congresses was made up in spice. Rod liked to sprawl on the ground with his ear near Jimmy Throxton and listen to Jimmy’s slanderous asides about the intelligence, motives, and ancestry of each speaker. He waited for Caroline’s disorderly heckling.

But Caroline was less inclined to heckle now; Cowper had appointed her Historian on discovering that she owned a diary and could take shorthand. “It is extremely important,” he informed her in the presence of the village, “that we have a full record of these pioneer days for posterity. You’ve been writing in your diary every day?”

“Sure. That’s what it’s for.”

“Good! From here on it will be an official account. I want you to record the important events of each day.” “All right. It doesn’t make the tiniest bit of difference, I do anyhow.”

“Yes, yes, but in greater detail. I want you to record our proceedings, too. Historians will treasure this document, Carol.” “I’ll bet!”

Cowper seemed lost in thought. “How many blank leaves left in your diary?” “Couple of hundred, maybe.”

“Good! That solves a problem I had been wondering about. Uh, we will have to requisition half of that supply for official use- public notices, committee transactions, and the like. You know.”

Caroline looked wide-eyed. “That’s a lot of paper, isn’t it? You had better send two or three big husky boys to carry it.” Cowper looked puzzled. “You’re joking.”

“Better make it four big huskies. I could probably manage three … and somebody is likely to get hurt.”

“Now, see here, Caroline, it is just a temporary requisition, in the public interest. Long before you need all of your diary we will devise other writing materials.” “Go ahead and devise! That’s my diary.”

Caroline sat near Cowper, diary in her lap and style in her hand, taking notes. Each evening she opened proceedings by reading the minutes of the previous meeting. Rod asked her if she took down the endless debates.

“Goodness no!”

“I wondered. It seemed to me that you would run out of paper. Your minutes are certainly complete.” She chuckled. “Roddie, want to know what I really write down? Promise not to tell.”

“Of course I won’t.”

“When I ‘read the minutes’ I just reach back in my mind and recall what the gabble was the night before-I’ve got an awfully good memory. But what I actually dirty the paper with … well, here-” She took her diary from a pocket. “Here’s last night: ‘Hizzoner called us to disorder at half-past burping time. The committee on cats and dogs reported. No cats, no dogs. The shortage was discussed. We adjourned and went to sleep, those who weren’t already.’”

Rod grinned. “Agood thing Grant doesn’t know shorthand.”

“Of course, if anything real happens, I put it down. But not the talk, talk, talk.”

Caroline was not adamant about not sharing her supply of paper when needed. Amarriage certificate, drawn up in officialese by Howard Goldstein, a Teller law student, was prepared for the Baxters and signed by Cowper, the couple themselves, and Rod and Caroline as witnesses. Caroline decorated it with flowers and turtle doves before delivering it.

There were others who seemed to feel that the new government was long on talk and short on results. Among them was Bob Baxter, but the Quaker couple did not attend most of the meetings. But when Cowper had been in office a week, Shorty Dumont took the floor after the endless committee reports:

“Mr. Chairman!”

“Can you hold it, Shorty? I have announcements to make before we get on to new business.” “This is still about committee reports. When does the committee on our constitution report?” “Why, I made the report myself.”

“You said that a revised draft was being prepared and the report would be delayed. That’s no report. What I want to know is: when do we get a permanent set-up? When do we stop floating in air, getting along from day to day on ‘temporary executive notices’?”

Cowper flushed. “Do you object to my executive decisions?”

“Won’t say that I do, won’t say that I don’t. But Rod was let out and you were put in on the argument that we needed constitutional governinent, not a dictatorship. That’s why I voted for you. All right, where’s our laws? When do we vote on them?”

“You must understand,” Cowper answered carefully, “that drawing up a constitution is not done overnight. Many considerations are involved.”

“Sure, sure- but it’s time we had some notion of what sort of a constitution you are cooking up. How about a bill of rights? Have you drawn up one?” “All in due time.”

“Why wait? For a starter let’s adopt the Virginia Bill of Rights as article one. I so move. “You’re out of order. Anyhow we don’t even have a copy of it.”

“Don’t let that bother you; I know it by heart. You ready, Carol? Take this down . “Never mind,” Caroline answered. “I know it, too. I’m writing it.”

“You see? These things aren’t any mystery, Grant; most of us could quote it. So let’s quit stalling.” Somebody yelled, “Whoopee! That’s telling him, Shorty. I second the motion.”

Cowper shouted for order. He went on, “This is not the time nor the place. When the committee reports, you will find that all proper democratic freedoms and safeguards have been included- modified only by the stern necessities of our hazardous position.” He flashed his smile. “Now let’s get on with business. I have an announcement about hunting parties.

Hereafter each hunting party will be expected to-“

Dumont was still standing. “I said no more stalling, Grant. You argued that what we needed was laws, not a captain’s whim. You’ve been throwing your weight around quite a while now and I don’t see any laws. What are your duties? How much authority do you have? Are you both the high and the low justice? Or do the rest of us have rights?”

“Shut up and sit down!”

“How long is your term of office?”

Cowper made an effort to control himself. “Shorty, if you have suggestions or, such things, you must take them up with the committee. “Oh, slush! Give me a straight answer.”

“You are out of order.”

“I am not out of order. I’m insisting that the committee on drawing up a constitution tell us what they are doing. I won’t surrender the floor until I get an answer. This is a town meeting and   I have as much right to talk as anybody.”

Cowper turned red. “I wouldn’t be too sure,” he said ominously. just how old are you, Shorty?”

Dumont stared at him. “Oh, so that’s it? And the cat is out of the bag!” He glanced around. “I see quite a few here who are younger than I am. See what he’s driving at, folks? Second- class citizens. He’s going to stick an age limit in that so-called constitution. Aren’t you, Grant? Look me in the eye and deny it.”

“Roy! Dave! Grab him and bring him to order.”

Rod had been listening closely; the show was better than usual. Jimmy had been adding his usual flippant commentary. Now Jimmy whispered, “That tears it. Do we choose up sides or do we fade back and watch the fun?”

Before he could answer Shorty made it clear that he needed no immediate help. He set his feet wide and snapped, “Touch me and somebody gets hurt!” He did not reach for any weapon but his attitude showed that he was willing to fight.

He went on, “Grant, I’ve got one thing to say, then I’ll shut up.” He turned and spoke to all. “You can see that we don’t have any rights and we don’t know where we stand- but we are already organized like a straitjacket. Committees for this, committees for that- and what good has it done? Are we better off than we were before all these half-baked committees were appointed? The wall is still unfinished, the camp is dirtier than ever, and nobody knows what he is supposed to do. Why, we even let the signal fire go out yesterday. When a roof leaks, you don’t appoint a committee; you fix the leak. I say give the job back to Rod, get rid of these silly committees, and get on with fixing the leaks. Anybody with me? Make some noise!”

They made plenty of noise. The shouts may have come from less than half but Cowper could see that he was losing his grip on them. Roy Kilroy dropped behind Shorty Dumont and looked questioningly at Cowper; Jiminy jabbed Rod in the ribs and whispered, “Get set, boy.”

But Cowper shook his head at Roy. “Shorty,” he said quietly, “are you through making your speech?” “That wasn’t a speech, that was a motion. And you had better not tell me it’s out of order.”

“I did not understand your motion. State it.”

“You understood it. I’m moving that we get rid of you and put Rod back in.” Kilroy interrupted. “Hey, Grant, he can’t do that. That’s not according to-“ “Hold it, Roy. Shorty, your motion is not in order.”

“I thought you would say that!”

“And it is really two motions. But I m not going to bother with trifles. You say people don’t like the way I’m doing things, so we’ll find out.” He went on briskly, “Is there a second to the motion?”

“Second!”

“I second it.”

“Moved and seconded. The motion is to recall me and put Rod in office. Any remarks?”

Adozen people tried to speak. Rod got the floor by outshouting the others. “Mr. Chairman, Mr. Chairman! Privileged question!” “The chair recognizes Rod Walker.”

“Point of personal privilege. I have a statement to make.” “Well? Go ahead.”

“Look, Grant, I didn’t know Shorty planned to do this. Tell him, Shorty.” “That’s right.”

“Okay, okay,” Cowper said sourly. “Any other remarks? Don’t yell, just stick up your hands.” “I’m not through,” insisted Rod.

“Well?”

“I not only did not know, I’m not for it. Shorty, I want you to withdraw your motion.” “No!”

“I think you should. Grant has only had a week; you can’t expect miracles in that time- I know; I’ve had grief enough with this bunch of wild men. You may not like the things he’s done- I don’t myself, a lot of them. That’s to be expected. But if you let that be an excuse to run him out of office, then sure as daylight this gang will break up.”

“I’m not busting it up- he is! He may be older than I am but if he thinks that makes the least difference when it comes to having a say- well… he’d better think twice. I’m warning him. You hear that, Grant?”

“I heard it. You misunderstood me.” “Like fun I did!”

“Shorty,” Rod persisted, “will you drop this idea? I’m asking you please.”

Shorty Dumont looked stubborn. Rod looked helplessly at Cowper, shrugged and sat down. Cowper turned away and growled, “Any more debate? You back there… Agnes? You’ve got the floor.”

Jimmy whispered, “Why did you pull a stunt like that, Rod? Nobility doesn’t suit you.” “I wasn’t being noble. I knew what I was doing,” Rod answered in low tones.

“You messed up your chances to be re-elected.”

“Stow it.” Rod listened; it appeared that Agnes Fries had more than one grievance. Jim?”

“Huh?”

“Jump to your feet and move to adjourn.”

“What? Ruin this when it’s getting good? There is going to be some hair pulled … I hope.” “Don’t argue; do it!- or I’ll bang your heads together.”

“Oh, all right. Spoilsport.” Jimmy got reluctantly to his feet, took a breath and shouted, “I move we adjourn!” Rod bounced to his feet. “SECOND THE MOTION!” Cowper barely glanced at them. “Out of order. Sit down.”

“It is not out of order,” Rod said loudly. “Amotion to adjourn is always in order, it takes precedence, and it cannot be debated. I call for the question.”

“I never recognized you. This recall motion is going to be voted on it it is the last thing I do.” Cowper’s face was tense with anger. “Are you through, Agnes? Or do you want to discuss my table manners, too?”

“You can’t refuse a motion to adjourn,” Rod insisted. “Question! Put the question.”

Several took up the shout, drowning out Agnes Fries, preventing Cowper from recognizing another speaker. Boos and catcalls rounded out the tumult. Cowper held up both hands for silence, then called out, “It has been moved and seconded that we adjourn. Those in favor say, ‘Aye.’”

“AYE!!”

“Opposed?”

“No,” said Jimmy.

“The meeting is adjourned.” Cowper strode out of the circle of firelight.

Shorty Dumont came over, planted himself in front of Rod and looked up. “Afine sort of a pal you turned out to be!” He spat on the ground and stomped off.

“Yeah,” agreed Jimmy, “what gives? Schizophrenia? Your nurse drop you on your head? That noble stuff in the right doses might have put us back in business. But you didn’t know when to stop.”

Jacqueline had approached while Jimmy was speaking. “I wasn’t pulling any tricks,” Rod insisted. “I meant what I said. Kick a captain out when he’s had only a few days to show himself and you’ll bust us up into a dozen little groups. I wouldn’t be able to hold them together. Nobody could.”

“Bosh! Jackie, tell the man.”

She frowned. “Jimmy, you’re sweet, but you’re not bright.” “Et tu, Jackie?”

“Never mind, Jackie will take care of you. Agood job, Rod. By tomorrow everybody will realize it. Some of them are a little stirred up tonight.” “What I don’t see,” Rod said thoughtfully, “is what got Shorty stirred up in the first place?”

“Hadn’t you heard? Maybe it was while you were out hunting. I didn’t see it, but he got into a row with Roy, then Grant bawled him out in front of everybody. I think Shorty is self-conscious about his height,” she said seriously. “He doesn’t like to take orders.”

“Does anybody?”

The next day Grant Cowper acted as if nothing had happened. But his manner had more of King Log and less of King Stork. Late in the afternoon he looked up Rod. “Walker? Can you spare me a few minutes?”

“Let’s go where we can talk.” Grant led him to a spot out of earshot. They sat on the ground and Rod waited. Cowper seemed to have difficulty in finding words. Finally he said, “Rod, I think I can depend on you.” He threw in his grin, but it looked forced.

“Why?” asked Rod.

“Well… the way you behaved last night.”

“So? Don’t bank on it, I didn’t do it for you.” Rod paused, then added, “Let’s get this straight. I don’t like you.”

For once Cowper did not grin. “That makes it mutual. I don’t like you a little bit. But we’ve got to get along and I think I can trust you. “Maybe.”

“I’ll risk it.”

“I agree with every one of Shorty’s gripes. I just didn’t agree with his soltition.”

Cowper gave a wry smile unlike his usual expression. For an instant Rod found himself almost liking him. “The sad part is that I agree with his gripes myself.” “Huh?”

“Rod, you probably think I’m a stupid jerk but the fact is I do know quite a bit about theory of government. The hard part is to apply it in a… a transitional period like this. We’ve got fifty  people here and not a one with any practical experience in government- not even myself. But every single one considers himself an expert. Take that bill-of-rights motion; I couldn’t let that stand. I know enough about such things to know that the rights and duties needed for a co-operative colony like this can’t be taken over word for word from an agrarian democracy, and they are still different from those necessary for an industrial republic.” He looked worried. “It is true that we had considered limiting the franchise.”

“You do and they’ll toss you in the creek!”

“I know. That’s one reason why the law committee hasn’t made a report. Another reason is- well, confound it, how can you work out things like a constitution when you practically haven’t any writing paper? Ifs exasperating. But about the franchise: the oldest one of us is around twenty-two and the youngest is about sixteen. The worst of it is that the youngest are the most precocious, geniuses or near-geniuses.” Cowper looked up. “I don’t mean you.

“Oh, no,” Rod said hastily. “I’m no genius!”

“You’re not sixteen, either. These brilliant brats worry me. ‘Bush lawyers,’ every blessed one, with always a smart answer and no sense. We thought with an age limit- a reasonable one- the older heads could act as ballast while they grow up. But it won’t work.”

“No. It won’t.”

“But what am I to do? That order about hunting teams not being mixed- that wasn’t aimed at teams like you and Carol, but she thought it was and gave me the very deuce. I was just trying to take care of these kids. Confound it, I wish they were all old enough to marry and settle down- the Baxters don’t give me trouble.”

“I wouldn’t worry. In a year or so ninety per cent of the colony will be married.” “I hope so! Say … are you thinking about it?”

“Me?” Rod was startled. “Farthest thing from my mind.”

“Um? I thought- Never mind; I didn’t get you out here to ask about your private affairs. What Shorty had to say was hard to swallow- but I’m going to make some changes. I’m abolishing most of the committees.”

“So?”

“Yes. Blast them, they don’t do anything; they just produce reports. I’m going to make one girl boss cook- and one man boss hunter. I want you to be chief of police.” “Huh? Why in Ned do you want a chief of police?”

“Well … somebody has to see that orders are carried out. You know, camp sanitation and such. Somebody has to keep the signal smoking- we haven’t accounted for thirty-seven people, aside from known dead. Somebody has to assign the night watch and check on it. The kids run hog wild if you don’t watch them. You are the one to do it.”

“Why?”

“Well … let’s be practical, Rod. I’ve got a following and so have you. We’ll have less trouble if everybody sees that we two stand together. It’s for the good of the community.”

Rod realized, as clearly as Grant did, that the group had to pull together. But Cowper was asking him to shore up his shaky administration, and Rod not only resented him but thought that Cowper was all talk and no results.

It was not just the unfinished wall, he told himself, but a dozen things. Somebody ought to search for a salt lick, every day. There ought to be a steady hunt for edible roots and berries and things, too- he, for one, was tired of an all-meat diet. Sure, you could stay healthy if you didn’t stick just to lean meat, but who wanted to eat nothing but meat, maybe for a life time? And there were those stinking hides … Grant had ordered every kill skinned, brought back for use.

“What are you going to do with those green hides?” he asked suddenly. “Huh? Why?”

“They stink. If you put me in charge, I’m going to chuck them in the creek.” “But we’re going to need them. Half of us are in rags now.

“But we’re not short on hides; tanning is what we need. Those hides won’t sun-cure this weather.” “We haven’t got tannin. Don’t be silly, Rod.”

“Then send somebody out to chew bark till they find some. You can’t mistake the puckery taste. And get rid of those hides!” “If I do, will you take the job?”

“Maybe. You said, ‘See that orders are carried out.’ Whose orders? Yours? Or Kilroy’s?” “Well, both. Roy is my deputy.”

Rod shook his head. “No, thanks. You’ve got him, so you don’t need me. Too many generals, not enough privates.” “But, Rod, I do need you. Roy doesn’t get along with the younger kids. He rubs them the wrong way.”

“He rubs me the wrong way, too. Nothing doing, Grant. Besides, I don’t like the title anyhow. It’s silly.”

“Pick your own. Captain of the Guard… City Manager. I don’t care what you call it; I want you to take over the night guard and see that things run smoothly around camp- and keep an eye on the younger kids. You can do it and it’s your duty.”

“What will you be doing?”

“I’ve got to whip this code of laws into shape. I’ve got to think about long-range planning. Heavens, Rod, I ve got a thousand things on my mind. I can’t stop to settle a quarrel just because some kid has been teasing the cook. Shorty was right; we can’t wait. When I give an order I want a law to back it and not have to take lip from some young snotty. But I can’t do it all, I need help.”

Cowper put it on grounds impossible to refuse, nevertheless … “What about Kilroy?”

“Eh? Confound it, Rod, you can’t ask me to kick out somebody else to make room for you.”

“I’m not asking for the job!” Rod hesitated. He needed to say that it was a matter of stubborn pride to him to back up the man who had beaten him, it was that more than any public- spiritedness. He could not phrase it, but he did know that Cowper and Kilroy were not the same case.

“I won’t pull Kilroy’s chestnuts out of the fire. Grant, I’ll stooge for you; you were elected. But I won’t stooge for a stooge.” “Rod, be reasonable! If you got an order from Roy, it would be my order. He would simply be carrying it out.”

Rod stood up. “No deal.”

Cowper got angrily to his feet and strode away.

There was no meeting that night, for the first time. Rod was about to visit the Baxters when Cowper called him aside. “You win. I’ve made Roy chief hunter.” “Huh?”

“You take over as City Manager, or Queen of the May, or whatever you like. Nobody has set the night watch. So get busy.” “Wait a minute! I never said I would take the job.”

“You made it plain that the only thing in your way was Roy. Okay, you get your orders directly from me.

Rod hesitated. Cowper looked at him scornfully and said, “So you can’t co-operate even when you have it all your own way?” “Not that, but-“

“No ‘buts.’ Do you take the job? Astraight answer: yes, or no. “Uh… yes.

“Okay.” Cowper frowned and added, “I almost wish you had turned it down.” “That makes two of us.”

Rod started to set the guard and found that every boy he approached was convinced that he had had more than his share of watches. Since the exterior security committee had kept no records- indeed, had had no way to- it was impossible to find out who was right and who was shirking. “Stow it!” he told one. “Starting tomorrow we’ll have an alphabetical list, straight rotation. I’ll post it even if we have to scratch it on a rock.” He began to realize that there was truth in what Grant had said about the difficulty of getting along without writing paper.

“Why don’t you put your pal Baxter on watch?”

“Because the Mayor gave him two weeks honeymoon, as you know. Shut up the guff. Charlie will be your relief; make sure you know where he sleeps.” “I think I’ll get married. I could use two weeks of loafing.”

“I’ll give you five to one you can’t find a girl that far out of her mind. You’re on from midnight to two.”

Most of them accepted the inevitable once they were assured of a square deal in the future, but Peewee Schneider, barely sixteen and youngest in the community, stood on his “rights”- he had stood a watch the night before, he did not rate another for at least three nights, and nobody could most colorfully make him.

Rod told Peewee that he would either stand his watch, or Rod would slap his ears loose- and then he would still stand his watch. To which he added that if he heard Peewee use that sort of language around camp again he would wash Peewee’s mouth out with soap.

Schneider shifted the argument. “Yah! Where are you going to find soap?”

“Until we get some, I’ll use sand. You spread that word, Peewee: no more rough language around camp. We’re going to be civilized if it kills us. Four to six, then, and show Kenny where you sleep.” As he left Rod made a mental note that they should collect wood ashes and fat; while he had only a vague idea of how to make soap probably someone knew how… and soap was needed for other purposes than curbing foul-mouthed pip squeaks. He had felt a yearning lately to be able to stand upwind of himself … he had long ago thrown away his socks.

Rod got little sleep. Everytime he woke he got up and inspected the guard, and twice he was awakened by watchmen who thought they saw something prowling outside the circle of firelight. Rod was not sure, although it did seem once that he could make out a large, long shape drifting past in the darkness. He stayed up a while each time, another gun in case the prowler risked the wall or the fires in the gap. He felt great temptation to shoot at the prowling shadows, but suppressed it. To carry the attack to the enemy would be to squander their scanty ammunition without making a dent in the dangerous beasts around them. There were prowlers every night; they had to live with it.

He was tired and cranky the next morning and wanted to slip away after breakfast and grab a nap in the cave. He had not slept after four in the morning, but had checked on Peewee Schneider at frequent intervals. But there was too much to do; he promised himself a nap later and sought out Cowper instead. “Two or three things on my mind, Grant.”

“Spill it.”

“Any reason not to put girls on watch?” “Eh? I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Why not? These girls don’t scream at a mouse. Everyone of them stayed alive by her own efforts at least a month before she joined up here. Ever seen Caroline in action?” “Mmm … no.

“You should. It’s a treat. Sudden death in both hands, and eyes in the back of her head. If she were on watch, I would sleep easy. How many men do we have now?” “Uh, twenty-seven, with the three that came in yesterday.”

“All right, out of twenty-seven who doesn’t stand watch?” “Why, everybody takes his turn.”

“You?”

“Eh? Isn’t that carrying it pretty far? I don’t expect you to take a watch; you run it and check on the others.” “That’s two off. Roy Kilroy?”

“Uh, look, Rod, you had better figure that he is a department head as chief hunter and therefore exempt. You know why- no use looking for trouble.” “I know, all right. Bob Baxter is off duty, too.”

“Until next week.”

“But this is this week. The committee cut the watch down to one at a time; I’m going to boost it to two again. Besides that I want a sergeant of the guard each night. He will be on all night and sleep all next day … then I don’t want to put him on for a couple of days. You see where that leaves me? I need twelve watchstanders every night; I have less than twenty to draw from.”

Cowper looked worried. “The committee didn’t think we had to have more than one guard at a time.”

“Committee be hanged!” Rod scratched his scars and thought about shapes in the dark. “Do you want me to run this the way I think it has to be run? Or shall I just go through the motions?”

“Well . .

“One man alone either gets jittery and starts seeing shadows- or he dopes off and is useless. I had to wake one last night- I won’t tell you who; I scared him out of his pants; he won’t do  it again. I say we need a real guard, strong enough in case of trouble to handle things while the camp has time to wake up. But if you want it your way, why not relieve me and put somebody else in?”

“No, no, you keep it. Do what you think necessary.”

“Okay, I’m putting the girls on. Bob and Carmen, too, And you.” “Huh?”

“And me. And Roy Kilroy. Everybody. That’s the only way you will get people to serve without griping; that way you will convince them that it is serious, a first obligation, even ahead of hunting.”

Cowper picked at a hangnail, “Do you honestly think I should stand watch? And you?”

“I do. It would boost morale seven hundred percent. Besides that, it would be a good thing, uh, politically.” Cowper glanced up, did not smile. “You’ve convinced me. Let me know when it’s my turn.”

“Another thing. Last night there was barely wood to keep two fires going.” “Your problem. Use anybody not on the day’s hunting or cooking details.”

“I will. You’ll hear some beefs. Boss, those were minor items; now I come to the major one. Last night I took a fresh look at this spot. I don’t like it, not as a permanent camp. We’ve been lucky.”

“Eh? Why?”

“This place is almost undefendable. We’ve got a stretch over fifty meters long between shale and water on the upstream side. Downstream isn’t bad, because we build a fire in the bottleneck. But upstream we have walled off less than half and we need a lot more stakes behind the wall. Look,” Rod added, pointing, “you could drive an army through there- and last night I had only two little bitty fires. We ought to finish that wall.”

“We will.”

“But we ought to make a real drive to find a better place. This is makeshift at best. Before you took over I as trying to find more caves- but I didn’t have time to explore very far. Ever been to Mesa Verde?”

“In Colorado? No.”

“Cliff dwellings, you’ve seen pictures. Maybe somewhere up or down stream-more likely down- we will find pockets like those at Mesa Verde where we can build homes for the whole colony. You ought to send a team out for two weeks or more, searching. I volunteer for it.”

“Maybe. But you can’t go; I need you.”

“In a week I’ll have this guard duty lined up so that it will run itself. Bob Baxter can relieve me; they respect him… .. .” He thought for a moment. Jackie? Jimmy? “I’ll team with Carol.” “Rod, I told you I want you here. But are you and Caroline planning to marry?”

“Huh? What gave you that notion?”

“Then you can’t team with her in any case. We are trying to re-introduce amenities around here.” “Now see here, Cowper!”

“Forget it.”

“Unh … all right. But the first thing- the very first- is to finish that wall. I want to put everybody to work nght away.” “Mmm …” Cowper said. “I’m sorry. You can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because we are going to build a house today. Bill Kennedy and Sue Briggs are getting married tonight.” “Huh? I hadn’t heard.”

“I guess you are the first to hear. They told me about it privately, at breakfast.”

Rod was not surprised, as Bill and Sue preferred each other’s company. “Look, do they have to get married to-night? That wall is urgent, Grant; I’m telling you.” “Don’t be so intense, Rod. You can get along a night or two with bigger fires. Remember, there are human values more important than material values.”

6.               The Beach of Bones

“July 29- Bill and Sue got married tonight. Hizzoner never looked lovelier. He made a mighty pretty service out of it- I cried and so did the other girls. If that boy could do the way he can talk!   I played Mendelssohn’s Wedding March on my harmonica with tears running down my nose and gumming up the reeds- that’s a touch I wanted to put into darling Carmen’s wedding but   I couldn’t resist being bridesmaid. The groom got stuck carrying his lady fair over the threshold of their ‘house’- if I may call it that- and had to put her down and shove her in ahead of him. The ceiling is lower than it ought to be which is why he got stuck, because we ran out of rock and Roddie raised Cain when we started to use part of the wall. Hizzoner was leading the assault on the wall and both of them got red in the face and shouted at each other. But Hizzoner backed down after Roddie got him aside and said something- Bill was pretty sore at Roddie but Bob sweet-talked him and offered to swap houses and Roddie promised Bill that we would take the roof off and bring the walls up higher as soon as the wall is finished. That might not be as soon as he thinks, though- usable rock is getting hard to find. I’ve broken all my nails trying to pry out pieces we could use. But I agree with Roddie that we ought to finish that wall and I sleep a lot sounder now that he is running the watch and I’ll sleep sounder yet when that wall is tight and the pincushion back of it finished. Of course we girls sleep down   at the safe end but who wants to wake up and find a couple of our boys missing? It is not as if we had them to spare, bless their silly little hearts. Nothing like a man around the house, Mother always said, to give a home that lived-in look.

“July 30- I’m not going to write in this unless something happens. Hizzoner talks about making papyrus like the Egyptians but I’ll believe it when I see it.

“Aug 5- I was sergeant of the guard last night and Roddie was awake practically all night. I turned in after breakfast and slept until late afternoon- when I woke up there was Roddie, red- eyed and cross, yelling for more rocks and more firewood. Sometimes Roddie is a little hard to take.

“Aug 9- the salt lick Alice found is closer than the one Shorty found last week, but not as good.

“Aug 14- Jackie finally made up her mind to marry Jim and I think Roddie is flabbergasted- but I could have told him a month ago. Roddie is stupid about such things. I see another house & wall crisis coming and Roddie will get a split personality because he will want Jimmy and Jacqueline to have a house right away and the only decent stone within reach is built into the wall.

“Aug 15- Jimmy and Jackie, Agnes and Curt, were married today in a beautiful double ceremony. The Throxtons have the Baxter house temporarily and the Pulvermachers have the Kennedy’s doll house while we partition the cave into two sets of married quarters and a storeroom.

“Sep 1- the roots I dug up didn’t poison me, so I served a mess of them tonight. The shield from power pack of that Thunderbolt gun we salvaged- Johann’s, it must have been- made a big enough boiler to cook a little helping for everybody. The taste was odd, maybe because Agnes had been making soap in it- it wasn’t very good soap, either. I’m going to call these things yams because they look like yams although they taste more like parsnips. There are a lot of them around. Tomorrow I m going to try boiling them with greens, a strip of side ineat, and plenty of salt. Yum, yum! I’m going to bake them in ashes, too.

“Sep 16- Chad Ames and Dick Burke showed up with their tails tucked in; Hizzoner got soft-hearted and let em stay. They say Jock McGowan is crazy. I can believe it.

“Sep 28- Philip Schneider died today, hunting. Roy carried him in, but he was badly clawed and lost a lot of blood and was D.O.A. Roy resigned as boss hunter and Hizzoner appointed Cliff. Roy is broken up about it but nobody blames him. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the Name of the Lord.

“Oct 7- I’ve decided to marry M.

“Oct 10- seems I was mistaken- M. is going to marry Margery Chung. Well, they are nice kids and if we ever get out of this I’ll be glad I’m single since I want to buck for a commission in the Amazons. Note: be a little more standoffish, Caroline. Well, try!

“Oct 20- Carmen???? “Oct 21- Yes.

“Nov 1- well Glory be! I’m the new City Manager. Little Carol, the girl with two left feet Just a couple of weeks, temporary and acting while Roddie is away, but say ‘sir’ when you speak to me. Hizzoner finally let Roddie make the down-river survey he has been yipping about, accompanying it with a slough of advice and injunctions that Roddie will pay no attention to once he is out of sight-if I know Roddie. It’s a two-man team and Roddie picked Roy as his teamer. They left this morning.

“Nov 5- being City Manager is not all marshmallow sundae. I wish Roddie would get back.

“Nov 11 – Hizzoner wants me to copy off in here the ‘report of the artifacts committee’! Mick Mahmud has been keeping it in his head which strikes me as a good place. But Hizzoner has been very jumpy since Roddie and Roy left, so I guess I will humor him- here it is:

“12 spare knives (besides one each for everybody)

“53 firearms and guns of other sorts- but only about half of them with even one charge left. “6 Testaments

“2 Peace of the Flame “1 Koran

“1 Book of Mormon

“1 Oxford Book of English Verse, Centennial Edition “1 steel bow and 3 hunting arrows

“1 boiler made from a wave shield and quite a bit of metal and plastic junk (worth its weight in uranium, I admit) from the Thunderbolt Jackie salvaged. “1 stew pan (Carmen’s)

“1 pack playing cards with the nine of hearts missing

“13 matches, any number of pocket flamers no longer working, and 27 burning glasses “1 small hand ax

“565 meters climbing line, some of it chopped up for other uses “91 fishhooks (and no fish fit to eat!)

“61 pocket compasses, some of them broken

“19 watches that still run (4 of them adjusted to our day) “2 bars of scented soap that Theo has been hoarding “2 boxes Kwik-Kure and part of a box of Tan-Fast

“Several kilos of oddments that I suppose we will find a use for but I won’t list. Mick has a mind like a pack rat.

“Lots of things we have made and can make more of- pots, bows and arrows, hide scrapers, a stone-age mortar & pestle we can grind seeds on if you don’t mind grit in your teeth, etc. Hizzoner says the Oxford Verse is the most valuable thing we have and I agree, but not for his reasons. He wants me to cover all the margins with shorthand, recording all special knowledge that any of us have- everything from math to pig-raising. Cliff says go ahead as long as we don’t deface the verses. I don’t see when I’m going to find time. I’ve hardly been out of the settlement since Roddie left and sleep is something I just hear about.

“Nov 13- only two more days. ‘For this relief, much thanks…’

“Nov 16- I didn’t think they would be on time.

“Nov 21- We finally adopted our constitution and basic code today, the first town meeting we’ve had in weeks. It covers the flyleaves of two Testaments, Bob’s and Georgia’s. If anybody wants to refer to it, which I doubt, that’s where to look.

“Nov 29- Jimmy says old Rod is too tough to kill. I hope he’s right. Why, oh, why didn’t I twist Hizzoner’s arm and make him let me go? “Dec 15- there’s no use kidding ourselves any longer.

“Dec 21- The Throxtons and Baxters and myself and Grant gathered privately in the Baxter house tonight and Grant recited the service for the dead. Bob said a prayer for both of them and then we sat quietly for a long time, Quaker fashion. Roddie always reminded me of my brother Rickie, so I privately asked Mother to take care of him, and Roy, too- Mother had a lap big enough for three, any time.

“Grant hasn’t made a public announcement; officially they are just ‘overdue.’ “Dec 25- Christmas”

Rod and Roy traveled light and fast downstream, taking turns leading and covering. Each carried a few kilos of salt meat but they expected to eat off the land. In addition to game they now knew of many edible fruits and berries and nuts; the forest was a free cafeteria to those who knew it. They carried no water since they expected to follow the stream. But they continued to treat the water with respect; in addition to ichthyosaurs that sometimes pulled down a drinking buck there were bloodthirsty little fish that took very small bites- but they traveled in schools and could strip an animal to bones in minutes.”

Rod carried both Lady Macbeth and Colonel Bowie; Roy Kilroy carried his Occam’s Razor and a knife borrowed from Carmen Baxter. Roy had a climbing rope wrapped around his waist. Each had a hand gun strapped to his hip but these were for extremity; one gun had only three charges. But Roy carried Jacqueline Throxton’s air pistol, with freshly envenomed darts;  they expected it to save hours of hunting, save time for travel.

Three days downstream they found a small cave, found living in it a forlorn colony of five girls. They powwowed, then headed on down as the girls started upstream to find the settlement. The girls had told them of a place farther down where the creek could be crossed. They found it, a wide rocky shallows with natural stepping stones … then wasted two days on the far side before crossing back.

By the seventh morning they had found no cave other than one the girls had occupied. Rod said to Roy, “Today makes a week. Grant said to be back in two weeks.” “That’s what the man said. Yes, sir!”

“No results.” “Nope. None.”

“We ought to start back.”

Roy did not answer. Rod said querulously, “Well, what do you think?”

Kilroy was lying down, watching the local equivalent of an ant. He seemed in no hurry to do anything else. Finally he answered, “Rod, you are bossing this party. Upstream, downstream- just tell me.”

“Oh, go soak your head.”

“On the other hand, a bush lawyer like Shorty might question Grant’s authority to tell us to return at a given time. He might use words like ‘free citizen’ and ‘sovereign autonomy.’ Maybe he’s got something- this neighborhood looks awfully far ‘West of the Pecos.’”

“Well… we could stretch it a day, at least?. We won’t be taking that side trip going back.” “Obviously. Now, if I were leading the party- but I’m not.”

“Cut the double talk! I asked for advice.”

“Well, I say we are here to find caves, not to keep a schedule.” Rod quit frowning. “Up off your belly. Let’s go.”

They headed downstream.

The terrain changed from forest valley to canyon country as the stream cut through a plateau. Game became harder to find and they used some of their salt meat. Two days later they came to the first of a series of bluffs carved eons earlier into convolutions, pockets, blank dark eyes. “This looks like it.”

“Yes,” agreed Roy. He looked around. “It might be even better farther down.” “It might be.”

They went on.

In time the stream widened out, there were no more caves, and the canyons gave way to a broad savannah, treeless except along the banks of the river. Rod sniffed. “I smell salt.” “You ought to. There’s ocean over there somewhere.”

“I don’t think so.” They went on.

They avoided the high grass, kept always near the trees. The colonists had listed more than a dozen predators large enough to endanger a man, from a leonine creature twice as long as the biggest African lion down to a vicious little scaly thing which was dangerous if cornered. It was generally agreed that the leonine monster was the “stobor” they had been warned against, although a minority favored a smaller carnivore which was faster, trickier, and more likely to attack a man.

One carnivore was not considered for the honor. It was no larger than a jack rabbit, had an oversize head, a big jaw, front legs larger than hind, and no tail. It was known as “dopy joe” from the silly golliwog expression it had and its clumsy, slow movements when disturbed. It was believed to live by waiting at burrows of field rodents for supper to come out. Its skin cured readily and made a good water bag. Grassy fields such as this savannah often were thick with them.

They camped in a grove of trees by the water. Rod said, “Shall I waste a match, or do it the hard way?” “Suit yourself. I’ll knock over something for dinner.”

“Watch yourself. Don’t go into the grass.

“I’ll work the edges. Cautious Kilroy they call me, around the insurance companies.

Rod counted his three matches, hoping there would be four, then started making fire by friction. He had just succeeded, delayed by moss that was not as dry as it should have been, when Roy returned and dropped a small carcass. “The durnedest thing happened.”

The kill was a dopy joe; Rod looked at it with distaste. “Was that the best you could do? They taste like kerosene.” “Wait till I tell you. I wasn’t hunting him; he was hunting me.”

“Don’t kid me!”

“Truth. I had to kill him to keep him from snapping my ankles. So I brought him in.

Rod looked at the small creature. “Never heard the like. Must be insanity in his family.”

“Probably.” Roy started skinning it.

Next morning they reached the sea, a glassy body untouched by tide, unruffled by wind. It was extremely briny and its shore was crusted with salt They concluded that it was probably a dead sea, not a true ocean. But their attention was not held by the body of water. Stretching away along the shore apparently to the horizon were millions on heaping millions of whitened bones. Rod stared. “Where did they all come from?”

Roy whistled softly. “Search me. But if we could sell them at five pence a metric ton, we’d be millionaires.” “Billionaires, you mean.

“Let’s not be fussy.” They walked out along the beach, forgetting to be cautious, held by the amazing sight. There were ancient bones, cracked by sun and sea, new bones with gristle clinging, big bones of the giant antelope the colonists never hunted, tiny bones of little buck no larger than terriers, bones without number of all sorts. But there were no carcasses.

They inspected the shore for a couple of kilometers, awed by the mystery. When they turned they knew that they were turning back not just to camp but to head home. This was as far as they could go.

On the trip out they had not explored the caves. On their way back Rod decided that they should try to pick the best place for the colony, figuring game, water supply, and most importantly, shelter and ease of defense.

They were searching a series of arched galleries water-carved in sandstone cliff. The shelf of the lowest gallery was six or seven meters above the sloping stand of soil below. The canyon dropped rapidly here; Rod could visualize a flume from upstream, bringing running water right to the caves… not right away, but when they had time to devise tools and cope with the problems. Someday, someday- but in the meantime here was plenty of room for the colony in a spot which almost defended itself. Not to mention, he added, being in out of the rain. Roy was the better Alpinist; he inched up, flat to the rock, reached the shelf and threw down his line to Rod- snaked him up quickly. Rod got an arm over the edge, scrambled to his  knees, stood up- and gasped, “What the deuce!”

“That,” said Roy, “is why I kept quiet. I thought you would think I was crazy.

“I think we both are.” Rod stared around. Filling the depth of the gallery, not seen from below, was terrace on terrace of cliff dwellings.

They were not inhabited, nor had they ever been by men. Openings which must have been doors were no higher than a man’s knee, not wide enough for shoulders. But it was clear that they were dwellings, not merely formations carved by water. There were series of rooms arranged in half a dozen low stories from floor to ceiling of the gallery. The material was a concrete of dried mud, an adobe, used with wood.

But there was nothing to suggest what had built them.

Roy started to stick his head into an opening; Rod shouted, “Hey! Don’t do that!” “Why not? It’s abandoned.”

“You don’t know what might be inside. Snakes, maybe.” “There are no snakes. Nobody’s ever seen one.

“No … but take it easy.”

“I wish I had a torch light.”

“I wish I had eight beautiful dancing girls and a Cadillac copter. Be careful. I don’t want to walk back alone.”

They lunched in the gallery and considered the matter. “Of course they were intelligent,” Roy declared. “We may find them elsewhere. Maybe really civilized now- these look like ancient ruins.”

“Not necessarily intelligent,” Rod argued. “Bees make more complicated homes.” “Bees don’t combine mud and wood the way these people did. Look at that lintel.” “Birds do. I’ll concede that they were bird-brained, no more.

“Rod, you won’t look at the evidence.”

“Where are their artifacts? Show me one ash tray marked ‘Made in Jersey City.’” “I might find some if you weren’t so jumpy.”

“All in time. Anyhow, the fact that they found it safe shows that we can live here.” “Maybe. What killed them? Or why did they go away?”

They searched two galleries after lunch, found more dwellings. The dwellers had apparently formed a very large community. The fourth gallery they explored was almost empty, containing a beginning of a hive in one corner. Rod looked it over. “We can use this. If may not

be the best, but we can move the gang in and then find the best at our leisure.” “We’re heading back?”

“Uh, in the morning. This is a good place to sleep and tomorrow we’ll travel from ‘can’ to ‘can’t’- I wonder what’s up there?” Rod was looking at a secondary shelf inside the main arch. Roy eyed it. “Ill let you know in a moment.”

“Don’t bother. It’s almost straight up. We’ll build ladders for spots like that.” “My mother was a human fly, my father was a mountain goat. Watch me.

The shelf was not much higher than his head. Roy had a hand over- when a piece of rock crumbled away. He did not fall far. Rod ran to him. “You all right, boy?”

Roy grunted, “I guess so,” then started to get up. He yelped. “What’s the matter?”

“My right leg. I think… ow! I think it’s broken.” Rod examined the break, then went down to cut splints. With a piece of the line Roy carried, used economically, for he needed most of it as a ladder, he bound the leg, padding it with leaves. It was a simple break of the tibia, with no danger of infection.

They argued the whole time. “Of course you will,” Roy was saying. “Leave me a fresh kill and what salt meat there is. You can figure some way to leave water.” “Come back and find your chawed bones!”

“Not at all. Nothing can get at me. If you hustle, you can make it in three days.”

“Four, or five more likely. Six days to lead a party back. Then you want to go back in a stretcher? How would you like to be helpless when a stobor jumps us?” “But I wouldn’t go back. The gang would be moving down here.”

“Suppose they do? Eleven days, more likely twelve- Roy, you didn’t just bang your shin; you banged your head, too.”

The stay in the gallery while Roy’s leg repaired was not difficult nor dangerous; it was merely tedious. Rod would have liked to explore all the caves, but the first time he was away longer than Roy thought necessary to make a kill Rod returned to find his patient almost hysterical. He had let his imagination run away, visioning Rod as dead and thinking about his own death, helpless, while he starved or died of thirst. After that Rod left him only to gather food and water. The gallery was safe from all dangers; no watch was necessary, fire was needed only for cooking. The weather was getting warmer and the daily rains dropped off.

They discussed everything from girls to what the colony needed, what could have caused the disaster that had stranded them, what they would have to eat if they could have what they wanted, and back to girls again. They did not discuss the possibility of rescue; they took it for granted that they were there to stay. They slept much of the time and often did nothing, in animal-like torpor.

Roy wanted to start back as soon as Rod removed the splints, but it took him only seconds to discover that he no longer knew how to walk. He exercised for days, then grew sulky when Rod still insisted that he was not able to travel; the accumulated irritations of invalidism spewed out in the only quarrel they had on the trip.

Rod grew as angry as he was, threw Roy’s climbing

rope at him and shouted, “Go ahead! See how far you get on that gimp leg!”

Five minutes later Rod was arranging a sling, half dragging Roy, white and trembling and thoroughly subdued, back up onto the shelf. Thereafter they spent ten days getting Roy’s muscles into shape, then started back.

Shorty Dumont was the first one they ran into as they approached the settlement. His jaw dropped and he looked scared, then he ran to greet them, ran back to alert those in camp. “Hey, everybody! They’re back!”

Caroline heard the shout, outdistanced the others in great flying leaps, kissed and hugged them both. “Hi, Carol,” Rod said. “What are you bawling about?” “Oh, Roddie, you bad, bad boy!”

7.               “It Won’t Work, Rod”

In the midst of jubilation Rod had time to notice many changes. There were more than a dozen new buildings, including two long shedlike affairs of bamboo and mud. One new hut was of sunbaked brick; it had windows. Where the cooking fire had been was a barbecue pit and by it a Dutch oven. Near it a stream of water spilled out of bamboo pipe, splashed through a rawhide net, fell into a rock bowl, and was led away to the creek … he hardly knew whether to be pleased or irked at this anticipation of his own notion.

He caught impressions piecemeal, as their triumphal entry was interrupted by hugs, kisses; and bone-jarring slaps on the back, combined with questions piled on questions. “No, no trouble- except that Roy got mad and busted his leg … yeah, sure, we found what we went after; wait till you see … no … yes … Jackie! … Hi, Bob!- it’s good to see you, too, boy! Where’s Carmen… Hi, Grant!”

Cowper was grinning widely, white teeth splitting his beard. Rod noticed with great surprise that the man looked old- why, shucks, Grant wasn’t more than twenty-two, twenty-three at the most. Where did he pick up those lines?

“Rod, old boy! I don’t know whether to have you two thrown in the hoosegow or decorate your brows with laurel.” “We got held up.”

“So it seems. Well, there is more rejoicing for the strayed lamb than for the ninety and nine. Come on up to the city hall.” “The what?”

Cowper looked sheepish. “They call it that, so I do. Better than ‘Number Ten, Downing Street’ which it started off with. It’s just the hut where I sleep- it doesn’t belong to me,” he added. “When they elect somebody else, I’ll sleep in bachelor hall.” Grant led them toward a little building apart from the others and facing the cooking area.

The wall was gone.

Rod suddenly realized what looked strange about the upstream end of the settlement; the wall was gone completely and in its place was a thornbush barricade. He opened his mouth to make a savage comment- then realized that it really did not matter. Why kick up a row when the colony would be moving to the canyon of the Dwellers? They would never need walls  again; they would be up high at night, with their ladders pulled up after them. He picked another subject.

“Grant, how in the world did you guys get the inner partitions out of those bamboo pipes?”

“Eh? Nothing to it. You tie a knife with rawhide to a thinner bamboo pole, then reach in and whittle. All it takes is patience. Waxie worked it out. But you haven’t seen anything yet. We’re going to have iron.

“Huh?”

“We’ve got ore; now we are experimenting. But I do wish we could locate a seam of coal. Say, you didn’t spot any, did you?”

Dinner was a feast, a luau, a celebration to make the weddings look pale. Rod was given a real plate to eat on- unglazed, lopsided, ungraceful, but a plate. As he took out Colonel Bowie, Margery Chung Kinksi put a wooden spoon in his hand. “We don’t have enough to go around, but the guests of honor rate them tonight.” Rod looked at it curiously. It felt odd in his hand.

Dinner consisted of boiled greens, some root vegetables new to him, and a properly baked haunch served in thin slices. Roy and Rod were served little unleavened cakes like tortillas. No one else had them, but Rod decided that it was polite not to comment on that. Instead he made a fuss over eating bread again.

Margery dimpled. “We’ll have plenty of bread some day. Maybe next year.

There were tart little fruits for dessert, plus a bland, tasteless sort which resembled a dwarf banana with seeds. Rod ate too much.

Grant called them to order and announced that he was going to ask the travelers to tell what they had experienced. “Let them get it all told- then they won’t have to tell it seventy times over. Come on, Rod. Let’s see your ugly face.”

“Aw, let Roy. He talks better than I do.”

“Take turns. When your voice wears out, Roy can take over.

Between them they told it all, interrupting and supplementing each other. The colonists were awed by the beach of a billion bones, still more interested in the ruins of the Dwellers. “Rod and I are still arguing,” Roy told them. “I say that it was a civilization. He says that it could be just instinct. He’s crazy with the heat; the Dwellers were people. Not humans, of course, but people.”

“Then where are they now?”

Roy shrugged. “Where are the Selenites, Dora? What became of the Mithrans?”

“Roy is a romanticist,” Rod objected. “But you’ll be able to form your own opinions when we get there.” “That’s right, Rod,” Roy agreed.

“That covers everything,” Rod went on. “The rest was just waiting while Roy’s leg healed. But it brings up the main subject. How quickly can we move? Grant, is there any reason not to start at once? Shouldn’t we break camp tomorrow and start trekking? I’ve been studying it- how to make the move, I mean- and I would say to send out an advance party at daybreak. Roy or I can lead it. We go downstream an easy day’s journey, pick a spot, make a kill, and have fire and food ready when the rest arrive. We do it again the next day. I think we can be safe   and snug in the caves in five days.”

“Dibs on the advance party!” “Me, too!”

There were other shouts but Rod could not help but realize that the response was not what he had expected. Jimmy did not volunteer and Caroline merely looked thoughtful. The Baxters he could not see; they were in shadow.

He turned to Cowper. “Well, Grant? Do you have a better idea?”

“Rod,” Grant said slowly, “your plan is okay … but you’ve missed a point.” “Why do you assume that we are going to move?”

“Huh? Why, that’s what we were sent for! To find a better place to live. We found it- you could hold those caves against an army. What’s the hitch? Of course we move!”

Cowper examined his nails. “Rod, don’t get sore. I don’t see it and I doubt if other people do. I’m not saying the spot you and Roy found is not good. It may be better than here- the way this place used to be. But we are doing all right here- and we’ve got a lot of time and effort invested. Why move?”

“Why, I told you. The caves are safe, completely safe. This spot is exposed … it’s dangerous.”

“Maybe. Rod, in the whole time we’ve been here, nobody has been hurt inside camp. We’ll put it to a vote, but you can’t expect us to abandon our houses and everything we have worked for to avoid a danger that may be imaginary.”

“Imaginary? Do you think that a stobor couldn’t jump that crummy barricade?” Rod demanded, pointing.

“I think a stobor would get a chest full of pointed stakes if he tried it,” Grant answered soberly. “That crummy barricade’ is a highly efficient defense. Take a better look in the morning.” “Where we were you wouldn’t need it. You wouldn’t need a night watch. Shucks, you wouldn’t need houses. Those caves are better than the best house here!”

“Probably. But, Rod, you haven’t seen all we’ve done, how much we would have to abandon. Let’s look it over in the daylight, fellow, and then talk.”

“Well … no, Grant, there is only one issue: the caves are safe; this place isn’t. I call for a vote.” “Easy now. This isn’t a town meeting. It’s a party in your honor. Let’s not spoil it.”

“Well … I’m sorry. But we’re all here; let’s vote.”

“No.” Cowper stood up. “There will be a town meeting on Friday as usual. Goodnight, Rod. Goodnight, Roy. We’re awfully glad you’re back. Goodnight all.”

The party gradually fell apart. Only a few of the younger boys seemed to want to discuss the proposed move. Bob Baxter came over, put a hand on Rod and said, “See you in the morning, Rod. Bless you.” He left before Rod could get away from a boy who was talking to him.

Jimmy Throxton stayed, as did Caroline. When he got the chance Rod said, Jimmy? Where do you stand?”

“Me? You know me, pal. Look, I sent Jackie to bed; she wasn’t feeling well. But she told me to tell you that we were back of you a hundred percent, always.” “Thanks. I feel better.”

“See you in the morning? I want to check on Jackie.” “Sure. Sleep tight.”

He was finally left with Caroline. “Roddie? Want to inspect the guard with me? You’ll do it after tonight, but we figured you could use a night with no worries. “Wait a minute. Carol… you’ve been acting funny.”

“Me? Why, Roddie!”

“Well, maybe not. What do you think of the move? I didn’t hear you pitching in.”

She looked away. “Roddie,” she said, “if it was just me, I’d say start tomorrow. I’d be on the advance party.”

“Good! What’s got into these people? Grant has them buffaloed but I can’t see why.” He scratched his head. “I’m tempted to make up my own party- you, me, Jimmy and Jack, the Baxters, Roy, the few who were rarin’ to go tonight, and anybody else with sense enough to pound sand.”

She sighed. “It won’t work, Roddie.” “Huh? Why not?”

“I’ll go. Some of the youngsters would go for the fun of it. Jimmy and Jack would go if you insisted… but they would beg off if you made it easy for them. The Baxters should not and I doubt  if Bob would consent. Carmen isn’t really up to such a trip.”

8.               Unkillable

The matter never came to a vote. Long before Friday Rod knew how a vote would go- about fifty against him, less than half that for him, with his friends voting with him through loyalty rather than conviction or possibly against him in a showdown.

He made an appeal in private to Cowper. “Grant, you’ve got me licked. Even Roy is sticking with you now. But you could swing them around.”

“I doubt it. What you don’t see, Rod, is that we have taken root. You may have found a better place … but it’s too late to change. After all, you picked this spot.” “Not exactly, it … well, it just sort of happened.”

“Lots of things in life just sort of happen. You make the best of them.”

“That’s what I’m trying to do! Grant, admitted that the move is hard; we could manage it. Set up way stations with easy jumps, send our biggest huskies back for what we don’t want to abandon. Shucks, we could move a person on a litter if we had to- using enough guards.”

“If the town votes it, I’ll be for it. But I won’t try to argue them into it. Look, Rod, you’ve got this fixed idea that this spot is dangerously exposed. The facts don’t support you. On the other hand see what we have. Running water from upstream, waste disposal downstream, quarters comfortable and adequate for the climate. Salt- do you have salt there?”

“We didn’t look for it-but it would be easy to bring it from the seashore.”

“We’ve got it closer here. We’ve got prospects of metal. You haven’t seen that ore outcropping yet, have you? We’re better equipped every day; our standard of living is going up. We have  a colony nobody need be ashamed of and we did it with bare hands; we were never meant to be a colony. Why throw up what we have gained to squat in caves like savages?”

Rod sighed. “Grant, this bank may be flooded in the rainy season- aside from its poor protection now.”

“It doesn’t look it to me, but if so, we’ll see it in time. Right now we are going into the dry season. So let’s talk it over a few months from now.

Rod gave up. He refused to resume as “City Manager” nor would Caroline keep it when Rod turned it down. Bill Kennedy was appointed and Rod went to work under Cliff as a hunter, slept in the big shed upstream with the bachelors, and took his turn at night watch. The watch had been reduced to one man, whose duty was simply to tend fires. There was talk of cutting out the night fires, as fuel was no longer easy to find nearby and many seemed satisfied that the thorn barrier was enough.

Rod kept his mouth shut and stayed alert at night.

Game continued to be plentiful but became skittish. Buck did not come out of cover the way they had in rainy weather; it was necessary to search and drive them out. Carnivores seemed to have become scarcer. But the first real indication of peculiar seasonal habits of native fauna came from a very minor carnivore. Mick Mahmud returned to camp with a badly chewed  foot; Bob Baxter patched him up and asked about it.

“You wouldn’t believe it.” “Try me.”

“Well, it was just a dopy joe. I paid no attention to it, of course. Next thing I knew I was flat on my back and trying to shake it loose. He did all that to me before I got a knife into him. Then I had to cut his jaws loose.”

“Lucky you didn’t bleed to death.”

When Rod heard Mick’s story, he told Roy. Having had one experience with a dopy joe turned aggressive, Roy took it seriously and had Cliff warn all hands to watch out; they seemed to have turned nasty.

Three days later the migration of animals started.

At first it was just a drifting which appeared aimless except that it was always downstream. Animals had long since ceased to use the watering place above the settlement and buck rarely appeared in the little valley; now they began drifting into it, would find themselves baffled by the thorn fence, and would scramble out. Nor was it confined to antelope types;  wingless birds with great “false faces,” rodents, rooters, types nameless to humans, all joined the migration. One of the monstrous leonine predators they called stobor approached the barricade in broad daylight, looked at it, lashed his tail, then clawed his way up the bluff and headed downstream again.

Cliff called off his hunting parties; there was no need to hunt when game walked into camp.

Rod found himself more edgy than usual that night as it grew dark. He left his seat near the barbecue pit and went over to Jimmy and Jacqueline. “What’s the matter with this place? It’s spooky.”

Jimmy twitched his shoulders. “I feel it. Maybe it’s the funny way the animals are acting. Say, did you hear they killed a joe inside camp?” “I know what it is,” Jacqueline said suddenly. “No ‘Grand Opera.’”

“Grand Opera” was Jimmy’s name for the creatures with the awful noises, the ones which had turned Rod’s first night into a siege of terror. They serenaded every evening for the first hour of darkness. Rod’s mind had long since blanked them out, heeded them no more than chorusing cicadas. He had not consciously heard them for weeks.

Now they failed to wail on time; it upset him.

He grinned sheepishly. “That’s it, Jack. Funny how you get used to a thing. Do you suppose they are on strike?” “More likely a death in the family,” Jimmy answered. “They’ll be back in voice tomorrow.”

Rod had trouble getting to sleep. When the night watch gave an alarm he was up and out of bachelors’ barracks at once, Colonel Bowie in hand. “What’s up?”

Arthur Nielsen had the watch. “It’s all right now,” he answered nervously. “Abig buffalo buck crashed the fence. And this got through.” He indicated the carcass of a dopy joe. “You’re bleeding.”

“Just a nip.”

Others gathered around. Cowper pushed through, sized the situation and said, “Waxie, get that cut attended to. Bill … where’s Bill? Bill, put somebody else on watch. And let’s get that gap fixed as soon as it’s light.”

It was greying in the east. Margery suggested, “We might as well stay up and have breakfast. I’ll get the fire going.” She left to borrow flame from a watch fire.

Rod peered through the damaged barricade. Abig buck was down on the far side and seemed to have at least six dopy joes clinging to it. Cliff was there and said quietly, “See a way to get at them?”

“Only with a gun.”

“We can’t waste ammo on that.”

“No.” Rod thought about it, then went to a pile of bamboo poles, cut for building. He selected a stout one a head shorter than himself, sat down and began to bind Lady Macbeth to it with rawhide, forming a crude pike spear.

Caroline came over and squatted down. “What are you doing?” “Making a joe-killer.”

She watched him. “I’m going to make me one,” she said suddenly and jumped up.

By daylight the animals were in full flight downstream as if chased by forest fire. As the creek had shrunk with the dry season a miniature beach, from a meter to a couple of meters wide, had been exposed below the bank on which the town had grown. The thorn kraal had been extended to cover the gap, but the excited animals crushed through this weak point and now streamed along the water past the camp.

After a futile effort no attempt was made to turn them back. They were pouring into the valley; they had to go somewhere, and the route between water and bank made a safety valve. It kept them from shoving the barricade aside by sheer mass. The smallest animals came through it anyhow, kept going, paid no attention to humans.

Rod stayed at the barricade, ate breakfast standing up. He had killed six joes since dawn while Caroline’s score was still higher. Others were making knives into spears and joining them. The dopy joes were not coming through in great numbers; most of them continued to chase buck along the lower route past camp. Those who did seep through were speared; meeting them with a knife gave away too much advantage.

Cowper and Kennedy, inspecting defenses, stopped by Rod; they looked worried. “Rod,” said Grant “how long is this going to last?”

“How should I know? When we run out of animals. It looks like- get him, Shorty! It looks as if the joes were driving the others, but I don’t think they are. I think they’ve all gone crazy.”   “But what would cause that?” demanded Kennedy. “Don’t ask me. But I think I know where all those bones on that beach came from. But don’t ask why. Why does a chicken cross the

road? Why do lemmings do what they do? What makes a plague of locusts? Behind you! Jump!”

Kennedy jumped, Rod finished off a joe, and they went on talking. “Better detail somebody to chuck these into the water, Bill, before they stink. Look, Grant, we’re okay now, but I know what I would do.”

“What? Move to your caves? Rod, you were right-but it’s too late.”

“No, no! That’s spilt milk; forget it. The thing that scares me are these mean little devils. They are no longer dopy; they are fast as can be and nasty … and they can slide through the fence. We can handle them now-but how about when it gets dark? We’ve got to have a solid line of fire inside the fence and along the bank. Fire is one thing they can’t go through … I hope.”

“That’ll take a lot of wood.” Grant looked through the barricade and frowned.

“You bet it will. But it will get us through the night. See here, give me the ax and six men with spears. I’ll lead the party.” Kennedy shook his head. “It’s my job.”

“No, Bill,” Cowper said firmly. “I’ll lead it. You stay here and take care of the town.”

Before the day was over Cowper took two parties out and Bill and Rod led one each. They tried to pick lulls in the spate of animals but Bill’s party was caught on the bluff above, where it had been cutting wood and throwing it down past the cave. They were treed for two hours. The little valley had been cleaned out of dead wood months since; it was necessary to go into the forest above to find wood that would burn.

Cliff Pawley, hunter-in-chief, led a fifth party in the late afternoon, immediately broke the handle of the little ax. They returned with what they could gather with knives. While they were away one of the giant buck they called buffalo stampeded off the bluff, fell into camp, broke its neck. Four dopy joes were clinging to it. They were easy to kill as they would not let go.

Jimmy and Rod were on pike duty at the barricade. Jimmy glanced back at where a couple of girls were disposing of the carcasses. “Rod,” he said thoughtfully, we got it wrong. Those are stobor … the real stobor.”

“Huh?”

“The big babies we’ve been calling that aren’t ‘stobor.’ These things are what the Deacon warned us against.” “Well … I don’t care what you call them as long as they’re dead. On your toes, boy; here they come again.”

Cowper ordered fires laid just before dark and was studying how to arrange one stretch so as not to endanger the flume when the matter was settled; the structure quivered and water ceased to flow. Upstream something had crashed into it and broken the flimsy pipe line.

The town had long since abandoned waterskins. Now they were caught with only a few liters in a pot used by the cooks, but it was a hardship rather than a danger; the urgent need was  to get a ring of fire around’ them. There had already been half a dozen casualties- no deaths but bites and slashings, almost all from the little carnivores contemptuously known as dopy joes. The community’s pool of antiseptics, depleted by months of use and utterly irreplaceable, had sunk so low that Bob Baxter used it only on major wounds.

When fuel had been stretched ready to burn in a long arc inside the barricade and down the bank to where it curved back under the cave, the results of a hard day’s work looked small; the stockpile was not much greater than the amount already spread out. Bill Kennedy looked at it. “It won’t last the night, Grant.”

“It’s got to, Bill. Light it.”

 “If we pulled back from the fence and the bank, then cut over to the bluff- what do you think?”

Cowper tried to figure what might be saved by the change. “It’s not much shorter. Uh, don’t light the downstream end unless they start curving back in on us. But let’s move; it’s getting dark.” He hurried to the cooking fire, got a brand and started setting the chain of fire. Kennedy helped and soon the townsite was surrounded on the exposed sides by blaze. Cowper chucked his torch into the fire and said, “Bill, better split the men into two watches and get the women up into the cave- they can crowd in somehow.”

“You’ll have trouble getting thirty-odd women in there, Grant.”

“They can sit up all night. But send them up. Yes, and the wounded men, too.”

“Can do.” Kennedy started passing the word. Caroline came storming up, spear in hand

“Grant, what’s this nonsense about the girls having to go up to the cave? If you think you’re going to cut me out of the fun you had better think again!” Cowper looked at her wearily. “Carol, I haven’t time to monkey. Shut your face and do as you are told.”

Caroline opened her mouth, closed it, and did as she was told. Bob Baxter claimed Cowper’s attention; Rod noticed that he looked very upset. “Grant? You ordered all the women up to the cave?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry but Carmen can’t.”

“You’ll have to carry her. She is the one I had most on my mind when I decided on the move.

“But-” Baxter stopped and urged Grant away from the others. He spoke insistently but quietly. Grant shook his head. “It’s not safe, Grant,” Baxter went on, raising his voice. “I don’t dare risk it. The interval is nineteen minutes now. “Well… all right. Leave a couple of women with her. Use Caroline, will you? That’ll keep her out of my hair.”

“Okay.” Baxter hurried away.

Kennedy took the first watch with a dozen men spread out along the fire line; Rod was on the second watch commanded by Cliff Pawley. He went to the Baxter house to find out how Carmen was doing, was told to beat it by Agnes. He then went to the bachelors’ shed and tried to sleep.

He was awakened by yells, in time to see one of the leonine monsters at least five meters long go bounding through the camp and disappear downstream. It had jumped the barrier, the stakes behind it, and the fire behind that, all in one leap.

Rod called out, “Anybody hurt?”

Shorty Dumont answered. “No. It didn’t even stop to wave.” Shorty was bleeding from a slash in his left calf; he seemed unaware of it. Rod crawled back inside tried again to sleep. He was awakened again by the building shaking. He hurried out. “What’s up?”

“That you, Rod? I didn’t know anybody was inside. Give me a hand; we’re going to burn it.” The voice was Baxter’s; he was prying at a corner post and cutting rawhide strips that held it.

Rod put his spear where it would not be stepped on, resheathed Colonel Bowie, and started to help. The building was bamboo and leaves, with a mud-and-thatch roof; most of it would burn. “How’s Carmen?”

“Okay. Normal progress. I can do more good here. Besides they don’t want me.” Baxter brought the corner of the shed down with a crash, gathered a double armful of wreckage and hurried away. Rod picked up a load and followed him.

The reserve wood pile was gone; somebody was tearing the roof off the “city hall” and banging pieces on the ground to shake clay loose. The walls were sunbaked bricks, but the roof would burn. Rod came closer, saw that it was Cowper who was destroying this symbol of the sovereign community. He worked with the fury of anger. “Let me do that, Grant. Have you had any rest?”

“Huh? No.”

“Better get some. It’s going to be a long night. What time is it?”

“I don’t know. Midnight, maybe.” Fire blazed up and Cowper faced it, wiping his face with his hand. “Rod, take charge of the second watch and relieve Bill. Cliff got clawed and I sent him up.”

“Okay. Burn everything that will burn-right?”

“Everything but the roof of the Baxter house. But don’t use it up too fast; it’s got to last till morning.”

“Got it.” Rod hurried to the fire line, found Kennedy. Okay, Bill, I’ll take over- Grant’s orders. Get some sleep. Anything getting through?”

‘Not much. And not far.” Kennedy’s spear was dark with blood in the firelight. “I’m not going to sleep, Rod. Find yourself a spot and help out.” Rod shook his head. “You’re groggy. Beat it. Grant’s orders.”

“No!”

“Well… look, take your gang and tear down the old maids’ shack. That’ll give you a change, at least.”

“Uh- all right.” Kennedy left, almost staggering. There was a lull in the onrush of animals; Rod could see none beyond the barricade. It gave him time to sort out his crew, send away those who had been on duty since sunset, send for stragglers. He delegated Doug Sanders and Mick Mahmud as firetenders, passed the word that no one else was to put fuel on the fires.

He returned from his inspection to find Bob Baxter, spear in hand, holding his place at the center of the line. Rod put a hand on his shoulder. “The medical officer doesn’t need to fight. We aren’t that bad off.”

Baxter shrugged. “I’ve got my kit, what there is left of it. This is where I use it.” “Haven’t you enough worries?”

Baxter grinned wanly. “Better than walking the floor. Rod, they’re stirring again. Hadn’t we better build up the fires?” “Mmm … not if we’re going to make it last. I don’t think they can come through that.”

Baxter did not answer, as a joe came through at that instant. It ploughed through the smouldering fire and Baxter speared it. Rod cupped his hands and shouted, “Build up the fires! But go easy.

“Behind you, Rod!”

Rod jumped and whirled, got the little devil. “Where did that one come from? I didn’t see it.”

Before Bob could answer Caroline came running out of darkness. “Bob! Bob Baxter! rve got to find Bob Baxter!” “Over here!” Rod called.

Baxter was hardly able to speak. “Is she- is she?” His face screwed up in anguish. “No, no!” yelled Caroline. “She’s all right, she’s fine. It’s a girl!”

Baxter quietly fainted, his spear falling to the ground. Caroline grabbed him and kept him from falling into the fire. He opened his eyes and said, “Sorry. You scared me. You’re sure Carmen is all right?”

“Right as rain. The baby, too. About three kilos. Here, give me that sticker- Carmen wants you.”

Baxter stumbled away and Caroline took his place. She grinned at Rod. “I feel swell! How’s business, Roddie? Brisk? I feel like getting me eight or nine of these vermin. Cowper came up a few minutes later. Caroline called out, “Grant, did you hear the good news?”

“Yes. I just came from there.” He ignored Caroline’s presence at the guard line but said to Rod, “We’re making a stretcher out of pieces of the flume and they’re going to haul Carmen up. Then they’ll throw the stretcher down and you can burn it.”

“Good.”

“Agnes is taking the baby up. Rod, what’s the very most we can crowd into the cave?” “Gee!” Rod glanced up at the shelf. “They must be spilling off the edge now.

“I’m afraid so. But we’ve just got to pack them in. I want to send up all married men and the youngest boys. The bachelors will hold on here.”

“I’m a bachelor!” Caroline interrupted. Cowper ignored her. “As soon as Carmen is safe we do it- we can’t keep fires going much longer.” He turned away, headed up to the cave. Caroline whistled softly. “Roddie, we’re going to have fun.”

“Not my idea of fun. Hold the fort, Carol. I’ve got to line things up.” He moved down the line, telling each one to go or to stay. Jimmy scowled at him. “I won’t go, not as long as anybody stays. I couldn’t look Jackie in the face.”

“You’ll button your lip and do as Grant says- or I’ll give you a mouthful of teeth. Hear me?” “I hear you. I don’t like it.”

“You don’t have to like it, just do it. Seen Jackie? How is she?”

“I snuck up a while ago. She’s all right, just queasy. But the news about Carmen makes her feel so good she doesn’t care.”

Rod used no age limit to determine who was expendable. With the elimination of married men, wounded, and all women he had little choice; he simply told those whom he considered

too young or not too skilled that they were to leave when word was passed. It left him with half a dozen, plus himself, Cowper, and- possibly- Caroline. Trying to persuade Caroline was a task he had postponed.

He returned and found Cowper. “Carmen’s gone up,” Cowper told him. “You can send the others up now. “Then we can burn the roof of the Baxter house.”

“I tore it down while they were hoisting her.” Cowper looked around. “Carol! Get on up. She set her feet. “I won’t!”

Rod said softly, “Carol, you heard him. Go up- right now!”

She scowled, stuck out her lip, then said, “All right for you, Roddie Walker!”- turned and fled up the path. Rod cupped his hands and shouted, “All right, everybody! All hands up but those I told to stay. Hurry!”

About half of those leaving had started up when Agnes called down, “Hey! Take it slow! Somebody will get pushed over the edge if you don’t quit shoving.” The queue stopped. Jimmy called out, “Everybody exhale. That’ll do it.”

Somebody called back, “Throw Jimmy off… that will do it.” The line moved again, slowly. In ten minutes they accomplished the sardine-packing problem of fitting nearly seventy people into a space comfortable for not more than a dozen. It could not even be standing room since a man could stand erect only on the outer shelf. The girls were shoved inside, sitting or squatting, jammed so that they hardly had air to breathe. The men farthest out could stand but were in danger of stepping off the edge in the dark, or of being elbowed off.

Grant said, “Watch things, Rod, while I have a look.” He disappeared up the path, came back in a few minutes. “Crowded as the bottom of a sack,” he said. “Here’s the plan. They can scrunch back farther if they have to. It will be uncomfortable for the wounded and Carmen may have to sit up- she’s lying down- but it can be done. When the fires die out, we’ll shoehorn the rest in. With spears poking out under the overhang at the top of the path we ought to be able to hold out until daylight. Check me?”

“Sounds as good as can be managed.”

“All right. When the time comes, you go up next to last, I go up last.” “Unh … I’ll match you.”

Cowper answered with surprising vulgarity and added, “I’m boss; I go last. We’ll make the rounds and pile anything left on the fires, then gather them all here. You take the bank, I take the fence.”

It did not take long to put the remnants on the fires, then they gathered around the path and waited- Roy, Kenny, Doug, Dick, Charlie, Howard, and Rod and Grant. Another wave of senseless migration was rolling but the fires held it, bypassed it around by the water.

Rod grew stiff and shifted his spear to his left hand. The dying fires were only glowing coals in spots. He looked for signs of daylight in the east. Howard Goldstein said, “One broke through at the far end.”

“Hold it, Goldie,” Cowper said. “We won’t bother it unless it comes here.” Rod shifted his spear back to his right hand.

The wall of fire was now broken in many places. Not only could joes get through, but worse, it was hard to see them, so little light did the embers give off. Cowper turned to Rod and said, “All right, everybody up. You tally them.” Then he shouted, “Bill! Agnes! Make room, I’m sending them up.”

Rod threw a glance at the fence, then turned. “Okay, Kenny first. Doug next, don’t crowd. Goldie and then Dick. Who’s left? Roy-” He turned, uneasily aware that something had changed. Grant was no longer behind him. Rod spotted him bending over a dying fire. “Hey, Grant!”

“Be right with you.” Co’wper selected a stick from the embers, waved it into flame. He hopped over the coals, picked his way through sharpened stakes, reached the thornbush barrier, shoved his torch into it. The dry branches flared up. He moved slowly away, picking his way through the stake trap.

“I’ll help you!” Rod shouted. “I’ll fire the other end.” Cowper turned and light from the burning thorn showed his stern, bearded face. “Stay back. Get the others up. That’s an order!” f The movement upward had stopped. Rod snarled, “Get on up, you lunkheads! Move!” He jabbed with the butt of his spear, then turned around.

Cowper had set the fire in a new place. He straightened up, about to move farther down, suddenly turned and jumped over the dying line of fire. He stopped and jabbed at something in the darkness … then screamed.

“Grant!” Rod jumped down, ran toward him. But Grant was down before he reached him, down with a joe worrying each leg and more coming. Rod thrnst at one, jerked his spear out, and jabbed at the other, trying not to stab Grant. He felt one grab his leg and wondered that it did not hurt.

Then it did hurt, terribly, and he realized that he was down and his spear was not in his hand. But his hand found his knife without asking; Colonel Bowie finished off the beast clamped to his ankle.

Everything seemed geared to nightmare slowness. Other figures were thrusting leisurely at shapes that hardly crawled. The thornbush, flaming high, gave him light to see and stab a dopy joe creeping toward him. He got it, rolled over and tried to get up.

He woke with daylight in his eyes, tried to move and discovered that his left leg hurt. He looked down and saw a compress of leaves wrapped with a neat hide bandage. He was in the cave and there were others lying parallel to him. He got to one elbow. “Say, what-“

“Sssh!” Sue Kennedy crawled over and knelt by him. “The baby is asleep.” “Oh…”

“I’m on nurse duty. Want anything?”

“I guess not. Uh, what did they name her?”

“Hope. Hope Roberta Baxter. Apretty name. I’ll tell Caroline you are awake.” She turned away.

Caroline came in, squatted and looked scornfully at his ankle. “That’ll teach you to have a party and not invite me. “I guess so. Carol, what’s the situation?”

“Six on the sick list. About twice that many walking wounded. Those not hurt are gathering wood and cutting thorn. We fixed the ax.” “Yes, but… we’re not having to fight them off?”

“Didn’t Sue tell you? Afew buck walking around as if they were dazed. That’s all.” “They may start again.”

“If they do, we’ll be ready.”

“Good.” He tried to raise up. “Where’s Grant? How bad was he hurt?” She shook her head. “Grant didn’t make it, Roddie.”

“Huh?”

“Bob took off both legs at the knee and would have taken off one arm, but he died while he was operating.” She made a very final gesture. “In the creek.”

Rod started to speak, turned his head and buried his face. Caroline put a hand on him. “Don’t take it hard, Roddie. Bob shouldn’t have tried to save him. Grant is better off.” Rod decided that Carol was right- no frozen limb banks on this planet. But it did not make him feel better. “We didn’t appreciate him,” he muttered.

“Stow it!” Caroline whispered fiercely. “He was a fool.” “Huh? Carol, I’m ashamed of you.”

He was surprised to see tears rolling down her cheeks. “You know he was a fool, Roddie Walker. Most of us knew… but we loved him anyhow. I would ‘uv married him, but he never asked me.” She wiped at tears. “Have you seen the baby?”

“No.”

Her face lit up. “I’ll fetch her. She’s beautiful.” “Sue said she was asleep.”

“Well … all right. But what I came up for is this: what do you want us to do?” “Huh?” He tried to think. Grant was dead. “Bill was his deputy. Is Bill laid up?” “Didn’t Sue tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“You’re the mayor. We elected you this morning. Bill and Roy and I are just trying to hold things together.” Rod felt dizzy. Caroline’s face kept drawing back, then swooping in; he wondered if he were going to faint..

“-plenty of wood,” she was saying, “and we’ll have the kraal built by sundown. We don’t need meat; Margery is butchering that big fellow that fell off the bluff and busted his neck. We can’t trek out until you and Carmen and the others can walk, so we’re trying to get the place back into shape temporarily. Is there anything you want us to do now?”

He considered it. “No. Not now.

“Okay. You’re supposed to rest.” She backed out, stood up. “I’ll look in later.” Rod eased his leg and turned over. After a while he quieted and went to sleep.

Sue brought broth in a bowl, held his head while he drank, then fetched Hope Baxter and held her for him to see. Rod said the usual inanities, wondering if all new babies looked that way.

Then he thought for a long time.

Caroline showed up with Roy. “How’s it going, Chief?” Roy said. “Ready to bite a rattlesnake.”

“That’s a nasty foot, but it ought to heal. We boiled the leaves and Bob used sulfa.” “Feels all right. I don’t seem feverish.”

“Jimmy always said you were too mean to die,” added Caroline. “Want anything, Roddie? Or to tell us anything?” “Yes.”

“What?”

“Get me out of here. Help me down the path.” Roy said hastily, “Hey, you can’t do that. You’re not in shape.” “Can’t I? Either help, or get out of my way. And get everybody together. We’re going to have a town meeting.”

They looked at each other and walked out on him. He had made it to the squeeze at the top when Baxter showed up. “Now, Rod! Get back and lie down.” “Out of my way.”

“Listen, boy, I don’t like to get rough with a sick man. But I will if you make me.” “Bob… how bad is my ankle?”

“It’s going to be all right … if you behave. If you don’t- well, have you ever seen gangrene? When it turns black and has that sweetish odor?” “Quit trying to scare me. Is there any reason not to put a line under my arms and lower me?”

“Well…”

They used two lines and a third to keep his injured leg free, with Baxter supervising. They caught him at the bottom and carried him to the cooking space, laid him down. “Thanks,” he grunted. “Everybody here who can get here?”

“I think so, Roddie. Shall I count?”

“Never mind. I understand you folks elected me cap- I mean ‘mayor’- this morning?” “That’s right,” agreed Kennedy.

“Uh, who else was up? How many votes did I get?” “Huh? It was unanimous.

Rod sighed. “Thanks. I’m not sure I would have held still for it if I’d been here. I gathered something else. Do I understand that you expect me to take you down to the caves Roy and I found? Caroline said something…”

Roy looked surprised. “We didn’t vote it, Rod, but that was the idea. After last night everybody knows we can’t stay here.”

Rod nodded. “I see. Are you all where I can see you? I’ve got something to say. I hear you adopted a constitution and things while Roy and I were away. I’ve never read them, so I don’t know whether this is legal or not. But if I’m stuck with the job, I expect to run things. If somebody doesn’t like what I do and we’re both stubborn enough for a showdown, then you will vote. You back me up, or you turn me down and elect somebody else. Will that work? How about it, Goldie? You were on the law committee, weren’t you?”

Howard Goldstein frowned. “You don’t express it very well, Rod.” “Probably not. Well?”

“But what you have described is the parliamentary vote-of-confidence. That’s the backbone of our constitution. We did it that way to keep it simple and still democratic. It was Grant’s notion.”

“I’m glad,” Rod said soberly. “I’d hate to think that I had torn up Grant’s laws after he worked so hard on them. I’ll study them, I promise, first chance I get. But about moving to the caves- we’ll have a vote of confidence right now.”

Goldstein smiled. “I can tell you how it will come out. We’re convinced.”

Rod slapped the ground. “You don’t understand! If you want to move, move … but get somebody else to lead you. Roy can do it. Or Cliff, or Bill. But if you leave it to me, no dirty little   beasts, all teeth and no brains, are going to drive us out. We’re men… and men don’t have to be driven out, not by the likes of those. Grant paid for this land- and I say stay here and keep  it for him!”

4.               Civilization

The Honorable Roderick L. Walker, Mayor of Cowpertown, Chief of State of the sovereign planet GO-7390 1-Il (Lima Catalog), Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces, Chief Justice,  and Defender of Freedoms, was taking his ease in front of the Mayor’s Palace. He was also scratching and wondering if he should ask somebody to cut his hair again-he suspected lice only this planet did not have lice.

His Chief of Government, Miss Caroline Beatrice Mshiyeni, squatted in front of him. “Roddie, I’ve told them and told them and told them … and it does no good. That family makes more filth than everybody else put together. You should have seen it this morning. Garbage in front of their door … flies!”

“I saw it.”

“Well, what do I do? If you would let me rough him up a little. But you’re too soft”

“I guess I am.” Rod looked thoughtfully at a slab of slate erected in the village square. It read: To the Memory Of

ULYSSES GRANT COWPER,

First Mayor

– who died for his city

The carving was not good; Rod had done it.

“Grant told me once,” he added, “that government was the art of getting along with people you don’t like.” “Well, I sure don’t like Bruce and Theo!”

“Neither do I. But Grant would have figured out a way to keep them in line without getting rough.”

“You figure it out, I can’t. Roddie, you should never have let Bruce come back. That was bad enough. But when he married that little … well!” “They were made for each other,” Rod answered. “Nobody else would have married either of them.”

“It’s no joke. It’s almost- Hope! Quit teasing Grantie!” She bounced up.

Miss Hope Roberta Baxter, sixteen months, and Master Grant Roderick Throxton, thirteen months, stopped what they were doing, which was, respectively, slapping and crying. Both were naked and very dirty. It was “clean” dirt; each child had been bathed by Caroline an hour earlier, and both were fat and healthy.

Hope turned up a beaming face. “‘Ood babee!” she asserted.

“I saw you.” Caroline upended her, gave her a spat that would not squash a fly, then picked up Grant Throxton. “Give her to me,” Rod said.

“You’re welcome to her,” Caroline said. She sat down with the boy in her lap and rocked him. “Poor baby! Show Auntie Carol where it hurts.” “You shouldn’t talk like that. You’ll make a sissy of him.”

“Look who’s talking! Wishy-Washy Walker.”

Hope threw her arms around Rod, part way, and cooed, “Woddie!” adding a muddy kiss. He returned it. He considered her deplorably spoiled; nevertheless he contributed more than his share of spoiling.

“Sure,” agreed Carol. “Everybody loves Uncle Roddie. He hands out the medals and Aunt Carol does the dirty work.” “Carol, I’ve been thinking.”

“Warm day. Don’t strain any delicate parts.” “About Bruce and Theo. I’ll talk to them.” “Talk!”

“The only real punishment is one we never use- and I hope we never have to. Kicking people out, I mean. The McGowans do as they please because they don’t think we would. But I would love to give them the old heave-ho… and if it comes to it, I’ll make an issue of it before the town- either kick them out or I quit.”

“They’d back you. Why, I bet he hasn’t taken a bath this week!”

“I don’t care whether they back me or not. I’ve ridden out seven confidence votes; someday I’ll be lucky and retire. But the problem is to convince Bruce that I am willing to face the issue, for then I won’t have to. Nobody is going to chance being turned out in the woods, not when they’ve got it soft here. But he’s got to be convinced.”

“Uh, maybe if he thought you were carrying a grudge about that slice in the ribs he gave you?” “And maybe I am. But I can’t let it be personal, Carol; I’m too stinkin’ proud.”

“Uh … Turn it around. Convince him that the town is chompin’ at the bit- which isn’t far wrong- and you are trying to restrain them.” “Um, that’s closer. Yes, I think Grant would have gone for that. I’ll think it over.”

“Do that.” She stood up. “I’m going to give these children another bath. I declare I don’t know where they find so much dirt.”

She swung away with a child on each hip, heading for the shower sheds. Rod watched her lazily. She was wearing a leather bandeau and a Maori grass skirt, long leaves scraped in a pattern, curled, and dried. It was a style much favored and Caroline wore it around town, although when she treated herself to a day’s hunting she wore a leather breechclout such as the men wore.

The same leaf fibre could be retted and crushed, combed and spun, but the cloth as yet possessed by the colony was not even enough for baby clothes. Bill Kennedy had whittled a loom for Sue and it worked, but neither well nor fast and the width of cloth was under a half meter. Still, Rod mused, it was progress, it was civilization. They had come a long way.

The town was stobor-tight now. An adobe wall too high and sheer for any but the giant lions covered the upstream side and the bank, and any lion silly enough to jump it landed on a bed of stakes too wide now for even their mighty leaps-the awning under which Rod lolled was the hide of one that had made that mistake. The wall was pierced by stobor traps, narrow tunnels just big enough for the vicious little beasts and which gave into deep pits, where they could chew on each other like Kilkenny cats- which they did.

It might have been easier to divert them around the town, but Rod wanted to kill them; he would not be content until their planet was rid of those vermin.

In the meantime the town was safe. Stobor continued to deserve the nickname “dopy joe” except during the dry season and then they did not become dangerous until the annual berserk migration- the last of which had passed without loss of blood; the colony’s defenses worked, now that they understood what to defend against. Rod had required mothers and children to sit out the stampede in the cave; the rest sat up two nights and stayed on guard… but no blade was wet.

Rod thought sleepily that the next thing they needed was paper; Grant had been right… even a village was hard to run without writing paper. Besides, they must avoid losing the habit of writing. He wanted to follow up Grant’s notion of recording every bit of knowledge the gang possessed. Take logarithms- logarithms might not be used for generations, but when it came time to log a couple of rhythms, then… he went to sleep.

“You busy, Chief?”

Rod looked up at Arthur Nielsen. “Just sleeping a practice I heartily recommend on a warm Sabbath afternoon. What’s up, Art? Are Shorty and Doug pushing the bellows alone?”

“No. Confounded plug came out and we lost our fire. The furnace is ruined.” Nielsen sat down wearily. He was hot, very red in the face, and looked discouraged. He had a bad burn on a forearm but did not seem to know it. “Rod, what are we doing wrong? Riddle me that.”

“Talk to one of the brains. If you didn’t know more about it than I do, we’d swap jobs.”

“I wasn’t really asking. I know two things that are wrong. We can’t build a big enough installation and we don’t have coal. Rod, we’ve got to have coal; for cast iron or steel we need coal. Charcoal won’t do for anything but spongy wrought iron.”

“What do you expect to accomplish overnight, Art? Miracles? You are years ahead of what anybody could ask. You’ve turned out metal, whether it’s wrought iron or uranium. Since you made that spit for the barbecue pit, Margery thinks you are a genius.”

“Yes, yes, we’ve made iron-but it ought to be lots better and more of it. This ore is wonderful … the real Lake Superior hematite. Nobody’s seen such ore in commercial quantity on Terra in centuries. You ought to be able to breathe on it and make steel. And I could, too, if I had coal. We’ve got clay, we’ve got limestone, we’ve got this lovely ore- but I can’t get a hot enough fire.”

Rod was not fretted; the colony was getting metal as fast as needed. But Waxie was upset. “Want to knock off and search for coal?” “Uh … no, I don’t. I want to rebuild that furnace.” Nielsen gave a bitter description of the furnace’s origin, habits, and destination. “Who knows most about geology?”

“Uh, I suppose I do.” “Who knows next most?” “Why, Doug I guess.

“Let’s send him out with a couple of boys to find coal. You can have Mick in his place on the bellows- no, wait a minute. How about Bruce?” “Bruce? He won’t work.”

“Work him. If you work him so hard he runs away and forgets to come back, we won’t miss him. Take him, Art, as a favor to me. “Well … . okay, if you say so.

“Good. You get one bonus out of losing your batch. You won’t miss the dance tonight. Art, you shouldn’t start a melt so late in the week; you need your day of rest … and so do Shorty and Doug.”

“I know. But when it’s ready to go I want to fire it off.

Working the way we do is discouraging; before you can make anything you have to make the thing that makes it- and usually you have to make something else to make that. Futile!” “You don’t know what ‘futile’ means. Ask our ‘Department of Agriculture.’ Did you take a look at the farm before you came over the wall?”

“Well, we walked through it.”

“Better not let Cliff catch you, or he’ll scalp you. I might hold you for him.” “Humph! Alot of silly grass! Thousands of hectares around just like it.”

“That’s right. Some grass and a few rows of weeds. The pity is that Cliff will never live to see it anything else. Nor little Cliff. Nevertheless our great grandchildren will eat white bread, Art. But you yourself will live to build precision machinery- you know it can be done, which, as Bob Baxter says, is two-thirds of the battle. Cliff can’t live long enough to eat a slice of light, tasty bread. It doesn’t stop him.”

“You should have been a preacher, Rod.” Art stood up and sniffed himself. “I’d better get a bath, or the girls won’t dance with me.” “I was just quoting. You’ve heard it before. Save me some soap.”

Caroline hit two bars of Arkansas Traveler, Jimmy slapped his drum, and Roy called, “Square ‘em up, folks!” He waited, then started in high, nasal tones: “Honor y’r partners!

“Honor y’r corners!

“Now all jump up and when y’ come down-“

Rod was not dancing; the alternate set would be his turn. The colony formed eight squares, too many for a caller, a mouth organ, and a primitive drum all unassisted by amplifying equipment. So half of them babysat and gossiped while the other half danced. The caller and the orchestra were relieved at each intermission to dance the other sets.

Most of them had not known how to square-dance. Agnes Pulvermacher had put it over almost single-handed, in the face of kidding and resistance- training callers, training dancers, humming tunes to Caroline, cajoling Jimmy to carve and shrink a jungle drum. Now she had nine out of ten dancing.

Rod had not appreciated it at first (he was not familiar with the history of the Mormon pioneers) and had regarded it as a nuisance which interfered with work. Then he saw the colony, which had experienced a bad letdown after the loss in one night of all they had built, an apathy he had not been able to lift- he saw this same colony begin to smile and joke and work hard simply from being exposed to music and dancing.

He decided to encourage it. He had trouble keeping time and could not carry a tune, but the bug caught him, too; he danced not well but with great enthusiasm.

The village eventually limited dances to Sabbath nights, weddings, and holidays- and made them “formal” … which meant that women wore grass skirts. Leather shorts, breechclouts, and slacks (those not long since cut up for rags) were not acceptable. Sue talked about making a real square dance dress as soon as she got far enough ahead in her weaving, and a cowboy shirt for her husband … but the needs of the colony made this a distant dream.

Music stopped, principals changed, Caroline tossed her mouth organ to Shorty, and came over. “Come on, Roddie, let’s kick some dust.”

“I asked Sue,” he said hastily and truthfully. He was careful not to ask the same girl twice, never to pay marked attention to any female; he had promised himself long ago that the day he decided to marry should be the day he resigned and he was not finding it hard to stay married to his job. He liked to dance with Caroline; she was a popular partner- except for a tendency to swing her partner instead of letting him swing her- but he was careful not to spend much social time with her because she was his right hand, his alter ego.

Rod went over and offered his arm to Sue. He did not think about it; the stylized amenities of civilization were returning and the formal politenesses of the dance made them seem natural. He led her out and assisted in making a botch of Texas Star.

Later, tired, happy, and convinced that the others in his square had made the mistakes and he had straightened them out, Rod returned Sue to Bill, bowed and thanked him, and went back to the place that was always left for him. Margery and her assistants were passing out little brown somethings on wooden skewers. He accepted one. “Smells good, Marge. What are they?”

“Mock Nile birds. Smoked baby-buck bacon wrapped around hamburger. Salt and native sage, pan broiled. You’d better like it; it took us hours.” “Mmmm! I do! How about another?”

“Wait and see. Greedy.”

“But I need more. I work hardest. I have to keep up my strength.”

“That was work I saw you doing this afternoon?” She handed him another. “I was planning. The old brain was buzzing away.

“I heard the buzzing. Pretty loud, when you lie on your back.”

He snagged a third as she turned away, looked up to catch Jacqueline smiling; he winked and grinned. “Happy, Rod?”

“Yes indeedy. How about you, Jackie?”

“I’ve never been happier,” she said seriously.

Her husband put an arm around her. “See what the love of a good man can do, Rod?” Jimmy said. “When I found this poor child she was beaten, bedraggled, doing your cooking and afraid to admit her name. Now look at her!- fat and sassy.”

“I’m not that fat!” “Pleasingly plump.”

Rod glanced up at the cave. “Jackie, remember the night I showed up?” “I’m not likely to forget.”

“And the silly notion I had that this was Africa? Tell me- if you had it to do over, would you rather I had been right?” “I never thought about it. I knew it was not.”

“Yes, but ‘if’? You would have been home long ago.”

Her hand took her husband’s. “I would not have met James.”

“Oh, yes, you would. You had already met me. You could not have avoided it- my best friend.” “Possibly. But I would not change it. I have no yearning to go ‘home,’ Rod. This is home.”

“Me neither,” asserted Jimmy. “You. know what? This colony gets a little bigger- and it’s getting bigger fast- Goldie and I are going to open a law office. We won’t have any competition and can pick our clients. He’ll handle the criminal end, I’ll specialize in divorce, and we’ll collaborate on corporate skulduggery. We’ll make millions. I’ll drive a big limousine drawn by eight spanking buck, smoking a big cigar and sneering at the peasants.” He called out, “Right, Goldie?”

“Precisely, colleague. I’m making us a shingle: ‘Goldstein & Throxton-Get bailed, not jailed!’” “Keerect. But make that: ‘Throxton & Goldstein.’”

“I’m senior. I’ve got two more years of law.”

“Aquibble. Rod, are you going to let this Teller U. character insult an old Patrick Henry man?”

“Probably. Jimmy, I don’t see how you are going to work this. I don’t think we have a divorce law. Let’s ask Caroline.” “Atrifle. You perform the marriages, Rod; I’ll take care of the divorces.”

“Ask Caroline what?” asked Caroline. “Do we have a divorce law?”

“Huh? We don’t even have a getting-married law.”

“Unnecessary,” explained Goldstein. “Indigenous in the culture. Besides, we ran out of paper. “Correct, Counselor,” agreed Jimmy.

“Why ask?” Caroline demanded. “Nobody is thinking about divorce or I would know before they would.”

“We weren’t talking about that,” Rod explained. “Jackie said that she had no wish to go back to Terra and Jimmy was elaborating. Uselessly, as usual.” Caroline stared. “Why would anybody want to go back?”

“Sure,” agreed Jimmy. “This is the place. No income tax. No traffic, no crowds, no commercials, no telephones. Seriously, Rod, every one here was aiming for the Outlands or we  wouldn’t have been taking a survival test. So what difference does it make? Except that we’ve got everything sooner.” He squeezed his wife’s hand. “I was fooling about that big cigar; I’m rich now, boy, rich!”

Agnes and Curt had drawn into the circle, listening. Agnes nodded and said, “For once you aren’t joking, Jimmy. The first months we were here I cried myself to sleep every night, wondering if they would ever find us. Now I know they never will- and I don’t care! I wouldn’t go back if I could; the only thing I miss is lipstick.”

Her husband’s laugh boomed out. “There you have the truth, Rod. The fleshpots of Egypt … put a cosmetics counter across this creek and every woman here will walk on water.” “That’s not fair, Curt! Anyhow, you promised to make lipstick.”

“Give me time.”

Bob Baxter came up and sat down by Rod. “Missed you at the meeting this morning, Rod.” “Tied up. I’ll make it next week.”

“Good.” Bob, being of a sect which did not require ordination, had made himself chaplain as well as medical officer simply by starting to hold meetings. His undogmatic ways were such that Christian, Jew, Monist, or Moslem felt at ease; his meetings were well attended.

“Bob, would you go back?” “Go where, Caroline?” “Back to Terra.”

“Yes”

Jimmy looked horrified. “Boil me for breakfast! Why?”

“Oh, I’d want to come back! But I need to graduate from medical school.” He smiled shyly. “I may be the best surgeon in the neighborhood, but that isn’t saying much.” “Well…” admitted Jimmy, “I see your point. But you already suit us. Eh, Jackie?”

“Yes, Jimmy.”

“It’s my only regret,” Bob went on. “I’ve lost ones I

should have saved. But it’s a hypothetical question. ‘Here we rest.’”

The question spread. Jimmy’s attitude was overwhelmingly popular, even though Bob’s motives were respected. Rod said goodnight; he heard them still batting it around after he had gone to bed; it caused him to discuss it with himself.

He had decided long ago that they would never be in touch with Earth; he had not thought of it for- how long?- over a year. At first it had been mental hygiene, protection of his morale.   Later it was logic: a delay in recall of a week might be a power failure, a few weeks could be a technical difficulty- but months on months was cosmic disaster; each day added a cipher to the infinitesimal probability that they would ever be in touch again.

He was now able to ask himself: was this what he wanted?

Jackie was right; this was home. Then he admitted that he liked being big frog in a small puddle, he loved his job. He was not meant to be a scientist, nor a scholar, he had never wanted to be a businessman- but what he was doing suited him … and he seemed to do it well enough to get by.

“‘Here we rest!’”

He went to sleep in a warm glow.

Cliff wanted help with the experimental crops. Rod did not take it too seriously; Cliff always wanted something; given his head he would have everybody working dawn to dark on his farm. But it was well to find out what he wanted- Rod did not underrate the importance of domesticating plants; that was basic for all colonies and triply so for them. It was simply that he did not know much about it.

Cliff stuck his head into the mayor’s hut. “Ready?”

“Sure.” Rod got his spear. It was no longer improvised but bore a point patiently sharpened from steel salvaged from Braun’s Thunderbolt. Rod had tried wrought iron but could not get it to hold an edge. “Let’s pick up a couple of boys and get a few stobor.”

“Okay”

Rod looked around. Jimmy was at his potter’s wheel, kicking the treadle and shaping clay with his thumb. Jim! Quit that and grab your pike. We’re going to have some fun.” Throxton wiped at sweat. “You’ve talked me into it.” They added Kenny and Mick, then Cliff led them upstream. “I want you to look at the animals.”

“All right,” agreed Rod. “Cliff, I had been meaning to speak to you. If you are going to raise those brutes inside the wall, you’ll have to be careful about their droppings. Carol has been muttering.”

“Rod, I can’t do everything! And you can’t put them outside, not if you expect them to live.” “Sure, sure! Well, we’ll get you more help, that’s the only- Just a second!”

They were about to pass the last hut; Bruce McGowan was stretched in front of it, apparently asleep. Rod did not speak at once; he was fighting down rage. He wrestIed with himself, aware that the next moment could change his future, damage the entire colony. But his rational self was struggling in a torrent of anger, bitter and self-righteous. He wanted to do away with this parasite, destroy it. He took a deep breath and tried to keep his mouth from trembling.

“Bruce!” he called softly.

McGowan opened his eyes. “Huh?” “Isn’t Art working his plant today?” “Could be,” Bruce admitted.

“Well?”

“‘Well’ what? I’ve had a week and it’s not my dish. Get somebody else.”

Bruce wore his knife, as did each of them; a colonist was more likely to be caught naked than without his knife. It was the all-purpose tool, for cutting leather, preparing food, eating, whittling, building, basketmaking, and as make-do for a thousand other tools; their wealth came from knives, arrows were now used to hunt- but knives shaped the bows and arrows.

But a knife had not been used by one colonist against another since that disastrous day when Bruce’s brother had defied Rod. Over the same issue, Rod recalled; the wheel had turned full circle. But today he would have immediate backing if Bruce reached for his knife.

But he knew that this must not be settled by five against one; he alone must make this dog come to heel, or his days as leader were numbered.

It did not occur to Rod to challenge Bruce to settle it with bare hands. Rod had read many a historical romance in which the hero invited someone to settle it man to man, in a stylized imitation fighting called “boxing.” Rod had enjoyed such stories but did not apply them to himself any more than he considered personally the sword play of The Three Musketeers; nevertheless, he knew what “boxing” meant- they folded their hands and struck certain restricted blows with fists. Usually no one was hurt.

The fighting that Rod was trained in was not simply strenuous athletics. It did not matter whether they were armed; if he and Bruce fought bare hands or otherwise, someone would be killed or badly hurt. The only dangerous weapon was man himself.

Bruce stared sullenly. “Bruce,” Rod said, striving to keep his voice steady, “a long time ago I told you that people worked around here or got out. You and your brother didn’t believe me so we had to chuck you out. Then you crawled back with a tale about how Jock had been killed and could you please join up? You were a sorry sight. Remember?”

McGowan scowled. “You promised to be a little angel,” Rod went on. “People thought I was foolish- and I was. But I thought you might behave.” Bruce pulled a blade of grass, bit it. “Bub, you remind me of Jock. He was always throwing his weight around, too.

“Bruce, get up and get out of town! I don’t care where, but if you are smart, you will shag over and tell Art you’ve made a mistake- then start pumping that bellows. I’ll stop by later. If sweat isn’t pouring off you when I arrive … then you’ll never come back. You’ll be banished for life.”

McGowan looked uncertain. He glanced past Rod, and Rod wondered what expressions the others wore. But Rod kept his eyes on Bruce. “Get moving. Get to work, or don’t come back.” Bruce got a sly look. “You can’t order me kicked out. It takes a majority vote.”

Jimmy spoke up. “Aw, quit taking his guff, Rod. Kick him out now.

Rod shook his head. “No. Bruce, if that is your answer, I’ll call them together and we’ll put you in exile before lunch- and I’ll bet my best knife that you won’t get three votes to let you stay. Want to bet?”

Bruce sat up and looked at the others, sizing his chances. He looked back at Rod. “Runt,” he said slowly, you aren’t worth a hoot without stooges… or a couple of girls to do your fighting.” Jimmy whispered, “Watch it, Rod!” Rod licked dry lips, knowing that it was too late for reason, too late for talk. He would have to try to take him … he was not sure he could.

“I’ll fight you,” he said hoarsely. “Right now!” Cliff said urgently, “Don’t, Rod. We’ll manage him.” “No. Come on, McGowan.” Rod added one unforgivable word. McGowan did not move. “Get rid of that joe sticker”

Rod said, “Hold my spear, Cliff.”

Cliff snapped, “Now wait! I’m not going to stand by and watch this. He might get lucky and kill you, Rod.” “Get out of the way, Cliff.”

“No.” Cliff hesitated, then added, “Bruce, throw your knife away. Go ahead- or so help me I’ll poke a joe- sticker in your belly myself. Give me your knife, Rod.”

Rod looked at Bruce, then drew Colonel Bowie and handed it to Cliff. Bruce straightened up and flipped his knife at Cliff’s feet. Cliff rasped, “I still say not to, Rod. Say the word and we’ll take him apart.”

“Back off. Give us room.

“Well- no bone breakers. You hear me, Bruce? Make a mistake and you’ll never make another.”

“‘No bone breakers,’” Rod repeated, and knew dismally that the rule would work against him; Bruce had him on height and reach and weight. “Okay,” McGowan agreed. “Just cat clawing. I am going to show this rube that one McGowan is worth two of him.”

Cliff sighed. “Back off, everybody. Okay- get going!” Crouched, they sashayed around, not touching. Only the preliminaries could use up much time; the textbook used in most high  schools and colleges listed twenty-seven ways to destroy or disable a man hand to hand; none of the methods took as long as three seconds once contact was made. They chopped at each other, feinting with their hands, too wary to close.

Rod was confused by the injunction not to let the fight go to conclusion. Bruce grinned at him. “What’s the matter? Scared? I’ve been waiting for this, you loudmouthed pimple- now you’re going to get it!” He rushed him.

Rod gave back, ready to turn Bruce’s rush into his undoing. But Bruce did not carry it through; it had been a feint and Rod had reacted too strongly. Bruce laughed. “Scared silly, huh? You had better be.”

Rod realized that he was scared, more scared than he had ever been. The conviction flooded over him that Bruce intended to kill him … the agreement about bonebreakers meant nothing; this ape meant to finish him.

He backed away, more confused than ever… knowing that he must forget rules if he was to live through it … but knowing, too, that he had to abide by the silly restriction even if it meant the end of him. Panic shook him; he wanted to run.

He did not quite do so. From despair itself he got a cold feeling of nothing to lose and decided to finish it. He exposed his groin to a savate attack.

He saw Bruce’s foot come up in the expected kick; with fierce joy he reached in the proper shinobi counter. He showed the merest of hesitation, knowing that a full twist would break Bruce’s ankle.

Then he was flying through air; his hands had never touched Bruce. He had time for sick realization that Bruce had seen the gambit, countered with another- when he struck ground and Bruce was on him.

* * * * *

“Can you move your arm, Rod?”

He tried to focus his eyes, and saw Bob Baxter’s face floating over him. “I licked him?”

Baxter did not answer. An angry voice answered, “Cripes, no! He almost chewed you to pieces.” Rod stirred and said thickly, “Where is he? I’ve got to whip him.”

Baxter said sharply, “Lie still!” Cliff added, “Don’t worry, Rod. We fixed him.” Baxter insisted, “Shut up. See if you can move your left arm.”

Rod moved the arm, felt pain shoot through it, jerked and felt pain everywhere. “It’s not broken,” Baxter decided. “Maybe a green-stick break. We’ll put it in sling. Can you sit up? I’ll help.”  “I want to stand.” He made it with help, stood swaying. Most of the villagers seemed to be there; they moved jerkily. It made him dizzy and he blinked.

“Take it easy, boy,” he heard Jimmy say. “Bruce pretty near ruined you. You were crazy to give him the chance.” “I’m all right,” Rod answered and winced. “Where is he?”

“Behind you. Don’t worry, we fixed him.”

“Yes,” agreed Cliff. “We worked him over. Who does he think he is? Trying to shove the Mayor around!” He spat angrily. Bruce was face down, features hidden in one arm; he was sobbing. “How bad is he hurt?” Rod asked.

“Him?” Jimmy said scornfully. “He’s not hurt. I mean, he hurts all right- but he’s not hurt. Carol wouldn’t let us.

Caroline squatted beside Bruce, guarding him. She got up. “I should have let ‘em,” she said angrily. “But I knew you would be mad at me if I did.” She put hands on hips. “Roddie Walker, when are you going to get sense enough to yell for me when you’re in trouble? These four dopes stood around and let it happen.”

“Wait a minute, Carol,” Cliff protested. “I tried to stop it. We all tried, but-“ “But I wouldn’t listen,” Rod interrupted. “Never mind, Carol, I flubbed it.” “If you would listen to me-

“Never mind!” Rod went to McGowan, prodded him. “Turn over.”

Bruce slowly rolled over. Rod wondered if he himself looked as bad. Bruce’s body was dirt and blood and bruises; his face looked as if someone had tried to file the features off. “Stand up.

Bruce started to speak, then got painfully to his feet. Rod said, “I told you to report to Art, Bruce. Get over the wall and get moving.” McGowan looked startled. “Huh?”

“You heard me. I can’t waste time playing games. Check in with Art and get to work. Or keep moving and don’t come back. Now move!”

Bruce stared, then hobbled toward the wall. Rod turned and said, “Get back to work, folks. The fun is over. Cliff, you were going to show me the animals.” “Huh? Look Rod, it’ll keep.”

“Yes, Rod,” Baxter agreed. “I want to put a sling on that arm. Then you should rest.”

Rod moved his arm gingerly. “I’ll try to get along without it. Come on, Cliff. Just you and me- we’ll skip the stobor hunt.”

He had trouble concentrating on what Cliff talked about … something about gelding a pair of fawns and getting them used to harness. What use was harness when they had no wagons? His head ached, his arm hurt and his brain felt fuzzy. What would Grant have done?

He had failed … but what should he have said, or not said? Some days it wasn’t worth it. “-so we’ve got to. You see, Rod?”

“Huh? Sure, Cliff.” He made a great effort to recall what Cliff had been saying. “Maybe wooden axles would do. I’ll see if Bill thinks he can build a cart” “But besides a cart, we need-“

Rod stopped him. “Cliff, if you say so, we’ll try it. I think I’ll take a shower. Uh, we’ll look at the field tomorrow.

Ashower made him feel better and much cleaner, although the water spilling milk-warm from the flume seemed too hot, then icy cold. He stumbled back to his hut and lay down. When he woke he found Shorty guarding his door to keep him from being disturbed.

It was three days before he felt up to inspecting the farm. Neilsen reported that McGowan was working, although sullenly. Caroline reported that Theo was obeying sanitary regulations and wearing a black eye. Rod was self-conscious about appearing in public, had even considered one restless night the advisability of resigning and letting someone who had not lost face take over the responsibility. But to his surprise his position seemed firmer than ever. Aminority from Teller University, which he had thought of wryly as “loyal opposition,” now no longer seemed disposed to be critical. Curt Pulvermacher, their unofficial leader, looked Rod up and offered help. “Bruce is a bad apple, Rod. Don’t let him get down wind again. Let me know instead.”

“Thanks, Curt.”

“I mean it. It’s hard enough to get anywhere around here if we all pull together. We can’t have him riding roughshod over us. But don’t stick your chin out. We’ll teach him.”

Rod slept well that night. Perhaps he had not handled it as Grant would have, but it had worked out. Cowper-town was safe. Oh, there would be more troubles but the colony would sweat through them. Someday there would be a city here and this would be Cowper Square. Upstream would be the Nielsen Steel Works. There might even be a Walker Avenue…

He felt up to looking over the farm the next day. He told Cliff so and gathered the same party, Jimmy, Kent, and Mick. Spears in hand they climbed the stile at the wall and descended the ladder on the far side. Cliff gathered up a handful of dirt, tasted it. “The soil is all right. Alittle acid, maybe. We won’t know until we can run soil chemistry tests. But the structure is good. If you tell that dumb Swede that the next thing he has to make is a plough …

“Waxie isn’t dumb. Give him time. Hell make you ploughs and tractors, too.”

“I’ll settle for a hand plough, drawn by a team of buck. Rod, my notion is this. We weed and it’s an invitation to the buck to eat the crops. If we built another wall, all around and just as high-“

“Awall! Any idea how many man-hours that would take, Cliff?” “That’s not the point.”

Rod looked around the alluvial flat, several times as large as the land enclosed in the city walls. Athorn fence, possibly, but not a wall, not yet … Cliff’s ambitions were too big. “Look, let’s comb the field for stobor, then send the others back. You and I can figure out afterwards what can be done.”

“All right. But tell them to watch where they put their big feet.”

Rod spread them in skirmish line with himself in the

center. “Keep dressed up,” he warned, “and don’t let any get past you. Remember, every one we kill now means six less on S-Day.”

They moved forward. Kenny made a kill, Jimmy immediately made two more. The stobor hardly tried to escape, being in the “dopy joe” phase of their cycle. Rod paused to spear one and looked up to speak to the man on his right. But there was no one there. “Hold it! Where’s Mick?”

“Huh? Why, he was right here a second ago.”

Rod looked back. Aside from a shimmer over the hot field, there was nothing where Mick should have been. Something must have sneaked up in the grass, pulled him down- “Watch it, everybody! Something’s wrong. Close in … and keep your eyes peeled.” He turned back, moved diagonally toward where Mick had disappeared.

Suddenly two figures appeared in front of his eyes- Mick and a stranger.

Astranger in coveralls and shoes… The man looked around, called over his shoulder, “Okay, Jake! Put her on automatic and clamp it.” He glanced toward Rod but did not seem to see him, walked toward him, and disappeared.

With heart pounding Rod began to run. He turned and found himself facing into an open gate… and down a long, closed corridor.

The man in the coveralls stepped into the frame. “Everybody back off,” he ordered. “We’re going to match in with the Gap. There may be local disturbance.”

5.               In Achilles’ Tent

It had been a half hour since Mick had stumbled through the gate as it had focused, fallen flat in the low gravity of Luna. Rod was trying to bring order out of confusion, trying to piece together his own wits. Most of the villagers were out on the field, or sitting on top of the wall, watching technicians set up apparatus to turn the locus into a permanent gate, with controls and communications on both sides. Rod tried to tell one that they were exposed, that they should not run around unarmed; without looking up the man had said, “Speak to Mr. Johnson.”

He found Mr. Johnson, tried again, was interrupted. Will you kids please let us work? We’re glad to see you but we’ve got to get a power fence around this area. No telling what might be in that tall grass.”

Oh,” Rod answered. “Look, I’ll set guards. We know what to expect. I’m in ch-“ ‘Beat it, will you? You kids mustn’t be impatient.”

So Rod went back inside his city, hurt and angry. Several strangers came in, poked around as if they owned the place, spoke to the excited villagers, went out again. One stopped to look at Jimmy’s drum, rapped it and laughed. Rod wanted to strangle him.

“Rod?”

“Uh?” He whirled around. “Yes, Margery?”

“Do I cook lunch, or don’t I? All my girls have left and Mel says its silly because we’ll all be gone by lunch time- and I don’t know what to do.” “Huh? Nobody’s leaving … that I know of.”

“Well, maybe not but that’s the talk.”

He was not given time to consider this as one of the ubiquitous strangers came up and said briskly, “Can you tell me where to find a lad named Roderick Welker?” “Walker,” Rod corrected. “I’m Rod Walker. What do you want?”

“My name is Sansom, Clyde B. Sansom- Administrative Officer in the Emigration Control Service. Now, Welker, I understand you are group leader for these students. You can-“  “I am Mayor of Cowpertown,” Rod said stonily. “What do you want?”

“Yes, yes, that’s what the youngster called you. ‘Mayor.’” Sansom smiled briefly and went on. “Now, Walker, we want to keep things orderly. I know you are anxious to get out of your predicament as quickly as possible- but we must do things systematically. We are going to make it easy- just delousing and physical examination, followed by psychological tests and a relocation interview. Then you will all be free to return to your homes- after signing a waiver-of-liability form, but the legal officer will take care of that. If you will have your little band line up alphabetically- uh, here in this open space, I think, then I will-” He fumbled with his briefcase.

“Who the deuce are you to give orders around here?”

Sansom looked surprised. “Eh? I told you. If you want to be technical, I embody the authority of the Terran Corporation. I put it as a request- but under field conditions I can compel co- operation, you know.”

Rod felt himself turn red. “I don’t know anything of the sort! You may be a squad of angels back on Terra but you are in Cowpertown.” Mr. Sansom looked interested but not impressed. “And what, may I ask, is Cowpertown?”

“Huh? This is Cowpertown, a Sovereign nation, with its own constitution, its own laws- and its own territory.” Rod took a breath. “If the Terran Corporation wants anything, they can send somebody and arrange it. But don’t tell us to line up alphabetically!”

“Atta boy, Roddie!”

Rod said, “Stick around, Carol,” then added to Sansom, “Understand me?”

“Do I understand,” Sansom said slowly, “that you are suggesting that the Corporation should appoint an ambassador to your group?” “Well … that’s the general idea.”

“Mmmm … an interesting theory, Welker.”

“‘Walker.’ And until you do, you can darn well clear the sightseers out- and get out yourself. We aren’t a zoo.”

Sansom looked at Rod’s ribs, glanced at his dirty, calloused feet and smiled. Rod said, “Show him out, Carol. Put him out, if you have to.” “Yes, sirr’ She advanced on Sansom, grinning.

“Oh, I’m leaving,” Sansom said quickly. “Better a delay than a mistake in protocol. An ingenious theory, young man. Good-by. We shall see each other later. Uh … a word of advice? May I?”

Huh? All right.”

“Don’t take yourself too seriously. Ready, young lady?”

Rod stayed in his hut. He wanted badly to see what was going on beyond the wall, but he did not want to run into Sansom. So he sat and gnawed his thumb and thought. Apparently   some weak sisters were going back -wave a dish of ice cream under their noses and off they would trot, abandoning their land, throwing away all they had built up. Well, he wouldn’t! This was home, his place, he had earned it; he wasn’t going back and maybe wait half a lifetime for a chance to move to some other planet probably not as good.

Let them go! Cowpertown would be better and stronger without them.

Maybe some just wanted to make a visit, show off grandchildren to grandparents, then come back. Probably . . in which case they had better make sure that Sansom or somebody gave them written clearance to come back. Maybe he ought to warn them.

But he didn’t have anyone to visit. Except Sis- and Sis might be anywhere- unlikely that she was on Terra.

Bob and Carmen, carrying Hope, came in to say good-by. Rod shook hands solemnly. “You’re coming back, Bob, when you get your degree … aren’t you?” “Well, we hope so, if possible. If we are permitted to.”

“Who’s going to stop you? It’s your right. And when you do, you’ll find us here. In the meantime we’ll try not to break legs.” Baxter hesitated. “Have you been to the gate lately, Rod?”

“No. Why?”

“Uh, don’t plan too far ahead. I believe some have already gone back.” “How many?”

“Quite a number.” Bob would not commit himself further. He gave Rod the addresses of his parents and Carmen’s, soberly wished him a blessing, and left.

Margery did not come back and the fire pit remained cold. Rod did not care, he was not hungry. Jimmy came in at what should have been shortly after lunch, nodded and sat down. Presently he said, “I’ve been out at the gate.”

“So?”

“Yup. You know, Rod, a lot of people wondered why you weren’t there to say good-by.” “They could come here to say good-by!”

“Yes, so they could. But the word got around that you didn’t approve. Maybe they were embarrassed.”

“Me?” Rod laughed without mirth. “I don’t care how many city boys run home to mama. It’s a free country.” He glanced at Jim. “How many are sticking?” “Uh, I don’t know.”

“I’ve been thinking. If the group gets small, we might move back to the cave just to sleep, I mean. Until we get more colonists.” “Maybe.”

“Don’t be so glum! Even if it got down to just you and me and Jackie and Carol, we’d be no worse off than we once were. And it would just be temporary. There’d be the baby, of course- I almost forgot to mention my god-son.

“There’s the baby,” Jimmy agreed.

“What are you pulling a long face about? Jim . you’re not thinking of leaving?”

Jimmy stood up. Jackie said to tell you that we would stick by whatever you thought was best.” Rod thought over what Jimmy had not said. “You mean she wants to go back? Both of you do.” “Now, Rod, we’re partners. But I’ve got the kid to think about. You see that?”

“Yes. I see.”

“Well-“

Rod stuck out his hand. “Good luck, Jim. Tell Jackie good-by for me. “Oh, she’s waiting to say good-by herself. With the kid.”

“Uh, tell her not to. Somebody once told me that saying good-by was a mistake. Be seeing you.” “Well-so long, Rod. Take care of yourself.”

“You, too. If you see Caroline, tell her to come in. Caroline was slow appearing; he guessed that she had been at the gate. He said bluntly, “How many are left?” “Not many,” she admitted.

“How many?”

“You and me- and a bunch of gawkers.” “Nobody else?”

“I checked them off the list. Roddie, what do we do now?” “Huh? It doesn’t matter. Do you want to go back?”

“You’re boss, Roddie. You’re the Mayor.”

“Mayor of what? Carol, do you want to go back?” “Roddie, I never thought about it. I was happy here. But-“ “But what?”

“The town is gone, the kids are gone- and I’ve got only a year if I’m ever going to be a cadet Amazon.” She blurted out the last, then added, “But I’ll stick if you do.” “No.”

“I will so!”

“No. But I want you to do something when you go back.” “What?”

“Get in touch with my sister Helen. Find out where she is stationed. Assault Captain Helen Walker- got it? Tell her I’m okay … and tell her I said to help you get into the Corps.” “Uh … Roddie, I don’t want to go!”

“Beat it. They might relax the gate and leave you behind.” “You come, too.”

“No. I’ve got things to do. But you hurry. Don’t say good-by. Just go.” “You’re mad at me, Roddie?”

“Of course not. But go, please, or you’ll have me bawling, too.”

She gave a choked cry, grabbed his head and smacked his cheek, then galloped away, her sturdy legs pounding. Rod went into his shack and lay face down. After a while he got up and began to tidy Cowpertown. It was littered, dirtier than it had been since the morning of Grant’s death.

It was late afternoon before anyone else came into the village. Rod heard and saw them long before they saw him-two men and a woman. The men were dressed in city garb; she was wearing shorts, shirt, and smart sandals. Rod stepped out and said, “What do you want?” He was carrying his spear.

The woman squealed, then looked and added, “Wonderful!”

One man was carrying a pack and tripod which Rod recognized as multi-recorder of the all-purpose sightsmell-sound-touch sort used by news services and expeditions. He said nothing, set his tripod down, plugged in cables and started fiddling with dials. The other man, smaller, ginger haired, and with a terrier mustache, said, “You’re Walker? The one the others call ‘the Mayor’?”

“Yes.”

“Kosmic hasn’t been in here?” “Cosmic what?”

“Kosmic Keynotes, of course. Or anybody? LIFETIME-SPACE? Galaxy Features?”

“I don’t know what you mean. There hasn’t been anybody here since morning.”

The stranger twitched his mustache and sighed. “That’s all I want to know. Go into your trance, Ellie. Start your box, Mac.” “Wait a minute,” Rod demanded. “Who are you and what do you want?”

“Eh? I’m Evans of Empire … Empire Enterprises.” “Pulitzer Prize,” the other man said and went on working;

“With Mac’s help,” Evans added quickly. “The lady is Ellie Ellens herself.”

Rod looked puzzled. Evans said, “You don’t know? Son, where have you-never mind. She’s the highest paid emotional writer in the system. Shell interpret you so that every woman reader from the Outlands Overseer to the London Times will cry over you and want to comfort you. She’s a great artist.”

Miss Ellens did not seem to hear the tribute. She wandered around with a blank face, stopping occasionally to look or touch. She turned and said to Rod, “Is this where you held your primitive dances?”

“What? We held square dances here, once a week.”

“‘Square dances’ … Well, we can change that.” She went back into her private world.

“The point is, brother,” Evans went on, “we don’t want just an interview. Plenty of that as they came through. That’s how we found out you were here- and dropped everything to see you. I’m not going to dicker; name your own price- but it’s got to be exclusive, news, features, commercial rights, everything. Uh …” Evans looked around. “Advisory service, too, when the actors arrive.

“Actors?!”

“Of course. If the Control Service had the sense to sneeze, they would have held you all here until a record was shot. But we can do it better with actors. I want you at my elbow every minute- we’ll have somebody play your part. Besides that-“

“Wait a minute!” Rod butted in. “Either I’m crazy or you are. In the first place I don’t want your money. “Huh? You signed with somebody? That guard let another outfit in ahead of us?”

“What guard? I haven’t seen anybody.”

Evans looked relieved. “We’ll work it out. The guard they’ve got to keep anybody from crossing your wall- I thought he might have both hands out. But don’t say you don’t need money; that’s immoral.”

“Well, I don’t. We don’t use money here.”

“Sure, sure … but you’ve got a family, haven’t you? Families always need money. Look, let’s not fuss. We’ll treat you right and you can let it pile up in the bank. I just want you to get signed up.”

“I don’t see why I should.” “Binder,” said Mac.

“Mmm … yes, Mac. See here, brother, think it over. Just let us have a binder that you won’t sign with anybody else. You can still stick us for anything your conscience will let you. Just a binder, with a thousand plutons on the side.”

“I’m not going to sign with anybody else.” “Got that, Mac?”

“Canned.”

Evans turned to Rod. “You don’t object to answering questions in the meantime, do you? And maybe a few pictures?” “Uh, I don’t care.” Rod was finding them puzzling and a little annoying, but they were company and he was bitterly lonely.

“Fine!” Evans drew him out with speed and great skill. Rod found himself telling more than he realized he knew. At one point Evans asked about dangerous animals. “I understand they are pretty rough here. Much trouble?”

“Why, no,” Rod answered with sincerity. “We never had real trouble with animals. What trouble we had was with people … and not much of that.” “You figure this will be a premium colony?”

“Of course. The others were fools to leave. This place is like Terra, only safer and richer and plenty of land. In a few years- say!” “Say what?”

“How did it happen that they left us here? We were only supposed to be here ten days.” “Didn’t they tell you?”

“Well … maybe the others were told. I never heard.” “It was the supernova, of course. Delta, uh-“

“Delta Gamma one thirteen,” supplied Mac.

“That’s it. Space-time distortion, but I’m no mathematician.” “Fluxion,” said Mac.

“Whatever that is. They’ve been fishing for you ever since. As I understand it, the wave front messed up their figures for this whole region. Incidentally, brother, when you go back-“ ”I’m not going back.”

“Well, even on a visit. Don’t sign a waiver. The Board is trying to call it an ‘Act of God’ and duck responsibility. So let me put a bug in your ear: don’t sign away your rights. Afriendly hint, huh?”

“Thanks. I won’t- well, thanks anyhow.”

“Now how about action pix for the lead stories?” “Well … okay.”

“Spear,” said Mac.

“Yeah, I believe you had some sort of spear. Mind holding it?”

Rod got it as the great Ellie joined them. “Wonderful!” she breathed. “I can feel it. It shows how thin the line is between man and beast. Ahundred cultured boys and girls slipping back to illiteracy, back to the stone age, the veneer sloughing away … reverting to savagery. Glorious!”

“Look here!” Rod said angrily. “Cowpertown wasn’t that way at all! We had laws, we had a constitution, we kept clean. We-” He stopped; Miss Ellens wasn’t listening.

“Savage ceremonies,” she said dreamily. “Avillage witch doctor pitting ignorance and superstition against nature. Primitive fertility rites-” She stopped and said to Mac in a businesslike voice, “We’ll shoot the dances three times. Cover ‘em a little for ‘A’ list; cover ‘em up a lot for the family list-and peel them down for the ‘B’ list. Got it?”

“Got it,” agreed Mac.

“I’ll do three commentaries she added. “It will be worth the trouble.” She reverted to her trance. “Wait a minute!” Rod protested. “If she means what

I think she means, there won’t be any pictures, with or without actors.”

“Take it easy,” Evans advised. “I said you would be technical supervisor, didn’t I? Or would you rather we did it without you? Ellie is all right, brother. What you don’t know- and she does- is that you have to shade the truth to get at the real truth, the underlying truth. You’ll see.

“But-“

Mac stepped up to him. “Hold still.”

Rod did so, as Mac raised his hand. Rod felt the cool touch of an air brush. “Hey! What are you doing?”

“Make up.” Mac returned to his gear.

“Just a little war paint,” Evans explained. “The pic needs color. It will wash off.”

Rod opened his mouth and eyes in utter indignation; without knowing it he raised his spear. “Get it, Mac!” Evans ordered. “Got it,” Mac answered calmly.

Rod fought to bring his anger down to where he could talk. “Take that tape out,” he said softly. “Throw it on the ground. Then get out.” “Slow down,” Evans advised. “You’ll like that pic. We’ll send you one.

“Take it out. Or I’ll bust the box and anybody who gets in my way!” He aimed his spear at the multiple lens. Mac slipped in front, protected it with his body. Evans called out, “Better look at this.”

Evans had him covered with a small but businesslike gun. “We go a lot of funny places, brother, but we go prepared. You damage that recorder, or hurt one of us, and you’ll be sued from here to breakfast. It’s a serious matter to interfere with a news service, brother. The public has rights, you know.” He raised his voice. “Ellie! We’re leaving.”

“Not yet,” she answered dreamily. “I must steep my-self in-“ “Right now! It’s an ‘eight-six’ with the Reuben Steuben!” “Okay!” she snapped in her other voice.

Rod let them go. Once they were over the wall he went;back to the city hall, sat down, held his knees and shook.

Later he climbed the stile and looked around. Aguard was on duty below him; the guard looked up but said nothing. The gate was relaxed to a mere control hole but a loading platform had been set up and a power fence surrounded it and joined the wall. Someone was working at a control board set up on a flatbed truck; Rod decided that they must be getting ready for major immigration. He went back and prepared a solitary meal, the poorest he had eaten in more than a year. Then he went to bed and listened to the jungle “Grand Opera” until he went to sleep.

“Anybody home?”

Rod came awake instant!y, realized that it was morning- and that not all nightmares were dreams. “Who’s there?” “Friend of yours.” B. P. Matson stuck his head in the door. “Put that whittler away. I’m harmless.”

Rod bounced up. “Deacon! I mean ‘Doctor.’”

“‘Deacon,’” Matson corrected. “I’ve got a visitor for you.” He stepped aside and Rod saw his sister.

Some moments later Matson said mildly, “If you two can unwind and blow your noses, we might get this on a coherent basis.”

Rod backed off and looked at his sister. “My, you look wondeful, Helen.” She was in mufti, dressed in a gay tabard and briefs. “You’ve lost weight.” “Not much. Better distributed, maybe. You’ve gained, Rod. My baby brother is a man.”

“How did you-” Rod stopped, struck by suspicion. “You didn’t come here to talk me into going back? If you did, you can save your breath.”

Matson answered hastily. “No, no, no! Farthest thought from our minds. But we heard about your decision and we wanted to see you-s o I did a little politickmg and got us a pass.” He added, “Nominally I’m a temporary field agent for the service.

“Oh. Well, I’m certainly glad to see you … as long as that is understood.”

“Sure, sure!” Matson took out a pipe, stoked and fired it. “I admire your choice, Rod. First time I’ve been on Tangaroa.” “On what?”

“Huh? Oh. Tangaroa. Polynesian goddess, I believe. Did you folks give it another name?” Rod considered it. “To tell the truth, we never got around to it. It … well, it just was.”

Matson nodded. “Takes two of anything before you need names. But it’s lovely, Rod. I can see you made a lot of progress. “We would have done all right,” Rod said bitterly, “if they hadn’t jerked the rug out.” He shrugged. “Like to look around?”

“I surely would.”

“All right. Come on, Sis. Wait a minute- I haven’t had breakfast; how about you?”  “Well, when we left the Gap is was pushing lunch time. I could do with a bite. Helen?” “Yes, indeed.”

Rod scrounged in Margery’s supplies. The haunch on which he had supped was not at its best. He passed it to Matson. “Too high?” Matson sniffed it. “Pretty gamy. I can eat it if you can.

“We should have hunted yesterday, but … things happened.” He frowned. “Sit tight. I’ll get cured meat.” He ran up to the cave, found a smoked side and some salted strips. When he got back Matson had a fire going. There was nothing else to serve; no fruit had been gathered the day before. Rod was uneasily aware that their breakfasts must have been very different.

But he got over it in showing off how much they had done- potter’s wheel, Sue’s loom with a piece half finished, the flume with the village fountain and the showers that ran continuously,

iron artifacts that Art and Doug had hammered out. “I’d like to take you up to Art’s iron works but there is no telling what we might run into.”

“Come now, Rod, I’m not a city boy. Nor is your sister helpless.”

Rod shook his head. “I know this country; you don’t. I can go up there at a trot. But the only way for you would be a slow sneak, because I can’t cover you both.” Matson nodded. “You’re right. It seems odd to have one of my students solicitous over my health. But you are right. We don’t know this set up.

Rod showed them the stobor traps and described the annual berserk migration. “Stobor pour through those holes and fall in the pits. The other animals swarm past, as solid as city traffic for hours.”

“Catastrophic adjustment,” Matson remarked.

“Huh? Oh, yes, we figured that out. Cyclic catastrophic balance, just like human beings. If we had facilities, we could ship thousands of carcasses back to Earth every dry season. He considered it. “Maybe we will, now.

“Probably.”

“But up to now it has been just a troublesome nuisance. These stobor especially- I’ll show you one out in the field when- say!” Rod looked thoughtful. “These are stobor, aren’t they? Little carnivores heavy in front, about the size of a tom cat and eight times as nasty?”

“Why ask me?”

“Well, you warned us against stobor. All the classes were warned.”

“I suppose these must be stobor,” Matson admitted, “but I did not know what they looked like.” “Huh?”

“Rod, every planet has its ‘stobor’ … all different. Sometimes more than one sort.” He stopped to tap his pipe. “You remember me telling the class that every planet has unique dangers, different from every other planet in the Galaxy?”

“Yes…”

“Sure, and it meant nothing, a mere intellectual concept. But you have to be afraid of the thing behind the concept, if you are to stay alive. So we personify it … but we don’t tell you what it is. We do it differently each year. It is to warn you that the unknown and deadly can lurk anywhere … and to plant it deep in your guts instead of in your head.”

“Well, I’ll be a- Then there weren’t any stobor! There never were!” “Sure there were. You built these traps for them, didn’t you?”

* * * * *

When they returned, Matson sat on the ground and said, “We can’t stay long, you know.

“I realize that. Wait a moment.” Rod went into his hut, dug out Lady Macbeth, rejoined them. “Here’s your knife, Sis. It saved my skin more than once. Thanks.”

She took the knife and caressed it, then cradled it and looked past Rod’s head. It flashed by him, went tuckspong! in a corner post. She recovered it, came back and handed it to Rod. “Keep it, dear, wear it always in safety and health.”

“Gee, Sis, I shouldn’t. I’ve had it too long now.”

“Please. I’d like to know that Lady Macbeth is watching over you, wherever you are. And I don’t need a knife much now.” “Huh? Why not?”

“Because I married her,” Matson answered.

Rod was caught speechless. His sister looked at him and said, “What’s the matter, Buddy? Don’t you approve?”

“Huh? Oh, sure! It’s …” He dug into his memory, fell back on quoted ritual: “‘May the Principle make you one. May your union be fruitful.’” “Then come here and kiss me.”

Rod did so, remembered to shake hands with the Deacon. It was all right, he guessed, but- well, how old were they? Sis must be thirtyish and the Deacon … why the Deacon was old- probably past forty. It did not seem quite decent.

But he did his best to make them feel that he approved. After he thought it over he decided that if two people, with their lives behind them, wanted company in their old age, why, it was probably a good thing.

“So you see,” Matson went on, “I had a double reason to look you up. In the first place, though I am no longer teaching, it is vexing to mislay an entire class. In the second place, when one of them is your brother-in-law it is downright embarrassing.”

“You’ve quit teaching?”

“Yes. The Board and I don’t see eye to eye on policy. Secondly, I’m leading a party out … and this time your sister and I are going to settle down and prove a farm.” Matson looked at him. “Wouldn’t be interested, would you? I need a salted lieutenant.”

“Huh? Thanks, but as I told you, this is my place. Uh, where are you going?” “Territa, out toward the Hyades. Nice place- they are charging a stiff premium.” Rod shrugged. “Then I couldn’t afford it.”

“As my lieutenant, you’d be exempt. But I wasn’t twisting your arm; I just thought you ought to have a chance to turn it down. I have to get along with your sister, you know.” Rod glanced at Helen. “Sorry, Sis.”

“It’s all right, Buddy. We’re not trying to live your life.”

“Mmm … no. Matson puffed hard; then went on. “However, as your putative brother and former teacher I feel obligated to mention a couple of things. I’m not trying to sell you anything, but I’ll appreciate it if you’ll listen. Okay?”

“Well … go ahead.”

“This is a good spot. but you might go back to school, you know. Acquire recognized professional status. If you refuse recall, here you stay … forever. You won’t see the rest of the Outlands. They won’t give you free passage back later. But a professional gets around, he sees the world. Your sister and I have been on some fifty planets. School does not look attractive now- you’re a man and it will be hard to wear boy’s shoes. But-” Matson swept an arm, encompassed all of Cowpertown, “-this counts. You can skip courses, get field credit. I have some drag with the Chancellor of Central Tech. Hmmm?”

Rod sat with stony face, then shook his head. “Okay,” said Matson briskly. “No harm done.”

“Wait. Let me tell you.” Rod tried to think how to explain how he felt … “Nothing, I guess,” he said gruffly. Matson smoked in silence. “You were leader here,” he said at last.

“Mayor,” Rod corrected. “Mayor of Cowpertown. I was the Mayor, I mean.”

“You are the Mayor. Population one, but you are still boss. And even those bureaucrats in the control service wouldn’t dispute that you’ve proved the land. Technically you are an autonomous colony- I hear you told Sansom that.” Matson grinned. “You’re alone, however. You can’t live alone, Rod … not and stay human.”

“Well, yes- but aren’t they going to settle this planet?”

“Sure. Probably fifty thousand this year, four times that many in two years. But, Rod, you would be part of the mob. Theyll bring their own leaders.” “I don’t have to be boss! I just- well, I don’t want to give up Cowpertown.”

“Rod, Cowpertown is safe in history, along with Plymouth Rock, Botany Bay, and Dakin’s Colony. The citizens of Tangaroa will undoubtedly preserve it as a historical shrine. Whether you stay is another matter. Nor am I trying to persuade you. I was simply pointing out alternatives.” He stood up. “About time we started, Helen.”

“Yes, dear.” She accepted his hand and stood up.

“Wait a minute!” insisted Rod. “Deacon … Sis! I know I sound like a fool. I know this is gone … the town, and the kids, and everything. But I can’t go back.” He added, “It’s not that I don’t want to.”

Matson nodded. “I understand you.” “I don’t see how. I don’t.”

“Maybe I’ve been there. Rod, everyone of us is beset by two things: a need to go home, and the impossibility of doing it. You are at the age when these hurt worst. You’ve been thrown into  a situation that makes the crisis doubly acute. You- don’t interrupt me- you’ve been a man here, the old man of the tribe, the bull of the herd. That is why the others could go back but you can’t. Wait, please! I suggested that you might find it well to go back and be an adolescent for a while … and it seems unbearable. I’m not surprised. It would be easier to be a small   child. Children are another race and adults deal with them as such. But adolescents are neither adult nor child. They have the impossible, unsolvable, tragic problems of all fringe  cultures. They don’t belong, they are second-class citizens, economically and socially insecure. It is a difficult period and I don’t blame you for not wanting to return to it. I simply think it might pay. But you have been king of a whole world; I imagine that term papers and being told to wipe your feet and such are out of the question. So good luck. Coming, dear?”

“Deacon,” his wife said, “Aren’t you going to tell him?”

“It has no bearing. It would be an unfair way to influence his judgment.” “You men! I’m glad I’m not male!”

“So am I,” Matson agreed pleasantly.

“I didn’t mean that. Men behave as if logic were stepping on crack in a sidewalk. I’m going to tell him.” “On your head be it.”

“Tell me what?” demanded Rod.

“She means,” said Matson, “that your parents are back.” “What?”

“Yes, Buddy. They left stasis a week ago and Daddy came out of the hospital today. He’s well. But we haven’t told him all about you- we haven’t known what to say.”

The facts were simple, although Rod found them hard to soak up. Medical techniques had developed in two years, not a pessimistic twenty; it had been possible to relax the stasis, operate, and restore Mr. Walker to the world. Helen had known for months that such outcome was likely, but their father’s physician had not approved until he was sure. It had been mere coincidence that Tangaroa had been located at almost the same time. To Rod one event was as startling as the other; his parents had been dead to him for a long time.

“My dear,” Matson said sternly, “now that you have thrown him into a whingding, shall we go?”

“Yes. But I had to tell him.” Helen kissed Rod quickly, turned to her husband. They started to walk away. Rod watched them, his face contorted in an agony of indecision.

Suddenly he called out, “Wait! I’m coming with you.”

“All right,” Matson answered. He turned his good eye toward his wife and drooped the lid in a look of satisfaction that was not quite a wink. “If you are sure that is what you want to do, I’ll help you get your gear together.”

“Oh, I haven’t any baggage. Let’s go.”

Rod stopped only long enough to free the penned animals.

4.               The Endless Road

Matson chaperoned him through Emigrants’ Gap, saved from possible injury a functionary who wanted to give Rod psychological tests, and saw to it that he signed no waivers. He had him bathed, shaved, and barbered, then fetched him clothes, before he let him be exposed to the Terran world. Matson accompanied them only to Kaibab Gate. “I’m supposed to have a lodge dinner, or something, so that you four can be alone as a family. About nine, dear. See you, Rod.” He kissed his wife and left.

“Sis? Dad doesn’t know I’m coming?”

Helen hesitated. “He knows. I screened him while Deacon was primping you.” She added, “Remember, Rod, Dad has been ill … and the time has been only a couple of weeks to him.” “Oh, that’s so, isn’t it?” Used all his life to Ramsbotham anomalies, Rod nevertheless found those concerned with time confusing- planet-hopping via the gates did not seem odd.

Besides, he was extremely edgy without knowing why, the truth being that he was having an attack of fear of crowds. The Matsons had anticipated it but had not warned him lest they

make him worse.

The walk through tall trees just before reaching home calmed him. The necessity for checking all cover for dangerous animals and keeping a tree near him always in mind gave his subconscious something familiar to chew on. He arrived home almost cheerful without being aware either that he had been frightened by crowds or soothed by non-existent dangers of an urban forest.

His father looked browned and healthy- but shorter and smaller. He embraced his son and his mother kissed him and wept. “It’s good to have you home, son. I understand you had quite  a trip.”

“It’s good to be home, Dad.”

“I think these tests are much too strenuous, I really do.”

Rod started to explain that it really had not been a test, that it had not been strenuous, and that Cowpertown- Tangaroa, rather- had been a soft touch. But he got mixed up and was disturbed by the presence of “Aunt” Nora Peascoat- no relation but a childhood friend of his mother. Besides, his father was not listening.

But Mrs. Peascoat was listening, and looking-peering with little eyes through folds of flesh. “Why, Roderick Walker, I knew that couldn’t have been a picture of you.” “Eh?” asked his father. “What picture?”

“Why, that wild-man picture that had Roddie’s name on it. You must have seen it; it was on facsimile and Empire Hour both. I knew it wasn’t him. I said to Joseph, ‘Joseph,’ I said, ‘that’s not a picture of Rod Walker-its a fake.’”

“I must have missed it. As you know, I-“

“I’ll send it to you; I clipped it. I knew it was a fake. It’s a horrible thing, a great naked savage with pointed teeth and a fiendish grin and a long spear and war paint all over its ugly face. I said to Joseph-“

“As you know, I returned from hospital just this morning, Nora. Rod, there was no picture of you on the news services, surely?” “Uh, yes and no. Maybe.”

“I don’t follow you. Why should there be a picture of you?” “There wasn’t any reason. This bloke just took it.”

“Then there was a picture?”

“Yes.” Rod saw that “Aunt” Nora was eyeing him avidly: “But it was a fake- sort of.” “I still don’t follow you.

“Please, Pater,” Helen intervened. “Rod had a tiring trip. This can wait.” “Oh, surely. I don’t see how a picture can be ‘a sort of a fake.’”

“Well, Dad, this man painted my face when I wasn’t looking. I-” Rod stopped, realizing that it sounded ridiculous. “Then it was your picture?” “Aunt” Nora insisted.

“I’m not going to say any more.

Mr. Walker blinked. “Perhaps that is best.”

“Aunt” Nora looked ruffled. “Well, I suppose anything can happen ‘way off in those odd places. From the teaser on Empire Hour I understand some very strange things did happen … not all of them nice.”

She looked as if daring Rod to deny it. Rod said nothing. She went on, “I don’t know what you were thinking of, letting a boy do such things. My father always said that if the Almighty had intended us to use those gate things instead of rocket ships He would have provided His own holes in the sky.”

Helen said sharply, “Mrs. Peascoat, in what way is a rocket ship more natural than a gate?” “Why, Helen Walker! I’ve been ‘Aunt Nora’ all your life. ‘Mrs. Peascoat’ indeed!”

Helen shrugged. “And my name is Matson, not Walker- as you know.”

Mrs. Walker, distressed and quite innocent, broke in to ask Mrs. Peascoat to stay for dinner. Mr. Walker added, “Yes, Nora, join us Under the Lamp.” Rod counted to ten. But Mrs. Peascoat said she was sure they wanted to be alone, they had so much to talk about … and his father did not insist.

Rod quieted during ritual, although he stumbled in responses and once left an awkward silence. Dinner was wonderfully good, but he was astonished by the small portions; Terra must be under severe rationing. But everyone seemed happy and so he was.

“I’m sorry about this mix-up,” his father told him. “I suppose it means that you will have to repeat a semester at Patrick Henry.” “On the contrary, Pater,” Helen answered, “Deacon is sure that Rod can enter Central Tech with advanced standing.”

“Really? They were more strict in my day.”

“All of that group will get special credit. What they learned cannot be learned in classrooms.”

Seeing that his father was inclined to argue Rod changed the subject. “Sis, that reminds me. I gave one of the girls your name, thinking you were still in the Corps- she wants to be appointed cadet, you see. You can still help her, can’t you?”

“I can advise her and perhaps coach her for the exams. Is this important to you, Buddy?”

“Well, yes. And she is number-one officer material. She’s a big girl, even bigger than you are- and she looks

a bit like you. She is smart like you, too, around genius, and always good-natured and willing- but strong and fast and incredibly violent when you need it … sudden death in all directions.”

“Roderick.” His father glanced at the lamp.

“Uh, sorry, Dad. I was just describing her.”

“Very well. Son … when did you start picking up your meat with your fingers?” Rod dropped the tidbit and blushed. “Excuse me. We didn’t have forks.”

Helen chuckled. “Never mind, Rod. Pater, it’s perfectly natural. Whenever we paid off any of our girls we always put them through reorientation to prepare them for the perils of civil life. And fingers were made before forks.”

“Mmm . . no doubt. Speaking of reorientation, there is something we must do, daughter, before this family will be organized again.” “So?”

“Yes. I mean the transfer of guardianship. Now that I am well, by a miracle, I must reassume my responsibilities.”

Rod’s mind slipped several cogs before it penetrated that Dad was talking about him. Guardian? Oh … Sis was his guardian, wasn’t she? But it didn’t mean anything. Helen hesitated. “I suppose so, Pater,” she said, her eyes on Rod, “if Buddy wants to.”

“Eh? That is not a factor, daughter. Your husband won’t want the responsibility of supervising a young boy- and it is my obligation … and privilege.” Helen looked annoyed. Rod said, “I can’t see that it matters, Dad. I’ll be away at college-and after all I am nearly old enough to vote.”

His mother looked startled. “Why, Roddie dear!”

“Yes,” agreed his father. “I’m afraid I can’t regard a gap of three years as negligible.” “What do you mean, Dad? I’ll be of age in January.”

Mrs. Walker clasped a hand to her mouth. “Jerome we’ve forgotten the time lag again. Oh, my baby boy!”

Mr. Walker looked astonished, muttered something about “-very difficult” and gave attention to his plate. Presently he looked up. “You’ll pardon me, Rod. Nevertheless, until you are of age   I must do what I can; I hardly think I want you to live away from home while at college.”

“Sir? Why not?”

“Well- I feel that we have drifted apart, and not all for the best. Take this girl you spoke of in such surprising terms. Am I correct in implying that she was, eh a close chum?” Rod felt himself getting warm. “She was my city manager,” he said flatly.

“Your what?”

“My executive officer. She was captain of the guard, chief of police, anything you want to call her. She did everything. She hunted, too, but that was just because she liked to. Carol is, uh- well, Carol is swell.”

“Roderick, are you involved with this girl?”

“Me? Gosh, no! She was more like a big sister. Oh, Carol was sweet on half a dozen fellows, one time or another, but it never lasted.” “I am very glad to hear that you are not serously interested in her. She does not sound like desirable companionship for a young boy.” “Dad- you don’t know what you are saying!”

“Perhaps. I intend to find out. But what is this other matter? ‘City Manager!’ What were you?” “I,” Rod said proudly, “was Mayor of Cowpertown.”

His father looked at him, then shook his head. “We’ll speak of this later. Possibly you need, eh- medical help.” He looked at Helen. “We’ll attend to the change in guardianship tomorrow. I can see that there is much I must take care of.”

Helen met his eyes. “Not unless Buddy consents.” “Daughter!”

“The transfer was irrevocable. He will have to agree or I won’t do it!”

Mr. Walker looked shocked, Mrs. Walker looked stricken. Rod got up and left the room … the first time anyone had ever done so while the Lamp of Peace was burning. He heard his father call after him but he did not turn back.

He found Matson in his room, smoking and reading. “I grabbed a bite and let myself in quietly,” Matson explained. He inspected Rod’s face. “I told you,” he said slowly, “that it would be rough. Well, sweat it out, son, sweat it out.”

“I can’t stand it!” “Yes, you can.

In Emigrants’ Gap the sturdy cross-country wagons were drawn up in echelon, as they had been so often before and would be so many times again. The gate was not ready; drivers gathered at the booth under Liberty’s skirts, drinking coffee and joking through the nervous wait. Their professional captain was with them, a lean, homely young man with deep lines in   his face, from sun and laughing and perhaps some from worry. But he did not seem to be worrying now; he was grinning and drinking coffee and sharing a doughnut with a boy child. He was dressed in fringed buckskin, in imitation of a very old style; he wore a Bill Cody beard and rather long hair. His mount was a little pinto, standing patiently by with reins hanging. There was a boot scabbard holding a hunting rifle on the nigh side of the saddle, but the captain carried no guns on his person; instead he wore two knives, one on each side.

Asiren sounded and a speaker above the Salvation Army booth uttered: “Captain Walker, ready with gate four.”

Rod waved at the control booth and shouted, “Call off!” then turned back to Jim and Jacqueline. “Tell Carol I’m sorry she couldn’t get leave. I’ll be seeing you.” “Might be sooner than you think,” asserted Jim. “My firm is going to bid this contract.”

“Your firm? Where do you get that noise? Have they made him a partner, Jackie?”

“No,” she answered serenely, “but I’m sure they will as soon as he is admitted to the Outlands bar. Kiss Uncle Rod good-by, Grant.” “No,” the youngster answered firmly.

“Just like his father,” Jimmy said proudly. “Kisses women only.”

The count was running back down; Rod heard it and swung into saddle. “Take it easy, kids.” The count passed him, finished with a shouted, “ONE!”

“Reins up! Reeeiins UP!” He waited with arm raised and glanced through the fully-dilated gate past rolling prairie at snow-touched peaks beyond. His nostrils widened.

The control light turned green. He brought his arm down hard and shouted, “Roll ‘em! Ho!” as he squeezed and released the little horse with his knees. The pinto sprang forward, cut in front of the lead wagon, and Captain Walker headed out on his long road.

The End

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Genesis Revisited (full text) by Zecharia Sitchin in free HTML

This is a complete reprint of the non-fiction work by Zecharia Sitchin titled “Genesis Revisited”. It is free here and provided in HTML for easy translation online for non-English speakers.

This work is part of a long series of books by this author. You can classify it as “speculative history”, as opposed to “established history”.

You see, Zecharia is a linguist that specialized in ancient languages. Certainly an odd-ball person, wouldn’t you think? And his specialty was ancient Sumeria. You know, the “birth place” of civilization. And the thing is, whenever he conducted his translations it was as if the ancient peoples were transcribing actual events, not recording tales and histories. And as such, these actual histories intrigued him.

For they described an extraterrestrial species that “grew” humans, adapted them, enslaved them, and then left and returned to their “home in the sky”.

To me, in my MAJestic role, it sounds a lot to me like they are describing the species that I refer to as the Type-1 greys.

And why mainstream science, and literature has scoffed and belittled his work. It just doesn’t match with their world narrative. You know the one where there is only one intelligent species; Man, and that we are the direct image of, and embodiment of God.

I do not know how accurate his conclusions are, or how precisely they fit within the world history as I know it to be. What I can say is that, taken as a whole, his work suggests extraterrestrial interaction with early humans. It is not to be discounted, as there are elements within his narrative that “ring true” for me.

And thus this volume is being reprinted herein.

About Zecharia Sitchin

Zecharia Sitchin is a researcher and author of (at least) 14 books that retell the history and prehistory of mankind.

Zecharia Sitchin has 76 books on Goodreads with 36910 ratings. Zecharia Sitchin’s most popular book is The 12th Planet (Earth Chronicles, #1).

He explains the prehistory of mankind by combining archaeology, the Bible, and ancient Mesopotamian and Egyptian texts with the latest in scientific discoveries. This ranges from space exploration to biology.

Phew!

Being able to read millennia-old Sumerian cuneiform tablets, his writings treat ancient sources not as myth, but as records of actual events. The result is a saga of flesh and blood, astronauts, gods and Earthlings, and a chain of events from the past that leads to our contemporaneous modern lifestyle.

His Books

His books are divided into a number of “series”. The first is the “Earth Chronicles”.

The Earth Chronicles Series

The 12th Planet (1976)

This is the first volume of the series that puts forth the view that humanity was the creation of a group of aliens who came to Earth, some time between 450,000 BCE and 13,000 BCE. The book tells us how the aliens mixed their own DNA with that of the proto-humans to create a superior race of the Homo sapiens, to work for the mining enterprises they had set up on Earth.

The Stairway to Heaven (1980)

This second volume of the series ponders on the mystery of immortality. It seeks to unravel the secrets of alien landings on Earth, stating that the Anunnaki gods may have had a spaceport in the Sinai Peninsula of Egypt, where they frequently landed―”Those Who from Heaven to Earth Came.” He also puts forth a thought that the Pyramid of Giza may have been the Pharaoh’s entrance to the world of the immortal gods, which he aimed to enter in his afterlife.

The Wars of Gods and Men (1985)

Sitchin begins this volume by saying that the Sinai spaceport was destroyed by nuclear weapons some 4,000 years ago. The book goes on to describe the violent beginnings of humanity on Earth, and how these power conflicts had begun ages before on another planet. The volume takes references from ancient texts, and attempts to reconstruct epic events like The Great Flood.

The Lost Realms (1990)

Another well-researched volume in the series, The Lost Realms seeks to uncover the mysteries of ancient civilizations. The book describes how, in the 16th century, the Spaniards came to the New World in quest of the legendary City of Gold, El Dorado, and found instead, the most inexplicable ancient ruins in the most inaccessible of places. He further put forth the idea that the so-called pre-Columbian people―Mayans, Aztecs, Incans, etc.―might, in fact, have been the fabled Anunnaki.

When Time Began (1993)

Through this book, Sitchin attempts to draw correlations between the various events in several millennia, which helped shape the human civilization on Earth. He stresses on the idea that the human race has progressed and prospered with the help of ancient aliens, who left behind several impressive and imposing structures, which testify their genius to this day.

The Cosmic Code (1998)

Yet another engaging volume, The Cosmic Code delves in the idea that the human DNA, which was created by the ancient aliens, is in fact, a cosmic code that connects Man to God and the Earth to Heaven. He refers to writings on ancient prophesies, and proposes that this cosmic code is key to several secrets related to the celestial destiny of man.

The End of Days: Armageddon and Prophecies of the Return (2007)

In this last volume of the Earth Chronicles, Sitchin stresses on the idea that the past is very similar to the future. He attempts to put forth compelling evidence that the fate of man and that of our planet depends on a predetermined celestial time cycle, and if we understand the past properly, it is also possible to foretell the future.

The Companion Volumes

Genesis Revisited: Is Modern Science Catching Up With Ancient Knowledge? (1990)

Sitchin wrote this first companion volume to his Earth Chronicles series, in which he attempts to establish, in the light of ancient as well as modern evidence, that all the advances made by humans today were actually known to our ancestors, millions of years ago.

This is the volume and work that is reprinted in this post.

Divine Encounters: A Guide to Visions, Angels and Other Emissaries (1995)

This book seeks to tackle the issue of the possible links between humans and the so-called divine beings. Sitchin refers to several Biblical stories in his attempt to establish a probability of an interaction between Anunnaki and the humans, thus, also offering an explanation to the UFO sightings in recent years.

The Lost Book of Enki: Memoirs and Prophecies of an Extraterrestrial God (2001)

This companion volume attempts to reveal the actual identity of the Anunnaki―the first gods of mankind according to the Sumerian mythology. Sitchin has taken efforts to explain the reason behind the creation of humans, and the probable existence of the knowledge of genetic engineering, millions of years ago.

The Earth Chronicles Expeditions (2004)

This book is Zecharia Sitchin’s autobiographical account of his various expeditions to the ancient and relatively modern archaeological sites in quest of the probable connection between humans and extraterrestrials. He presents compelling evidence to state that ancient myths are, in fact, recollections of real events of the past. The book also contains many photographs from the author’s personal collection.

Journeys to the Mythical Past (2007)

A continuation of the earlier volume, The Earth Chronicles Expeditions, this book talks about some more investigations and discoveries of Sitchin, and how all these experiences inspired him to write his Earth Chronicles. This autobiographical account takes us to several interesting places right from Egypt to the Vatican to the Alps and Malta, and attempts to list some mind-stirring facts.

The Earth Chronicles Handbook: A Comprehensive Guide to the Seven Books of The Earth Chronicles (2009)

This is an encyclopedic compilation that is meant to serve as a navigational tool for the entire Earth Chronicles series. This is a must-have volume, especially if you are reading the series without any background knowledge.

There Were Giants Upon the Earth: Gods, Demigods & Human Ancestry: The Evidence of Alien DNA (2010)

This volume attempts to present supporting evidence for the author’s assertion in the Earth Chronicles that the human DNA was genetically engineered by the aliens. In the light of ancient writings and artifacts, Sitchin not only tries to reveal the DNA source, but also to provide proof of alien presence on Earth millions of years ago.

The King Who Refused to Die: The Anunnaki and The Search for Immortality (2013)

This is the last book authored by Zecharia Sitchin, which attempts to reconstruct the famous epic of Gilgamesh in the wake of his own findings. The novel tells a tale of ancient Sumerian ceremonies, love and betrayal, gods among men, travels from one planet to the other, and the age-old thirst of humans for immortality. The book was published after Sitchin’s death.

A final word before we get to the book…

Though all of Zecharia Sitchin’s books are international bestsellers, it is worth pointing out that his research and ideas have been subject to some really serious criticisms. Most of his ideas have been completely dismissed by academics and scientists as pseudohistory and pseudoscience. Nevertheless, irrespective of whether they hold any truth or not, Sitchin’s books are most certainly quite engaging reads.

Note that all illustrations are not included herein. Sorry for that.

Genesis Revisited (full text)

FOREWORD

The last decades of the twentieth century have witnessed an upsurge of human knowledge that boggles the mind. Our ad- vances in every field of science and technology are no longer measured in centuries or even decades but in years and even months, and they seem to surpass in attainments and scope anything that Man has achieved in the past.

But is it possible that Mankind has come out of the Dark Ages and the Middle Ages; reached the Age of Enlightenment; experienced the Industrial Revolution; and entered the era of high-tech, genetic engineering, and space flight—only to catch up with ancient knowledge?

For many generations the Bible and its teachings have served as  an  anchor  for  a  searching  Mankind,  but  modern  science appeared to have cast us ail adrift, especially in the confrontation between Evolution and Creationism. In this volume it will be shown that the conflict is baseless; that the Book of Genesis and its sources reflect the highest levels of scientific knowledge.

Is it possible, then, that what our civilization is discovering today about our planet Earth and about our corner of the uni- verse, the heavens, is only a drama that can be called “Genesis Revisited”—only a rediscovery of what had been known to a much earlier civilization, on Earth and on another planet?

The question is not one of mere scientific curiosity; it goes to the core of Mankind’s existence, its origin, and its destiny.

It  involves  the  Earth’s  future  as  a  viable  planet  because  it concerns events in Earth’s past; it deals with where we are going because it reveals where we have come from. And the answers, as we shall see, lead to inevitable conclusions that some consider too incredible to accept and others too awesome to face.

1

The Host of Heaven

In the beginning
God created the Heaven and the Earth.

The very concept of a beginning of all things is basic to modern astronomy and astrophysics. The statement that there was a void and chaos before there was order conforms to the very latest theories that chaos, not permanent stability, rules the universe. And then there is the statement about the bolt of light that began the process of creation.

Was this a reference to the Big Bang, the theory according to which the universe was created from a primordial explosion,

a burst of energy in the form of light, that sent the matter from which stars and planets and rocks and human beings are formed flying in all directions and creating the wonders we see in the heavens and on Earth? Some scientists, inspired by the insights of our most inspiring source, have thought so. But then, how did ancient Man know the Big Bang theory so long ago? Or ws this biblical tale the description of matters closer to home, of how our own little planet Earth and the heavenly zone called the Firmament, or “hammered-out bracelet,” were formed?

Indeed, how did ancient Man come to have a cosmogony at all? How much did he really know, and how did he know it?

It is only appropriate that we begin the quest for answers where the events began to unfold—in the heavens; where also, from time immemorial, Man has felt that his origins, higher values—God, if you will—are to be found. As thrilling as discoveries made by the use of microscopes are, it is what telescopes enable us to see that fills us with the realization of the grandeur of nature and the universe. Of all recent advances,

the most impressive have undoubtedly been the discoveries in the heavens surrounding our planet. And what staggering ad-

3

Figure I

vances they have been! In a mere few decades we Earthlings have soared off the face of our planet; roamed Earth’s skies hundreds of miles above its surface; landed on its solitary satellite, the Moon; and sent an array of unmanned spacecraft to probe our celestial neighbors, discovering vibrant and active worlds dazzling in their colors, features, makeup, satellites, rings. For the first time, perhaps, we can grasp the meaning and feel the scope of the Psalmist’s words:

The heavens bespeak the glory of the Lord and the vault of heaven reveals His handiwork.

A fantastic era of planetary exploration came to a magnificent climax when, in August 1989, the unmanned spacecraft des- ignated Voyager 2 flew by distant Neptune and sent back to Earth pictures and other data. Weighing just about a ton but ingeniously packed with television cameras, sensing and meas- uring equipment, a power source based on nuclear decay, trans- mitting antennas, and tiny computers (Fig. 1), it sent back whisperlike pulses that required more than four hours to reach Earth even at the speed of light. On Earth the pulses were captured by an array of radiotelescopes that form the  Deep Space Network of the U.S. National Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA); then the faint signals were translated by electronic wizardry into photographs, charts, and other forms of data at the sophisticated facilities of the Jet Propulsion

Laboratory (JPL) in Pasadena, California, which managed the project for NASA.

Launched  in  August  1977,  twelve  years  before  this  final mission—the visit to Neptune—was accomplished. Voyager 2 and its companion. Voyager I, were originally intended to reach and scan only Jupiter and Saturn and augment data ob- tained earlier about those two gaseous giants by the Pioneer 10 and Pioneer 11 unmanned spacecraft. But with remarkable ingenuity  and  skill,  the  JPL  scientists  and  technicians  took advantage of a rare alignment of the outer planets and, using the gravitational forces of these planets as “slingshots,” man- aged to thrust Voyager 2 first from Saturn to Uranus and then from Uranus to Neptune (Fig. 2).

Voyager 1 & 2 flight paths.

Figure 2

Thus it was that for several days at the end of August 1989, headlines concerning another world pushed aside the usual news of armed conflicts, political upheavals,  sports  results, and market reports that make up Mankind’s daily fare. For a few days the world we call Earth took time out to watch another world; we, Earthlings, were glued to our television sets, thrilled by closeup pictures of another planet, the one we call Neptune.

As the dazzling images of an aquamarine globe appeared on our television screens, the commentators  stressed  repeatedly that this was the first time that Man on Earth had ever really been able to see this planet, which even with the best Earth- based telescopes is visible only as a dimly lit spot in the dark- ness of space almost three billion miles from us. They reminded the viewers that Neptune was discovered only in 1846, after perturbations in the orbit of the somewhat nearer planet Uranus indicated the existence of another celestial body beyond it. They reminded us that no one before that—neither Sir Isaac Newton nor Johannes Kepler, who between them discovered and laid down the laws of celestial motion in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries; neither Copernicus, who in the six- teenth century determined that the Sun, not the Earth, was in the center of our planetary system, nor Galileo, who a century later used a telescope to announce that Jupiter had four moons—no great astronomer until the  mid-nineteenth  century and certainly no one in earlier times knew of Neptune. And thus not only the average TV viewer but the astronomers them- selves were about to see what had been unseen before—it would be the first time we would learn the true hues and makeup of Neptune.

But two months before the August encounter, I had written an article for a number of U. S., European, and South American monthlies contradicting these long-held notions: Neptune was known in antiquity, I wrote; and the discoveries that were about to be made would only confirm ancient knowledge. Neptune, I predicted, would be blue-green, watery, and have patches the color of “swamplike vegetation”!

The electronic signals from Voyager 2 confirmed all that and more. They revealed a beautiful blue-green, aquamarine planet embraced by an atmosphere of helium, hydrogen, and methane gases, swept by swirling, high-velocity winds that make  Earth’s  hurricanes  look  timid.  Below  this  atmosphere there appear mysterious giant “smudges” whose coloration is sometimes darker blue and sometimes greenish yellow, perhaps depending on the angle at which sunlight strikes them. As expected, the atmospheric and surface temperatures are below freezing, but unexpectedly Neptune was found to emit heat that emanates from within the planet. Contrary to the previous consideration of Neptune as being a “gaseous” planet, it was determined by Voyager 2 to have a rocky core above which there floats, in the words of the JPL scientists, “a slurry mixture of water ice.” This watery layer, circling the rocky core as the planet revolves in its sixteen-hour day, acts as a dynamo that creates a sizable magnetic field.

This beautiful planet (see Neptune, back cover) was found to be encircled by several rings made up of boulders, rocks, and dust and is orbited by at least eight satellites, or moons. Of the latter, the largest, Triton, proved no less spectacular than its planetary master. Voyager 2 confirmed the retrograde mo- tion of this small celestial body (almost the size of Earth’s Moon): it orbits Neptune in a direction opposite to that of the coursing of Neptune and all other known planets in our Solar System, not anticlockwise as they do but clockwise. Besides its very existence, its approximate size, and its retrograde motion, astronomers knew nothing else of Triton. Voyager 2 revealed it to be a “blue moon,” an appearance resulting from methane in Triton’s atmosphere. The surface of Triton showed through the thin atmosphere—a pinkish gray surface with rugged, mountainous features on one side and smooth, almost craterless  features  on  the  other  side.  Close-up  pictures  suggested recent volcanic activity but of a very odd kind: what the active, hot interior of this celestial body spews out is not molten lava but jets of slushy ice. Even preliminary assessments indicated that Triton had flowing water in its past, quite possibly even lakes that may have existed on the surface until relatively recent times, in geological terms. The astronomers had no immediate explanation for “double-tracked ridge lines” that run straight for hundreds of miles and, at one or even two points, intersect at what appears to be right angles, suggesting rectangular areas (Fig. 3).

The discoveries thus fully confirmed my prediction: Neptune is indeed blue-green; it is made up in great part of water; and it does have patches whose coloration looks like “swamplike vegetation.” This last tantalizing aspect may bespeak more than a color code if the full implication of the discoveries on Triton is taken into consideration: there, “darker patches with brighter halos” have suggested to the scientists of NASA the existence of “deep pools of organic sludge.” Bob Davis re-

Triton.

Figure 3

ported from Pasadena to The Wall Street Journal that Triton, whose atmosphere contains as much nitrogen as Earth’s, may be spewing out from its active volcanoes not only gases and water ice but also ‘”organic material, carbon-based compounds which apparently coat parts of Triton.”

Such gratifying and overwhelming corroboration of my prediction was not the result of a mere lucky guess. It goes back to  1976  when  The  12th  Planet,  my  first  book  in  The  Earth Chronicles series, was published. Basing my conclusions on millennia-old Sumerian texts, I had asked rhetorically: “When we probe Neptune someday, will we discover that its persistent association with waters is due to the watery swamps” that had once been seen there?

existence of “deep pools of organic sludge.” Bob Davis re-

Figure 3

ported from Pasadena to The Wall Street Journal that Triton, whose atmosphere contains as much nitrogen as Earth’s, may be spewing out from its active volcanoes not only gases and water ice but also ‘”organic material, carbon-based compounds which apparently coat parts of Triton.”

Such gratifying and overwhelming corroboration of my pre- diction was not the result of a mere lucky guess. It goes back to  1976  when  The  12th  Planet,  my  first  book  in  The  Earth Chronicles series, was published. Basing my conclusions on millennia-old Sumerian texts, I had asked rhetorically: “When we probe Neptune someday, will we discover that its persistent association with waters is due to the watery swamps” that had once been seen there?

This  was  published,  and  obviously  written,  a  year  before Voyager 2 was even launched and was restated by me in an article two months before the Neptune encounter.

How could I be so sure, on the eve of Voyager’s encounter with Neptune, that my 1976 prediction would be corrobo- rated—how dared I take the chance that my predictions would be  disproved  within  weeks  after  submitting  my  article?  My certainty was based on what happened in January 1986, when Voyager 2 flew by the planet Uranus.

Although somewhat closer to us—Uranus is “only” about two billion miles away—it lies so far beyond Saturn that it cannot be seen from Earth with the naked eye. It was discovered in  1781  by  Frederick  Wilhelm  Herschel,  a  musician  turned amateur astronomer, only after the telescope was perfected. At the time of its discovery and to this day, Uranus has been hailed as the first planet known in antiquity to be discovered in modern times; for, it has been held, the ancient peoples knew of and venerated the Sun, the Moon, and only five planets (Mercury,  Venus, Mars,  Jupiter,  and Saturn),  which they believed moved around the Earth in the “vault of heaven”; nothing could be seen or known beyond Saturn.

But the very evidence gathered by Voyager 2 at Uranus proved the opposite: that at one time a certain ancient people did know about Uranus, and about Neptune, and even about the more-distant Pluto!

Scientists are still analyzing the photographs and data from Uranus and its amazing moons, seeking answers to endless

Plate A

puzzles. Why does Uranus lie on its side, as though it was hit by another large celestial object in a collision? Why do its winds blow in a retrograde direction, contrary to what is normal in the Solar System? Why is its temperature on the side that is hidden from the Sun the same as on the side facing the Sun? And what shaped the unusual features and formations on some of the Uranian moons? Especially intriguing is the moon called Miranda, “one of the most enigmatic objects in the Solar Sys-

Figure 4

tern,” in the words of NASA’s astronomers, where an elevated, flattened-out plateau is delineated by 100-mile-long escarpments that form a right angle (a feature nicknamed “the Chevron” by the astronomers), and where, on both sides of this plateau, there appear elliptical features that look like racetracks ploughed over by concentric furrows (Plate A and Fig. 4).

Two phenomena, however, stand out as the major discov- eries regarding Uranus, distinguishing it from other planets. One is  its  color.  With  the aid  of Earth-based  telescopes  and

unmanned spacecraft we have become familiar with the gray- brown of Mercury, the sulphur-colored haze that envelops Ve- nus, the reddish Mars, the multihued red-brown-yellow Jupiter and Saturn. But as the breathtaking images of Uranus began to appear on television screens in January 1986, its most striking feature was its greenish blue color—a color totally different from that of all the previous planets seen (see Uranus, back cover).

The other different and unexpected finding had to do with what Uranus is made of. Defying earlier assumptions by astron- omers that Uranus is a totally “gaseous” planet like the giants Jupiter and Saturn, it was found by Voyager 2 to be covered not by gases but by water; not just a sheet of frozen ice on its surface but an ocean of water. A gaseous atmosphere, it was found, in- deed enshrouds the planet; but below it there churns an immense layer—6,000 miles thick!—of “super-heated water, its tempera- ture as high as 8,000 degrees Fahrenheit” (in the words of JPL analysts). This layer of liquid, hot water surrounds a molten rocky core where radioactive elements (or other, unknown pro- cesses) produce the immense internal heat.

As the images of Uranus grew bigger on the TV screen the closer Voyager 2 neared the planet, the moderator at the Jet Propulsion Laboratory drew attention to its unusual green-blue color. I could not help cry out loud, ‘ ‘Oh, my God, it is exactly as the Sumerians had described it!” I hurried to my study, picked up a copy of The 12th Planet, and with unsteady hands looked up page 269 (in the Avon paperback edition). I read again and again the lines quoting the ancient texts. Yes, there was no doubt: though they had no telescopes, the Sumerians had described Uranus as MASH.SIG, a term which I had trans- lated “bright greenish.”

A few days later came the results of the analysis of Voyager 2’s data, and the Sumerian reference to water on Uranus was also corroborated. Indeed, there appeared to be water all over the place: as reported on a wrap-up program on the television series NOVA (‘The Planet That Got Knocked on Its Side”), “Voyager 2 found that all the moons of Uranus are made up of rock and ordinary water ice” This abundance, or even the mere presence, of water on the supposed “gaseous” planets and their satellites at the edges of the Solar System was totally unexpected.

Yet here we had the evidence, presented in The 12th Planet, that in their texts from millennia ago the ancient Sumerians had not only known of the existence of Uranus but had ac- curately described it as greenish blue and watery!

What did all that mean? It meant that in 1986 modern science did not discover what had been unknown; rather, it rediscov- ered and caught up with ancient knowledge. It was, therefore, because of that 1986 corroboration of my 1976 writings and thus of the veracity of the Sumerian texts that I felt confident enough to predict, on the eve of the Voyager 2 encounter with Neptune, what it would discover there.

The Voyager 2 flybys of Uranus and Neptune had thus con- firmed not only ancient knowledge regarding the very existence of these two outer planets but also crucial details regarding them. The 1989 flyby of Neptune provided still more corroboration of the ancient texts. In them, Neptune was listed before Uranus, as would be expected of someone who is coming into the Solar System and sees first Pluto, then Neptune, and then Uranus. In these texts or planetary lists Uranus was called Kakkab shanamma, “Planet Which Is the Double” of Neptune. The Voyager 2 data goes far to uphold this ancient notion.

Uranus is indeed a look-alike of Neptune in size, color, and watery content; both planets are encircled by rings and orbited by a multitude of satellites, or moons. An unexpected similarity has been found regarding the two planets’ magnetic fields: both have an unusually extreme inclination relative to the planets’ axes of rotation—58 degrees on Uranus, 50 degrees on Neptune. “Neptune appears to be almost a magnetic twin of Uranus,” John Noble Wilford reported in The New York Times. The two planets are also similar in the lengths of their days: each about sixteen to seventeen hours long.

The ferocious winds on Neptune and the water ice slurry layer on its surface attest to the great internal heat it generates,like that of Uranus. In fact, the reports from JPL state that initial temperature readings indicated that “Neptune’s temperatures are similar to those of Uranus, which is more than a billion miles closer to the Sun.” Therefore, the scientists assumed “that Neptune somehow is generating more of its internal heat than Uranus does”—somehow compensating for its greater distance from the Sun to attain the same temperatures as Uranus generates, resulting in similar temperatures on both planets—and thus adding one more feature “to the size and other characteristics that make Uranus a near twin of Neptune.”

“Planet which is the double,” the Sumerians said of Uranus in comparing it to Neptune. “Size and other characteristics that make Uranus a near twin of Neptune,” NASA’s scientists announced. Not only the described characteristics but even the terminology—”planet which is the double,” “a near twin of Neptune”—is similar. But one statement, the  Sumerian  one, was made circa 4,000 B.C., and the other, by NASA, in AD . 1989, nearly 6,000 years later. . . .

In the case of these two distant planets, it seems that modern science has only caught up with ancient knowledge. It sounds incredible, but the facts ought to speak for themselves. More- over, this is just the first of a series of scientific discoveries in the years since The 12th Planet was published that corroborate its findings in one instance after another.

Those who have read my books (The Stairway to Heaven, The Wars of Gods and Men, and The Lost Realms followed the first one) know that they are based, first and foremost, on the knowledge bequeathed to us by the Sumerians.

Theirs was the first known civilization. Appearing suddenly and seemingly out of nowhere some 6,000 years ago, it is credited with virtually all the “firsts” of a high civilization: inventions and innovations, concepts and beliefs, which form the foundation of our own Western culture and indeed of all other civilizations and cultures throughout the Earth. The wheel and animal-drawn vehicles, boats for rivers and ships for seas, the kiln and the brick, high-rise buildings, writing and schools and scribes, laws and judges and juries, kingship and citizens’ councils, music and dance and art, medicine and chemistry, weaving and textiles, religion and priesthoods and temples— they all began there, in Sumer, a country in the southern part of today’s Iraq, located in ancient Mesopotamia. Above all, knowledge of mathematics and astronomy began there.

Indeed, all the basic elements of modern astronomy are of Sumerian origin: the concept of a celestial sphere, of a horizon and a zenith, of the circle’s division into 360 degrees, of a celestial band in which the planets orbit the Sun, of grouping stars into constellations and giving them the names and pictorial images that we call the zodiac, of applying the number 12 to this zodiac and to the divisions of time, and of devising a calendar that has been the basis of calendars to this very day. All that and much, much more began in Sumer.

Figure 5

The Sumerians recorded their commercial and legal transactions, their tales and their histories, on clay tablets (Fig. 5a); they drew their illustrations on cylinder seals on which the depiction was carved in reverse, as a negative, that appeared as a positive when the seal was rolled on wet clay (Fig. 5b). In the ruins of Sumerian cities excavated by archaeologists in the past century and a half, hundreds, if not thousands, of the texts and illustrations that were found dealt with astronomy. Among them are lists of stars and constellations in their correct heavenly locations and manuals for observing the rising and setting of stars and planets. There are texts specifically dealing with the Solar System. There are texts among the unearthed tablets that list the planets orbiting the Sun in their correct order; one text even gives the distances between the planets. And there are illustrations on cylinder seals depicting the Solar System, as the one shown in Plate B that is at least 4,500 years old and that is now kept in the Near Eastern Section of the State Museum in East Berlin, catalogued under number VA/243.

If we sketch the illustration appearing in the upper left-hand comer of the Sumerian depiction (Fig. 6a) we see a complete Solar System in which the Sun (not Earth!) is in the center,

Plate B

orbited by all the planets we know of today. This becomes clear when we draw these known planets around the Sun in their correct relative sizes and order (Fig. 6b). The similarity between the ancient depiction and the current one is striking; it leaves no doubt that the twinlike Uranus and Neptune were known in antiquity.

The Sumerian depiction also reveals, however, some differences. These are not artist’s errors or misinformation; on the contrary, the differences—two of them—are very significant.

The first difference concerns Pluto. It has a very odd orbit— too inclined to the common plane (called the Ecliptic) in which the planets orbit the Sun, and so elliptical that Pluto sometimes (as at present and until 1999) finds itself not farther but closer to the Sun than Neptune. Astronomers have therefore  speculated, ever since its discovery in 1930, that Pluto was originally a satellite of another planet; the usual assumption is that it was a moon of Neptune that “somehow”—no one can figure out how—got torn away from its attachment to Neptune and attained its independent (though bizarre) orbit around the Sun.

This is confirmed by the ancient depiction, but with a significant difference. In the Sumerian depiction Pluto is shown not near Neptune but between Saturn and Uranus. And Sumerian cosmological texts, with which we shall deal at length, relate that Pluto was a satellite of Saturn that was let loose to

eventually attain its own “destiny”—its independent orbit around the Sun.

The ancient explanation regarding the origin of Pluto reveals not just factual knowledge but also great sophistication in matters  celestial.  It  involves  an  understanding  of  the  complex forces that have shaped the Solar System, as well as the development of astrophysical theories by which moons can be- come planets or planets in the making can fail and remain moons. Pluto, according to Sumerian cosmogony, made it; our Moon, which was in the process of becoming an independent planet, was prevented by celestial events from attaining the independent status.

Modern astronomers moved from speculation to the convic- tion that such a process has indeed occurred in our Solar System only after observations by the Pioneer and Voyager spacecraft determined in the past decade that Titan, the largest moon of Saturn, was a planet-in-the-making whose detachment from Saturn was not completed. The discoveries at Neptune rein- forced the opposite speculation regarding Triton, Neptune’s moon that is just 400 miles smaller in diameter than  Earth’s Moon. Its peculiar orbit, its volcanism, and other unexpected features have suggested to the JPL scientists, in the words of the Voyager project’s chief scientist Edward Stone, that “Tri- ton may have been an object sailing through the Solar System several billion years ago when it strayed too close to Neptune, came under its gravitational influence and started orbiting the planet.”

How far is this hypothesis from the Sumerian notion that planetary moons could become planets, shift celestial positions, or fail to attain independent orbits? Indeed, as we continue to expound the Sumerian cosmogony, it will become evident that not only is much of modern discovery merely a rediscovery of ancient knowledge but that ancient knowledge offered expla- nations for many phenomena that modern science has yet to figure out.

Even at the outset, before the rest of the evidence in support of this statement is presented, the question inevitably arises: How on Earth could the Sumerians have known all that so long ago, at the dawn of civilization?

The answer lies in the second difference between the Sumerian depiction of the Solar System (Fig. 6a) and our present knowledge of it (Fig. 6b). It is the inclusion of a large planet in the empty space between Mars and Jupiter. We are not aware of any such planet; but the Sumerian cosmological, astronomical, and historical texts insist that there indeed exists one more planet in our Solar System—its twelfth member: they included the Sun, the Moon (which they counted as a celestial body in its own right for reasons stated in the texts), and ten, not nine, planets. It was the realization that a planet the Sumerian texts called NIBIRU (“Planet of the Crossing”) was neither Mars nor Jupiter, as some scholars have debated, but another planet that passes between them every 3,600 years that gave rise to my first book’s title, The 12th Planet—the planet which is the “twelfth member” of the Solar System (although technically it is, as a planet, only the tenth).

It was from that planet, the Sumerian texts repeatedly and persistently stated, that the ANUNNAKI came to Earth. The term literally means “Those Who from Heaven to Earth Came.” They are spoken of in the Bible as the Anakim, and in Chapter 6 of Genesis are also called Nefilim, which in He- brew means the same thing: Those Who Have Come Down, from the Heavens to Earth.

And it was from the Anunnaki, the Sumerians explained— as though they had anticipated our questions—that they had learnt all they knew. The advanced knowledge we find in Sumerian texts is thus, in effect, knowledge that was possessed by the Anunnaki who had come from Nibiru; and theirs must have been a very advanced civilization, because as I have surmised from the Sumerian texts, the Anunnaki came to Earth about 445,000 years ago. Way back then they could already travel in space. Their vast elliptical orbit made a loop—this is the exact translation of the Sumerian term—around all the outer planets, acting as a moving observatory from which the Anunnaki could investigate all those planets. No wonder that what we are discovering now was already known in Sumerian times.

Why anyone would bother to come to this speck of matter we  call  Earth,  not  by accident,  not  by chance,  not  once  but repeatedly, every 3,600 years, is a question the Sumerian texts have answered. On their planet Nibiru, the Anunnaki/Nefilim were facing a situation we on Earth may also soon face: ecological deterioration was making life increasingly impossible. There was a need to protect their dwindling atmosphere, and the only solution seemed to be to suspend gold particles above it, as a shield. (Windows on American spacecraft, for example, are coated with a thin layer of gold to shield the astronauts from radiation). This rare metal had been discovered by the Anunnaki on what they called the Seventh Planet (counting from the outside inward), and they launched Mission Earth to obtain it. At first they tried to obtain it effortlessly, from the waters of the Persian Gulf; but when that failed, they embarked on toilsome mining operations in southeastern Africa.

Some 300,000 years ago, the Anunnaki assigned to the African mines mutinied. It was then that the chief scientist and the chief medical officer of the Anunnaki used genetic manipulation and in-vitro fertilization techniques to create “primitive workers”—the first Homo sapiens to take over the backbreaking toil in the gold mines.

The Sumerian texts that describe all these events and their condensed version in the Book of Genesis have been extensively dealt with in The 12th Planet. The scientific aspects of those  developments  and  of  the  techniques  employed  by  the Anunnaki are the subject of this book. Modern science, it will be shown, is blazing an amazing track of scientific advances— but the road to the future is replete with signposts, knowledge, and advances from the past. The Anunnaki, it will be shown, have been there before; and as the relationship between them and the beings they had created changed, as they decided to give Mankind civilization, they imparted to us some of their knowledge and the ability to make our own scientific advances.

Among the scientific advances that will be discussed in the ensuing chapters will  also be the mounting evidence for the existence of Nibiru. If it were not for The 12th Planet, the discovery of Nibiru would be a great event in astronomy but no more significant for our daily lives than, say, the discovery in 1930 of Pluto. It was nice to learn that the Solar System has one more planet “out there,” and it would be equally gratifying to confirm that the planetary count is not nine but ten; that would especially please astrologers, who need twelve celestial bodies and not just eleven for the twelve houses of the zodiac.

But after the publication of The 12th Planet and the evidence therein—which has not been refuted since its first printing in 1976—and the evidence provided by scientific advances since then, the discovery of Nibiru cannot remain just a matter in- volving textbooks on astronomy. If what I have written is so—

if, in other words, the Sumerians were correct in what they were recording—the discovery of Nibiru would mean not only that there is one more planet out there but that there is Life out there. Moreover, it would confirm that there are intelligent beings out there—people who were so advanced that, almost half a million years ago, they could travel in space; people who were coming and going between their planet and Earth every 3,600 years.

It is who is out there on Nibiru, and not just its existence, that is bound to shake existing political, religious, social, economic, and military orders on Earth. What will the repercussions be when—not if—Nibiru is found?

It is a question, believe it or not, that is already being pondered.

GOLD MINING—HOW LONG AGO?

Is there evidence that mining took place, in southern Africa, during the Old Stone Age? Archaeological studies indicate that it indeed was so.

Realizing that sites of abandoned ancient mines may  in- dicate where gold could be found, South Africa’s leading mining  corporation,  the  Anglo-American   Corporation,   in the 1970s engaged archaeologists to look for such ancient mines. Published reports (in the corporation’s journal  Op- tima) detail the discovery in Swaziland and other  sites  in South Africa of extensive mining areas with shafts to depths of fifty feet. Stone objects and charcoal remains  established dates of 35,000, 46,000, and  60,000  B.C.  for  these  sites. The archaeologists and anthropologists  who  joined  in  dating the finds believed that mining technology was used in south- ern Africa “during much of the period subsequent to 100,000 B.C.”

In September 1988, a team of international physicists came to South Africa to verify the age of human habitats in Swaziland and Zululand. The most modern techniques indicated an age of 80,000 to 115,000 years.

Regarding the most ancient gold mines of Monotapa in southern Zimbabwe, Zulu legends hold that they were worked by “artificially produced flesh and blood slaves created by the First People.” These slaves, the Zulu legends recount, “went into battle with the Ape-Man”  when  “the great war star appeared in the sky” (see  Indaba  My  Chil- dren, by the Zulu medicine man Credo  Vusamazulu  Mu- twa).

2

IT CAME FROM OUTER SPACE

“It was Voyager [project] that focused our attention on the importance of collisions,” acknowledged Edward Stone of the California Institute of Technology (Caltech), the chief scientist of the Voyager program. “The cosmic crashes were potent sculptors of the Solar System.”

The Sumerians made clear, 6,000 years earlier, the  very same fact. Central to their cosmogony, world view, and religion was a cataclysmic event that they called the Celestial Battle.

It was an event to which references were made in miscellaneous Sumerian texts, hymns, and proverbs—just as we find in the Bible’s books of Psalms, Proverbs, Job, and  various  others. But the Sumerians also described the event in detail, step by step, in a long text that required seven tablets. Of its Sumerian original  only  fragments  and  quotations  have  been  found;  the mostly complete text has reached us in the Akkadian language, the language of the Assyrians and Babylonians who followed the Sumerians in Mesopotamia. The text deals with the formation of the Solar System prior to the Celestial Battle and even more so with the nature, causes, and results of that awe- some  collision.  And,  with  a  single  cosmogonic  premise,  it explains puzzles that still baffle our astronomers and astro- physicists.

Even more important, whenever these modern scientists have come upon a satisfactory answer—it fits and corroborates the Sumerian one!

Until the Voyager discoveries, the prevailing scientific view point considered the Solar System as we see it today as the way it had taken shape soon after its beginning, formed by immutable laws of celestial motion and the force of gravity. There have been oddballs, to be sure—meteorites that come from somewhere and collide with the stable members of the Solar System, pockmarking them with craters, and comets that zoom about in greatly elongated orbits, appearing from some- where and disappearing, it seems, to nowhere. But these examples of cosmic debris, it has been assumed, go back to the very beginning of the Solar System, some 4.5 billion years ago, and are pieces of planetary matter that failed to be incorporated into the planets or their moons and rings. A little more baffling has been the asteroid belt, a band of rocks that forms an orbiting chain between Mars and Jupiter. According to Bode’s law, an empirical rule that explains why the planets formed where they did, there should have been a planet, at least twice the size of Earth, between Mars and Jupiter. Is the orbiting debris of the asteroid belt the remains of such a planet? The affirmative answer is plagued by two problems: the total amount of matter in the asteroid belt does not add up to the mass of such a planet, and there is no plausible explanation for what might have caused the breakup of such a hypothetical

Figure 7

celestial collision—when, with what, and why? The scientists had no answer.

The realization that there had to be one or more major col- lisions that changed the Solar System from its initial form became inescapable after the Uranus flyby in 1986, as Dr. Stone has admitted. That Uranus was lilted on its side was already known from telescopic and other instrumental obser- vations even before the Voyager encounter. But was it formed that way from the very beginning, or did some external force— a forceful collision or encounter with another major celestial body—bring about the tilting?

The answer had to be provided by the closeup examination of the moons of Uranus by Voyager 2. The fact that these moons swirl around the equator of Uranus in its tilted position—forming, all together, a kind of bull’s-eye facing the Sun (Fig. 7)—made scientists wonder whether these moons were there at the time of the tilting event, or whether they formed after the event, perhaps from matter thrown out by the force of the collision that tilted Uranus.

The theoretical basis for the answer was enunciated, prior to the encounter with Uranus, among others by Dr. Christian Veillet of the French Centre d’Etudes et des Recherches Geo- dynamiques. If the moons formed at the same time as Uranus, the celestial “raw material” from which they agglomerated should have condensed the heavier matter nearer  the  planet; there should be more of heavier, rocky material and thinner

ice coats on the inner moons and a lighter combination of materials (more water ice, less rocks) on the outer moons. By the same principle of the distribution of material in the Solar System—a larger proportion of heavier matter nearer the Sun, more of the lighter matter (in a “gaseous” state) farther out— the moons of the more distant Uranus should be proportionately lighter than those of the nearer Saturn.

But  the  findings  revealed  a  situation  contrary to  these  expectations. In the comprehensive summary reports on the Uranus encounter, published in Science, July 4, 1986, a team of forty  scientists  concluded  that  the  densities  of  the  Uranus moons (except for that of the moon Miranda)’ ‘are significantly heavier than those of the icy satellites of Saturn.” Likewise, the Voyager 2 data showed—again contrary to what “should have been”—that the two larger inner moons of Uranus, Ariel and Umbriel, are lighter in composition (thick, icy layers; small, rocky cores) than the outer moons Titania and Oberon, which were discovered to be made mostly of heavy rocky material and had only thin coats of ice.

These findings by Voyager 2 were not the only clues sug- gesting that the moons of Uranus were not formed at the same time as the planet itself but rather some lime later, in unusual circumstances. Another discovery that puzzled the  scientists was that the rings of Uranus were pitch-black, “blacker than coal dust,” presumably composed of “carbon-rich material, a sort of primordial tar scavenged from outer space” (the em- phasis is mine). These dark rings, warped, tilted, and “bi- zarrely elliptical,” were quite unlike the symmetrical bracelets of icy particles circling Saturn. Pitch-black also were six of the new moonlets discovered at Uranus, some acting as “shepherds” for the rings. The obvious conclusion was that the rings and moonlets were formed from the debris of a “violent event in Uranus’s past.” Assistant project scientist at JPL Ellis Miner stated it in simpler words: “A likely possibility is that an interloper from outside the Uranus system came in and struck a once larger moon sufficiently hard to have fractured it.”

The theory of a catastrophic celestial collision as the event that could explain all the odd phenomena on Uranus and its moons and rings was further strengthened by the discovery that the boulder-size black debris that forms the Uranus rings circles the planet once every eight hours—a speed that is twice the speed of the planet’s own revolution around its axis. This raises the question, how was this much-higher speed imparted to the debris in the rings?

Based on all the preceding data, the probability of a celestial collision emerged as the only plausible answer. “We must take into account the strong possibility that satellite formation con- ditions were affected by the event that created Uranus’s large obliquity,” the forty-strong team of scientists stated. In simpler words, it means that in all probability the moons in question were created as a result of the collision that knocked Uranus on its side. In press conferences the NASA scientists were more audacious. “A collision with something the size of Earth, traveling at about 40,000 miles per hour, could have done it,”they said, speculating that it probably happened about four billion years ago.

Astronomer Garry Hunt of the Imperial College, London, summed it up in seven words: “Uranus took an almighty bang early on.”

But neither in the verbal briefings nor in the long written reports was an attempt made to suggest what the “something” was, where it had come from, and how it happened to collide with, or bang into, Uranus.

For those answers, we will have to go back to the Sumerians… .

Before we turn from knowledge acquired in the late 1970s and 1980s to what was known 6,000 years earlier, one more aspect of the puzzle should be looked into: Are the oddities at Neptune the result of collisions, or ‘ ‘bangs,” unrelated to those of Uranus—or were they all the result of a single catastrophic event that affected all the outer planets?

Before the Voyager 2 flyby of Neptune, the planet was known to have only two satellites, Nereid and Triton. Nereid was found to have a peculiar orbit: it was unusually tilted compared  with  the  planet’s  equatorial  plane  (as  much  as  28 degrees) and was very eccentric—orbiting the planet not in a near-circular path but in a very elongated one, which takes the moon as far as six million miles from Neptune and as close as one million miles to the planet. Nereid, although of a size that by planetary-formation rules should be spherical, has an odd shape like that of a twisted doughnut. It also is bright on one side and pitch-black on the other. All these peculiarities have led Martha W. Schaefer and Bradley E. Schaefer, in a major study on the subject published in Nature magazine (June 2, 1987) to conclude that “Nereid accreted into a moon around Neptune or another planet and that both it and Triton were knocked  into  their  peculiar  orbits  by  some  large  body  or planet.” “Imagine,” Brad Schaefer noted, “that at one time Neptune had an ordinary satellite system like that of Jupiter or Saturn; then some massive body comes into the system and perturbs things a lot.”

The dark material that shows up on one side of Nereid could be explained in one of two ways—but both require a collision in the scenario. Either an impact on one side of the satellite swept off an existing darker layer there, uncovering lighter material below the surface, or the dark matter belonged to the impacting body and “went splat on one side of Nereid.” That the latter possibility is the more plausible is suggested by the discovery, announced by the JPL team on August 29, 1989, that all the new satellites (six more) found by Voyager 2 at Neptune “are very dark” and “all have  irregular  shapes,” even the moon designated 1989N1, whose size normally would have made it spherical.

The theories regarding Triton and its elongated and retro- grade (clockwise) orbit around Neptune also call for a collision event.

Writing in the highly prestigious magazine Science on the eve of the Voyager 2 encounter with Neptune, a team of Caltech scientists  (P.  Goldberg,  N.  Murray.  P.  Y.  Longaretti,  and  D. Banfield)  postulated  that  “Triton  was  captured  from  a  heliocentric orbit”—from an orbit around the Sun—”as a result of a collision with what was then one of Neptune’s regular satellites.” In this scenario the original small Neptune satellite “would have been devoured by Triton,” but the force of the collision would have been such that it dissipated enough of Triton’s orbital energy to slow it down and be captured by Neptune’s  gravity.  Another theory,  according to  which Triton was an original satellite of Neptune, was shown by this study to be faulty and unable to withstand critical analysis.

The data collected by Voyager 2 from the actual flyby of Triton supported this theoretical conclusion. It also was in accord with other studies (as by David Stevenson of Caltech) that  showed  that  Triton’s  internal  heat  and  surface  features could be explained only in terms of a collision in which Triton was captured into orbit around Neptune.

“Where did these impacting bodies come from?”  rhetori- cally asked Gene Shoemaker, one of NASA’s scientists, on the NOVA television program. But the question was left with- out an answer. Unanswered too was the question of whether the cataclysms at Uranus and Neptune were aspects of a single event or were unconnected incidents.

It is not ironic but gratifying to find that the answers to all these puzzles were provided by the ancient Sumerian texts.

and that all the data discovered or confirmed by the Voyager flights uphold and corroborate the Sumerian information and my presentation and interpretation thereof in The 12th Planet. The Sumerian texts speak of a single but comprehensive event. Their texts explain more than what modern astronomers have been trying to explain regarding the outer planets. The ancient texts also explain matters closer to home, such as the origin of the Earth and its Moon, of the Asteroid Belt and the comets. The texts then go on to relate a tale that combines the credo of the Creationists with the theory of Evolution, a tale that offers a more successful explanation than either mod- ern conception of what happened on Earth and how Man and his civilization came about.

It all began, the Sumerian texts relate, when the Solar System was still young. The Sun (APSU in the Sumerian texts, mean- ing “One Who Exists from the Beginning”), its little com- panion MUM. MU (” One Who Was Born,” our Mercury) and farther away TI.AMAT (“Maiden of Life”) were the first members of the Solar System; it gradually expanded by the “birth” of three planetary pairs, the planets we call Venus and Mars between Mummu and Tiamat, the giant pair Jupiter and Saturn (to use their modern names) beyond Tiamat, and Uranus and Neptune farther out (Fig. 8).

Into this original Solar System, still unstable soon after its formation (I estimated the time about four billion years ago), an  Invader  appeared.  The  Sumerians  called  it  NIBIRU;  the Babylonians renamed it Marduk in honor of their national god. It appeared from outer space, from “the Deep,” in the words of the ancient text. But as it approached the outer planets of our Solar System, it began to be drawn into it. As expected, the first outer planet to attract Nibiru with its gravitational pull was  Neptune—E.A  (“He  Whose  House  Is  Water”)  in  Sumerian. “He who begot him was Ea,” the ancient text explained.

Nibiru/Marduk itself was a sight to behold; alluring, spar- kling, lofty, lordly are some of the adjectives used to describe it. Sparks and flashes bolted from it to Neptune and Uranus as it passed near them. It might have arrived with its own satellites already orbiting it, or it might have acquired some as a result

Figure 8

of the gravitational pull of the outer planets. The ancient text speaks of its “perfect members. . .difficult to  perceive”— “four were his eyes, four were his ears.”

As  it  passed  near  Ea/Neptune,  Nibiru/Marduk’s  side  began to bulge “as though he had a second head.” Was it then that the bulge was torn away to become Neptune’s moon Tri- ton? One aspect thai speaks strongly for this is the fact that Nibiru/Marduk entered the Solar System in a retrograde (clock- wise) orbit, counter to that of the other planets (Fig. 9). Only

Figure 9

this Sumerian detail, according to which the invading planet was moving counter to the orbital motion of all the other planets, can explain the retrograde motion of Triton, the highly elliptical orbits of other satellites and comets, and the other major events that we have yet to tackle.

More satellites were created as Nibiru/Marduk passed by Anu/Uranus. Describing this passing of Uranus, the text states that “Anu brought forth and begot the four winds”—as clear a reference as one could hope for to the four major moons of Uranus that were formed, we now know, only during the col- lision that tilted Uranus. At the same time we learn from a later passage in the ancient text that Nibiru/Marduk himself gained three satellites as a result of this encounter.

Although the Sumerian texts describe how, after its eventual capture into solar orbit, Nibiru/Marduk revisited the outer planets and eventually shaped them into the system as we know it today, the very first encounter already explains the various puzzles that modern astronomy faced or still faces regarding Neptune, Uranus, their moons, and their rings.

Past Neptune and Uranus, Nibiru/Marduk was drawn even more into the midst of the planetary system as it reached the immense gravitational pulls of Saturn (AN.SHAR, “Foremost of the Heavens”) and Jupiter (KI.SHAR, “Foremost of the Firm Lands”). As Nibiru/Marduk “approached and stood as

though in combat” near Anshar/Saturn, the two planets “kissed their lips.” It was then that the “destiny,” the orbital path, of Nibiru/Marduk was changed forever. It was also then that the chief satellite of Saturn, GA.GA (the eventual Pluto), was pulled away in the direction of Mars and Venus—a di- rection possible only by the retrograde force of Nibiru/Marduk. Making a vast elliptical orbit, Gaga eventually returned to the outermost reaches of the Solar System. There it “addressed” Neptune and Uranus as it passed their orbits on the swing back. It was the beginning of the process by which Gaga was to become our Pluto, with its inclined and peculiar orbit that sometimes takes it between Neptune and Uranus.

The new “destiny,” or orbital path, of Nibiru/Marduk was now irrevocably set toward the olden planet Tiamat. At that time, relatively early in the formation of the Solar System, it was marked by instability, especially (we learn from the text) in the region of Tiamat. While other planets nearby were still wobbling in their orbits, Tiamat was pulled in many directions by the two giants beyond her and the two smaller planets between her and the Sun. One result was the tearing off her, or the gathering around her, of a “host” of satellites “furious with rage,” in the poetic language of the text (named by schol- ars the Epic of Creation). These satellites, “roaring monsters,” were “clothed with terror” and “crowned with halos,” swirl- ing furiously about and orbiting as though they were “celestial gods”—planets.

Most dangerous to the stability or safety of the other planets was Tiamat’s “leader of the host,” a large satellite that grew to almost planetary size and was about to attain its independent “destiny”—its own orbit around the Sun. Tiamat “cast a spell for him, to sit among the celestial gods she exalted him.” It was called in Sumerian KIN.GU—”Great Emissary.”

Now the text raised the curtain on the unfolding drama; I have recounted it, step by step, in The 12th Planet. As in a Greek tragedy, the ensuing “celestial battle” was unavoidable as gravitational and magnetic forces came inexorably into play, leading to the collision between the oncoming Nibiru/Marduk with  its  seven  satellites  (“winds”  in  the  ancient  text)  and

Tiamat and its “host” of eleven satellites headed by Kingu.

Although  they  were  headed  on  a  collision  course,  Tiamat orbiting counterclockwise and Nibiru/Marduk clockwise, the

Figure 10

two planets did not collide—a fact of cardinal astronomical importance. It was the satellites, or “winds,” (literal Sumerian meaning: “Those that are by the side”) of Nibiru/Marduk that smashed into Tiatnat and collided with her satellites.

In the first such encounter (Fig. 10), the first phase of the Celestial Battle,

The four winds he stationed that nothing of her could escape: 

The South Wind, the North Wind, the East Wind, the West Wind. 
Close to his side he held the net,the gift of his grandfather Anu who brought forth the Evil Wind, the Whirlwind and the Hurricane. . . .
He sent forth the winds which he had created, the seven of them; to trouble Tiamat within they rose up behind him.

These “winds,” or satellites, of Nibiru/Marduk, “the seven of them,” were the principal “weapons” with which Tiamat was attacked in the first phase of the Celestial Battle (Fig. 10). But the invading planet had other “weapons” too:

In front of him he set the lightning, with a blazing flame he filled his body;

He then made a net to enfold Tiamat therein. . . .

A fearsome halo his head was turbaned.

He was wrapped with awesome terror as with a cloak.

As the two planets and their hosts of satellites came close enough for Nibiru/Marduk to “scan the inside of Tiamat” and ‘ ‘perceive the scheme of Kingu,” Nibiru/ Marduk attacked Tia- mat with his “net” (magnetic field?) to “enfold her,” shooting at the old planet immense bolts of electricity (“divine light- nings”). Tiamat “was filled with brilliance”—slowing down, heating up, “becoming distended.” Wide gaps opened in its crust, perhaps emitting steam and volcanic matter. Into one widening fissure Nibiru/Marduk thrust one of its main satel- lites, the one called “Evil Wind.” It tore Tiamat’s “belly, cut through her insides, splitting her heart.”

Besides splitting up Tiamat and “extinguishing her life,” the first encounter sealed the fate of the moonlets orbiting her— all except the planetlike Kingu. Caught in the “net”—the magnetic and gravitational pull—of Nibiru/Marduk, “shat- tered, broken up,” the members of the “band of Tiamat” were thrown off their previous course and forced into new orbital paths in the opposite direction: “Trembling with fear, they turned their backs about.”

Thus were the comets created—thus, we learn from a 6,000- year-old text, did the comets obtain their greatly elliptical and retrograde orbits. As to Kingu, Tiamat’s principal satellite, the text informs us that in that first phase of the celestial collision

Kingu was just deprived of its almost-independent orbit. Nibiru/Marduk took away from him his “destiny.” Ni- biru/Marduk made Kingu into a DUG.GA.E, “a mass of lifeless clay,” devoid of atmosphere, waters and radioactive matter and shrunken in size; and “with fetters bound him,” to remain in orbit around the battered Tiamal.

Having vanquished Tiamat, Nibiru/Marduk sailed on on his new “destiny.” The Sumerian text leaves no doubt that the erstwhile invader orbited the Sun:

He crossed the heavens and surveyed the regions, and Apsu's quarter he measured;

The Lord the dimensions of the Apsu measured.

Having circled the Sun (Apsu),  Nibiru/Marduk  continued into distant space. But now, caught forever in solar orbit, it had to turn back. On his return round, Ea/Neptune was there to greet him and Anshar/Saturn hailed his victory. Then his new orbital path returned him to the scene of the Celestial Battle, “turned back to Tiamat whom he had bound.”

The Lord paused to view her lifeless body. To divide the monster he then artfully planned. Then, as a mussel, he split her into two parts.

With this act the creation of “the heaven” reached its final stage, and the creation of Earth and its Moon began. First the new impacts broke Tiamat into two halves. The upper part, her “skull,” was struck by the Nibiru/Marduk satellite called North Wind; the blow carried it, and with it Kingu, “to places that have been unknown”—to a brand-new orbit where there had not been a planet before. The Earth and our Moon were created (Fig. 11)!

The other half of Tiamat was smashed by the impacts into bits and pieces. This lower half, her “tail,” was “hammered together” to become a “bracelet” in the heavens:

Locking the pieces together,as watchmen he stationed them. . . .
He bent Tiamat's tail to form the Great Band as a bracelet.

Thus was “the Great Band,” the Asteroid Belt, created. Having disposed of Tiamat and Kingu, Nibiru/Marduk once

Figur e I I

again “crossed the heavens and surveyed the regions.”

This time his attention was focused on the “Dwelling of Ea” (Nep- tune), giving that planet and its twinlike Uranus their final makeup. Nibiru/Marduk also, according to the ancient text, provided Gaga/Pluto with its final “destiny,” assigning to it “a hidden place”—a hitherto unknown part of the heavens.

It was farther out than Neptune’s location; it was, we are told, “in the Deep”—far out in space. In line with its new position as the outermost planet, it was granted a new name: US.MI— “He Who Shows the Way,” the first planet encountered com- ing into the Solar System—that is, from outer space toward the Sun.

Thus was Pluto created and put into the orbit it now holds. Having thus “constructed the stations” for the planets, Ni-

Figure 12

Figure 13

biru/Marduk made two “abodes” for itself. One was in the “Firmament,” as the asteroid belt was also called in the ancient texts; the other far out “in the Deep” was called the “Great/Distant Abode,” alias E.SHARRA (“Abode/Home  of the Ruler/Prince”).

Modern astronomers call these two pla- netary positions the perigee (the orbital point nearest the Sun) and the apogee (the farthest one) (Fig. 12). It is an orbit, as concluded from the evidence amassed in The 12th Planet, that takes 3,600 Earth-years to complete.

Thus did the Invader that came from outer space become the twelfth member of the Solar System, a system made up of the Sun in the center, with its longtime companion Mercury; the  three  olden  pairs  (Venus  and  Mars,  Jupiter  and  Saturn, Uranus and Neptune); the Earth and the Moon, the remains of the  great  Tiamat,  though  in  a  new  position;  the  newly independent Pluto; and the planet that put it all into final shape, Nibiru/Marduk (Fig. 13).

Modern  astronomy and  recent  discoveries  uphold  and  corroborate this millennia-old tale.

WHEN EARTH HAD NOT BEEN FORMED

In 1766 J. D. Titius proposed and in 1772 Johann Elert Bode popularized what became known  as  “Bode’s  law,”  which showed that planetary distances follow, more or less, the pro- gression 0, 2, 4, 8, 16, etc., if the formula is manipulated by multiplying by 3, adding 4, and dividing by 10. Using as a measure the astronomical unit (AU), which is the  distance  of Earth from the Sun, the formula indicates that there should be a planet between Mars and Jupiter (the asteroids  are  found there) and a planet beyond  Saturn  (Uranus  was  discovered). The formula shows tolerable deviations up until one reaches Uranus    but    gets    out    of    whack    from    Neptune    on.

Bode’s law, which was arrived at empirically, thus uses Earth as its arithmetic starting point. But according to the Sumerian cosmogony, at the beginning there  was  Tiamat  between  Mars and Jupiter, whereas Earth had not yet formed.

Dr. Amnon Sitchin has pointed out that if Bode’s law is stripped of its arithmetical devices and only the geometric progression is retained, the formula works just as well if Earth is omitted—thus confirming Sumerian cosmogony:

3

IN THE BEGINNING

In the beginning
God created the heaven and the earth.
And the earth was without form and void
and darkness was upon the face of the deep,
And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.
And God said. Let there be light; and there was light.

For generations this majestic outline of the manner in which our world was created has been at the core of Judaism as well as of Christianity and the third monotheistic religion Islam, the latter two being outgrowths of the first. In the seventeenth century Archbishop James Ussher of Armagh in Ireland cal- culated from these opening verses of Genesis the precise day and even the moment of the world’s creation, in the year 4004 B.C. Many old editions of the Bible still carry Ussher’s chro- nology printed in the margins; many still believe that Earth and the Solar System of which it is a part are indeed no older than that. Unfortunately, this belief,  known  as  Creationism, has taken on science as its adversary; and science, firmly wed to the Theory of Evolution, has met the challenge and joined the battle.

It is regrettable that both sides pay little heed to what has been known for more than a century—that the creation tales of Genesis are edited and abbreviated versions of much more detailed Mesopotamian texts, which were in turn versions of an original Sumerian text.

The battle lines between the Creationists and  Evolutionists—a  totally  unwarranted  demarcation, as the evidence herewith presented will  show—are  undoubtedly more sharply etched by the principle of the separation between religion and state that is embodied in the U.S. Constitution. But such a separation is not the norm among the Earth’s nations (even in enlightened democracies such as En- gland), nor was it the norm in antiquity, when the biblical verses were written down.

indeed, in ancient times the king was also the high priest, the state had a national religion and a national god, the temples were the seat of scientific knowledge, and the priests were the savants. This was so because when civilization began, the gods who were worshipped—the focus of the act of being “reli- gious”—were none other than the Anunnaki/Nefilim, who were the source of all manner of knowledge, alias science, on Earth.

The merging of state, religion, and science was nowhere more complete than in Babylon. There the original Sumerian Epic of Creation was translated and revised so that Marduk, the Babylonian national god, was assigned a celestial coun- terpart. By renaming Nibiru “Marduk” in the Babylonian ver- sions of the creation story, the Babylonians usurped for Marduk the attributes of a supreme “God of Heaven and Earth.” This version—the most intact one found so far—is known as Enuma elish (“When in the heights”), taken from its opening words. It became the most hallowed religious-political-scientific document of the land; it was read as a central part of the New Year rituals, and players reenacted the tale in passion plays to bring its import home to the masses. The clay tablets (Fig. 14) on which they were written were prized possessions of temples and royal libraries in antiquity.

The decipherment of the writing on the clay tablets discovered in the ruins of ancient Mesopotamia more than a century ago led to the realization that texts existed that related biblical creation tales millennia before the Old Testament was com- piled. Especially important were texts found in the library of the Assyrian king Ashurbanipal in Nineveh (a city of biblical renown); they recorded a tale of creation that matches, in some parts word for word, the tale of Genesis. George Smith of the British Museum pieced together the broken tablets that held the creation texts and published, in 1876, The Chaldean Genesis, it conclusively established that there indeed existed an Akkadian text of the Genesis tale, written in the Old Babylonian dialect, that preceded the biblical text by at least a thousand years. Excavations between 1902 and 1914 uncovered tablets

with the Assyrian version of the creation epic, in which the name of Ashur, the Assyrian national god, was substituted for that of the Babylonian Marduk. Subsequent discoveries estab- lished not only the extent of the copying and translation, in antiquity, of this epic text, but also its unmistakable Sumerian origin.

It was L. W. King who, in 1902, in his work The Seven Tablets of Creation, showed that the various fragments add up to seven tablets; six of them relate the creation process; the seventh tablet is entirely devoted to the exaltation of “the Lord” — Marduk in the Babylonian version, Ashur in the Assyrian one. One can only guess that this seven-tablet division somehow is the basis of the division of the biblical story into a seven-part timetable, of which six parts involve divine handiwork and the seventh is devoted to a restful and satisfactory look back at what had been achieved.

It is true that the Book of Genesis, written in Hebrew, uses the term yom, commonly meaning and translated as “day,” to denote each phase. Once, as a guest on a radio talk show in a “Bible Belt” city, I was challenged by a woman who called in about this very point. I explained that by “day” the ible does not mean our term of twenty-four hours on Earth but rather conveys the concept of a phase in the process of creation. No, she insisted, that is exactly what the Bible means: twenty-four hours. I then pointed out to her that the text of the first chapter of Genesis deals not with a human timetable but with that of the Creator, and we are told in the Book of Psalms (90:4) that in God’s eyes “a thousand years are like yester- day.” Would she concede, at least, that Creation might have taken six thousand years? I asked. To my disappointment, there was no  concession.  Six  days  means  six  days,  she  insisted. Is the biblical tale of creation a religious document, its con- tents to be considered only a matter of faith to be believed or disbelieved; or it is a scientific document, imparting to us essential knowledge of how things began, in the heavens and on Earth? This, of course, is the core of the ongoing argument between Creationists and Evolutionists. The two camps would have laid down their arms long ago were they to realize that what the editors and compilers of the Book of Genesis had done was no different from what the Babylonians had done: using the only scientific source of their time, those descendants of Abraham—scion of a royal-priestly family from the Su- merian capital Ur—also took the Epic of Creation, shortened and edited it, and made it the foundation of a national religion glorifying Yahweh “who is in the Heavens and on Earth.”

In Babylon, Marduk was a dual deity. Physically present, resplendent in his precious garments (Fig. 15), he was wor- shipped as Ilu (translated “god” but literally meaning “the Lofty One”); his struggle to gain supremacy over the other Anunnaki gods has been detailed in my book The Wars of Gods and Men. On the other hand, “Marduk” was a celestial deity.

Figure 15

a planetary god, who in the heavens assumed the attributes, role, and credit for the primordial creations that the Sumerians had attributed to Nibiru, the planet whose most frequent symbolic depiction was that of a winged disc (Fig. 16). The Assyrians, replacing Marduk with their national god Ashur, combined the two aspects and depicted Ashur as a god within the winged disc (Fig. 17).

The Hebrews followed suit but, preaching monotheism and recognizing—based on Sumerian scientific knowledge—the universality of God, ingeniously solved the problem of duality and of the multitude of Anunnaki deities involved in the events on Earth by concocting a singular-but-plural entity, not an El (the Hebrew equivalent of Ilu) but Elohim—a Creator who is plural (literally “Gods”) and yet One.

This departure from the Babylonian and Assyrian religious viewpoint can be explained only by a realization that the Hebrews were aware that the deity who could speak to Abraham and Moses and the celestial Lord whom the Sumerians called Nibiru were not one and the same scientifically, although all were part of a universal, ev-

crlasting, and omnipresent God—Elohim—-in whose grand de- sign for the universe the path of each planet is its predetermined “destiny,” and what the Anunnaki had done on Earth was likewise a predetermined mission. Thus was the handiwork of a universal God manifest in Heaven and on Earth.

These profound perceptions, which lie at the core of the biblical adoption of the creation story, Enuma elish, could be arrived at only by bringing together religion and science while retaining, in the narrative and sequence of events, the scientific basis.

But  to  recognize  this—that  Genesis  represents  not  just  religion  but  also  science—one  must  recognize  the  role  of  the aunnaki and accept that the Sumerian texts are not “myth” but factual reports. Scholars have made much progress in this respect, but they have not yet arrived at a total recognition of the factual nature of the texts. Although both scientists and theologians are by now well aware of the Mesopotamian origin of Genesis, they remain stubborn in brushing off the scientific value of these ancient texts. It cannot be science, they hold, because “it should be obvious by the nature of things that none of these stories can possibly be the product of human memory” (to quote N. M. Sama of the Jewish Theological Seminary in Understanding Genesis). Such a statement can be  challenged only by explaining, as I have repeatedly done in my writings, that the information of how things began—including how Man himself was created—indeed did not come from the memory of  the  Assyrians  or  Babylonians  or  Sumerians  but  from  the knowledge and science of the Anunnaki/Nefilim. They too, of course, could not “remember”1 how the Solar System was created or how Nibiru/Marduk invaded the Solar System, be- cause they themselves were not yet created on their planet. But just as our scientists have a good notion of how the Solar System came about and even how the whole universe came into being (the favorite theory is that of the Big Bang), the Anunnaki/Nefilim, capable of space travel 450,000 years ago, surely had the capacity to arrive at sensible scenarios of cre- ation; much more so since their planet, acting as a spacecraft that sailed past all the outer planets, gave them a chance at repeated close looks that were undoubtedly more extensive than our Voyager “peeks.”

Several updated studies of the Enumu elish, such as The Babylonian Genesis by Alexander Heidel of the Oriental In- stitute, University of Chicago, have dwelt on the parallels in theme and structure between the Mesopotamian and biblical narratives. Both indeed begin with the statement that the tale takes its reader (or listener, as in Babylon) to the primordial time when the Earth and “the heavens” did not yet exist. But whereas the Sumerian cosmogony dealt with the creation of the Solar System and only then set the stage for the appearance of the celestial Lord (Nibiru/Marduk), the biblical version skipped all that and went directly to the Celestial Battle and its aftermath.

With the immensity of space as its canvas, here is how the Mesopotamian version began to draw the primordial picture:

When in the heights Heaven had not been named And below earth had not been called,
Naught but primordial Apsu, their Begetter,
Mummu, and Tiamat, she who bore them all.
Their waters were mingled together.
No reed had yet been formed,
No marshland had appeared.

Even in the traditional King James version, the biblical open- ing is more matter-of-fact, not an inspirational religious opus but a lesson in primordial science, informing the reader that there indeed was a time when Heaven and the Earth did not yet exist, and that it took an act of the Celestial Lord, his “spirit” moving upon the “waters.” to bring Heaven and Earth about with a bolt of light.

The progress in biblical and linguistic studies since the time of King James has moved the editors of both the Catholic The New American Bible and The New English Bible of the churches in Great Britain to substitute the word “wind”—which is what the Hebrew ru’ach means—for the “Spirit of God,” so that the last verse now reads “a mighty wind swept over the waters.” They retain, however, the concept of “abyss” for the Hebrew word Tehom in the original Bible; but by now even theologians acknowledge that the reference is to no other entity than the Sumerian Tiamat.

With this understanding, the reference in the Mesopotamian version to the mingling “waters” of Tiamat ceases to be al- legorical and calls for a factual evaluation. It goes to the ques- tion of the plentiful waters of Earth and the biblical assertion (correct, as we shall soon realize) that when the Earth was formed it was completely covered by water. If water was so abundant even at the moment of Earth’s creation, then only if Tiamat was also a watery planet could the half that became Earth be watery!

The watery nature of Tehom/Tiamat is mentioned in various biblical references. The prophet Isaiah (51:10) recalled “the primeval days” when the might  of  the  Lord  “carved the Haughty One, made spin the watery monster, drained off the waters of the mighty Tehom.” The psalmist extolled the Lord of Beginnings who “by thy might the waters thou didst disperse, the leader of the watery monsters thou didst break up.”

What was the “wind” of the Lord that “moved upon the face of the waters” of Tehom/Tiamat? Not the divine “Spirit” but the satellite of Nibiru/Marduk that, in the Mesopotamian texts, was called by that term! Those texts vividly described the flashes and lightning strokes that burst off Nibiru/Marduk as it closed in on Tiamat. Applying this knowledge to the biblical text, its correct reading emerges:

When, in the beginning,
The Lord created the Heaven and the Earth,
The Earth, not yet formed, was in the void,
and there was darkness upon Tiamat.
Then the Wind of the Lord swept upon its waters
and the Lord commanded, "Let there be lightning!"
and there was a bright light.

The continuing narrative of Genesis does not describe the ensuing splitting up of Tiamat or the breakup of her host of satellites, described so vividly in the Mesopotamian texts. It is evident, however, from the above-quoted verses from Isaiah and Psalms, as well as from the narrative in Job (26:7-13), that the Hebrews were familiar with the skipped-over portions of the original tale. Job recalled how the celestial Lord smote “the helpers of the Haughty One,” and he exalted the Lord who, having come from the outer reaches of space, cleaved Tiamat (Tehom) and changed the Solar System:

The hammered canopy He stretched out in the place of Tehom,
The Earth suspended in the void; He penned waters in its denseness,
without any cloud bursting. . . .
His powers the waters did arrest,
His energy the Haughty One did cleave.
His wind the Hammered Bracelet measured out,
His hand the twisting dragon did extinguish.

The Mesopotamian texts continued from here to describe how Nibiru/Marduk formed the asteroid belt out of Tiamat’s lower half:

The other half of her
he set up as a screen for the skies;
Locking them together
as watchmen he stationed them. . . .
He bent Tiamat's tail
to form the Great Band as a bracelet.

Genesis picks up the primordial tale here and describes the forming of the asteroid belt thus:

And Elohim said:
Let there be a firmament in the midst of the waters and let it divide the waters from the waters.
And Elohim made the Firmament,
dividing the waters which are under the Firmament
from the waters which are above the Firmament.
And Elohim called the Firmament "Heaven."

Realizing that the Hebrew word Shama’im is used to speak of Heaven or the heavens in general, the editors of Genesis went into some length to use two terms for “the Heaven” created as a result of the destruction of Tiamat. What separated the “upper waters” from the “lower waters.” the Genesis text stresses, was  the  Raki’a;  generally  translated  “Firmament,” it literally means “Hammered-out Bracelet.” Then Genesis goes on to explain that Elohim then called the Raki’a, the so- called Firmament, Shama’im, “the Heaven”—a name that in its first use in the Bible consists of the two words sham and ma’im, meaning literally “where the waters were.” In the creation tale of Genesis, “the Heaven” was a specific celestial location, where Tiamat and her waters had been, where the asteroid belt was hammered out.

That happened, according to the Mesopotamian texts, when Nibiru/Marduk returned to the Place of Crossing—the second phase of the battle with Tiamat: “Day Two,” if you wish, as the biblical narrative does.

The ancient tale is replete with details, each of which is amazing by itself. Ancient awareness of them is so incredible that its only plausible explanation is the one offered by the Sumerians themselves—namely, that those who had come to Earth from Nibiru were the source of that knowledge. Modern astronomy has already corroborated many of these details; by doing so, it indirectly confirms the key assertions of the ancient cosmogony and astronomy: the Celestial Battle that resulted in the breakup of Tiamat, the creation of Earth and the asteroid belt, and the capture of Nibiru/Marduk into permanent orbit around our Sun.

Let us look at one aspect of the ancient tale—the “host” of satellites, or “winds,” that the “celestial gods” had.

We now know that Mars has two moons, Jupiter sixteen moons and several more moonlets, Saturn twenty-one or more, Uranus  as  many as fifteen, Neptune eight.  Until  Galileo  discovered with his telescope the four brightest and largest sat- ellites of Jupiter in 1610, it was unthinkable that a celestial body could have more than one such companion-—evidence Earth and its solitary Moon.

But here we read in the Sumerian texts that as Ni- biru/Marduk’s  gravity interacted with that of Uranus, the Invader “begot” three satellites (“winds”) and Anu/Uranus “brought forth” four such moons. By the time Nibiru/Marduk reached Tiamat, it had a total of seven “winds” with which to attack Tiamat, and Tiamat had a “host” of eleven—among them the “leader of the host,” which was about to become an independently orbiting planet, our eventual Moon.

Another element of the Sumerian tale, of great significance to the ancient astronomers, was the assertion that the debris from the lower half of Tiamat was stretched out in the space where she had once existed.

The Mesopotamian texts, and the biblical version thereof in Genesis, are emphatic and detailed about the formation of the asteroid belt—insisting that such a “bracelet” of debris exists and orbits the Sun between Mars and Jupiter. But our astronomers were not aware of that until the nineteenth century. The first realization that the space between Mars and Jupiter was not just a dark void was the discovery by Giuseppe Piazzi on January 1, 1801, of a small celestial object in the space between the two planets, an object that was named Ceres and that has the distinction of being the first known (and named) asteroid.

Three more asteroids (Pallas, Juno, and Vesta) were discovered by 1807, none after that until 1845, and hundreds since then, so that almost 2,000 are known by now. Astronomers believe that there may be as many as 50,000 asteroids at least a mile in diameter, as well as many more pieces of debris, too small to be seen from Earth, which number in the billions.

In other words, it has taken modern astronomy almost two centuries to find out what the Sumerians knew 6,000 years ago.

Even with this knowledge, the biblical statement that the “Hammered-out Bracelet,” the Shama’im—alias “the Heaven,”  divided  the  “waters  which  are below  the Firmament” from the “waters which are above the Firmament” remained a puzzle. What, in God’s name, was the Bible talking about?

We have known, of course, that Earth was a watery planet, but it has been assumed that it is uniquely so. Many will undoubtedly recall science-fiction tales wherein aliens come to Earth to carry off its unique and life-giving liquid, water. So even if the ancient texts had in mind Tiamat’s, and hence Earth’s, waters, and if this was what was meant by the “water which is below the Firmament,” what water was there to talk about regarding that which is “above the Firmament”?

We know—don’t we?-—that the asteroid belt had, indeed, as the ancient text reported, divided the planets into two groups.

“Below” it are the Terrestrial,  or inner,  Planets;  “above”  it the gaseous, or Outer, Planets. But except for Earth the former had barren surfaces and the latter no surfaces at all, and the long-held conventional wisdom was that neither group (again, excepting Earth) had any water.

Well, as a result of the missions of unmanned spacecraft to all the other planets except Pluto, we now know better. Mercury,  which  was  observed  by  the  spacecraft  Mariner  10  in 1974/75, is too small and too close to the Sun to have retained water, if it ever had any. But Venus, likewise believed to be waterless because of its relative proximity to the Sun, surprised the scientists. It was discovered by unmanned spacecraft, both American and Soviet, that the extremely hot surface of the planet (almost 900 degrees Fahrenheit) was caused not so much by its proximity to the Sun as by a “greenhouse” effect: the planet is enshrouded in a thick atmosphere of carbon dioxide and clouds that contain sulphuric acid. As a result the heat of the Sun is trapped and does not dissipate back into space during the night. This creates an ever-rising temperature that would have vaporized any water that Venus might have had. But did it ever have such water in its past?

The careful analysis of the results of unmanned probes led the scientists to answer emphatically, yes. The topographical features revealed by radar mapping suggested erstwhile oceans and seas. That such bodies of water might have indeed existed on Venus was indicated by the finding that the “hell-like atmosphere,” as some of the scientists termed it, contained traces of water vapor.

Data from two unmanned spacecraft that probed Venus for an extended period after December 1978, Pioneer-Venus I and 2, convinced the team of scientists that analyzed the findings that Venus “may once have been covered by water at an average depth of thirty feet”; Venus, they concluded (Science, May 7, 1982), once had “at least 100 times as much water in liquid form as it does today in the form of vapor.” Subsequent studies have suggested that some of that ancient water was used up in the formation of the suphuric acid clouds, while some of it gave up its oxygen to oxidize the rocky surface of the planet.

“The lost oceans of Venus” can be traced in its rocks; that was the conclusion of a joint report of U.S. and Soviet scientists

Plate C

published in the May 1986 issue of Science. There was indeed water “below the Firmament,” not only on Earth but also on Venus.

The latest scientific discoveries have added Mars to the list of inner planets whose waters corroborate the ancient statement.

At the end of the nineteenth century the existence of enig- matic “canals” on Mars was popularized by the telescopic observations  of  the  Italian  astronomer  Giovanni  Schiaparelli and the American Percival Lowell. This was generally laughed off; and the conviction prevailed that Mars was dry and barren. The first unmanned surveys of Mars, in the 1960s, seemed to confirm the notion that it was a “geologically lifeless planet, like the Moon.” This notion was completely discredited when the  spacecraft  Mariner  9  launched  in  1971,  went  into  orbit around Mars and photographed its entire surface, not just the 10  percent  or  so  surveyed  by  all  the  previous  probes.  The results, in the words of the astronomers managing the project, “were  astounding.”  Mariner  9  revealed  that  volcanoes,  canyons, and dry river beds abound on Mars (Plate C). “Water has  played  an  active  role  in  the  planet’s  evolution,” stated Harold Masursky of the U.S. Geological Survey, who headed the team analyzing the photographs. “The most convincing evidence was found in the many photographs showing deep, winding channels that may have once been fast-flowing streams. … We are forced to no other conclusion but that we are seeing the effects of water on Mars.”

The Mariner 9 findings were confirmed and augmented by the results of the Viking 1 and Viking 2 missions launched five years later; they examined Mars both from orbiters and from landers that descended to the planet’s surface. They showed such features as evidence of several floodings by large quan- tities of water in an area designated Chryse Planitis; channels that once held and were formed by running water coming from the Vallis Marineris area; cyclical meltings of permafrost in the equatorial regions; rocks weathered and eroded by the force of water; and evidence of erstwhile lakes, ponds, and other “water basins.”

Water  vapor  was  found  in  the  thin  Martian  atmosphere;

Charles A. Barth, the principal scientist in charge of Mariner 9’s ultraviolet measurements, estimated that the evaporation amounted to the equivalent of 100,000 gallons of water daily. Norman Horowitz of Caltech reasoned that “large amounts of water in some form have in past eons been introduced to the surface  and  into  the  atmosphere  of  Mars,”  because  that  was required in order to have so much carbon dioxide (90 percent) in the Martian atmosphere. In a report published in 1977 by the American Geographical Union (Journal of Geophysical Research, September 30, 1977) on the scientific results of the Viking project, it was concluded that “a long time ago giant flash floods carved the Martian landscape in a number of places; a volume of water equal to Lake Erie poured . . . scouring great channels.”

The Viking 2 lander reported frost on the ground where it came to rest. The frost was found to consist of a combination of water, water ice, and frozen carbon dioxide (dry ice). The debate about whether the polar ice caps of Mars contain water ice or dry ice was resolved in January 1979 when JPL scientists reported at the 2nd International Colloquium on Mars, held at the California Institute of Technology (Caltech) in Pasadena, that “the north pole consists of water ice,” though not so the south pole.

The final NASA report after the Viking missions (Mars: The Viking Discoveries) concluded that “Mars once had enough water to form a layer several meters deep over the whole surface of the planet.” This was possible, it is now believed, because Mars (like Earth) wobbles slightly as it spins about its axis. This action results in significant climatic changes every 50,000 years. When the planet was warmer it may have had lakes as large as Earth’s Great Lakes in North America and as much as three miles deep. ‘This is an almost inescapable conclu- sion,” stated Michael H. Carr and Jack McCauley of the U.S. Geological Survey in 1985. At two conferences on Mars held in Washington, DC, in July 1986 under the auspices of NASA. Walter Sullivan reported in The New York Times, sci- entists expressed the belief that ‘ ‘there is enough water hidden in the crust of Mars to theoretically flood the entire planet to an average depth of at least 1,000 feet.” Arizona State Uni- versity scientists working for NASA advised Soviet scientists in charge of their country’s Mars landing projects that some deep Martian canyons may still have flowing water in their depths, or at least just below the dry riverbeds.

What had started out as a dry and barren planet has emerged, in the past decade, as a planet where water was once abundant—not just passively lying about but flowing and gushing and shaping the planet’s features. Mars has joined Venus and Earth in corroborating the concept of the Sumerian texts of water “below the Firmament,” on the inner planets.

The ancient assertion that the asteroid belt separated the waters that were below the Firmament from those that were above it implies that there was water on the celestial bodies that are located farther out. We have already reviewed the latest discoveries of Voyager 2 that confirm the Sumerian de- scription of Uranus and Neptune as “watery.” What about the other two celestial bodies that are orbiting between those two outer planets and the asteroid belt, Saturn and Jupiter?

Saturn itself, a gaseous giant whose volume is more than eight hundred times greater than that of Earth, has not yet been penetrated down to its surface—assuming it has, somewhere below its vast atmosphere of hydrogen and helium, a solid or liquid core. But its various moons as well as its breathtaking rings (Fig. 18) are now known to be made, if not wholly then in large part, of water ice and perhaps even liquid water.

Originally, Earth-based observations of Saturn showed only seven rings; we now know from space probes that there are many more, with thinner rings and thousands of ringlets filling the spaces between the seven major rings; all together they create the effect of a disk that, like a phonograph record, is “grooved” with rings and ringlets. The unmanned spacecraft Pioneer 11 established in 1979 that the rings and ringlets consist of icy material, believed at the time to be small pieces of ice a few inches in diameter or as small as snowflakes. What was originally described as “a carousel of bright icy particles” was revealed, however, by the data from Voyager 1 and Voyager 2 in 1980 and 1981 to consist of chunks of ice ranging from boulder size to that of “big houses.” We are seeing “a sea of sparkling ice,” JPL’s scientists said. The ice, at some pri- mordial time, had been liquid water.

The several larger moons of Saturn at which the three space- craft, especially Voyager 2, took a peek, appeared to have much more water, and not only in the form of ice. Pioneer 11 reported in 1979 that the group of inner moons of Saturn— Janus, Mimas, Enceladus, Tethys, Dione, and Rhea—ap- peared to be “icy bodies . . . consisting largely of ice.” Voyager 1 confirmed in 1980 that these inner satellites as well as the newly discovered moonlets were “spheres of ice.” On Enceladus, which was examined more closely, the indications were that its smooth plains resulted from the filling in of old craters with liquid water that had oozed up to the surface and then frozen.

Voyager 1 also revealed that Saturn’s outer moons were ice covered. The moon lapetus, which puzzled astronomers be- cause it showed dark and bright portions, was found to be “coated with water ice” in the bright areas. Voyager 2 con- firmed in 1981 that lapetus was “primarily a ball of ice with some rock in its center.” The data, Von R. Eshleman of Stanford University concluded, indicated that lapetus was 55 per- cent water ice, 35 percent rock, and 10 percent frozen methane. Saturn’s largest moon, Titan—larger than the planet Mer- cury—was found to have an atmosphere and a surface rich in hydrocarbons. But under them there is a mantle of frozen ice, and some sixty miles farther down, as the internal heat of this celestial body increases, there is a thick layer of water slush. Farther down, it is now believed, there probably exists a layer of bubbling hot water more than 100 miles deep. All in all, the Voyagers’ data suggested that Titan is 15 percent rock and 85 percent water and ice.

Is Saturn itself a larger version of Titan, its largest moon?

Future missions might provide the answer. For the time being it is clear that wherever the modern instruments could reach— moons, moonlets, and rings—there was water everywhere. Saturn did not fail to confirm the ancient assertions.

Jupiter was investigated by Pioneer 10 and Pioneer 11 and by the two Voyagers. The results were no different than at Saturn. The giant gaseous planet was found to emit immense amounts of radiation and heat and to be engulfed by a thick atmosphere that is subject to violent storms. Yet even this

impenetrable envelope was found to be constituted primarily of hydrogen, helium, methane, ammonia, water vapor, and probably droplets of water, somewhere farther down inside the thick atmosphere there is liquid water, the scientists have con- cluded.

As with Saturn, the moons of Jupiter proved more fascinating, revealing, and surprising than the planet itself. Of the four Galilean moons, Io, the closest to Jupiter (Fig. 19), revealed totally unexpected volcanic activity. Although what the volcanoes spew is mostly sulphur based, the erupted material contains some water. The surface of Io shows vast plains with troughs running through them, as if they had been carved by running water. The consensus is that Io has “some internal sources of water.”

Europa, like Io, appears to be a rocky body, but its somewhat lower density suggests that it may contain more internal water than Io. Its surface shows a latticework of veinlike lines that suggested to the NASA teams shallow fissures in a sea of frozen ice. A close look at Europa by Voyager 2 revealed a layer of mushy water ice under the cracked surface. At the December 1984 meeting of the American Geophysical Union in San Fran- cisco, two scientists (David Reynolds and Steven Squyres) of NASA’s Ames Research Center suggested that under Europa’s ice sheet there might exist warmer oases of liquid water that could sustain living organisms. After a reexamination of Voy- ager 2 photographs, NASA scientists tentatively concluded that the spacecraft witnessed volcanic eruptions of water and am- monia from the moon’s interior. The belief now is that Europa has an ice covering several miles thick “overlaying an ocean of liquid water up to thirty miles deep, kept from freezing by radioactive decay and the friction of tidal forces.”

Ganymede, the largest of Jupiter’s moons, appears to be covered with water ice mixed with rock, suggesting it has undergone moonquakes that have cracked its crust of frozen ice. It is thought to be made almost entirely of water ice, with an inner ocean of liquid water near its core. The fourth Galilean moon, Callisto—about the size of the planet Mercury—also has an ice-rich crust; under it there are mush and liquid water surrounding a small, rocky core. Estimates are that Callisto is more than 50 percent water. A ring discovered around Jupiter is also made mostly, it not wholly, of ice particles.

Modern science has confirmed the ancient assertion to the fullest: there indeed have been “waters above the Firmament.”

Jupiter is the Solar System’s largest planet—as large as 1,300 Earths. It contains some 90 percent of the mass of the complete planetary system of the Sun. As stated earlier, the Sumerians called it KI.SHAR, “Foremost of the Firm Lands,” of the planetary bodies. Saturn, though smaller than Jupiter, occupies a much larger portion of the heavens because of its rings, whose “disk” has a diameter of 670,000 miles. The Sumerians called it AN.SHAR, “Foremost of the Heavens.”

Evidently they knew what they were talking about.

SEEING THE SUN

When we can see the Sun with the naked eye, as at dawn or at sunset, it is a perfect disk. Even when viewed with telescopes, it has the shape of a perfect globe. Yet the Sumerians depicted it as a disk with a triangular rays ex- tending from its round surface, as seen on cylinder seal VA/243 (Plate B and Fig. 6a). Why?

In 1980 astronomers of  the  High  Altitude  Observatory  of the University of Colorado took pictures of the Sun with  a special camera during an eclipse observed in India. The pictures revealed that because of magnetic influences, the Sun’s corona gives it the appearance of a disk with triangular rays extending from its surface—just as the Sumerians had depicted millennia earlier.

In January 1983, I brought the “enigmatic  representa- tion” on the Sumerian cylinder seal to the  attention  of  the editor of Scientific American, a journal that reported the astronomers’ discovery. In response, the editor, Dennis Flanagan, wrote to me on January 27, 1983:

“Thank you for your letter of January 25.

“What  you  have to  say  is  most  interesting,  and  we may well be able to publish it.”

“In  addition  to  the  many  puzzles  posed  by  this  depiction,” 1 had written in my letter, “foremost of which is the source  of  the  Sumerian  knowledge,  is  now  their  apparent familiarity with the true shape of the Sun’s corona.”

Is  it  the  need  to  acknowledge  the  source  of  Sumerian knowledge  that  is  still  holding  up  publication  of  what  Scientific American has deemed “most interesting”?

4

THE MESSENGERS OF GENESIS

In 1986 Mankind was treated to a oncc-in-a-lifetime event: the appearance of a messenger from the past, a Messenger of Genesis. Its name was Halley’s comet.

One of many comets and other small objects that roam the heavens, Halley’s comet is unique in many ways; among them is the fact that its recorded appearances have been traced to millennia ago, as well as the fact that modern science was able, in 1986, to conduct for the first time a comprehensive, close-

up examination of a comet and its core. The first fact under- scores the excellence of ancient astronomy; because of the second, data was obtained that—-once again—corroborated ancient knowledge and the tales of Genesis.

The chain of scientific developments that led Edmund Hal- ley, who became British Astronomer Royal in 1720, to determine, during the years 1695-1705, that the comet he observed in 1682 and that came to bear his name was a periodic one, the same that had been observed in 1531 and 1607, involved the promulgation of the laws of gravitation and celestial motion by Sir Isaac Newton and Newton’s consulting with Halley about his findings. Until then the theory regarding comets was that they crossed the heavens in straight lines, appearing at one end of the skies and disappearing in the other direction, never to be seen again. But based on Newtonian laws, Halley concluded that the curve described by comets is elliptical, eventually bringing these celestial bodies back to where they had been observed before. The “three” comets of 1531, 1607, and 1682 were unusual in that they were all orbiting in the “wrong” direction—clockwise rather than counterclockwise; had similar deviations from the general orbital plane of the planets around the Sun—being inclined about 17 to 18 degrees—and were

similar in appearance. Concluding they were one and the same comet, he plotted its course and calculated its period (the length of time between its appearances) to be about seventy-six years. He then predicted that it would reappear in 1758. He did not live long enough to see his prediction come true, but he was honored by having the comet named after him.

Like that of all celestial bodies, and especially because of a comet’s small size, its orbit is easily perturbed by the gravitational pull of the planets it passes (this is especially true of Jupiter’s effect). Each time a comet nears the Sun, its frozen material comes to life; the comet develops a head and a long tail and begins to lose some of its material as it turns to gas and vapor. All these phenomena affect the comet’s orbit; there- fore, although more precise measurements have somewhat narrowed the orbital range of Halley’s comet from the seventy- four to seventy-nine years that he had calculated, the period of seventy-six years is only a practical average; the actual orbit and its period must be recalculated each time the comet makes an appearance.

With the aid of modern equipment, an average of five or six comets are reported each year; of them, one or two are comets on return trips, while the others are newly discovered. Most of the returning comets are short-period ones, the shortest known being that of Encke’s comet, which nears the Sun and then returns to a region slightly beyond the asteroid belt (Fig.

20) in a little over three years. Most short-period comets av- erage an orbital period of about seven years, which carries them to the environs of Jupiter. Typical of them is comet Giacobini-Zinner (named, like other comets, after its discoverers), which has a period of 6 1/2 years; its latest passage within Earth’s view was in 1985. On the other hand there are the very-long-period comets like comet Kohoutek, which was dis- covered in March 1973, was fully visible in December 1973 and January 1974, and then disappeared from view, perhaps to return in 75,000 years. By comparison, the cycle of 76 years for Halley’s comet is short enough to remain in living memories, yet long enough to retain its magic as a once-in-a-lifetime celestial event.

When Halley’s comet appeared on its next-to-last passage around the Sun, in 1910, its course and aspects had been well mapped out in advance (Fig. 21). Still, the Great Comet of

1910, as it was then hailed, was awaited with great appre- hension. There was fear that Earth or life on it would not survive the anticipated passage because Earth would be envel- oped in the comet’s tail of poisonous gases. There was also alarm at the prospect that, as was believed in earlier times, the appearance of the comet would be an ill omen of pestilence, wars, and the death of kings. As the comet reached its greatest magnitude and brilliance in May of 1910, its tail stretching over more than half the vault of heaven (Fig. 22), King Edward VII of Great Britain died. On the European continent, a series of political upheavals culminated in the outbreak of World War I in 1914.

The  belief,  or superstition,  associating Halley’s  comet  with wars and upheavals was fed by much that was coming to light about events that coincided with its previous appearances. The Seminole Indians’ revolt against the white settlers of Florida in 1835, the Great Lisbon Earthquake of 1755, the outbreak of the Thirty Years’ War in 1618, the Turkish siege of Belgrade in 1456, the outbreak of the Black Death (bubonic plague) in 1347—all were accompanied or preceded by the appearance of a great comet, which was finally recognized as Halley’s Comet, thus establishing its role as the messenger of God’s wrath.

Whether divinely ordained or not, the coincidence of the comet’s appearance in conjunction with major historic events seems to grow the more we go back in time. One of the most celebrated appearances of a comet, definitely Halley’s, is that of 1066, during the Battle of Hastings in which the Saxons, under King Harold, were defeated by William the Conqueror. The comet was depicted (Fig. 23) on the famous Bayeux tap- estry, which is thought to have been commissioned by Queen

Matilda, wife of William the Conqueror, to illustrate his vic- tory. The inscription next to the comet’s tail, Isti mirant stella, means, “They are in awe of the star,” and refers to the de- piction of King Harold tottering on his throne.

The year A.D. 66 is considered by astronomers one in which Halley’s comet made an appearance; they base their conclusion on at least two contemporary Chinese observations. That was the year in which the Jews of Judea launched their Great Revolt against Rome. The Jewish historian Josephus (Wars of the Jews, Book VI) blamed the fall of Jerusalem and the de- struction of its holy Temple on the misinterpretation by the Jews of the heavenly signs that preceded the revolt: “a star resembling a sword which stood over the city, a comet that continued a whole year.”

Until recently the earliest certain record of the observation of a comet was found in the Chinese Chronological Tables of Shih-chi for the year 467 B.C., in which the pertinent entry reads, “During the tenth year of Ch’in Li-kung a broom-star was seen.” Some believe a Greek inscription refers to the same comet in that year. Modern astronomers are not sure that the 467 B.C. Shih-chi entry refers to Halley’s comet; they are more confident regarding a Shih-chi entry for the year 240 B.C. (Fig. 24). In April 1985, F. R. Stephenson, K. K. C. Yau, and H.

Hunger reported in Nature that a reexamination of Babylonian astronomical tablets that had been lying in the basement of the British Museum since their discovery in Mesopotamia more than a century ago, shows that the tablets recorded the ap- pearance of extraordinary celestial bodies—probably comets, they said—in the years 164 B.C. and 87 B.C. The periodicity of seventy-seven years suggested to these scholars that the unusual celestial bodies were Halley’s comet.

The year 164 B.C., as none of the scholars who have been preoccupied with Halley’s comet have realized, was of great significance in Jewish and Near Eastern history. It was the very year in which the Jews of Judea, under the leadership of the Maccabees, revolted against Greek-Syrian domination, recap- tured Jerusalem, and purified the defiled Temple. The Temple rededication ceremony is celebrated to this day by Jews as the festival of Hanukkah (“Rededication”). The 164 B.C. tablet (Fig. 25), numbered WA-41462 in the British Museum, is clearly dated to the relevant year in the reign of the Seleucid (Greek-Syrian) king Antiochus Epiphanes, the very evil King Antiochus of the Books of Maccabees. The unusual celestial object, which the three scholars believe was Halley’s comet, is reported to have been seen in the Babylonian month of Kislimu, which is the Jewish month Kislev and, indeed, the one in which Hanukkah is celebrated.

In another instance, the comparison by Josephus of the comet to a celestial sword  (as  it  seems  to  be  depicted  also  in the Bayeux tapestry) has led some scholars to suggest that the Angel of the Lord that King David saw “standing between the earth and heaven, having a sword in his hand stretched out over Jerusalem” (I Chronicles 21:16) might have been in reality Halley’s comet, sent by the Lord to punish the king for having conducted a prohibited census. The time of this incident, circa 1000 B.C., coincides with one of the years in which Halley’s comet should have appeared.

In an article published in 1986,1 pointed out that the Hebrew name for “comet” is Kokhav shavit, a “Scepler star.” This has a direct bearing, I wrote, on the biblical tale of the seer Bilam. When the Israelites ended their wanderings in the desert after the Exodus and began the conquest of Canaan, the Moa- bite king summoned Bilam to curse the Israelites. But Bilam, realizing that the Israelite advance was divinely ordained, blessed them instead. He did so, he explained (Numbers 24:17), because he was shown a celestial vision:

I see it, though not now;
I behold it, though it is not near:
A star of Jacob did course, A scepter of Israel did arise.

In The Stairway to Heaven I provided a chronology that fixed the date of the Exodus at 1433 B.C.; the Israelite entry into Canaan began forty years later, in 1393 B.C. Halley’s comet, at an interval of 76 or 77 years, would have appeared circa 1390 B.C. Did Bilam consider that event as a divine signal that the Israelite advance could not and should not be stopped? If, in biblical times, the comet we call Halley’s was considered the Scepter Star of Israel, it could explain why the Jewish revolts of 164 B.C. and A.D. 66 were timed to coincide with the comet’s appearances. It is significant that in spite of the crushing defeat of the Judean revolt by the Romans in A.D. 66, the Jews took up arms again some seventy years later in a heroic effort to free Jerusalem and rebuild the Temple. The leader of that revolt, Shimeon Bar Kosiba, was renamed by the religious leaders Bar Kokhba, “Son of the Star,” specif- ically because of the above-quoted verses in Numbers 24.

One can only guess whether the revolt the Romans put down after three years, in A.D. 135, was also intended as  was the Maccabean one, to achieve the rededication of the Temple by the time of the return of Halley’s comet, in A.D.  142. The realization that we, in 1986, have seen and experienced the return of a majestic celestial body that had great historic impact in the past, should send a shudder down some spines, mine among them.

How far back does this messenger of the past go? According

to the Sumerian creation epics, it goes all the way back to the time of the Celestial Battle. Halley’s comet and its like are truly the Messengers of Genesis.

The Solar System, astronomers and physicists believe, was formed out of a primordial cloud of gaseous matter; like every- thing else in the universe, it was in constant motion—circling about its galaxy (the Milky Way) and rotating around its own center of gravity. Slowly the cloud spread as it cooled; slowly the center became a star (our Sun) and the planets coalesced out of the rotating disc of gaseous matter. Thenceforth, the motion of all parts of the Solar System retained the original direction of the primordial cloud, anticlockwise.  The  planets orbit the Sun in the same direction as did the original nebula; so do their satellites, or moons; so should also the debris that either did not coalesce or that resulted from the disintegration of bodies such as comets and asteroids. Everything must keep going anticlockwise. Everything must also remain within the plane of the original disk, which is called the Ecliptic.

Nibiru/Marduk did not conform to all that. Its orbit, as previously reviewed, was retrograde—in the opposite  direction, clockwise. Its effect on Pluto—which according to the Sumerian texts was GA.GA and was shifted by Nibiru to its present orbit, which is not within the ecliptic but inclined 17 degrees to it—suggests that Nibiru itself followed an inclined path. Sumerian instructions for its observation, fully discussed in The 12th Planet, indicate that relative to the ecliptic it arrived from the southeast, from under the ecliptic; formed an arc above the ecliptic; then plunged back below the ecliptic in its journey back to where it had come from.

Amazingly,  Halley’s  comet  shows  the  same  characteristics, and except for the fact that its orbit is so much smaller than that of Nibiru (currently about 76 years compared with Nibiru’ s 3,600 Earth-years), an illustration of Halley’s orbit (Fig. 26) could give us a good idea of Nibiru’s inclined and retrograde path. Looking at Halley’s comet, we see a miniature Nibiru! This orbital similarity is but one of the aspects that make this comet, and others too, messengers from the past—not only the historic past, but all the way back to Genesis.

Halley’s  comet  is  not  alone  in  having  an  orbit  markedly inclined  to  the  ecliptic  (a  feature  measured  as  an  angle  of Declination) and a retrograde direction. Nonperiodic comets— comets  whose  paths  form  not  ellipses  but  parabolas  or  even hyperbolas and whose orbits are so vast and whose limits are so far away they cannot even be calculated—have marked declinations, and about half of them move in a retrograde direction. Of about 600 periodic comets (which are now given the letter “P” in front of their name) that have been classified and catalogued, about 500 have orbital periods longer than 200 years; they all have declinations more akin to that of Halley’s than to the greater declinations of the nonperiodic comets, and more than half of them course in retrograde motion. Comets with medium orbital periods (between 200 and 20 years) and short periods (under 20 years) have a mean declination of 18 degrees, and some, like Halley’s, have retained the retrograde motion in spite of the immense gravitational effects of Jupiter.

It is noteworthy that of recently discovered comets, the one designated P/Hartley-IRAS (1983v) has an orbital period of 21 years, and its orbit is both retrograde and inclined to the ecliptic.

Where do comets come from, and what causes their odd orbits, of which the retrograde direction is the oddest in as- tronomers’ eyes? In the 1820s the Marquis Pierre-Simon de Laplace believed that comets were made of ice and that their glowing head (“coma”) and tail that formed as they neared the Sun, were both made of vaporized ice. This concept was replaced after the discovery of the extent and nature of the asteroid belt, and theories developed that comets were “flying sandbanks”—pieces of rock that might be the remains of a disintegrated planet. The thinking changed again in the 1950s mainly because of two hypotheses: Fred L. Whipple (then at Harvard) suggested that comets were “dirty snowballs” of ice (mainly water ice) mixed with darker specks of sandlike ma- terial; and Jan Oort, a Dutch astronomer, proposed that long- period comets come from a vast reservoir halfway between the Sun and the nearer stars. Because comets appear from all di- rections (traveling prograde, or anticlockwise; retrograde; and at different declinations), the reservoir of comets—billions of them—is not a belt or ring like the asteroid belt or the rings of Saturn but a sphere that surrounds the Solar System. This “Oort Cloud,” as the concept came to be named, settled at a mean distance, Oort calculated, of 100,000 astronomical units (AU) from the Sun, one AU being the average distance (93 million miles) of the Earth from the Sun. Because of pertur- bations and intercometal collisions, some of the cometary horde may have come closer, to only 50,000 AU from the Sun (which is still ten thousand times the distance of Jupiter from the Sun). Passing stars occasionally perturb these comets and send them flying toward the Sun. Some, under the gravitational influence of the planets, mainly Jupiter, become medium- or short-period comets; some, especially influenced by the mass of Jupiter, are forced into reversing their course (Fig. 27). This, briefly, is how the Oort Cloud concept is usually stated.

Since the 1950s the number of observed comets has increased by more than 50 percent, and computer technology has made possible the projection backward of cometary motions to determine their source. Such studies, as one by a team at the Harvard-Smithsonian Observatory under Brian G. Marsden, have shown that of 200 observed comets with periods of 250 years or more, no more than 10 percent could have entered the

Solar System from outer space; 90 percent have always been bound to the Sun as the focus of their orbits. Studies of cometary velocities have shown, in the words of Fred L. Whipple in his book, The Mystery of Comets, that “if we are really seeing comets coming from the void, we should expect them to fly by much faster than just 0.8 kilometers per second,” which they do not. His conclusion is that “with few exceptions, comets belong to the Sun’s family and are gravitationally attached to it.”

“During the past few  years,  astronomers have questioned the simple view of Oort’s Cloud,” stated Andrew Theokas of Boston  University  in  the  New  Scientist  (February  11,  1988); “astronomers still believe that the Oort Cloud exists, but the new results demand that they reconsider its size and shape.

They even reopen the questions about the origin of the Oort Cloud and whether it contains “new’ comets that have come from interstellar space.” As an alternative idea Theokas men- tions that of Mark Bailey of the University of Manchester, who suggested that most comets “reside relatively close to the Sun, just beyond the orbits of the planets.” Is it perhaps, one may ask, where Nibiru/Marduk’s “distant  abode”—its  aphelion— is?

The interesting aspect of the “reconsideration” of the Oort Cloud notion and the new data suggesting that comets, by and large, have always been part of the Solar System and not just outsiders occasionally thrust into it, is that Jan Oort himself had said so. The existence of a cloud of comets in interstellar space was his solution to the problem of parabolic and hyperbolic cometal orbits, not the theory he had developed. In the study that made him and the Oort Cloud famous (“The Structure of the Cloud of Comets Surrounding the Solar System and a Hypothesis Concerning its Origin,” Bulletin of the Astronomical Institutions of the Netherlands vol. 11, January 13, 1950) Oort’s new theory was called by him a “hypothesis of a common origin of comets and minor planets” (i.e., asteroids). The comets are out there, he suggested, not because they were “born” there but because they were thrust out to there. They were fragments of larger objects, “diffused away” by the perturbations of the planets and especially by Jupiter— just as more recently the Pioneer spacecraft were made to fly off into space by the “slingshot” effects of Jupiter’s and Sat- urn’s gravitation.

“The main process now,” Oort wrote, “is the inverse one,

that of a slow transfer of comets from a large cloud into short- period orbits. But at the epoch at which the minor planets (asteroids) were formed . . . the trend must have been the op- posite, many more objects being transferred from the asteroid region to the comet cloud. … It appears far more probable that instead of having originated in the faraway regions, comets

were born among the planets. It is natural to think in the first place of a relation with the minor planets (asteroids). There are indications that the two classes of objects”—comets and asteroids—”belong to the same ‘species.’ . . . It seems rea- sonable to assume that the comets originated together with the minor planets.” Summing up his study, Oort put it this way:

The existence of the huge cloud of comets finds a natural explanation if comets (and meteorites) are considered as minor planets escaped, at an early stage of the planetary system, from the ring of asteroids.

It all begins to sound like the Enuma elish. . . .

Placing the origin of the comets within the asteroid belt and considering both comets and asteroids as belonging to the same “species” of celestial objects—objects of a common birth— still leaves open the questions: How were these objects created? What gave “birth” to them? What “diffused” the  comets? What gave comets their inclinations and retrograde motions?

A major and outspoken study on the subject was made public in 1978 by Thomas C. Van Flandern of the U.S. Naval Observatory, Washington, D.C. (Icarus, 36). He titled the study, “A  Former  Asteroidal  Planet  as  the  Origin  of  Comets,”  and openly subscribed to the nineteenth-century suggestions that the asteroids, and the comets, come from a former planet that had exploded. It is noteworthy that in the references to Oort’s work, Van Flandern picked out its true essence: “Even  the father of the modern ‘cloud of comets’ theory was led to conclude,”  Van  Flandern  wrote,  “on  the  basis  of  evidence  then

available, that a solar system origin for these comets, perhaps in connection with ‘the occurrence which gave birth to the belt of asteroids,’ was still the least objectionable hypothesis.” He also referred to studies, begun in 1972, by Michael W. Oven- den, a noted Canadian astronomer who introduced the concept of a “principle of least interaction action,” a corollary of which was the suggestion that “there had existed, between Mars and Jupiter, a planet of a mass of about 90 times that of Earth, and that this planet had ‘disappeared’ in the relatively recent past, about 107 [10,000,000] years ago.” This, Ovenden further explained in 1975 (“Bode’s Law—Truth or  Consequences?” vol. 18, Vistas in Astronomy), is the only way to meet the requirement that “the cosmogonic theory must be capable of producing retrograde as well as direct” celestial motions.

Summarizing his findings, Van Flandern said thus in 1978:

The principal conclusion of this paper is that the comets originated in a breakup event in the inner solar system.

In all probability it was the same event which gave rise to the asteroid belt and which produced most of the meteors visible today.

He said that it was less certain that the same “breakup event” may have also given birth to the satellites of Mars and the outer satellites of Jupiter, and he estimated that the “breakup event” occurred five million years ago. He had no doubt, however, that the “breakup event” took place “in the asteroid belt.” Physical, chemical, and dynamic properties of the re- sulting celestial bodies, he stated emphatically, indicate “that a large planet did disintegrate” where the asteroid belt is today.

But what caused this large planet to disintegrate? “The most frequently asked question about this scenario,” Van Flandern wrote, “is ‘how can a planet blow up?’… There is presently,”

he conceded, “no satisfactory answer to this question.”

No satisfactory answer, that is, except the Sumerian one: the tale of Tiamat and Nibiru/Marduk, the Celestial Battle, the breakup of half of Tiamat, the annihilation of its moons (except for “Kingu”), and the forcing of their remains into a retrograde orbit…

A key criticism of the destroyed-planet theory has been the problem of the whereabouts of the planet’s matter; when astronomers estimate the total mass of the known asteroids and comets it adds up to only a fraction of the estimated mass of the broken-up planet. This is especially true if Ovenden’s estimate of a planet with a mass ninety times that of Earth is used in the calculations. Ovenden’s response to such criticism has been that the missing mass was probably swept up by Jupiter; his own calculations (Monthly Notes of the Royal Astronomical Society, 173, 1975) called for an increase in the mass of Jupiter by as much as 130 Earth-masses as a result of the capture of asteroids, including Jupiter’s several retrograde moons. To allow for the discrepancy between the mass (ninety times that of Earth) of the broken-up planet and the accretion of 130 Earth-sized masses to Jupiter, Ovenden cited other studies that concluded that Jupiter’s mass had decreased some time in its past.

Rather than to first inflate the size of Jupiter and then shrink it back, a better scenario would be to shrink the estimated size of the destroyed planet. That is what the Sumerian texts have put forth. If Earth is the remaining half of Tiamal, then Tiamat was roughly twice the size of Earth, not ninety times. Studies of the asteroid belt reveal not only capture by Jupiter but a dispersion of the asteroids from their assumed original site at about 2.8 AU to a zone so wide that it occupies the space between 1.8 AU and 4 AU. Some asteroids are found between Jupiter and Saturn; a recently discovered one (2060 Chiron) is located between Saturn and Uranus at 13.6 AU. The smashup of the destroyed planet must have been, therefore, extremely forceful—as in a catastrophic collision.

In addition to the voids between groups of asteroids, astronomers discern gaps within the clusters of asteroids (Fig. 28). The latest theories hold that there had been asteroids in the gaps but they were ejected, all the way to outer space except for those that may have been captured on the way by the gravitational forces of the outer planets; also, the asteroids that used to be in the “gaps” were probably destroyed “by catastrophic collisions”! (McGraw-Hill Encyclopedia of Astronomy, 1983). In the absence of valid explanations for such ejections and catastrophic collisions, the only plausible theory is that offered by the Sumerian texts, which describe the orbit of Nibiru/Marduk as a vast, elliptical path that brings it periodically (every 3,600 Earth years, by my calculations) back into the asteroid belt. As Figures 10 and 11 show, the conclusion drawn from the ancient texts was that Nibiru/Marduk

passed by Tiamat on her outer, or Jupiter, side; repeated returns to that celestial zone can account for the size of the “gap” there. It is the periodic return of Nibiru/Marduk that causes the “ejecting” and “sweeping.”

By the acknowledgment of the existence of Nibiru and its periodic return to the Place of the Battle, the puzzle of the “missing matter” finds a solution. It also addresses the theories that place the accretions of mass by Jupiter at a relatively recent time (millions, not billions, of years ago). Depending on where Jupiter was at the times of Nibiru’s perihelion, the accretions might have occurred during various passages of Nibiru and not necessarily as a one-and-only event at the time of the cata- strophic breakup of Tiamat. Indeed, spectrographic studies of asteroids reveal that some of them “were heated within the first few hundred million years after the origin of the solar system” by heat so intense as to melt them; “iron sank to their centers, forming strong stony-iron cores, while basaltic lavas floated to their surface, producing minor planets like Vesta” (McGraw-Hill Encyclopedia of Astronomy). The suggested time of the catastrophe is the very time indicated in The 12th Planet—some 500 million years after the formation of the Solar System.

Recent scientific advances in astronomy and astrophysics go beyond corroborating the Sumerian cosmogony in regard to the celestial collision as the common origin of the comets and the asteroids, the site of that collision (where the remains of the asteroid belt still orbit), or even the time of the cata- strophic event (about 4 billion years ago). They also corro- borate the ancient texts in the vital matter of water.

The presence of water, the mingling of waters, the separation of waters—all somehow played an important role in the tale of Tiamat, Nibiru/Marduk, and the Celestial Battle and its aftermath. Part of the puzzle was already answered when we showed that the ancient notion of the asteroid belt as a divider of the waters “above” and the water “below” is corroborated by modern science. But there was more to this preoccupation with water. Tiamat was described as a “watery monster,” and the Mesopotamian texts speak of the handling of her waters by Nibiru/Marduk:

Half of her he stretched as a ceiling to be Sky,
As a bar at the Place of Crossing he posted it to guard;
Not to allow her waters to escape was its command.

The concept of an asteroid belt not only as a divider between the waters of the planets above and below it but also as a “guardian” of Tiamat’s own waters is echoed in the biblical verses of Genesis, where the explanation is given that the “Hammered-out bracelet” was also called Shama’im, the place “where the waters were.” References to the waters where the Celestial Battle and the creation of the Earth and the Shama’im took place are frequent in the Old Testament, indicating millennia-old familiarity with Sumerian cosmogony even at the time of the Prophets and Judean kings. An example is found in Psalm 104, which depicts the Creator as the Lord

Who has stretched out the Shama'im as a curtain, Who in the waters for His ascents put a ceiling.

These verses are almost a word-for-word copy of the verses in Enuma dish; in both instances, the placing of the asteroid belt “where the waters were” followed the earlier acts of the splitting up of Tiamat and having the invader’s “wind” thrust the half that became Earth into a new orbit. The waters of Earth would explain the whereabouts of some or most of Tia- mat’s waters. But what about the remains of her other part and of her satellites? If the asteroids and comets are those remains, should they not also contain water?

What would have been a preposterous suggestion when these objects were deemed “chunks of debris” and “flying sand- banks” has turned out, as the result of recent discoveries, to be not so preposterous: the asteroids are celestial objects in which water—yes, water—is a major component.

Most asteroids belong to two classes. About 15 percent be- long to the S type, which have reddish surfaces made up of silicates and metallic iron. About 15 percent are of the C type: they are carbonaceous (containing carbon), and it is these that have been found to contain water. The water discovered in such asteroids (through spectrographic studies) is not in liquid form; since asteroids have no atmospheres, any water on their

surface would quickly dissipate. But the presence of water molecules in the surface materials indicates that the minerals that make up the asteroid have captured water and combined with it. Direct confirmation of this finding was observed in August 1982, when a small asteroid that came too close to Earth plunged into the Earth’s atmosphere and disintegrated; it was seen as “a rainbow with a long tail going across the sky.” A rainbow appears when sunlight falls on a collection of water drops, such as rain, fog, or spray.

When the asteroid is more like what its name originally implied, “minor planet,” actual water in  liquid  form  could well be present. Examination of the infrared spectrum of the largest and first-to-be-discovered asteroid Ceres shows an extra dip in the spectral readings that is the result of free water rather than water bound to minerals. Since free water even on Ceres will quickly evaporate, the astronomers surmise that Ceres must have a constant source of water welling up from its in- terior. “If that source has been there throughout the career of Ceres,” wrote the British astronomer Jack Meadows (Space Garbage—Cornels, Meteors and Other Solar-System Debris), “then it must have started life as a very wet lump of rock.” He pointed out that carbonaceous meteorites also “show signs of having been extensively affected by water in times past.”

The celestial body designated 2060 Chiron, interesting in many ways, also confirms the presence of water in the remnants of the Celestial Battle. When Charles Kowal of the Hale Observatories  on  Mount  Palomar,  California,  discovered  it  in November 1977, he was not certain what it was. He simply referred to it as a planetoid, named it temporarily “O-K” for “Object Kowal,” and opined that it might be a wayward satellite of either Saturn or Uranus. Several weeks of follow-up studies revealed an orbit much more elliptical than that of planets or planetoids, one closer to that of comets. By 1981 the object was determined to be an asteroid, perhaps one of others to be found reaching as far out as Uranus, Neptune or beyond, and was given the designation 2060 Chiron. However, by 1989, further observations by astronomers at Kitt Peak National Observatory (Arizona) detected an extended atmo- sphere of carbon dioxide and dust around Chiron, suggesting that it is more cometlike. The latest observations have also established that Chiron “is essentially a dirty snowball com- posed of water, dust and carbon-dioxide ice.”

If Chiron proves to be more a comet than an asteroid, it will only serve as further evidence that both classes of these rem- nants of the Genesis event contain water.

When a comet is far away from the Sun, it is a dark and invisible object. As it nears the Sun, the Sun’s radiation brings the comet’s nucleus to life. It develops a gaseous head (the coma) and then a tail made up of gases and dust ejected by the nucleus as it heats up. It is the observation of these emis- sions that has by and large confirmed Whipple’s view of comets as “dirty snowballs,” first by determining that the onset of activity in comets as the nucleus begins to heat up is consistent with the thermodynamic properties of water ice, and then by spectroscopic analysis of the gaseous emissions, which have invariably shown the presence of the compound H2O (i.e., water).

The presence of water in comets has been definitely estab- lished in recent years through enhanced examination of arriving comets. Comet Kohoutek (1974) was studied not only from Earth but also with rockets, from orbiting manned spacecraft (Skylab), and from the Mariner 10 spacecraft that was on its way to Venus and Mercury. The findings, it was reported at the time, provided “the first direct proof of water” in a comet. “The water finding, as well as that of two complex molecules in the comet’s tail, are the most significant to date,” stated Stephen P. Moran, who directed the scientific project for NASA. And all scientists concurred with the evaluation by astrophysicists  at  the  Max  Planck  Institute  for  Physics  and Astrophysics in Munich that was seen were “the oldest and essentially unchanged specimens of the material from the birth of the Solar System.”

Subsequent cometary observations confirmed these findings. However, none of those studies, accomplished with a variety of instruments, match the intensity with which Halley’s comet was probed in 1986. The Halley findings established unequivocally that the comet was a watery celestial body.

Apart from several only partly successful efforts by the United States to examine the comet from a distance, Halley’s comet was met by a virtual international welcoming flotilla of

five spacecraft, all unmanned. The Soviets directed to a Comet Halley rendezvous Vega 1 and Vega 2 (Fig. 29a), the Japanese sent the spacecraft Sakigake and Suisei, and the European Space Agency launched Giotto (Fig. 29b)—so named in honor of the Florentine master painter Giotto di Bondone (fourteenth century), who was so enchanted by Halley’s comet when it appeared in his time that he included it, streaking across the sky, in his famous fresco Adoration of the Magi, suggesting that this comet was the Star of Bethlehem in the tale of the birth of Christ (Fig. 30).

As intensive observations began when Halley’s comet developed its coma and tail in November 1985, astronomers at the Kitt Peak Observatory tracking the comet with telescopes reported it was certain “that the comet’s dominant constituent is water ice, and that much of the tenuous 360,000-mile-wide cloud surrounding it consisted of water vapor.” A statement by Susan Wyckoff of Arizona State University claimed that

“this was the first strong evidence that water ice was prevalent.” These telescopic observations were augmented  in  January 1986 by infrared observations from high-altitude aircraft, whereupon a team made up of NASA scientists and astronomers from several American universities announced “direct confirmation that water was a major constituent of Halley’s comet.”

By January 1986, Halley’s comet had developed an immense tail and a halo of hydrogen gas that measured 12.5 million miles  across—fifteen  times  bigger  than  the  diameter  of  the Sun. It was then that NASA’s engineers commanded the space- craft Pioneer-Venus (which was orbiting Venus) to turn its instruments toward the nearing comet (at its perihelion Halley’s passed between Venus and Mercury). The spacecraft’s spectrometer, which “sees” the atoms of its subject, revealed that “the comet was losing 12 tons of water per second.” As it neared perihelion on March 6, 1986, Ian Stewart, the director of NASA’s Halley’s project at the Ames Research Center, reported that the rate of water loss “increased enormously,” first to 30 tons a second and then to 70 tons a second; he assured the press, however, that even at this rate Halley’s comet had “enough water ice to last thousands of more orbits.”

The close encounters with Halley’s comet began on March 6, 1986, when Vega 1 plunged through Halley’s radiant at- mosphere and, from a distance of less than 6,000 miles, sent the first-ever pictures of its icy core. The press dutifully noted that what Mankind was seeing was the nucleus of a celestial body that had evolved when the Solar System began. On March 9, Vega 2 flew within 5,200 miles of Halley’s nucleus and confirmed the findings of Vega 1. The spacecraft also revealed that the comet’s “dust” contained chunks of solid matter, some boulder size, and that this heavier crust or layer enveloped a nucleus where the temperature—almost 90 million miles from the Sun—was a hot 85 degrees Fahrenheit.

The two Japanese spacecraft, designed to study the effect of the solar wind on the comet’s tail and the comet’s huge hydrogen cloud, were targeted to pass at substantial distances from Halley’s. But Giotto’s mission was to meet the comet virtually head-on, swooping at an immense encounter speed within 300 mites from the comet’s core. On March 14 (European time), Giotto streaked past the heart of Halley’s comet and revealed a “mysterious nucleus,” its color blacker than coal, its size bigger than had been thought (about half the size of Manhattan Island). The shape of the nucleus was rough and irregular (Fig. 31), some describing it as “two peas in a pod” and some as an irregularly shaped “potato.” From the nucleus five main jets were emitting streams of dust and 80 percent water vapor, indicating that within the carbonaceous crust the comet contained “melted ice”—liquid water.

The first comprehensive review of the results of all these close-up observations was published in Nature’s special sup- plement of 15-21 May, 1986. In the series of very detailed reports, the Soviet team confirmed the first findings that water (H2O) is the comet’s major component, followed by carbon and hydrogen compounds. The Giotto report stated repeatedly that “H2O is the dominant parent molecule in Halley’s coma,” and that “water vapor accounts for about 80% of the volume of gases escaping from the comet.” These preliminary con- clusions were reaffirmed in October 1986, at an international

conference in Heidelberg, West Germany. And in December 1986, scientists at the John Hopkins University announced that evaluation of data collected in March 1986 by the small Earth- orbiting satellite IUE (International Ultraviolet Explorer) re- vealed an explosion on Hailey’s Comet that blew 100 cubic feet of ice out of the comet’s nucleus.

There was water everywhere on these Messengers of Genesis!

Studies  have shown  that  comets  coming in  from  the cold “come to life” as they reach a distance of between 3 to 2.5

AU, and that water is the first substance to unfreeze there. Little significance has been given to the fact that this distance from the Sun is the zone of the asteroid belt, and one must wonder whether it is there that comets come to life because it is where they were born—whether water comes to life there because there is where it had been, on Tiamat and her watery host     

In the discoveries concerning the comets and the asteroids, something else came to life: the ancient knowledge of Sumer.

CELESTIAL “SEEING EYES”

When the Anunnaki’s Mission Earth reached its full com- plement, there were six hundred of them  on  Earth,  while three hundred remained in orbit,  servicing  the  shuttle  craft. The Sumerian term for the latter was IGI.GI, literally “Those who observe and see.”

Archaeologists have found in Mesopotamia many objects they call “eye idols” (a), as well as  shrines  dedicated  to these “gods” (b). Texts refer to devices used by the  An- unnaki to “scan the Earth  from  end  to  end.”  These  texts and depictions imply the use by the Anunnaki of Earth- orbiting, celestial  “seeing eyes”—satellites that “observe and see.”

Perhaps it is no coincidence that some  of the Earth-scanning,  and  especially  fixed-position  communications  satellites launched in our own modern times, such as  Intelsat- IV and Intelsat IV-A (c, d), look so much like these millennia-old depictions.

5

GAIA: THE CLEAVED PLANET

Why do we call our planet “Earth”?

In German it is Erde, from Erda in Old High German; Jordh in Icelandic, Jord in Danish. Erthe in Middle English, Airtha in Gothic; and going eastward geographically and backward in time, Ereds or Aratha in Aramaic, Erd or Ertz in Kurdish, Eretz in Hebrew. The sea we nowadays call the Arabian Sea, the body of water that leads to the Persian Gulf, was called in antiquity the Sea of Erythrea; and to this day, ordu means an encampment or settlement in Persian. Why?

The answer lies in the Sumerian texts that relate the arrival of the first group of Anunnaki/Nefilim on Earth. There were fifty of them, under the leadership of E.A (“Whose Home is Water”), a great scientist and the Firstborn son of the ruler of Nibiru, ANU. They splashed down in the Arabian Sea and waded ashore to the edge of the marshlands that, after the climate warmed up, became the Persian Gulf (Fig. 32). And at the head of the marshlands they established their first set- tlement on a new planet; it was called by them E.RI.DU— “Home In the Faraway”—a most appropriate name.

And so it was that in time the whole settled planet came to be called after that first settlement—Erde, Erthe, Earth. To this day, whenever we call our planet by its name, we invoke the memory of that first settlement on Earth; unknowingly, we remember Eridu and honor the first group of Anunnaki who established it.

The Sumerian scientific or technical term for Earth’s globe and its firm surface was KI. Pictographically it was represented as a somewhat flattened orb (Fig. 33a) crossed by vertical lines not unlike modern depictions of meridians (Fig. 33b). Since Earth does indeed bulge somewhat at its equator, the Sumerian

representation is more correct scientifically than the usual modern way of depicting Earth as a perfect globe. . . .

After Ea had completed the establishment of the first five of the seven original settlements of the Anunnaki, he was given the title/epithet EN.KI, “Lord of Earth.” But the term KI, as a root or verb, was applied to the planet called “Earth” for a reason. It conveyed the meaning “to cut off, to sever, to hollow out.” Its derivatives illustrate the concept: KI.LA meant “ex- cavation,” KI.MAH “tomb,”  KI.IN.DAR  ”crevice,  fissure.” In Sumerian astronomical texts the term KI was prefixed with the  determinative  MUL  (“celestial  body”).  And  thus  when they spoke of mul.KI, they conveyed the meaning, “the  ce- lestial body that had been cleaved apart.”

By calling Earth KI, the Sumerians thus invoked their cos- mogony—the tale of the Celestial Battle and the cleaving of Tiamat.

Unaware of its origin we continue to apply this descriptive epithet to our planet to this very day. The intriguing fact is that over time (the Sumerian civilization was two thousand years old by the time Babylon arose) the pronunciation of the term ki changed to gi, or sometimes ge. It was so carried into the Akkadian and its linguistic branches (Babylonian, Assyr- ian, Hebrew), at all times retaining its geographic or topo- graphic connotation as a cleavage, a ravine, a deep valley. Thus the biblical term that through Greek translations of the Bible is read Gehenna stems from the Hebrew Gai-Hinnom, the crevicelike narrow ravine outside Jerusalem named after Hinnom, where divine retribution shall befall the sinners via an erupting subterranean fire on Judgment Day.

We have been taught in school that the component geo in all the scientific terms applied to Earth sciences—geo-graphy, goo-metry, geo-logy, and so on—comes from the Greek Gaia (or Gaea), their name for the goddess of Earth. We were not taught where the Greeks picked up this term or what its real meaning was. The answer is, from the Sumerian KI or GI.

Scholars agree that the Greek notions of primordial events and of the gods were borrowed from the Near East, through Asia Minor (at whose western edge early Greek settlements like Troy were located) and via the island of Crete in the eastern Mediterranean. According to Greek tradition Zeus, who was

the chief god of the twelve Olympians, arrived on the Greek mainland via Crete, whence he had fled after abducting the beautiful Europa, daughter of the Phoenician king of Tyre. Aphrodite arrived from the Near East via the island of Cyprus. Poseidon (whom the Romans called Neptune) came on horse- back via Asia Minor, and Athena brought the olive to Greece from the lands of the Bible. There is no doubt that the Greek alphabet developed from a Near Eastern one (Fig. 34). Cyrus H. Gordon (Forgotten Scripts: Evidence for the Minoan Lan- guage and other works) deciphered the enigmatic Cretan script known as Linear A by showing that it represented a Semitic, Near Eastern language. With the Near Eastern gods and the terminology came also the “myths” and legends.

The earliest Greek writings concerning antiquity and the affairs of gods and men were the Iliad, by Homer; the Odes of  Pindar  of  Thebes;  and  above  all  the  Theogony  (“Divine Genealogy”) by Hesiod, who composed this work and another (Works and Days). In the eighth century B.C., Hesiod began the divine tale of events that ultimately led to the supremacy of Zeus—a story of passions, rivalries, and struggles covered in The Wars of Gods and Men, third book of my series The Earth Chronicles—and the creation of the celestial gods, of Heaven and Earth out of Chaos, a tale not unlike the biblical Beginning:

Verily, at first Chaos came to be, and next the wide-bosomed Gaia—
she who created all the immortal ones
who hold the peaks of snowy Olympus:
Dim Tartarus, wide-pathed in the depths,
and Eros, fairest among the divine immortals. . . .
From Chaos came forth Erebus and black Nyx;
And of Nyx were born Aether and Hemera.

At this point in the process of the formation of the “divine immortals”—the celestial gods—”Heaven” does  not  yet  ex- ist, just as the Mesopotamian sources recounted. Accordingly, the “Gaia” of these verses is the equivalent of Tiamat, “she who bore them all” according to the Enuma elish. Hesiod lists the celestial gods who followed “Chaos” and “Gaia” in three pairs (Tartarus and Eros, Erebus and Nyx, Aether and Hemera). The parallel with the creation of the three pairs in Sumerian cosmogony (nowadays named Venus and Mars, Saturn and Jupiter, Uranus and Neptune) should be obvious (though this comparability seems to have gone unnoticed).

Only after the creation of the principal planets that made up the Solar System when Nibiru appeared to invade it does the tale by Hesiod—as in the Mesopotamian and biblical texts— speak of the creation of Ouranos, “Heaven.” As explained in the Book of Genesis, this Shama’im was the Hammered-Out- Bracelet, the asteroid belt. As related in the Enuma elish, this was the half of Tiamat that was smashed to pieces, while the other, intact half became Earth. All this is echoed in the ensuing verses of Hesiod’s Theogony:

And Gaia then bore starry Ouranos
—equal to herself—
to envelop her on every side,
to be an everlasting abode place for the gods.

Equally split up. Gaia ceased to be Tiamat. Severed from the smashed-up half that became the Firmament, everlasting abode of the asteroids and comets, the intact half (thrust into another orbit) became Gaia, the Earth. And so did this planet, first as Tiamat and then as Earth, live up to its epithets: Gaia, Gi, Ki—the Cleaved One.

How did the Cleaved Planet look in the aftermath of the Celestial Battle, now orbiting as Gaia/ Earth? On one side there were the firm lands that had formed the crust of Tiamat; on the other side there was a hollow, an immense cleft into which the waters of the erstwhile Tiamat must have poured. As Hesiod put it, Gaia (now the half equivalent to Heaven) on one side “brought forth long hills, graceful haunts of the goddess- Nymphs”; and on the other side “she bare Pontus, the fruitless deep with its raging swell.'”

This is the same picture of the cleaved planet provided by the Book of Genesis:

And Elohim said,
"Let the waters under the heaven be gathered together into one place, and let the dry land appear."
And it was so.
And Elohim called the dry land "Earth,"
and the gathered-together water He called "Seas."

Earth, the new Gaia, was taking shape.

Three thousand years separated Hesiod from the time when the Sumerian civilization had blossomed out; and it is clear that throughout those millennia ancient peoples, including the authors or compilers of the Book of Genesis, accepted the Sumerian cosmogony. Called  nowadays  “myth,”  “legend,” or “religious beliefs,” in those previous millennia it was science—knowledge, the Sumerians asserted, bestowed by the Anunnaki.

According to that ancient knowledge, Earth was not an original member of the Solar System. It was the cleaved-off half of a planet then called Tiamat, “she who bore them all.” The Celestial Battle that led to the creation of Earth occurred several hundred million years after the Solar System with its planets had been created. Earth, as a part of Tiamat, retained much of the water that Tiamat, “the watery monster,” was known for. As Earth evolved into an independent planet and attained the shape of a globe dictated by the forces of gravity, the waters were gathered into the immense cavity on the torn-off side, and dry land appeared on the other side of the planet This, in summary, is what the ancient peoples firmly believed. What does modern science have to say?

The theories concerning planetary formation hold that they started as balls congealing from the gaseous disk extending from the Sun. As they cooled, heavier matter—iron, in Earth’s case—sank into their centers, forming a solid inner core. A less solid, plastic, or even fluid outer core surrounded the inner one; in Earth’s case, it is believed to consist of molten iron. The two cores and their motions act as a dynamo, producing the planet’s magnetic field. Surrounding the solid and fluid cores is a mantle made of rocks and minerals; on Earth it is estimated to be some 1,800 miles thick. While the fluidity and heat generated at the planet’s core (some 12,000 degrees Fahrenheit in the Earth’s center) affect the mantle and what is on top of it, it is the uppermost 400 miles or so of the mantle (on Earth) that mostly account for what we see on the surface of the planet—its cooled crust.

The processes that produce, over billions of years, a spher- ical orb—the uniform force of gravity and the planet’s rotation around its axis—should also result in an orderly layering. The solid inner core, the flexible or fluid outer core, the thick lower mantle of silicates, the upper mantle of rocks, and the upper- most crust should encompass one another in ordered layers,

like the skin of an onion. This holds true for the orb called Earth (Fig. 35)—but only up to a point; the main abnormalities concern Earth’s uppermost layer, the crust.

Ever since the extensive probes of the Moon and Mars in the 1960s and 1970s, geophysicists have been puzzled by the paucity of the Earth’s crust. The crusts of the Moon and of Mars comprise 10 percent of their masses, but the Earth’s crust comprises less than one half of 1 percent of the Earth’s land- mass. In 1988, geophysicists from Caltech and the University of Illinois at Urbana, led by Don Anderson, reported to the American Geological Society meeting in Denver,  Colorado, that they had found the “missing crust.” By analyzing shock waves from earthquakes, they concluded that material that be- longs in the crust has sunk down and lies some 250 miles below the Earth’s surface. There is enough crustal material there, these scientists estimated, to increase the thickness of the Earth’s crust tenfold. But even so, it would have given Earth a crust comprising no more than about 4 percent of its land-mass—still only about half of what seems to be the norm (judging by the Moon and Mars); half of the Earth’s crust will still be missing even if the findings by this group prove correct. The theory also leaves unanswered the question of what force caused the crustal material, which is lighter than the mantle’s material, to “dive”—in the words of the report—hundreds of miles into the Earth’s interior. The team’s suggestion was that the crustal material down there consists of “huge slabs of crust” that “dived into the Earth’s interior” where fissures exist in the crust. But what force had broken up the crust into such “huge slabs”?

Another abnormality of the Earth’s crust is that it is not uniform. In the parts we call “continents,” its thickness varies from about 12 miles to almost 45 miles; but in the parts taken up by the oceans the crust is only 3.5 to five miles thick. While the average elevation of the continents is about 2,300 feet, the average depth of the oceans is more than 12,500 feet. The combined result of these factors is that the much thicker con- tinental crust reaches much farther down into the mantle, whereas the oceanic crust is just a thin layer of solidified ma- terial and sediments (Fig. 36).

There are other differences between the Earth’s crust where the continents are and where the oceans are. The composition of the continental crust, consisting in large part of rocks resembling granite, is relatively light in comparison with the composition of the mantle: the average continental density is 2.7-2.8 grams per cubic centimeter, while that of the mantle is 3.3 grams per cubic centimeter. The oceanic crust is heavier and denser than the continental crust, averaging a density of 3.0 to 3.1 grams per cubic centimeter; it is thus more akin to the mantle, with its composition of basaltic and other dense rocks, than to the continental crust. It is noteworthy that the “missing crust” the scientific team mentioned above suggested had dived into the mantle is similar in composition to the oceanic crust, not to the continental crust.

This leads to one more important difference between the Earth’s continental and oceanic crusts. The continental part of the crust is not only lighter and thicker, it is also much older than the oceanic part of the crust. By the end of the 1970s the consensus among scientists was that the greater part of today’s continental surface was formed some 2.8 billion years ago. Evidence of a continental crust from that time that was about as thick as today’s is found in all the continents in what geologists term Archean Shield areas; but within those areas, crustal rocks were discovered that turned out to be 3.8 billion years old. In 1983, however, geologists of the Australian National University found, in western Australia, rock remains of a continental crust whose age was established to be 4.1 to 4.2 billion years old. In 1989, tests with new, sophisticated methods on rock samples collected a few years earlier in northern Canada (by researchers from Washington University in St. Louis and from the Geological Survey of Canada) determined the rocks’ age to be 3.96 billion years; Samuel Bowering of Washington University reported evidence that nearby rocks in the area were as much as 4.1 billion years old.

Scientists are still hard put to explain the gap of about 500 million years between the age of the Earth (which meteor fragments, such as those found at Meteor Crater in Arizona, show to be 4.6 billion years) and the age of the oldest rocks thus far found; but no matter what the explanation, the fact that Earth had its continental crust at least 4 billion years ago is by now undisputed. On the other hand, no part of the oceanic crust has been found to be more than 200 million years old.

This is a tremendous difference that no amount of speculation about rising and sinking continents, forming and vanishing seas can explain. Someone has compared the Earth’s crust to the skin of an apple. Where the oceans are, the “skin” is fresh— relatively speaking, born yesterday. Where the oceans began in primordial times, the “skin,” and a good part of the “apple” itself, appear to have been shorn off.

The differences between the continental and oceanic crusts must have been even greater in earlier times, because the continental crust is constantly eroded by the forces of nature, and a good deal of the eroded solids are carried into the oceanic basins, increasing the thickness of the oceanic crust. Furthermore, the oceanic crust is constantly enhanced by the upwelling of molten basaltic rocks and silicates that flow up from the mantle through faults in the sea floor. This process, which puts down ever-new layers of oceanic crust, has been going on for 200 million years, giving the oceanic crust its present form. What was there at the bottom of the seas before then? Was there no crust at all, just a gaping “wound” in the Earth’s surface? And is the ongoing oceanic crust formation akin to the process of blood clotting, where the skin is pierced and wounded?

Is Gaia—a living planet—trying to heal her wounds?

The most obvious place on the surface of the Earth where it was so “wounded” is the Pacific Ocean. While the average plunge in the crust’s surface in its oceanic parts is about 2.5 miles, in the Pacific the crust has been gouged out to a present depth reaching at some points 7 miles. If we could remove from the Pacific’s floor the crust built up there over the last 200 million years, we would arrive at depths reaching 12 miles below the water’s surface and between some 20 to nearly 60 miles below the continental surface. This is quite a cavity. . . .

How deep was it before the crustal buildup over the past 200 million years—how large was the “wound” 500 million years ago, a billion years ago, 4 billion years ago? No one can even guess, except to say that it was substantially deeper.

What can be said with certainty is that the extent of the gouging was more extensive, affecting a vastly greater part of the planet’s surface. The Pacific Ocean at present  occupies about a third of Earth’s surface; but (as far as can be ascertained for the past 200 million years) it has been shrinking. The reason for the shrinkage is that the continents flanking it—the Americas on the east, Asia and Australia on the west—are moving closer to each other, squeezing out the Pacific slowly but relentlessly, reducing its size inch by inch year by year.

The science and explanations dealing with this process have come to be known as the Theory of Plate Tectonics. Its origin lies, as in the study of the Solar System, in the discarding of notions of a uniform, stable, permanent condition of the planets in favor of the recognition of catastrophism, change, and even evolution—concerning not only flora and fauna but the globes on which they evolved as “living” entities that can grow and shrink, prosper and suffer, even be born and die.

The new science of plate tectonics, it is now generally recognized, owes its beginning to Alfred Wegener, a German meteorologist, and his book Die Entstehung der Kontinente und Ozeane, published in 1915. As it was for others before him, his starting point was the obvious “fit” between the contours of the continents on both sides of the southern Atlantic. But before Wegener’s ideas, the solution had been to postulate the disappearance, by sinking, of continents or land bridges: the belief that the continents have been where they are from time immemorial, but that a midsection sank below sea level, giving the appearance of continental separation. Augmenting available data on flora and fauna with considerable geological “matches” between the two sides of the Atlantic, Wegener came up with the notion of Pangaea—a supercontinent, a single huge landmass into which he could fit all the present continental masses like pieces in a jigsaw puzzle. Pangaea, which covered about one half of the globe, Wegener suggested, was surrounded by the primeval Pacific Ocean. Floating in the midst of the waters like an ice floe, the single landmass underwent a series of liftings and healings until a definite and final breakup in the Mesozoic Era, the geological period that lasted from 225 to 65 million years ago. Gradually the pieces began to drift apart.  Antarctica,  Australia,  India, and Africa began to break away and separate (Fig. 37a). Subsequently, Africa and South America split apart (Fig. 37b) as North America began to move away from Europe and India was thrust toward Asia (Fig. 37c); and so the continents continued to drift until they rearranged themselves in the pattern we know today (Fig. 37d).

The split-up of Pangaea into several separate continents was accompanied by the opening up and closing down of bodies of water between the separating pieces of the landmass. In time the single “Panocean” (if I may be allowed to coin a term) also separated into a series of connecting oceans or enclosed seas (such as the Mediterranean, Black, and Caspian seas), and such major bodies of water as the Atlantic and the Indian oceans took shape. But all these bodies of water were “pieces” of the original “Panocean,” of which the Pacific Ocean still remains.

Wegener’s view of the continents as “pieces of a cracked ice floe” shifting atop an impermanent surface of the Earth was  mostly  received  with  disdain,  even  ridicule,  by  the  geologists and paleontologists of the time. It took half a century for the idea of Continental Drift to be accepted into the halls of science. What helped bring about the changed attitude were surveys of the ocean floors begun in the 1960s that revealed such features as the Mid-Atlantic Ridge that, it was surmised, was formed by the rise of molten rock (called “magma”) from the Earth’s interior. Welling up, in the case of the Atlantic, through a fissure in the ocean floor that runs almost the whole ocean’s length, the magma cooled and formed a ridge of basaltic rock. But then as one welling up followed another, the old sides of the ridge were pushed to either side to make way for the new magma flow. A major advance in these studies of the ocean floors took place with the aid of Seasat, an oceanographic satellite launched in June 1978 that orbited the Earth for three months; its data were used to map the sea floors, giving us an entirely new understanding of our oceans, with their ridges, rifts, seamounts, underwater volcanoes, and fracture zones. The discovery that as each upwelling of magma cooled and solidified it retained the magnetic direction of its position at that time was followed by the determination that a series of such magnetic lines, almost parallel to one another, provided a time scale as well as a directional map for the ongoing expansion of the ocean’s floor. This expansion of the sea floor in the Atlantic was a major factor in pushing apart Africa and South America and in the creation of the Atlantic Ocean (and its continuing widening).

Other forces, such as the gravitational pull of the Moon, the Earth’s rotation, and even movements of the underlying mantle, also are believed to act to split up the continental crust and shift the continents about. These forces also exert their influence, naturally, in the Pacific region. The Pacific Ocean revealed   even   more   midocean  ridges,   fissures,   underwater volcanoes,  and  other features like  those  that have  worked to expand the Atlantic Ocean. Why, then, as all the evidence shows, have the landmasses flanking the Pacific not moved apart (as the continents flanking the Atlantic have done) but rather keep moving closer, slowly but surely, constantly re- ducing the size of the Pacific Ocean?

The explanation is found in a companion theory of continental drift, the Theory of Plate Tectonics. The continents, it has been postulated, rest upon giant movable “plates” of the Earth’s crust, and so do the oceans. When the continents drift, when oceans expand (as the Atlantic) or contract (as the Pacific), the underlying cause is the movement of the plates on which they ride. At present scientists recognize six major plates (some of which are further subdivided): the Pacific, American, Eurasian, African, Indo-Australian, and Antarctic (Fig. 38).

The spreading seafloor of the Atlantic Ocean is still distancing the Americas from Europe and Africa, inch by inch. The con- comitant shrinking of the Pacific Ocean is now recognized to be accommodated by the dipping, or “subduction,” of the Pacific plate under the American plate. This is the primary cause of the crustal shifts and earthquakes all along the Pacific rim, as well as of the rise of the major mountain chains along that rim. The collision of the Indian plate with the Eurasian one created the Himalayas and fused the Indian subcontinent to Asia. In 1985, Cornell University scientists discovered the “geological suture” where a part of the western African plate remained attached to the American plate when the two broke apart some fifty million years ago, “donating” Florida and southern Georgia to North America.

With some modifications, almost all scientists today accept Wegener’s hypothesis of an Earth initially consisting of a single landmass  surrounded  by  an  all-embracing  ocean.  Notwithstanding (geologically) the young age (200 million years) of the present seafloor, scholars recognize that there had been a primeval ocean on Earth whose traces can be found not in the newly covered depths of the oceans but on the continents. The Archean Shield zones, where the youngest rocks are 2.8 billion years old, contain belts of two kinds: one of greenstone, another of granite-gneiss. Writing in Scientific American of March, 1977, Stephen Moorbath (‘The Oldest Rocks and the Growth of Continents””) reported (hat geologists “believe that the greenstone belt rocks were deposited in a primitive oceanic environment and in effect represent ancient oceans, and that the granite-gneiss terrains may be remnants of ancient oceans.” Extensive rock records in virtually all the continents indicate that they were contiguous to oceans of water for more than three billion years; in some places, such as Zimbabwe in south- ern Africa, sedimentary rocks show that they accreted within large bodies of water some 3.5 billion years ago. And recent advances in scientific dating have extended the age of the Archean belts—those that include rocks that had been depos- ited in primeval oceans—back to 3.8 billion years (Scientific American, September, 1983; special issue: “The Dynamic Earth”).

How long has continental drift been going on? Was there a Pangaea?

Stephen Moorbath, in the above-mentioned study, offered the conclusion that the process of continental breakup began some 600 million years ago: “Before that there may have been just the one immense supercontinent known as Pangaea, or possibly two supercontinents: Laurasia to the north and Gondwanaland to the south.” Other scientists, using computer simulations, suggest that 550 million years ago the landmasses that eventually formed Pangaea or its two connected parts were no less separate than they are today, that plate-tectonic processes of one kind or another have been going on since at least about four billion years ago. But whether the mass of dry land was first a single supercontinent or separate landmasses that then joined, whether a superocean surrounded a single mass of dry land or bodies of water first stretched between several dry lands, is, in the words of Moorbath, like the chicken-and- the-egg argument: “Which came first, the continents or the oceans?”

Modern science thus confirms the scientific notions that were expressed in the ancient texts, but it cannot see far enough back to resolve the land mass/ocean sequence. If every modern scientific discovery seems to have corroborated this or that aspect of ancient knowledge, why not also accept the ancient answer in this instance: that the waters covered the face of the Earth  and—on  the  third  “day,”  or  phase—were  “gathered into” one side of the Earth to reveal the dry land. Was the uncovered dry land made up of isolated continents or one supercontinent, a Pangaea? Although it really matters not as far as the corroboration of ancient knowledge is concerned, it is interesting to note that Greek notions of Earth, although they led to a belief that the Earth was disklike rather than a globe, envisioned it as a landmass with a solid foundation surrounded by waters. This notion must have drawn on earlier and more accurate knowledge, as most of Greek science did. We find that the Old Testament repeatedly referred to the “founda- tions” of Earth and expressed knowledge of the earlier times regarding the shape of Earth in the following verses praising the Creator:

The Lord's is the Earth and its entirety, the world and all that dwells therein. For He hath founded it upon the seas and established it upon the waters.
(Psalms 24:1-2)

However the Moon became a constant companion of Earth— the various theories will soon be examined—it, like Earth, belonged to the same Solar System, and the histories of both go back to its creation. On Earth, erosion caused by the forces of nature as  well  as  by the life that has evolved on it has obliterated much of the evidence bearing on that creation, to say nothing of the cataclysmic event that changed and re- vamped the planet. But the Moon, so it was assumed, had remained in its pristine condition. With neither winds, atmosphere, nor waters, there were no forces of erosion. A look at the Moon was tantamount to a peek at Genesis. Man has peered at the Moon for eons, first with the naked eye, then with Earth-based instruments. The space age made it possible to probe the Moon more closely. Between 1959 and 1969, a number of Soviet and American unmanned spacecraft photographed and otherwise examined the Moon either by or- biting it or by landing on it. Then Man finally set foot on the

Moon when the landing module of Apollo 11 touched down on the Moon’s surface on July 20, 1969, and Neil Armstrong announced, for all the world to hear: “Houston! Tranquility Base here. The Eagle has landed!”

In all, six Apollo spacecraft set down a total of twelve astronauts on the Moon; the last manned mission was that of Apollo  17,  in  December  1972.  The  first  one  was  admittedly intended primarily to “beat the Russians to the Moon”; but the missions became increasingly scientific as the Apollo pro- gram progressed. The equipment for the tests and experiments became more sophisticated, the choice of landing sites was more scientifically oriented, the areas covered increased with the aid of surface vehicles, and the length of stay increased from hours to days. Even the crew makeup changed, to include in the last mission a trained geologist, Harrison Schmitt; his expertise was invaluable in the on-the-spot selection of rocks and soil to be taken back to Earth, in the description and evaluation of dust and other lunar materials left behind, and in the choice and description of topographic features—hills, valleys, small canyons, escarpments, and giant boulders (Plate D)—without which the true face of the Moon would have remained inscrutable. Instruments were left on the Moon to measure and record its phenomena over long periods; deeper soil samples were obtained by drilling into the face of the Moon; but most scientifically precious and rewarding were the 838 pounds of lunar soil and Moon rocks brought back to Earth. Their examination, analysis, and study were still in progress as the twentieth anniversary of the first landing was being celebrated.

The notion of “Genesis rocks” to be found on the Moon was proposed to NASA by the Nobel laureate Harold Urey. The so-called Genesis rock that was one of the very first to be picked up on the Moon proved, as the Apollo program pro- gressed, not to be the oldest one. It was “only” some 4.1 billion years old, whereas the rocks later found on the Moon ranged from 3.3 billion-year-old “youngsters” to 4.5 billion- year “old-timers.” Barring a future discovery of somewhat older rocks, the oldest rocks found on the Moon have thus brought its age to within 100 million years of the estimated age of the Solar System—of 4,6 billion years—which until then was surmised only from the age of meteorites that struck the Earth.

The Moon, the lunar landings established, was a Witness to Genesis.

Establishing the age of the Moon, the time of its creation, intensified the debate concerning the question of how the Moon was created.

“The hope of establishing the Moon’s origin was a primary scientific rationale for the manned landings of the Apollo proj- ect in the 1960s,” James Gleick wrote in June 1986 for The New York Times Science Service. It was, however, “the great question that Apollo failed to answer.”

How could modern science read an uneroded “Rosetta stone” of the Solar System, so close by, so much studied, landed upon six times—and not come up with an answer to the basic question? The answer to the puzzle seems to be that the findings were applied to a set of preconceived notions; and because none of these notions is correct, the findings appear to leave the question unanswered.

One of the earliest scientific theories regarding the Moon’s origin was published in 1879 by Sir George H. Darwin, second son of Charles Darwin. Whereas his father put forth the theory regarding the origin of species on Earth, Sir George was the first to develop a theory of origins for the Sun-Earth-Moon system based on mathematical analysis and geophysical theory. His specialty was the study of tides; he therefore conceived of the Moon as having been formed from matter pulled off Earth by solar tides. The Pacific basin was later postulated to be the scar that remained after this “pinching off” of part of Earth’ s body to form the Moon.

Although, as the Encyclopaedia Britannica puts it so mildly, it is “a hypothesis now considered unlikely to be true,” the idea reappeared in the twentieth century as one of three contenders for being proved or disproved by the lunar findings. Given a high-tech name, the Fission Theory, it was revived with a difference. In the reconstructed theory, the simplistic idea of the tidal pull of the Sun was dropped; instead it was proposed that the Earth divided into two bodies while spinning very rapidly during its formation. The spinning was so rapid that a chunk of the material of which the Earth was forming was thrown off, coalesced at some distance from the bulk of the Earthly matter, and eventually remained orbiting its bigger twin brother as its permanent satellite (Fig. 39).

The “thrown-off chunk” theory, whether in its earlier or renewed  form,  has  been  conclusively  rejected  by  scientists from various disciplines. Studies presented at the third Conference on the Origins of Life (held in Pacific Palisades, California, in 1970) established that tidal forces as the cause of the fission could not account for the origin of the Moon beyond a distance of five Earth radii, whereas the Moon is some 60 Earth radii away from the Earth. Also, scientists consider a

study by Kurt S. Hansen in 1982 (Review of Geophysics and Space Physics, vol. 20) as showing conclusively that the Moon could never have been closer to Earth than 140,000 miles; this would rule out any theory that the Moon was once part of Earth (the Moon is now an average distance of about 240,000 miles from Earth, but this distance has not been constant).

Proponents of the Fission Theory have offered various var- iants thereof in order to overcome the distance problem, which is further constrained by a concept termed the Roche limit (the distance within which the tidal forces overcome the gravita- tional force). But all variants of the fission theory have been rejected because they violate the laws of the preservation of energy. The theory requires much more angular momentum than has been preserved in the energy that exists to spin the Earth and the Moon around their axes and to orbit around the Sun. Writing in the book Origin of (he Moon (1986), John A. Wood of the Harvard-Smithsonian Center for Astrophysics (” ‘A Review of Hypotheses of Formation of Earth’s Moon”) summed up this constraint thus: “The fission model has very severe dynamic problems: In order to fission, the Earth had to have about four times as much angular momentum as the Earth- Moon system now has. There is no good explanation why the Earth had such an excess of angular momentum in the first place, or where the surplus angular momentum went after fis- sion occurred.”

The  knowledge  about  the  Moon  acquired  from  the  Apollo program has added geologists and chemists to the lineup of scientists rejecting the fission theory. The Moon’s composition is in many respects similar to that of Earth, yet different in key respects. There is sufficient “kinship” to indicate they are very close relatives, but there are enough differences to show they are not twin brothers. This is especially true of the Earth’s crust and mantle, from which the Moon had to be formed, according to the fission theory. Thus, for example, the Moon has too little of the elements called “siderophile,” such as tungsten, phosphorus, cobalt, molybdenum, and nickel, com- pared with the amount of these substances present in the Earth’s mantle and crust; and too much of the “refractory” elements such as aluminum, calcium, titanium, and uranium. In a highly technical summary of the various findings (“The Origin of the Moon,” American Scientist, September-October 1975), Stuart R. Taylor stated: “For all these reasons, it is difficult to match the composition of the bulk of the Moon to that of the terrestrial mantle.”

The book Origin of the Moon, apart from its introductions and summaries (such as the above-mentioned article by J. A. Wood), is a collection of papers presented by sixty-two sci- entists at the Conference on the Origin of the Moon held at Kona, Hawaii, in October 1984—the most comprehensive since the conference twenty years earlier that had mapped out the scientific goals of the unmanned and manned Moon probes. In their papers, the contributing scientists, approaching the problem from various disciplines, invariably reached conclu- sions against the fission theory. Comparisons of the compo- sition of the upper mantle of the Earth with that of the Moon, Michael J. Drake of the University of Arizona stated, “rig- orously exclude” the Rotational Fission hypothesis.

The laws of angular momentum plus the comparisons of the composition of the Moon with that of Earth’s mantle also ruled out, after the landings on the Moon, the second favored theory, that of Capture. According to this theory, the Moon was formed not near the Earth but among the outer planets or even beyond them. Somehow thrown off into a vast elliptical orbit around the Sun, it passed loo closely to the Earth, was caught by the Earth’s gravitational force, and became Earth’s satellite.

This  theory,  it  was  pointed  out  after  numerous  computer studies, required an extremely slow approach by the Moon toward the Earth. This capture process not unlike that of the satellites we have sent to be captured and remain in orbit around Mars or Venus, fails to take into account the relative sizes of Earth and Moon. Relative to the Earth, the Moon (about one- eightieth the mass of Earth) is much too large to have been snared from a vast elliptical orbit unless it was moving very slowly; but then, all the calculations have shown, the result would be not a capture but a collision. This theory was further laid to rest by comparisons of the compositions of the two celestial bodies: the Moon was too similar to Earth and too dissimilar  to the outer bodies to have been born so far away from Earth.

Extensive studies of the Capture Theory suggested that the Moon would have remained intact only if it had neared Earth, not from way out, but from the very same part of the heavens where Earth itself was formed. This conclusion was accepted even by S. Fred Singer of George Mason University—a proponent of the capture hypothesis—in his paper (“Origin of the Moon by Capture”) presented at the above-mentioned Con- ference on the Origin of the Moon. “Capture from an eccentric heliocentric orbit is neither feasible nor necessary,” he stated; the oddities in the Moon’s composition “can be explained in terms of a Moon formed in an Earthlike orbit”: the Moon was “captured” while forming near Earth.

These admissions by proponents of the fission and the capture  theories  lent  support  to  the  third  main  theory that  was previously current, that of Coaccretion, a common birth. This theory has its roots in the hypothesis proposed at the end of the eighteenth century by Pierre-Simon de Laplace, who said that the Solar System was born of a nebular gas cloud that coalesced in time to form the Sun and the planets—a hypothesis that has been retained by modern science. Showing that lunar accelerations are dependent on eccentricities in the Earth’s orbit, Laplace concluded that the two bodies were formed side by side, first the Earth and then the Moon. The Earth and the Moon, he suggested, were sister planets, partners in a binary, or two-planet, system, in which they orbit the Sun together while one “dances” around the other.

That natural satellites, or moons, coalesce from the remain- der of the same primordial matter of which their parent planet was formed is now the generally accepted theory of how planets acquired moons and should also apply to Earth and the Moon. As has been found by the Pioneer and Voyager spacecraft, the moons of the outer planets—that had to be formed, by and large, out of the same primordial material as their “parents”— are both sufficiently akin to their parent planets and at the same time reveal individual characteristics as “children” do; this might well be true also for the basic similarities and sufficient dissimilarities between the Earth and the Moon.

What nevertheless makes scientists reject this theory when it is applied to the Earth and the Moon is their relative sizes. The Moon is simply too large relative to the Earth—not only about one-eightieth of its mass but about one quarter of its diameter. This relationship is out of all proportion to what has been found elsewhere in the Solar System. When the mass of all the moons of each planet (excluding Pluto) is given as a ratio of the planet’s mass, the result is as follows:

A comparison of the relative sizes of the largest moon of each of the other planets with the size of the Moon relative to Earth (Fig. 40) also clearly shows the anomaly. One result of this disproportion is that there is too much angular momentum in the combined Earth-Moon system to support the Binary Planets hypothesis.

With all three basic theories unable to meet some of the required criteria, one may end up wondering how Earth ended up with its satellite at all… Such a conclusion, in fact, does

not bother some; they point to the fact that none of the terrestrial planets (other than Earth) have satellites: the two tiny bodies that orbit Mars are, all are agreed, captured asteroids. If con- ditions in the Solar System were such that none of the planets formed between the Sun and Mars (inclusive) obtained satel- lites in any one of the considered methods—Fission, Capture, Coaccretion—should not Earth, too, being within this moon- less zone, have been without a moon? But the fact remains that Earth as we know it and where we know it does have a moon, and an extremely large one (in proportion) to boot. So how to account tor that?

Another finding of the Apollo program also stands in the way of accepting the coaccretion theory. The Moon’s surface as well as its mineral content suggest a “magma ocean” created by partial melting of the Moon’s interior. For that, a source of heat great enough to melt the magma is called for. Such heat can result only from cataclysmic or catastrophic event; in the coaccretion scenario no such heat is produced. How then explain the magma ocean and other evidence on the Moon of a cataclysmic heating?

The need for a birth of the Moon with the right amount of angular momentum and a cataclysmic, heat-producing event led to a post-Apollo program hypothesis that has been dubbed the Big Whack Theory. It developed from the suggestion by William Hartmann, a geochemist at the Planetary Science In- stitute in Tucson, Arizona, and his colleague Donald R. Davis in 1975 that collisions and impacts played a role in the creation of the Moon (“Satellite-sized Planetesimals and Lunar Ori- gin,” Icarus, vol. 24). According to their calculations, the rate at which planets were bombarded by small and large asteroids during the late stages of the planets’ formation was much higher than at present; some of the asteroids were big enough to deliver a blow that could chip off parts of the planet they hit; in Earth’s case, the blown-off chunk became the Moon.

The idea was taken up by two astrophysicists, Alastair G. W. Cameron of Harvard and William R. Ward of Caltech. Their study,  “The  Origin  of  the  Moon”  (Lunar  Science,  vol.  7, 1976) envisioned a planet-sized body—at least as large as the planet Mars—racing toward the Earth at 24,500 miles per hour; coming from the outer reaches of the Solar System, its path arced toward the Sun—but the Earth, in its formative orbit,

stood in the way. The “glancing blow” that resulted (Fig. 41) slightly tilted the Earth, giving it its ecliptic obliquity (currently about 23.5 degrees); it also melted the outer layers of both bodies, sending a plume of vaporized rock into orbit around the Earth. More than twice as much material as was needed to form the Moon was shot up, with the force of the expanding vapor acting to distance the debris from Earth. Some of the ejected material fell back to Earth, but enough remained far enough away to eventually coalesce and become the Moon.

This Collision-Ejection theory was further perfected by its authors as various problems raised by it were pointed out; it was also modified as other scientific teams tested it through computer simulations (the leading teams were those of A. C. Thompson and D. Stevenson at Caltech, H. J. Melosh and M. Kipp at Sandia National Laboratories, and W. Benz and W. L. Slattery at Los Alamos National Laboratory).

Under this scenario (Fig. 42 shows a simulated sequence,

lasting about eighteen minutes in all), the impact resulted in immense heat (perhaps 12,000 degrees Fahrenheit) that caused a melting of both bodies. The bulk of the impactor sank to the center of the molten Earth; portions of both bodies were va- porized and thrust out. On cooling, the Earth re-formed with the iron-rich bulk of the impactor at its core. Some of the ejected material fell back to Earth;  the rest,  mostly from the impactor, cooled and coalesced at a distance—resulting in the Moon that now orbits the Earth.

Another major departure from the original Big Whack hypothesis was the realization that in order to resolve chemical composition  constraints, the impactor had  to  come from  the same place in the heavens as Earth itself did—not from the outer regions of the Solar System. But if so, where and how did  it  acquire the immense momentum  it  needed  for the vaporizing impact?

There is also the question of plausibility, which Cameron himself recognized in his presentation at the Hawaii conference. “Is it plausible,” he asked, “that an extra- planetary body with about the mass of Mars or more should have been wandering around in the inner solar system at an appropriate  time  to  have  participated  in  our  postulated  collision?” He felt that about 100 million years after the planets were formed, there were indeed enough planetary instabilities in the newborn Solar System and enough  “proto – planetary remnants” to make the existence of a large impactor and the postulated collision plausible.

Subsequent calculations showed that in order to achieve the

end results, the impactor had to be three times the size of Mars. This heightened the problem of where and how in Earth’s vicinity such a celestial body could accrete. In response, astronomer George Wetherill of the Carnegie Institute calculated backward and found that the terrestrial planets could have evolved from a roaming band of some five hundred planetesimals. Repeatedly colliding among themselves, the small moonlets acted as the building blocks of the planets and of the bodies that continued to bombard them. The calculations sup- ported the plausibility of the Big Whack theory in its modified Collision-Ejection scenario, but it retained the resulting immense heat. “The heat of such an impact,” Wetherill concluded, “would have melted both bodies.” This, it seemed, could explain a) how the Earth got its iron core and b) how the Moon got its molten magma oceans.

Although this latest version left many other constraints un- met, many of the participants in the 1984 Conference on the Origin of the Moon were ready, by the time the conference ended, to treat the collision-ejection hypothesis as the leading contender—not so much out of conviction of its correctness as out of exasperation. “This happened,” Wood wrote in his summary, “mainly because several independent investigators showed that coaccretion, the model that had been most widely accepted by lunar scientists (at least at a subconscious level), could not account for the angular momentum content of the Earth-Moon system.” In fact, some of the participants at the conference, including Wood himself, saw vexing problems inherent in the new theory. Iron, Wood pointed out, “is actually quite volatile and would have suffered much the same fate as the other volatiles, like sodium and water”; in other words, it would not have sunk intact into the Earth’s core as the theory postulates. The abundance of water on Earth, to say nothing of the abundance of iron in the Earth’s mantle, would not have been possible if Earth had melted down.

Since each variant of the Big Whack hypothesis involved a total meltdown of the Earth, it was necessary that other evidence of such a meltdown be found. But as was overwhelmingly reported at the 1988 Origin of the Earth Conference at Berkeley, California, no such evidence exists. If Earth had melted and resolidified, various elements in its rocks would have  crystallized  differently  from  the  way  they  actually  are found, and they would have reappeared in certain ratios, but this is not the case. Another result should have been the distortion of the chondrite material—the most primordial matter on Earth that is also found in the most primitive meteorites— but no such distortion has been found. One investigator, A. E. Ringwood  of  the  Australian  National  University,  extended these tests to more than a dozen elements whose relative abun- dance should have been altered had the first crust of Earth been formed after an Earth meltdown; but there was no such alter- ation to any significant extent. In a review of these findings in Science (March 17, 1989) it was pointed out that at the 1988 conference the geochemists “contended that a giant impact and its inevitable melting of Earth do not jibe with what they know of geochemistry. In particular, the composition of the upper few hundred kilometers of the mantle implies it has not been totally molten at any time.” “Geochemistry,” the authors of the article in Science concluded, “would thus seem to be a potential stumbling block for the giant-impact origin of the moon.” In “Science and Technology,” (The Economist, July 22, 1989) it was likewise reported that numerous studies have led geochemists “to be skeptical about the impact story.”

Like the previous theories, the Big Whack also ended up meeting some constraints but failing others. Still, one should ask  whether,  while  this  theory  of  impact-meltdown  ran  into problems when applied to Earth, did it not at least solve the problem of the melting that is evident on the Moon?

As it turned out, not exactly so. Thermal studies did, indeed, indicate  the  Moon  had  experienced  a  great  meltdown.  “The indications are that the Moon was largely or totally molten early in lunar history,” Alan B. Binder of NASA’s Johnson Space Center said at the 1984 Conference on the Origin of the Moon. “Early,” but not “initial,” countered other  scientists. This crucial difference was based on studies of stresses in the Moon’s crust (by Sean C. Solomon of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology), as well of isotope ratios (when atomic nuclei of the same element have different masses because they have different numbers of neutrons) studied by D. L. Turcotte and L. H. Kellog of Cornell University. These studies, the 1984 conference was told, “support a relatively cool origin for the Moon.”

What, then, of the evidence of meltings on the Moon? There is no doubt that they have occurred: the giant craters, some a hundred or more miles in diameter, are silent witnesses visible to all. There are the maria (“seas”), that, it is now known, were not bodies of water but areas of the Moon’s surface flattened  by immense impacts. There are the magma oceans.

There are glass and glassy material embedded in the rocks and grains of the Moon’s surface that resulted from shock melting of the surface caused by high-velocity impacts (as distinct from heated lava as a source). At the third Conference on the Origins of Life, a whole day was devoted to the subject of “Glass on the Moon,” so important was this clue held to be. Eugene Shoemaker of NASA and Caltech reported that such evidence of “shock vitrified” glasses and other types of melted rock were found in abundance on the Moon; the presence of nickel in the glassy spheres and beads suggested to him that the impactor had a composition different from that of the Moon, since the Moon’s own rocks lack nickel.

When did all these impacts that caused the surface melting take place?  Not, the findings showed, when the Moon was created  but  some 500 million  years  afterward.  It  was  then.

NASA scientists reported at a 1972 press conference and subsequently, that “the Moon had undergone a convulsive evolution. . . . The most cataclysmic period came 4 billion years ago, when celestial bodies the size of large cities and small countries came crashing into the Moon and formed its huge basins and towering mountains. The huge amounts of radio- active minerals left by the collisions began heating the rock beneath the surface, melting massive amounts of it and forcing seas of lava through cracks in the surface. . . . Apollo 15 found rockslides in the crater Tsiolovsky six times greater than any rockslide on Earth. Apollo 16 discovered that the collision that created the Sea of Nectar deposited debris as much as 1,000 miles away. Apollo 17 landed near a scarp eight times higher than any on Earth.”

The oldest rocks on the Moon were judged to be 4.25 billion years old; soil particles gave a date of 4.6 billion years. The age of the Moon, all 1,500 or so scientists who have studied the rocks and soil brought back agree, dates back to the time the Solar System first took shape. But then something happened about 4 billion years ago. Writing in Scientific American (Jan- uary 1977), William Hartmann, in his article “Cratering in the Solar  System,”  reported  that  “various  Apollo  analysts  have found that the age of many samples of lunar rocks cuts off rather sharply at four billion years; few older rocks have sur- vived.” The rocks and soil samples that contained the glasses formed by the intense impacts were as old as 3.9 billion years. “We know that a widespread cataclysmic episode of intense bombardment  destroyed  older  rocks  and  surfaces  of  the planets,” Gerald J. Wasserburg of Caltech stated on the eve of the last Apollo mission; the remaining question, then, was “what happened between the origin of the Moon about 4.6 billion years ago and 4 billion years ago,” when the catastrophe occurred.

So the rock found by astronaut David Scott that was nick- named “the Genesis Rock” was not formed at the time the Moon was formed, it was actually formed as a result of that catastrophic event some 600 million years later. Even so, it was appropriately named; for the tale in Genesis is not that of the primordial forming of the Solar System 4.6 billion years ago, but of the Celestial Battle of Nibiru/Marduk with Tiamat some 4 billion years ago.

Unhappy with all the theories that have so far been offered for the origin of the Moon, some have attempted to select the best one by grading the theories according to certain constraints and criteria. A “Truth Table” prepared by Michael J. Drake of the University of Arizona Lunar and Planetary Laboratory had the Coaccretion theory far ahead of all others. In John A. Wood’s analysis it met all the criteria except that of the Earth- Moon angular momentum and the melting on the Moon; oth- erwise it bettered all others. The consensus has now focused again on the Coaccretion theory, with some elements borrowed from the Giant Impact and Fission theories. According to the theory offered at the 1984 Conference by A. P. Boss of the Carnegie Institute and S. J. Peale of the University of Cali- fornia, the Moon is indeed seen as coaccreting with Earth from the same primoridal matter, but the gas cloud within which the coaccretion took place was subjected to bombardments by pla- netesimals, which sometimes disintegrated the forming  Moon and sometimes added foreign material to its mass (Fig. 43). The net result was an ever-larger Moon attracting and absorbing other moonlets that were forming within the circumterrestrial ring—a Moon both akin to and somewhat different from the Earth.

Having swung from theory to theory, modern science now embraces as a theory for the origin of our Moon the same process that gave the outer planets their multimoon systems. The hurdle still to be overcome is the need to explain why, instead of a swarm of smaller moons, a too-small Earth has ended up with a single, too-large Moon.

For the answer, we have to go back to Sumerian cosmogony. The first help it offers modern science is its assertion that the Moon originated not as a satellite of Earth but of the much larger Tiamat. Then—millennia before Western civilization had discovered the swarms of moons encircling Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, and Neptune—the Sumerians ascribed to Tiamat a swarm of satellites, “eleven in all.” They placed Tiamat be- yond Mars, which would qualify her as an outer planet; and the “celestial horde” was acquired by her no differently than by the other outer planets.

When we compare the latest scientific theories with Sumerian cosmogony, we find not only that modern scientists have come around to accepting the same ideas found in the Sumerian body of knowledge but are even using terminology that mimics the Sumerian texts. . . .

Just as the latest modern theories do, the Sumerian cosmogony also describes the scene as that of an early, unstable Solar System  where planetesimals and  emerging  gravitational forces disturb the planetary balance and, sometimes, cause moons to grow disproportionately. In The 12th Planet, I described the celestial conditions thus: “With the end of the majestic drama of the birth of the planets, the authors of the Creation Epic now raise the curtain on Act II, on a drama of celestial turmoil. The newly created family of planets was far from being stable. The planets were gravitating toward each other; they were converging on Tiamat, disturbing and endangering the primordial bodies.” In the poetic words of the Enuma elish,

The divine brothers banded together;
They disturbed Tiamat as they surged back and forth.
They were troubling the belly of Tiamatby their antics in the dwellings of heaven.
Apsu [the Sun] could not lessen their clamor;
Tiamat was speechless at their ways.
Their doings were loathsome . . . 
Troublesome were their ways; they were overbearing.

“We have here obvious references to erratic orbits,” I wrote in The 12th Planet. The new planets “surged back and forth”; they got too close to each other (“banded together”); they interfered with Tiamat’s orbit; they got too close to her “belly”; their “ways”—orbits—”were troublesome”; their gravitational pull was “overbearing”—excessive, disregarding the others’ orbits.

Abandoning earlier concepts of a Solar System slowly cooling and gradually freezing into its present shape out of the hot primordial cloud, scientific opinion has now swung in the opposite  direction.  “As  faster  computers  allow  celestial  mechanicians longer looks at the behavior of the planets,” Richard A. Kerr wrote in Science (“Research News,” April 14, 1989), “chaos is turning up everywhere.” He quoted such studies as that by Gerald J. Sussman and Jack Wisdom of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology in which they went back by computer simulations and discovered that “many orbits  that lie between Uranus and Neptune become chaotic,” and that “the orbital behavior of Pluto is chaotic and unpredictable.”

J. Laskar of the Bureau des Longitudes in Paris found original chaos throughout the Solar System, “but especially among the inner planets, including Earth.”

George Wetherill, updating his calculations of multicolli- sions by some five hundred planetesimals (Science, May 17, 1985), described the process in the zone of the terrestrial planets as the accretion of “lots of brothers and sisters” that collided to form “trial planets.” The process of accretion—crashing into one another, breaking up, capturing the material of others, until some grew larger and eventually became the terrestrial planets—he said, was nothing short of a “battle royal” that lasted most of the first 100 million years of the Solar System.

The eminent scientist’s words are astoundingly similar to those of the Enutna elish. He speaks of “lots of brothers and sisters” moving about, colliding with each other,  affecting each other’s orbits and very existence. The ancient text speaks of “divine brothers” who “disturbed,” “troubled,” “surged back and forth” in the heavens in the very zone where Tiamat was, near her “belly.” He uses the expression “battle royal” to describe the conflict between these “brothers and sisters.” The Sumerian narrative uses the very same word—”battle”—- to describe what happened, and recorded for all time the events of Genesis as the Celestial Battle.

We read in the ancient texts that as the celestial disturbances increased, Tiamat brought forth her own “host” with which “to  do  battle”  with  the  celestial  “brothers”  who  were  encroaching on her:

She has set up an Assembly and is furious with rage. . . .
Withall, eleven of this kind she brought forth. . . .
They thronged and marched at the side of Tiamat; Enraged, they plot ceaselessly day and night. They are set for combat, fuming and raging; They have assembled, prepared for conflict.

Just as modern astronomers are troubled by the disproportionately large size of the Moon, so were the authors of the Enuma elish. Putting words in the mouths of the other planets, they point to the expanding size and disturbing mass of “Kingu” as their chief complaint:

From among the gods who formed her host her first-born, Kingu, she elevated;
In their midst she made him great.
To be head of her ranks, to command her host,
to raise weapons for the encounter,
to be in the lead for combat,
in the battle to be the commander— these to the hand of Kingu she entrusted. As she caused him to be in her host,
"I have cast a spell for thee," she said to him;
"I have made thee great in the assembly of the gods;
Dominion over the gods I have given unto thee.
Verily, thou art supreme!"

According to this ancient cosmogony, one of the eleven moons of Tiamat did grow to an unusual size because of the ongoing perturbations and chaotic conditions in the newly formed Solar System. How the creation of this monstrous moon affected these conditions is regrettably not clear from the an- cient text; the enigmatic verses, with some of the original words subject to different readings and translations, seem to say that making Kingu “exalted” resulted in “making the fire subside” (per E. A. Speiser), or “quieting the fire-god” (per A. Heidel) and humbling /vanquishing the “Power-weapon which is so potent in its sweep”—a possible reference to the disturbing pull of gravitation.

Whatever quieting effect the enlargement of “Kingu” may have had on Tiamat and her host, it proved increasingly dis- ruptive to the other planets. Especially disturbing to them was the elevation of Kingu to the status of a full-fledged planet:

She gave him a Tablet of Destinies, fastened it on his breast. . . .
Kingu was elevated,
had received a heavenly rank.

It was this “sin” of Tiamat, her giving Kingu his own orbital “destiny,” that enraged the other planets to the point of “calling in” Nibiru/Marduk to put an end to Tiamat and her out- of-line consort. In the ensuing Celestial Battle, as described earlier, Tiamat was split in two: one half was shattered; the other half, accompanied by Kingu, was thrust into a new orbit to become the Earth and its Moon.

We have here a sequence that conforms with the best points of the various modern theories regarding the origin, evolution, and final fate of the Moon. Though the nature of the “power- weapon . . . so potent in its sweep” or that of “the fire-god” that caused Kingu to grow disproportionately large remains unclear, the fact of the disproportionate size of the Moon (even relative to the larger Tiamat) is recorded in all its disturbing details. All is there-—except that it is not Sumerian cosmogony that corroborates modern science, but modern science that catches up with ancient knowledge.

Could the Moon have indeed been a planet-in-the- making, as the Sumerians said? As reviewed in earlier chapters, this was quite conceivable. Did it in fact assume planetary aspects? Contrary to long-held views that the Moon was always an inert object, it was found, in the 1970s and 1980s, to possess virtually all the attributes of a planet except its own independent orbit around the Sun. Its surface has regions of rugged and tangled mountains; it has plains and “seas” that, if not formed by water, were probably formed by molten lava. To the sci- entists’ surprise the Moon was found to be layered, as the Earth is. In spite of the depletion of its iron by the catastrophic event discussed earlier, it appears to have retained an iron core. Scientists debate whether the core is still molten, for to their astonishment the Moon  was found to have once possessed a magnetic field, which is caused by the rotation of a molten iron core, as is true of the Earth and other planets. Significantly, as studies by Keith Runcorn of Britain’s University of New- castle-upon-Tyne indicate, the magnetism “dwindled away circa four billion years ago”-—the time of the Celestial Battle.

Instruments installed on the Moon by Apollo astronauts relayed data that revealed “unexpectedly high heat flows from beneath the lunar surface,” indicating ongoing activity inside the “lifeless orb.” Vapor—water vapor—was detected by Rice University scientists, who reported (in October 1971) seeing “geysers of water vapor erupting through cracks in the lunar surface.” Other unexpected findings reported at the Third Lunar Science Conference in Houston in 1972 disclosed on-going volcanism on the Moon, which “‘would imply the simultaneous existence near the lunar surface of significant quantities of heat and water.”

In 1973, “bright flashes” sighted on the Moon were found to be emissions of gas from the Moon’s interior. Reporting this, Walter Sullivan, science editor of The New York Times, observed that it appeared that the Moon, even if not a “living celestial body… is at least a breathing one,” Such puffs of gas  and  darkish  mists have  been  observed  in  several  of  the Moon’s deep craters from the very first Apollo mission and at least through 1980.

The indications that lunar volcanism may still be going on have led scientists to assume that the Moon once had a full- fledged atmosphere whose volatile elements and compounds included hydrogen, helium, argon, sulfur, carbon compounds,

and water. The possibility that there may still be water below the Moon’s surface has raised the intriguing question of whether water once flowed on the face of the Moon—water that, as a very volatile compound, evaporated and was dissi- pated into space.

Were it not for budgetary constraints, NASA would have been willing to adopt the recommendations of a panel of sci- entists to explore the Moon with a view to begin mining its mineral resources. Thirty geologists, chemists, and physicists who met in August 1977 at the University of California in San Diego pointed out that research on the Moon—both from orbit and on its surface—had been limited to its equatorial regions; they urged the launching of a lunar polar orbiter, not only because such an orbiter could collect data from the entire Moon, but also with a view to discovering if there is now water on the Moon. “One target of the orbiter’s observations,” ac- cording to James Arnold of the University of California, “would be small areas near each pole where the Sun never shines. It has been theorized by scientists that as much as 100 billion tons of water in the form of ice are likely to be found in those places. … If you’re going to have large-scale activities in space, like mining and manufacturing, it’s going to involve a lot of water, the Moon’s polar regions could be a good source.”

Whether the Moon still has water, after all the cataclysmic events it has undergone, is still to be ascertained. But the increasing evidence that it may still have water in its interior and may have had water on its surface should not be surprising. After all, the Moon—alias Kingu—was the leading satellite of the “watery monster” Tiamat.

On the occasion of the last Apollo mission to the Moon, The Economist (Science and Technology, December 11,1 972) summed up the program’s discoveries thus: “Perhaps the most important of all, exploration of the moon has shown that it is not a simple, uncomplicated sphere but a true planetary body.”

“A true planetary body.” Just as the Sumerians described millennia ago. And just as they stated millennia ago, the planet- to-be was not to become a planet with its own orbit around the Sun because it was deprived of that status as a result of the Celestial Battle. Here is what Nibiru/Marduk did to “Kingu”:

And Kingu, who had become chief among them,
he made shrink, as a DUG.GA.E god he counted him.
He took from him the Tablet of Destinies
which was not rightfully his;
He sealed on it his own seal
and fastened it to his own breast.

Deprived of its orbital momentum, Kingu was reduced to the status of a mere satellite—our Moon.

The Sumerian observation that Nibiru/Marduk made Kingu “shrink” has been taken to refer to its reduction in rank and importance. But as recent findings indicate, the Moon has been depleted of the bulk of its iron by a cataclysmic event, resulting in a marked decrease in its density. “There are two planetary bodies within the Solar System whose peculiar mean density implies that they are unique and probably the products of unusual circumstances,” Alastair Cameron wrote in Icarus (vol. 64, 1985); “these are the Moon and Mercury. The former has a low mean density and is greatly depleted in iron.” In other words, Kingu has indeed shrunk!

There is other evidence that the Moon became more compact as a result of heavy impacts. On the side facing away from Earth-—its far side—the surface has highlands and a thick

crust, while the near side—-the side facing Earth—shows large, flat plains, as though the elevated features had been wiped off. Inside the Moon, gravitational variations reveal the existence of compacted, heavier masses in several concentrations, es- pecially where the surface had been flattened out. Though outwardly the Moon (as do all celestial bodies larger than a minimal size) has a spherical shape, the mass in its core appears to have the shape of a gourd, as a computer study shows (Fig. 44). It is a shape that bears the mark of the “big whack” that compressed the Moon and thrust it into its new place in the heavens, just as the Sumerians had related.

The  Sumerian  assertion  that  Kingu  was  turned  into  a DUG.GA.E is equally intriguing. The term, I wrote in The 12th Planet, literally means “pot of lead.” At the time I took it to be merely a figurative description of the Moon as ” a mass of lifeless clay.” But the Apollo discoveries suggest that the Sumerian  term  was  not  just  figurative  but  was  literally  and scientifically correct. One of the initial puzzles encountered on the Moon was so-called “parentless lead.” The Apollo program revealed that the top few miles of the Moon’s crust are unusually rich in radioactive elements such as uranium. There was also evidence of the existence of extinct radon. These elements decay and become lead at either final or intermediary stages of the radioactive-decay process.

How the Moon became so enriched in radioactive elements remains an unresolved puzzle, but that these elements had mostly decayed into lead is now evident. Thus, the Sumerian assertion that Kingu was turned into a “pot of lead” is an accurate scientific statement.

The Moon was not only a Witness to Genesis. It is also a witness to the veracity of the biblical Genesis—to the accuracy of ancient knowledge.

IN THE ASTRONAUTS’ OWN WORDS

Feeling changes of “almost a spiritual nature” in  their views of themselves, of other humans, and of the possibility of intelligent life existing  beyond  Earth  have  been  reported by almost all the American astronauts.

Gordon Cooper, who piloted Mercury 9 in 1963 and co- piloted Gemini 5 in 1965, returned with the belief that “in- telligent, extraterrestrial life has visited  Earth  in  ages  past” and  became  interested  in  archaeology.  Edward  G.  Gibson, a scientist aboard Skylab 3 (1974), said that  orbiting  the Earth for days “makes you speculate a little more about life existing elsewhere in the universe.”

Especially moved were the astronauts of the Apollo  missions to the Moon. “Something happens to you  out  there,” stated  Apollo  14  astronaut  Ed  Mitchell.  Jim  Irwin  Apollo 15) was “deeply moved …  and  felt  the  presence  of  God.” His comrade on the mission, Al Worden, speaking on the twentieth anniversary of the first landing on the Moon on a TV program (“The Other Side of the Moon” produced by Michael G. Lemle) compared the lunar module  that  was used to land on and take off vertically from the Moon to the spaceship described in Ezekiel’s vision.

“In my mind,” said Al Worden, “the universe has to  be cyclic; in one galaxy there  is  a  planet  becoming  unlivable and in another part or a different galaxy there is a planet that is perfect for habitation, and I see some  intelligent being, like us, skipping around from planet to  planet,  as South Pacific Indians do on islands, to continue the species. I think that’s what the space program is all about. … 1 think we may be a combination of creatures that were living here on Earth some time in the past, and had  a  visitation  by beings from somewhere else in the universe; and those two species getting together and having progeny.  . . .  In  fact,  a very small group of explorers could land on a  planet  and create successors to themselves  who  would  eventually  take up the pursuit of inhabiting the rest of the universe,”

And Buzz Aldrin (Apollo 11) expressed  the  belief  that “one of these days, through telescopes that may be in orbit, like the Hubble telescope,  or  other  technical  breakthroughs, we may learn that indeed we are not alone in this marvelous universe.

7

THE SEED OF LIFE

Of all the mysteries confronting Mankind’s quest for knowl- edge, the greatest is the mystery called “life.”

Evolution theory explains how life on Earth evolved, all the way from the earliest, one-celled creatures to Homo sapiens; it does not explain how life on Earth began. Beyond the question, Are we alone? lies the more fundamental question: Is life on Earth unique, unmatched in our Solar System, our galaxy, the whole universe?

According to the Sumerians, life was brought into the Solar System by Nibiru; it was Nibiru that imparted the “seed of life” to Earth during the Celestial Battle with Tiamat. Modern science has come a long way toward the same conclusion.

In order to figure out how life might have begun on the primitive Earth, the scientists had to determine, or at least assume, what the conditions were on the newly born Earth. Did it have water? Did it have an atmosphere? What of life’s main building blocks—molecular combinations of hydrogen, carbon,  oxygen,  nitrogen,  sulfur,  and  phosphorus?  Were  they available on the young Earth to initiate the precursors of living organisms? At present the Earth’s dry air is made up of 79 percent nitrogen (N2), 20 percent oxygen (O2) and 1 percent argon (Ar), plus traces of other elements (the atmosphere contains water vapor in addition to the dry air). This docs not reflect the relative abundance of elements in the universe, where hydrogen (87 percent) and helium (12 percent) make up 99 percent of all abundant elements. It is therefore believed (among other reasons) that the present earthly atmosphere is not Earth’s original one. Both hydrogen and helium are highly volatile, and their diminished presence in Earth’s atmosphere, as well as its deficiency of “noble” gases such as neon, argon, krypton, and xenon (relative to their cosmic abundance), sug- gest to scientists that the Earth experienced a “thermal epi- sode” sometime before 3.8 billion years ago—an occurrence with which my readers are familiar by now. . . .

By and large the scientists now believe that Earth’s atmosphere was reconstituted initially from the gases spewed out by the volcanic convulsions of a wounded Earth. As clouds thrown up by these eruptions shielded the Earth and it began to cool, the vaporized water condensed and came down in torrential rains. Oxidation of rocks and minerals provided the first reservoir of higher levels of oxygen on Earth; eventually, plant life added both oxygen and carbon dioxide (CO2) to the atmosphere and started the nitrogen cycle (with the aid of bacteria).

It is noteworthy that even in this respect the ancient texts stand up to the scrutiny of modern science. The fifth tablet of Enutna elish, though badly damaged, describes the  gushing lava as Tiamat’s “spittle” and places the volcanic activity earlier than the formation of the atmosphere, the oceans, and the  continents.  The  spittle,  the  text  states,  was  “laying  in layers” as it poured forth. The phase of “making the cold” and the “assembling of the water clouds” are described; after that the “foundations” of Earth were raised and the oceans were gathered—just as the verses in Genesis have reiterated. It was only thereafter that life appeared on Earth: green herbage upon the continents and ‘”swarms” in the waters.

But living cells, even the simplest ones, are made up of complex molecules of various organic compounds, not just of separate chemical elements. How did these molecules come about? Because many of these compounds have been found elsewhere in the Solar System, it has been assumed that they form naturally, given enough time. In 1953 two scientists at the University of Chicago, Harold Urey and Stanley Miller, conducted what has since been called “a most striking experiment.” In a pressure vessel they mixed simple organic molecules of methane, ammonia, hydrogen, and water vapor, dissolved the mixture in water to simulate the primordial watery “soup,” and subjected the mixture to electrical sparks to emulate primordial lightning bolts. The experiment produced several amino and hydroxy acids—the building blocks of proteins.

which are essential to living matter. Other researchers later subjected similar mixtures to ultraviolet light, ionizing radiation, or heat to simulate the effects of the Sun’s rays as well as various other types of radiation on the Earth’s primitive atmosphere and murky waters. The results were the same.

But it was one thing to show that nature itself could, under certain conditions, come up with life’s building blocks—not just simple but even complex organic compounds; it was an- other thing to breathe life into the resulting compounds, which remained  inert  and  lifeless  in  the  compression  chambers.

“Life” is defined as the ability to absorb nutrients (of any kind) and to replicate, not just to exist. Even the biblical tale of Creation recognizes that when the most complex being on Earth, Man, was shaped out of “clay,” divine intervention was needed to “breathe the spirit/breath of life” into him. Without that, no matter how ingeniously created, he was not yet animate, not yet living.

As astronomy has done in the celestial realm, so, in the 1970s and 1980s, did biochemistry unlock many of the secrets of terrestrial life. The innermost reaches of living cells have been pried open, the genetic code that governs replication has been understood, and many of the complex components that make the tiniest one-celled being or the cells of the most advanced creatures have been synthesized. Pursuing the research, Stanley Miller, now at the University of California at San Diego, has commented that “we have learned how to make organic compounds from inorganic elements; the next step is to learn how they organize themselves into a replicating cell.”

The murky-waters, or “primordial-soup,” hypothesis for the origin of life on Earth envisions a multitude of those earliest organic molecules in the ocean, bumping into each other as the result of waves, currents, or temperature changes, and eventually sticking to one another through natural cell attractions  to  form  cell  groupings  from  which  polymers—long-chained molecules that lie at the core of body formation— eventually developed. But what gave these cells the genetic memory to know, not just how to combine, but how to replicate, to make the ultimate bodies grow? The need to involve the genetic code in the transition from inanimate organic matter to an animate state has led to a “Made-of-Clay” hypothesis.

The launching of this theory is attributed to an announcement in April 1985 by researchers at the Ames Research Center, a NASA facility at Mountainview, California; but in fact the idea that clay on the shores of ancient seas played an important role in the origin of life on Earth was made public at the October 1977 Pacific Conference on Chemistry. There James A. Law- less, who headed a team of researchers at NASA’s Ames fa- cility, reported on experiments in which simple amino acids (the chemical building blocks of proteins) and nucleotides (the chemical building blocks of genes)—assuming they had al- ready developed in the murky “primordial soup” in the sea— began to form into chains when deposited on clays that con- tained traces of metals such as nickel or zinc, and allowed to dry.

What the researchers found to be significant was that the traces of nickel selectively held on only to the twenty kinds of amino acids that are common to all living things on Earth, while the traces of zinc in the clay helped link together the nucleotides, which resulted in a compound analogous to a crucial enzyme (called DNA-polymerase) that links pieces of genetic material in all living cells.

In 1985 the scientists of the Ames Research Center reported substantial advances in understanding the role of clay in the processes that had led to life on Earth. Clay, they discovered, has two basic properties essential to life: the capacity to store and the ability to transfer energy. In the primordial conditions such energy might have come from radioactive decay, among other possible sources. Using the stored energy, clays might have acted as chemical laboratories where inorganic raw ma- tefials were processed into more complex molecules. There was more: one scientist, Armin Weiss of the University of Munich, reported experiments in which clay crystals seemed to reproduce themselves from a “parent crystal”—a primitive replication phenomenon; and Graham Cairns-Smith of the Uni- versity of Glasgow held that the inorganic “proto-organisms” in the clay were involved in “directing” or actually acting as a “template” from which the living organisms eventually evolved.

Explaining these tantalizing properties of clay-—even common clay—Lelia Coyne, who headed one research team, said that the ability of the clays to trap and transmit energy was due to “mistakes” in the formation of clay crystals; these defects in the clays’ microstructure acted as the sites where energy was stored and from which the chemical directions for the formation of the proto-organisms emanated.

“If the theory can be confirmed,” The New York Times commented in its report of the announcements, “it would seem that an accumulation of chemical mistakes led to life on Earth.” So  the  “life-from-clay”  theory,  in  spite  of  the  advances  it offered, depended, as the “murky-soup” theory did, on random occurrences—microstructural mistakes here, occasional lightning strikes and collisions of molecules there—to explain the transition from chemical elements to simple organic molecules to complex organic molecules and from inanimate to animate matter.

The improved theory seemed to do another thing, which did not escape notice. “The theory,” The New York Times continued, “is also evocative of the biblical account of the Creation. In Genesis it is written, ‘And the Lord God formed man of dust of the ground,’ and in common usage the primordial dust  is  called  cl a y. ”  This  news  story,  and  the  biblical parallel implicit in it, merited an editorial in the venerable newspaper. Under the headline “Uncommon Clay,” the editorial said:

Ordinary clay, it seems, has two basic properties essential to life. It can store energy and also transmit it. So, the scientists reason, clay could have acted as a "chemical factory" for turning inorganic raw materials into more complex molecules. Out of those complex molecules arose life—and, one day, us.

That the Bible's been saying so all along, clay being what Genesis meant by the "dust of the ground" that formed man, is obvious. What is not so obvious is how often we have been saying it to one another, and without knowing it.

The combined murky-soup and life-from-clay theories, few have realized, have gone even further in substantiating the ancient accounts. Further experiments by Lelia Coyne together with Noam Lahab of the Hebrew University, Israel, have shown that to act as catalysts in the formation of short strings of amino acids, the clays must undergo cycles of wetting and drying. This process calls for an environment where water can alternate with dryness, either on dry land that is subjected to on-and-off rains or where seas slosh back and forth as a result of tides. The conclusion, which appeared to gain support from experiments aimed at searching for “protocells” that were conducted at the Institute for Molecular and Cellular Evolution at the University of Miami, pointed to primitive algae as the first one-celled living creatures on Earth. Still found in ponds and in damp places, algae appear little changed in spite of the passage of billions of years.

Because until a few decades ago no evidence for land life older than about 500 million years had been found, it was assumed that the life that evolved from algae was limited to the oceans. “There were algae in the oceans but the land was

yet devoid of life,” textbooks used to state. But in 1977 a scientific team led by Elso S. Barghoorn of Harvard discovered in sedimentary rocks in South Africa (at a site in Swaziland called Figtree) the remains of microscopic, one-celled creatures that were 3.1 (and perhaps as much as 3.4) billion years old; they were similar to today’s blue-green algae and pushed back by almost a billion years the time when this precursor of more complex forms of life evolved on Earth.

Until then evolutionary progression was believed to have occurred primarily in the oceans, with land creatures evolving from maritime forms, with amphibian life forms as an intermediary. But the presence of green algae in sedimentary rocks of such a great age required revised theories. Though there is no unanimity regarding the classification of algae as either plant or nonplant, since it has backward affinities with bacteria and forward affinities with the earliest fauna, either green or blue- green algae is undoubtedly the precursor of chlorophyllic plants—the plants that use sunlight to convert their nutrients to organic compounds, emitting oxygen in the process. Green algae, though without roots, stems, or leaves, began the plant family whose descendants now cover the Earth.

It is important to follow the scientific theories of the ensuing evolution of life on Earth in order to grasp the accuracy of the biblical record. For more complex life forms to evolve, oxygen was needed. This oxygen became available only after algae or proto-algae began to spread upon the dry land. For these green plantlike forms to utilize and process oxygen, they needed an environment of rocks containing iron with which to “bind” the oxygen (otherwise they would have been destroyed by oxidation; free oxygen was still a poison to these life forms). Scientists believe that as such “banded-iron formations’1 sank into ocean bottoms as sediments, the single-celled organisms evolved into multicelled ones in the water. In other words, the covering of the lands with green algae had to precede the emergence of maritime life.

The Bible, indeed, says as much: Green herbage, it states, was created on Day Three, but maritime life not until Day Five. It was on the third “day,” or phase, of creation that Elohim said:

Let the Earth bring forth green herbage, and grasses that yield seeds, and fruit trees that bear fruit of all kinds
in accordance with the seeds thereof.

The presence of fruits and seeds as the green growth ad- vanced from grasses to trees also illustrates the evolution from asexual reproduction to sexual reproduction. In this, too, the Bible includes in its scientific account of evolution a step that modern science believes took place, in algae, some two billion years ago. That is when the “green herbage” began to increase the air’s oxygen.

At that point, according to Genesis, there were no “crea- tures” on our planet—neither in the waters, nor in the air, nor on dry land. To make the eventual appearance of vertebrate (inner-skeleton) “creatures” possible, Earth had to set the pat- tern of the biological clocks that underlie the life cycles of all living forms on Earth. The Earth had to settle into its orbital and rotational patterns and be subjected to the effects of the Sun and the Moon, which were primarily manifested in the cycles of light and darkness. The Book of Genesis assigns the fourth “day” to this organization and to the resulting year,

month, day, and night repetitious periods. Only then, with all celestial relationships and cycles and their effects firmly es- tablished, did the creatures of the sea, air, and land make their appearance.

Modern science not only agrees with this biblical scenario but, may also provide a clue to the reason the ancient authors of the scientific summary called Genesis inserted a celestial “chapter” (“day four”) between the evolutionary record  of “day three”—time of the earliest appearance of life forms— and “day five,” when the “creatures” appeared. In modern

science, too, there is an unfilled gap of about 1.5 billion years—from about 2 billion years to about 570 million years ago—about which little is known because of the paucity of geological and fossil data. Modem science calls this era “Precambrian”; lacking the data, the ancient savants used (his gap to describe the establishment of celestial relationships and biological cycles.

Although modern science regards the ensuing Cambrian period (so named after the region in Wales where the first geologic data for it were obtained) as the first phase of the Paleozoic (“Old Life”) era, it was not yet the time of vertebrates—the life forms with an inner skeleton that the Bible calls “creatures.” The first maritime vertebrates appeared about 500 mil- lion years ago, and land vertebrates followed about 100 million years later, during periods that are regarded by scientists as the transition from the Lower Paleozoic era to the Upper Paleozoic era. When that era ended, about 225 million years ago,

(Fig. 45) there were fish in the waters as well as sea plants, and amphibians had made the transition from water to dry land and the plants upon the dry lands attracted ihe amphibians to evolve into reptiles; today’s crocodiles are a remnant of that evolutionary phase.

The  following  era,  named  the  Mesozoic  (“Middle  Life”), embraces the period from about 225 million to 65 million years ago and has often been nicknamed the ” Age of the Dinosaurs.” Alongside a variety of amphibians and marine lizards there evolved, away from the oceans and their teeming marine life, two main lines of egg-laying reptilians: those who took to flying and evolved into birds; and those who, in great variety, roamed and dominated the Earth as dinosaurs (“terrible lizards”) (Fig. 46).

It is impossible to read the biblical verses with an open mind without realizing that the creational events of the fifth “day” of Genesis describe the above-listed development:

And Elohim said:
"Let the waters swarm with living creatures,
and let aves fly above the earth, under the dome of the sky.''
And Elohim created the large reptilians,
and all the living creatures that crawl
and that swarmed in the waters, all in accordance with their kinds,
and all the winged aves by their kinds. And Elohim blessed them, saying:
"Be fruitful and multiply and fill the waters of the seas, and let the aves multiply upon the earth."
The tantalizing reference in these verses of Genesis to the "large reptilians" as a recognition of the dinosaurs cannot be dismissed. The Hebrew term used here, Taninim (plural of Tanin) has been variously translated as "sea serpent," "sea monsters," and "crocodile." To quote the Encyclopaedia Britannica, "the crocodiles are the last living link with the dinosaur-like reptiles of prehistoric times; they are, at the same

time, the nearest living relatives of the birds.” The conclusion that by “large Taninim”‘ the Bible meant not simply large reptilians but dinosaurs seems plausible—not because the Su- merians had seen dinosaurs, but because Anunnaki scientists had surely figured out the course of evolution on Earth at least as well as twentieth-century scientists have done.

No less intriguing is the order in which the ancient text lists the three branches of vertebrates. For a long time scientists held that birds evolved from dinosaurs, when these reptiles began to develop a gliding mechanism to ease their jumping from tree branches in search of food or, another theory holds, when  ground-bound  heavy  dinosaurs  attained  greater  running

speed by reducing their weight through the development of hollow bones. A fossil confirmation of the origin of birds from the latter, gaining further speed for soaring by evolving two- leggedness, appeared to have been found in the remains of Deinonychus (“terrible-clawed” reptile), a fast runner whose tail skeleton assumed a featherlike shape (Fig. 47). The discovery of fossilized remains of a creature now called Archaeopteryx (“old feather”—Fig. 48a) was deemed to have provided the “missing link” between dinosaurs and birds and gave rise to the theory that the two-—dinosaurs and birds—had an early common land ancestor at the beginning of the Triassic period. But even this antedating of the appearance of birds has come into question since additional fossils of Archaeopteryx

were discovered in Germany; they indicate that this creature was by and large a fully developed bird (Fig. 48b) that had not evolved from the dinosaurs but rather directly from a much earlier ancestor who had come from the seas.

The biblical sources appear to have known all that. Not only does the Bible not list the dinosaurs ahead of birds (as scientists

did for awhile); it actually lists birds ahead of the dinosaurs. With so much of the fossil record still incomplete, paleontol- ogists may still find evidence that will indeed show that early birds had more in common with sea life than with desert lizards.

About 65 million years ago the era of the dinosaurs came to  an  abrupt  end;  theories  regarding  the  causes  range  from

climatic changes to viral epidemics to destruction by a “Death Star.” Whatever the cause, there was an unmistakable end of one evolutionary period and the beginning of another. In the words of Genesis, it was the dawn of the sixth “day.” Modern science calls it the Cenozoic (“current life”) era, when mam- mals spread across the Earth. This is how the Bible put it:

And Elohim said:

“Let the Earth bring forth living animals

according to their kind:

bovines, and those that creep,

and beasts of the land,

all according to their kind,”

And it was so.

Thus did Elohim make all the animals of the land

according to their kinds,

and all the bovines according to their kinds,

and all those that creep upon the earth by their kinds.

There is full agreement here between Bible and Science. The conflict between Creationists and Evolutionists reaches its crux in the interpretation of what happened next—-the appear- ance of Man on Earth. It is a subject that will be dealt with in the next chapter. Here it is important to point out that although one might expect that a primitive or unknowing society, seeing how Man is superior to all other animals, would assume Man to be the oldest creature on Earth and thus the most developed, the wisest. But the Book of Genesis does not say so at all. On

the contrary, it asserts that Man was a latecomer to Earth. We are not the oldest story of evolution but only its last few pages. Modem science agrees.

That is exactly what the Sumerians had taught in their schools. As we read in the Bible, it was only after all the “days” of creation had run their course, after “all the fishes of the sea and all the fowl that fly the skies and all the animals that fill the earth and all the creeping things that crawl upon the earth” that “Elohim created the Adam.”

On the sixth “day” of creation, God’s work on Earth was done.

“This,” the Book of Genesis states, “is the way the Heaven and the Earth have come to be.”

Up to the point of Man’s creation, then, modern science and ancient knowledge parallel each other. But by charting the course of evolution, modern science has left behind the initial question about the origin of life as distinct from its development and evolution.

The murky-soup and life-from-clay theories only suggest that, given the right materials and conditions, life could arise

spontaneously.  This  notion,  that  life’s  elemental  building

blocks,  such  as  ammonia  and  methane  (the  simplest  stable

compounds of nitrogen and hydrogen and of carbon and hy-

drogen, respectively) could have formed by themselves as part

of  nature’s  processes,  seemed  fortified  by the  discovery  in

recent decades that these compounds are present and even plentiful on other planets. But how did chemical compounds become animate?

That the feat is possible is obvious; the evidence is that life did appear on Earth. The speculation that life, in one form or another, may also exist elsewhere in  our Solar System, and

probably in other star systems, presupposes the feasibility of the transition from inanimate to animate matter. So, the ques- tion is not can it happen but how did it happen here on Earth?

For life as we see it on Earth to happen, two basic molecules are necessary: proteins, which perform all the complex met- abolic functions of living cells; and nucleic acids, which carry

the genetic code and issue the instructions for the cell’s pro- cesses. The two kinds of molecules, as the definition itself

suggests, function within a unit called a cell—quite a complex organism in itself, which is capable of triggering the replication not only of itself but of the whole animal of which the single cell is but a minuscule component. In order to become proteins, amino acids must form long and complex chains. In the cell they perform the task according to instructions stored in one nucleic acid (DNA—deoxyribonucleic acid) and transmitted by another nucleic acid (RNA—ribonucleic acid). Could ran- dom conditions prevailing on the primordial Earth have caused amino acids to combine into chains? In spite of varied attempts and theories (notable experiments were conducted by Clifford Matthews of the University of Illinois), the pathways sought by the scientists all required more “compressive energy” than would have been available.

Did DNA and RNA, then, precede amino acids on Earth? Advances in genetics and the unraveling of the mysteries of

the living cell have increased, rather than diminished, the prob-

lems. The discovery in 1953 by James D. Watson and Francis

H. Crick of the “double-helix” structure of DNA opened  up

vistas of immense complexity regarding these two chemicals

of life.  The relatively giant  molecules  of DNA are in the

form of two long, twisted strings connected by “rungs” made of four very complex organic compounds (marked on gene- tic charts by the initials of the names of the compounds, A-G-C-T). These four nucleotides can combine in pairs in sequences of limitless variety and are bound into place (Fig.

49) by sugar compounds alternating with phosphates. The nu-

cleic acid RNA, no less complex and built of four nucleotides whose initials are A-G-C-U, may contain thousands of com- binations.

How much time did evolution take on Earth to develop these complex compounds, without which life as we know it would have never evolved?

The fossil remains of algae found in 1977 in South Africa were dated to 3.1 to 3.4 billion years ago. But while that discovery was of microscopic, single-celled organisms, other discoveries in 1980 in western Australia deepened the won- derment. The team, led by J. William Schopf of the University of California at Los Angeles, found fossil remains of organisms

that not only were much older—3.5 billion years—but that

Figure 49

were multicelled and looked under the microscope like chain- like filaments (Fig. 50). These organisms already possessed both amino acids and complex nucleic acids, the replicating genetic compounds, 3.5 billion years ago; they therefore had to represent, not the beginning of the chain of life on Earth, but an already advanced stage of it.

What these finds had set in motion can be termed the search for the first gene. Increasingly, scientists believe that before algae there were bacteria. “We are actually looking at cells which are the direct morphological remains of the bugs them- selves,” stated Malcolm R. Walter, an Australian member of the team. “They look like modern bacteria,” he added. In fact, they looked like five different types of bacteria whose structures, amazingly, “were almost identical to several mod- ern-day bacteria.”

Figure 50

The notion that self-replication on Earth began with bacteria that preceded algae seemed to make sense, since advances in genetics showed that all life on Earth, from the simplest to the most complex, has the same genetic “ingredients” and the same twenty or so basic amino  acids.  Indeed,  much  of the early genetic research and development of techniques in genetic engineering were done on the lowly bacterium Esch- erichia coli (E. coli, for short), which can cause diarrhea in humans and cattle. But even this minuscule, single-celled bac- terium that reproduces not sexually but simply by dividing, has almost 4,000 different genes!

That bacteria have played a role in the evolutionary process is apparent, not only from the fact that so many marine, plant and animal higher organisms depend on bacteria for many vital processes, but also from discoveries, first in the Pacific Ocean

and then in other seas, that bacteria did and still make possible life forms that do not depend on photosynthesis but metabolize sulfur compounds in the oceans’ depths. Calling such early bacteria “archaeo-bacteria,” a team led by Carl R. Woese of the University of Illinois dated them to a time between 3.5 and 4 billion years ago. Such an age was corroborated in 1984 by

finds in an Austrian lake by Hans Fricke of the Max Planck Institute and Karl Stetter of the University of Regensburg (both in West Germany).

Sediments  found  off  Greenland,  on  the  other  hand,  bear

chemical traces that indicate the existence of photosynthesis as early as 3.8 billion years ago. All these finds have thus shown that, within a few hundred million years of the impen- etrable limit of 4 billion years, there were prolific bacteria and archaeo-bacteria of a marked variety on Earth. In more recent studies  (Nature,  November  9,  1989),  an  august  team  of  sci-

entists led by Norman H. Sleep of Stanford University con- cluded that the “window of time” when life on Earth began was just the 200 million years between 4 and 3.8 billion years ago. “Everything alive today,” they stated, “evolved from organisms that originated within that Window of Time.” They did not attempt, however, to establish how life originated at

such a time.

Based on varied evidence, including the very reliable iso-

topic ratios of carbon, scientists have concluded that no matter

how life on Earth began, it did so about 4 billion years ago.

Why then only and not sooner, when the planets were formed

some 4.6 billion years ago? All scientific research, conducted

on Earth as well as on the Moon, keeps bumping against the 4-billion-year date, and all that modern science can offer in explanation is some “catastrophic event.” To know more, read the Sumerian texts….

Since the fossil and other data have shown that celled and  replicating  organisms  (be  they  bacteria  or  archaeo-

bacteria) already existed on Earth a mere 200 million years after the “Window of Time” first opened, scientists began to search for the “essence” of life rather than for its resulting organisms: for traces of DNA and RNA themselves. Viruses, which are pieces of nucleic acids looking for cells in which to replicate, are prevalent not only on land but also in water, and

that has made some believe that viruses may have preceded bacteria. But what gave them their nucleic acids?

An avenue of research was opened a few years ago by Leslie Orgel of the Salk Institute in La Jolla, California, when he proposed that the simpler RNA might have preceded the much more complex DNA. Although RNA only transmits the genetic

messages contained in the DNA blueprint, other researchers, among them Thomas R. Cech and co-workers at the University of Colorado and Sidney Altman of Yale University concluded that a certain type of RNA could catalyze itself under certain conditions. All this led to computerized studies of a type of RNA called transfer-RNA undertaken by Manfred Eigen, a Nobel-prize winner. In a paper published in Science (May 12, 1989) he and his colleagues from Germany’s Max Planck In- stitute reported that by sequencing transfer-RNA backward on the Tree of Life, they found that the genetic code on Earth cannot be older than 3.8 billion years, plus or minus 600 million years. At that time, Manfred Eigen said, a primordial  gene might have appeared “whose message was the biblical in- junction ‘Go out into the world, be fruitful and multiply’.” If the leeway, as it appears, had to be on the plus side—i.e., older than 3.8 billion years—”this would be possible only in the case of extraterrestrial origin,” the authors of the learned paper added.

In her summation of the fourth Conference on the Origin of Life, Lynn Margulis had predicted this astounding conclusion.

“We now recognize that if the origin of our self-replicating system occurred on the early Earth, it must have occurred quite quickly—millions, not billions of years,” she stated. And she added:

The central problem inspiring these conferences, perhaps slightly better defined, is as unsolved as ever. Did our organic matter originate in interstellar space? The infant science of radioastronomy has produced evidence that some of the smaller organic molecules are there.

Writing in 1908, Svante Arrhenius (Worlds in the Making) proposed that life-bearing spores were driven to Earth by the pressure of light waves from the star of another planetary sys- tem where life had evolved long before it did on Earth. The notion came to be known as “the theory of Panspermia”; it languished on the fringes of accepted science because, at the time, one fossil discovery after another seemed to corroborate the theory of evolution as an unchallenged explanation for the origin of life on Earth.

These fossil discoveries, however, raised their own questions and doubts; so much so that in 1973 the Nobel laureate (now Sir) Francis Crick together with Leslie Orgel, in a paper titled “Directed Panspermia” (Icarus, vol. 19), revived the notion of the seeding of Earth with the first organisms or spores from an extraterrestrial source—not, however, by chance  but  as “the deliberate activity of an extraterrestrial society.” Whereas our Solar System was formed only some 4.6 billion years ago, other solar systems in the universe may have formed as much as 10 billion years earlier; while the interval between the for- mation of Earth and the appearance of life on Earth is much too short, there has been as much as six billion years available for the process on other planetary systems. “The time available makes it possible, therefore, that technological societies existed elsewhere in the galaxy even before the formation of the Earth,” according to Crick and Orgel. Their suggestion was therefore that the scientific community “consider a new ‘in- fective’ theory, namely that a primitive form of life was de- liberately planted on Earth by a technologically advanced society on another planet.” Anticipating criticism—which in- deed followed—that no living spores could survive the rigors of space, they suggested that the microorganisms were not sent to just drift in space but were placed in a specially designed spaceship with due protection and a life-sustain ing environ- ment.

In spite of the unquestionable scientific credentials of Crick and Orgel, their theory of Directed Panspermia met with disbe-

lief and even ridicule. However, more recent scientific ad- vances changed these attitudes; not only because of the narrowing of the Window of Time to a mere couple of hundred million years, almost ruling out the possibility that the essential genetic matter had enough time to evolve here on Earth. The change in opinion was also due to the discovery that of the

myriad of amino acids that exist, it is only the same twenty or so that are part of all living organisms on Earth, no matter what these organisms are and when they evolved; and that the same DNA, made up of the same four nucleotides—that and no other—is present in all living things on Earth.

It was therefore that the participants of the landmark eighth

Conference on the Origins of Life, held at Berkeley, California,

in 1986. could no longer accept the random formation of life inherent in the murky-soup or life-from-clay hypotheses, for according to these theories, a variety of life forms and genetic codes should have arisen. Instead, the consensus was that “all life on Earth, from bacteria to sequoia trees to humans, evolved from a single ancestral cell.”

But where did this single ancestral cell come from? The 285 scientists from 22 countries did not endorse the cautious sug- gestions that, as some put it, fully formed cells were planted on Earth from space. Many were, however, willing to consider

that “the supply of organic precursors to life was augmented from space.” When all was said and done, the assembled scientists were left with only one avenue that, they hoped, might provide the answer to the puzzle of the origin of life on Earth: space exploration. The research should shift from Earth to Mars, to the Moon, to Saturn’s satellite Titan, it was sug-

gested, because their more pristine environments might have better preserved the traces of the beginnings of life.

Such a course of research reflects the acceptance, it must be obvious, of the premise that life is not unique to Earth. The first reason for such a premise is the extensive evidence that organic compounds permeate the Solar System and outer space.

The data from interplanetary probes have been reviewed in an earlier chapter; the data indicating life-related elements and compounds in outer space are so voluminous that only a few instances must suffice here. In 1977, for example, an inter- national team of astronomers at the Max Planck Institute dis- covered water molecules outside our own galaxy. The density

of the water vapor was the same as in Earth’s galaxy, and Otto Hachenberg of the Bonn Institute for Radio Astronomy con- sidered that finding as support for the conclusion that “con- ditions exist at some other place which, like those on Earth, are suitable for life.” In 1984 scientists at the Goddard Space Center found ‘ ‘a bewildering array of molecules, including the

beginning of organic chemistry” in interstellar space. They had discovered “complex molecules composed of the same atoms that make up living tissue,” according to Patrick Thad- deus of the Center’s Institute for Space Studies, and it was “reasonable to assume that these compounds were deposited on Earth at the time of its forming and that life ultimately came

from them.” In 1987, to give one more instance, NASA in- struments discovered that exploding stars (supernovas) pro- duced most of the ninety-odd elements, including carbon, that are contained in living organisms on Earth.

How did such life-essential compounds, in forms that ena- bled life to sprout on Earth, arrive on Earth from space, near

or distant? Invariably, the celestial emissaries under consid- eration are comets, meteors, meteorites, and impacting aster- oids. Of particular interest to scientists are meteorites containing carbonaceous chondrites, believed to represent the most primordial planetary matter in the Solar System. One, which  fell  near  Murchison  in  Victoria,  Australia,  in  1969,

revealed an array of organic compounds, including amino acids and nitrogenous bases that embraced all the compounds in- volved in DNA. According to Ron Brown of Monash Uni- versity in Melbourne, researchers have even found “formations in the meteorite reminiscent of a very primitive form of cell structure.”

Until then, carbonaceous chondrite meteorites, first collected in France in 1806, were dismissed as unreliable evidence be- cause their life-related compounds were explained away as terrestrial contamination. But in 1977 two meteorites of this type were discovered buried in the icy wilderness of Antarctica, where no contamination was possible. These, and meteorite fragments collected elsewhere in Antarctica by Japanese sci- entists, were found to be rich in amino acids and to contain at least three of the nucleotides (the A, G, and U of the genetic “alphabet”) that make up DNA and/or RNA. Writing in Sci- entific American (August 1983), Roy S. Lewis and Edward Anders concluded that “carbonaceous chondrites, the most primitive meteorites, incorporate material  originating  outside the Solar System, including matter expelled by supernovas and other stars.” Radiocarbon dating has given these meteorites an age of 4.5 to 4.7 billion years; it makes them not only as old as but even older than Earth and establishes their extra- terrestrial origin.

Reviving, in a way, the old beliefs that comets cause plagues on Earth, two noted British astronomers. Sir Fred Hoyle and Chandra Wickramasinghe, suggested in a study in the New Scientist (November 17, 1977) that “life on Earth began when

stray comets bearing the building blocks of life crashed into the primitive Earth.” In spite of criticism by other scientists, the two have persisted in pressing this theory forward at sci- entific conferences, in books (Lifecloud and others) and in scholarly publications, offering each time more supportive ar- guments for the thesis that “about four billion years ago life arrived in a comet.”

Recent close studies of comets, such as Halley’s, have shown that the comets, as do the other messengers from far out in space, contain water and other life-building compounds. These findings have led other astronomers and biophysicists to con-

cede the possibility that cometary impacts had played a role in giving rise to life on Earth. In the words of Armand Del- semme of the University of Toledo, “A large number of comets hitting Earth contributed a veneer of chemicals needed for the formation of amino acids; the molecules in our bodies were likely in comets at one time.”

As scientific advances made more sophisticated studies of meteorites, comets, and other celestial objects possible, the results included an even greater array of the compounds es- sential to life. The new breed of scientists, given the name “Exobiologists,” have even found isotopes and other elements in these celestial bodies that indicate an origin preceding the

formation of the Solar System. An extrasolar origin for the life that eventually evolved on Earth has thus become a more ac- ceptable proposition. The argument between the Hoyle-Wick- ramasinghe team and others has by now shifted its focus to whether the two are right in suggesting that “spores”—actual microorganisms—rather  than  the  antecedent  life-forming  com-

pounds were delivered to Earth by the cometary/meteoritic impacts.

Could “spores” survive in the radiation and cold of outer space? Skepticism regarding this possibility was greatly dis- pelled by experiments conducted at Leiden University, Hol- land, in 1985. Reporting in Nature (vol. 316) astrophysicist J.

Mayo Greenberg and his associate Peter Weber found that this was possible if the “spores” journeyed inside an envelope of molecules of water, methane, ammonia, and carbon monox- ide—all readily available on other celestial bodies.  Pansper- mia, they concluded, was possible.

How about directed panspermia, the deliberate seeding of Earth by another civilization, as suggested earlier by Crick and Orgel? In their view, the “envelope” protecting the spores was not made up just of the required compounds, but was a spaceship in which the microorganisms were kept immersed in nutrients. As much as their proposal smacks of science fiction, the two held fast to their “theorem.” “Even though it sounds a bit cranky,” Sir Francis Crick wrote in The New York Times (October 26, 1981), “all the steps in the argument are scientifically plausible.” Foreseeing that Mankind might one day send its “seeds of life” to other worlds, why could it not be that a higher civilization elsewhere had done it to Earth in the distant past?

Lynn Margulis, a pioneer of the Origin of Life conferences and now a member of the U.S. National Academy of Sciences, held in her writings and interviews that many organisms, when faced with harsh conditions, “release tough little packages”—

she named them “Propagules”—”that can carry genetic ma- terial into more hospitable surroundings” (Newsweek, October 2, 1989). It is a natural “strategy for survival” that has ac- counted for “space age spores”; it will happen in the future because it has happened in the past.

In a detailed report concerning all these developments, head-

lined “NASA to Probe Heavens for Clues to Life’s Origins on Earth” in The New York Times (September 6, 1988), Sandra Blakeslee summed up the latest scientific thinking thus:

Driving the new search for clues to life’s beginnings is the recent discovery that comets, meteors and interstellar dust carry vast amounts of complex organic chemicals as well as the elements crucial to living cells.

Scientists believe that Earth and other planets have been seeded from space with these potential building blocks of life.

“Seeded from space”—the very words written down mil- lennia ago by the Sumerians!

It is noteworthy that in his ‘presentations, Chandra Wick- ramasinghe has frequently invoked the writings of the Greek philosopher Anaxagoras who, about 500 B.C., believed that

the “seeds of life” swarm through the universe, ready to sprout and create life wherever a proper environment is found. Com- ing as he did from Asia Minor, his sources, as was true for so much of early Greek knowledge, were the Mesopotamian writ- ings and traditions.

After a detour of 6.000 years, modem science has come back to the Sumerian scenario of an invader from outer space that brings the seed of life into the Solar System and imparts it to “Gaia” during the Celestial Battle.

The Anunnaki, capable of space travel about half a million years before us, discovered this phenomenon long before us;

in this respect, modem science is just catching up with ancient knowledge.

8

THE ADAM: A SLAVE MADE TO ORDER

The biblical tale of Man’s creation is, of course, the crux of the debate—at times bitter—between Creationists and Evo- lutionists and of the ongoing confrontation between them—at times in courts, always on school boards. As previously stated, both sides had better read the Bible again (and in its Hebrew original); the conflict would evaporate once Evolutionists rec- ognized the scientific basis of Genesis and Creationists realized what its text really says.

Apart from the naive assertion by some that in the account of Creation the “days” of the Book of Genesis  are literally

twenty-four-hour periods and not eras or phases, the sequence

in the Bible is, as previous chapters should have made clear,

a description of Evolution that is in accord with modern sci-

ence. The insurmountable problem arises when Creationists

insist that we. Mankind, Homo sapiens sapiens, were created

instantaneously and without evolutionary predecessors by “God.” “And the Lord God formed Man of the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and Man became a living soul.” This is the tale of Man’s creation as told in chapter 2, verse 7 of the Book of Genesis—according to the King James English version; and this is what the Cre-

ationist zealots firmly believe.

Were they to learn the Hebrew text—which is, after all, the

original—they would discover that, first of all, the creative act

is attributed to certain Elohim—a plural term that at the least

should be translated as “gods,” not “God.” And second, they

would become aware that the quoted verse also explains why

“The Adam” was created: “For there was no Adam to till the land.” These are two important—and unsettling—hints to who had created Man and why.

158

Then, of course, there exists the other problem, that of another (and prior) version of the creation of Man, in Genesis 1:26-27. First, according to the King James version, “God said, Let us make men in our image, after our likeness”; then the suggestion was carried out: “And God created man in his own image, in the image of God created He him; male and female created He them.” The biblical account is further com- plicated by the ensuing tale in Chapter 2, according to which “The Adam” was alone until God provided him with a female counterpart, created of Adam’s rib.

While Creationists might be hard put to decide which par- ticular version is the sine qua non tenet, there exists the problem

of pluralism. The suggestion for Man’s creation comes from

a plural entity who addresses a plural audience, saying, “Let

us make an Adam in our image and after our likeness.” What,

those who believe in the Bible must ask, is going on here?

As both Orientalists and Bible scholars now know, what

went on was the editing and summarizing by the compilers of the Book of Genesis of much earlier and considerably more detailed texts first written down in Sumer. Those texts, re- viewed and extensively quoted in The 12th Planet with all sources listed, relegate the creation of Man to the Anunnaki. It happened, we learn from such long texts as Atra Basis, when

the rank-and-file astronauts who had come to Earth for its gold mutinied. The backbreaking work in the gold mines, in south- east Africa, had become unbearable. Enlil, their commander- in-chief, summoned the ruler of Nibiru, his father Anu, to an Assembly of the Great Anunnaki and demanded harsh punish- ment of his rebellious crew. But Anu was more understanding.

“What are we accusing them of?” he asked as he heard the complaints of the mutineers. “Their work was heavy, their distress was much!” Was there no other way to obtain the gold, he wondered out loud.

Yes, said his other son Enki (Enlil’s half brother and rival), the brilliant chief scientist of the Anunnaki. It is possible to

relieve the Anunnaki of the unbearable toil by having someone else take over the difficult work: Let a Primitive Worker be created!

The idea appealed to the assembled Anunnaki. The more they discussed it, the more clear their clamor grew for such a

Primitive Worker, an Adamu, to take over the work load. But, they wondered, how can you create a being intelligent enough to use tools and to follow orders? How was the creation or “bringing forth,” of the Primitive Worker to  be  achieved? Was it, indeed, a feasible undertaking?

A Sumerian text has immortalized the answer given by Enki to the incredulous assembled Anunnaki, who saw in the cre-

ation of an Adamu the solution to their unbearable toil:

The creature whose name you uttered— IT EXISTS!

All you have to do, he added, is to

Bind upon it the image of the gods.

In these words lies the key to the puzzle of Man’s creation, the magical wand that removes the conflict between Evolution and Creationism. The Anunnaki, the Elohim of the biblical verses, did not create Man from nothing. The being was already there, on Earth, the product of evolution. All that was needed to upgrade it to the required level of ability and intelligence was to “bind upon it the image of the gods,” the image of the Elohim themselves.

For the sake of simplicity let us call the “creature” that already existed then Apeman/Apewoman. The process envi- sioned by Enki was to “bind” upon the existing creature the “image”—the inner, genetic makeup—of the Anunnaki; in other words, to upgrade the existing Apeman/Apewoman through genetic manipulation and, by thus jumping the gun on evolution, bring “Man”—Homo sapiens—into being.

The term Adamu, which is clearly the inspiration for the biblical name “Adam,” and the use of the term “image” in

the Sumerian text, which is repeated intact in the biblical text, are not the only clues to the Sumerian/Mesopotamian origin of the Genesis creation of Man story. The biblical use of the plural pronoun and the depiction of a group of Elohim reaching a consensus and following it up with the necessary action also lose their enigmatic aspects when the Mesopotamian sources

are taken into account.

In them we read that the assembled Anunnaki resolved lo proceed with the project, and on Enki’s suggestion assigned the task to Ninti, their chief medical officer:

They summoned and asked the goddess,

the midwife of the gods, the wise birthgiver,

[saying:]

“To a creature give life, create workers!

Create a Primitive Worker, that he may bear the yoke!

Let him bear the yoke assigned by Enlil, Let The Worker carry the toil of the gods!”

One cannot say for certain whether it was from the Atra Hasis text, from which the above lines are quoted, or from much earlier Sumerian texts that the editors of Genesis got their abbreviated version. But we have here the background of events that led to the need for a Primitive Worker, the assembly of the gods and the suggestion and decision to go ahead and have one created. Only by realizing what the biblical sources were can we understand the biblical tale of the Elohim—the Lofty Ones, the “gods”—saying: “Let us make the Adam in our image, after our likeness,” so as to remedy the situation that “there was no Adam to till the land.”

In The 12th Planet it was stressed that until the Bible begins to relate the genealogy and history of Adam, a specific person,

the Book of Genesis refers to the newly created being as “The

Adam,” a generic term. Not a person called Adam, but, lit-

erally, “the Earthling,” for that is what “Adam” means, com-

ing as it does from the same root as Adamah, “Earth.” But

the term is also a play on words, specifically dam, which means

“blood” and reflects, as we shall soon see, the manner in which The Adam was “manufactured.”

The Sumerian term that means “Man” is LU. But its root meaning is not “human being”; it is rather “worker, servant,” and as a component of animal names implied “domesticated.” The Akkadian language in which the Atra Hasis text was writ-

ten (and from which all Semitic languages have stemmed) applied to the newly created being the term lulu, which means, as in the Sumerian, “Man” but which conveys the notion of

mixing. The word lulu in a more profound sense thus meant “the mixed one.” This also reflected the manner in which The Adam—”Earthling” as well as “He of the blood”—-was cre- ated.

Numerous texts in varying states of preservation or frag- mentation  have  been  found  inscribed  on  Mesopotamian  clay

tablets. In sequels to The 12th Planet the creation “myths” of

other peoples, from both the Old and New Worlds, have been

reviewed; they all record a process involving the mixing of a

godly element with an earthly one. As often as not, the godly

element  is  described  as  an  “essence” derived from  a  god’s

blood, and the earthly element as “clay” or “mud.” There can be no doubt that they all attempt to tell the same tale, for they all speak of a First Couple. There is no doubt that their origin is Sumerian, in whose texts we find the most elaborate descriptions and the greatest amount of detail concerning the wonderful deed: the mixing of the “divine” genes of the An-

unnaki with the “earthly” genes of Apeman by fertilizing the egg of an Apewoman.

It was fertilization in vitro—in glass tubes, as depicted in this rendering on a cylinder seal (Fig. 51). And, as I have been saying since modern science and medicine achieved the feat of in vitro fertilization, Adam was the first test-tube baby. . . .

Figure 51

There is reason to believe that when Enki made the surprising suggestion to create a Primitive Worker through genetic ma- nipulation, he had already concluded that the feat was possible. His suggestion to call in Ninti for the task was also not a spur- of-the-moment idea.

Laying the groundwork for ensuing events, the Atra Hasis text begins the story of Man on Earth with the assignment of tasks among the leading Anunnaki. When the rivalry between the two half brothers. Enlil and Enki, reached dangerous levels, Anu made them draw lots. As a result, Enlil was given mastery

over the old settlements and operations in the E.DIN (the bib- lical Eden) and Enki was sent to Africa, to supervise the AB. ZU, the land of mines. Great scientist that he was, Enki was bound to have spent some of his time studying the flora and fauna of his surroundings as well as the fossils that, some 300,000 years later, the Leakeys and other paleontologists have

been uncovering in southeastern Africa. As scientists do today, Enki, too, must have contemplated the course of evolution on Earth. As reflected in the Sumerian texts, he came to the con- clusion that the same “seed of life” that Nibiru had brought with it from its previous celestial abode had given rise to life on both planets; much earlier on Nibiru, and later on Earth,

once the latter had been seeded by the collision.

The being that surely fascinated him most was Apeman— a step above the the other primates, a hominid already walking erect and using sharpened stones as tools, a proto-Man—but not yet a fully evolved human. And Enki must have toyed with the intriguing challenge of “playing God” and conducting experiments in genetic manipulation.

To aid his experiments he asked Ninti to come to Africa and be by his side. The official reason was plausible. She was the chief medical officer; her name meant “Lady Life” (later on she  was  nicknamed  Mammi,  the  source  of  the  universal

Mamma/Mother). There was certainly a need for medical ser- vices, considering the harsh conditions under which the miners toiled. But there was more to it: from the very beginning, Enlil and Enki vied for her sexual favors, for both needed a male heir by a half sister, which she was. The three of them were children of Anu, the ruler of Nibiru, but not of the same mother;

and according to the succession rules of the Anunnaki (later

adopted by the Sumerians and reflected in the biblical tales of the Patriarchs), it was not necessarily the Firstborn son but a son bom by a half sister from the same royal line who became the Legal Heir. Sumerian texts describe torrid lovemaking be- tween Enki and Ninti (with unsuccessful results, though: the offspring were all females); there was thus more than an interest in science that led to Enki’s suggestion to call in Ninti and assign the task to her.

Knowing all this, we should not be surprised to read in the creation texts that, first, Ninti said she could not do it alone,

that she had to have the advice and help of Enki; and second, that she had to attempt the task in the Abzu, where the right materials and facilities were available. Indeed, the two must have conducted experiments together there long before the suggestion was made at the assembly of the Anunnaki to ”let us make an Adamu in our image.” Some ancient depictions

show “Bull-Men” accompanied by naked Ape-men (Fig. 52) or Bird-Men (Fig. 53). Sphinxes (bulls or lions with human heads) that adorned many ancient temples may have been more than imaginary representations; and when Berossus, the Ba- bylonian priest, wrote down Sumerian cosmogony and tales of creation for the Greeks, he described a prehuman period when

Figure 52

Figure 53

“men appeared with two wings,” or “one body and two heads,” or with mixed male and female organs, or “some with the legs and horns of goats” or other hominid-animal mixtures. That these creatures were not freaks of nature but the result of deliberate experiments by Enki and Ninti is obvious from the Sumerian texts. The texts describe how the two came up with a being who had neither male nor female organs, a man who could not hold back his urine, a woman incapable of bearing children, and creatures with numerous other defects. Finally, with a touch of mischief in her challenging announce- ment, Ninti is recorded to have said:

How good or bad is man’s body? As my heart prompts me,

I can make its fate good or bad.

Having reached this stage, where genetic manipulation was sufficiently perfected to enable the determination of the re- sulting body’s good or bad aspects, the two felt they could master the final challenge: to mix the genes of hominids. Ape- men, not with those of other Earth creatures but with the genes of the Anunnaki themselves. Using all the knowledge they had amassed, the two Elohim set out to manipulate and speed up the process of Evolution. Modern Man would have undoubt-

edly eventually evolved on Earth in any case, just as he had done on Nibim, both having come from the same “seed of life.” But there was still a long way and a long time to go from the stage hominids were at 300,000 years ago to the level of development the Anunnaki had reached at that time. If, in the course of 4 billion years, the evolutionary process had been earlier on Nibiru just 1 percent of that time, Evolution would have been forty million years ahead on Nibiru compared with the course of evolution on Earth. Did the Anunnaki jump the gun on evolution on our planet by a million or two million years? No one can say for sure how long it would have taken Homo sapiens to evolve naturally on Earth from the earlier hominids, but surely forty million years would have been more than enough time.

Called upon to perform the task of “fashioning servants for the gods”—”to bring to pass a great work of wisdom.” in the words of the ancient texts—Enki gave Ninti the following

instructions:

Mix to a core the clay

from the Basement of the Earth,

just above the Abzu,

and shape it into the form of a core.

I shall provide good, knowing young Anunnaki

who will bring the clay to the right condition.

In The 12th Planet, I analyzed the etymology of the Sumerian and Akkadian terms that are usually translated “clay” or “mud” and showed that they evolved from the Sumerian TI.IT, literally, “that which is with life,” and then assumed the derivative meanings of “clay” and “mud,” as well as “egg.” The earthly element in the procedure for “binding upon” a being who already existed “the image of the gods” was thus to be the female egg of that being—of an Apewoman.

All the texts dealing with this event make it clear that Ninti relied on Enki to provide the earthly element, this egg of a

female Apewoman, from the Abzu, from southeast Africa. Indeed, the specific location is given in the above quote: not exactly the same site as the mines (an area identified in The 12th Planet as Southern Rhodesia, now Zimbabwe) but a place

“above” it, farther north. This area was, indeed, as recent finds have shown, where Homo sapiens emerged. . . .

The task of obtaining the “divine” elements was Ninti’s. Two extracts were needed from one of the Anunnaki, and a

young “god” was carefully selected for the purpose. Enki’s instructions to Ninti were to obtain the god’s blood and shiru, and through immersions in a “purifying bath” obtain their “essences.” What had to be obtained from the blood was termed TE.E.MA, at best translated “personality,” a term that expresses the sense of the word: that which makes a person

what he is and different from any other person. But the trans- lation “personality” does not convey the scientific precision of the term, which in the original Sumerian meant “That which houses that which binds the memory.” Nowadays we call it a “gene.”

The other  element for  which the  young Anunnaki was se-

lected, shiru, is commonly translated “flesh.” In time,  the word did acquire the meaning “flesh” among its various con- notations. But in the earlier Sumerian it referred to the sex or reproductive organs; its root had the basic meaning “to bind,” “that which binds.” The extract from the shiru was referred to  in  other  texts  dealing  with  non-Anunnaki  offspring  of  the

“gods” as kisru; coming from the male’s member, it meant “semen,” the male’s sperm.

These two divine extracts were to be mixed well by Ninti in a purifying bath, and it is certain that the epithet lulu (“The mixed one”) for the resulting Primitive Worker stemmed from this mixing process. In modern terms we would call him a

hybrid.

All these procedures had to be performed under strict sanitary

conditions. One text even mentions how Ninti first washed her

hands  before  she  touched  the  “clay.”  The  place  where  these

procedures  were  carried  out was  a special structure called in

Akkadian  Bit  Shimti,  which,  coming  from  the  Sumerian

SHI.1M.TI literally meant “house where the wind of life is breathed in”—the source, no doubt, of the biblical assertion that after having fashioned the Adam from the clay, Elohim “blew in his nostrils the breath of life.” The biblical term, sometimes translated “soul” rather than “breath of life,” is Nephesh. The identical term appears in the Akkadian account

of what took place in the “house where the wind of life is hreathed in” after the purifying and extracting procedures were completed:

The god who purifies the napishtu, Enki, spoke up.

Seated before her [Ninti] he was prompting her.

After she had recited her incantation,

she put her hand to the clay.

A depiction on a cylinder seal (Fig. 54) may well have illustrated the ancient text. It shows Enki seated, “prompting” Ninti (who is identified by her symbol, the umbilical cord), with the “test-tube” flasks behind her.

The mixing of the “clay” with all the component extracts and “essences” was not yet the end of the procedure. The egg of the Apewoman, fertilized in the “purifying baths” with the

sperm and genes of the young Anunnaki “god,” was then deposited in a “mold,” where the “binding” was to be com- pleted. Since this part of the process is described again later in connection with the determining of the sex of the engineered being, one may surmise that was the purpose of the ‘ ‘binding” phase.

The length of time the fertilized egg thus processed stayed

Figure 54

in the “mold” is not stated, but what was to be done with it was quite clear. The fertilized and “molded” egg was to be reimplanted in a female womb—but not in that of its original Apewoman. Rather, it was to be implanted in the womb of a “goddess,” an Anunnaki female! Only thus, it becomes clear, was the end result achievable.

Could the experimenters, Enki and Ninti, now be sure that, after all their trial-and-error attempts to create hybrids, they would then obtain a perfect lulu by implanting the fertilized and processed egg in one of their own females—that what she

would give birth to would not be a monster and that her own life would not be at risk?

Evidently they could not be absolutely sure; and as often happens with scientists who use themselves as guinea pigs for a dangerous first experiment calling for a human volunteer, Enki announced to the gathered Anunnaki that his own spouse,

Ninki (“Lady of the Earth”) had volunteered for the task. “Ninki, my goddess-spouse,” he announced, “will be the one for labor”; she was to be the one to determine the fate of the new being:

The newborn’s fate thou shalt pronounce; Ninki would fix upon it the image of the gods; And what it will be is “Man.”

The female Anunnaki chosen to serve as Birth Goddesses if the experiment succeeded, Enki said, should stay and observe what was happening. It was not, the texts reveal, a simple and smooth birth-giving process:

The birth goddesses were kept together. Ninti sat, counting the months.

The fateful tenth month was approaching, The tenth month arrived—

the period of opening the womb had elapsed.

The drama of Man’s creation, it appears, was compounded by a late birth; medical intervention was called for. Realizing what had to be done, Ninti “covered her head” and, with an instrument whose description was damaged on the clay tablet,

“made an opening.” This done, “that which was in the womb came forth.” Grabbing the newborn baby, she was overcome with joy. Lifting it up for all to see (as depicted in Fig. 51), she shouted triumphantly:

I have created!

My hands have made it!

The first Adam was brought forth.

The successful birth of The Adam—by himself, as the first biblical version states—confirmed the validity of the process and opened the way for the continuation of the endeavor. Now, enough “mixed clay” was prepared to start pregnancies in fourteen birth goddesses at a time:

Ninti nipped off fourteen pieces of clay, Seven she deposited on the right, Seven she deposited on the left; Between them she placed the mold.

Now the procedures were genetically engineered to come up with seven males and seven females at a time. We read on another tablet that Enki and Ninti,

The wise and learned,

Double-seven birth-goddesses had assembled.

Seven brought forth males,

Seven brought forth females;

The birth-goddesses brought forth

the Wind of the Breath of Life.

There is thus no conflict among the Bible’s various versions of Man’s creation. First, The Adam was created by himself; but then, in the next phase, the Elohim indeed created the first humans “male and female.”

How many times the “mass production” of Primitive Work- ers was repeated is not stated in the creation texts. We read elsewhere that the Anunnaki kept clamoring for more, and that eventually Anunnaki from the  Edin—Mesopotamia—came  to the Abzu in Africa and forcefully captured a large number of

Primitive Workers to take over the manual work back in Mes- opotamia. We also learn that in time, tiring of the constant need for Birth Goddesses, Enki engaged in a second genetic manipulation to enable the hybrid people to procreate on their own; but the story of that development belongs in the next chapter.

Bearing in mind that these ancient texts come to us across a bridge of time extending back for millennia, one must admire the ancient scribes who recorded, copied, and translated the earliest texts-—as often as not, probably, without really know- ing what this or that expression or technical term originally meant but always adhering tenaciously to the traditions that required a most meticulous and precise rendition of the copied texts.

Fortunately, as we enter the last decade of the twentieth century of the Common Era, we have the benefit of modern

science on our side. The “mechanics” of cell replication and human reproduction, the function and code of the genes, the cause of many inherited defects and illnesses—all these and so many more biological processes are now understood; per- haps not yet completely but enough to allow us to evaluate the ancient tale and its data.

With all this modern knowledge at our disposal, what is the verdict on that ancient information? Is it an impossible fantasy, or are the procedures and processes, described with such at- tention to terminology, corroborated by modern science?

The answer is yes, it is all the way we would do it today— the way we have been following, indeed, in recent years.

We know today that to have someone or something ‘ ‘brought forth” in the “image” and “after the likeness” of an existing being (be it a tree, a mouse, a man) the new being must have the genes of its creator; otherwise, a totally different being would emerge. Until a few decades ago all that science was aware of was that there are sets of chromosomes lurking within

every living cell that impart both the physical and mental/ emotional characteristics to offspring. But now we know that the chromosomes are just stems on which long strands of DNA are positioned. With only four nucleotides at its disposal, the DNA can be sequenced in endless combinations, in short or

long stretches interspersed with chemical signals that can mean “stop” or “go” instructions (or, it seems, to do nothing at all anymore). Enzymes are produced and act as chemical busy- bodies, launching chemical processes, sending off RNAs to do their job, creating proteins to build body and muscles, produce the myriad differentiated cells of a living creature, trigger the immune system, and, of course, help the being procreate by bringing forth offspring in its own image and after its likeness.

The beginnings of genetics are now credited to Gregor Jo- hann Mendel, an Austrian monk who, experimenting with plant hybridization, described the hereditary traits of common peas

in a study published in 1866. A kind of genetic engineering has of course been practiced in horticulture (the cultivation of flowers, vegetables, and fruits) through the procedure called grafting, where the part of the plant whose qualities are desired to be added to those of another plant is added via an incision to the recipient plant. Grafting has also been tried in recent

years in the animal kingdom, but with limited success between donor and recipient due to rejection by the recipient’s immune system.

The next advance, which for a while received great publicity, was the procedure called Cloning. Because each cell—let us say a  human  cell—contains  all  the  genetic  data necessary to

reproduce that human, it has the potential forgiving rise, within a female egg, to the birth of a being identical to its parent. In theory, cloning offers a way to produce an endless number of Einsteins or, heaven help us. Hitlers.

Experimentally the possibilities of cloning began to be tested with plants, as an advanced method to replace grafting. Indeed,

the term cloning comes from the Greek klon which means “twig.” The procedure began with the notion of implanting just one desired cell from the donor plant in the recipient plant. The technique then advanced to the stage where no recipient plant was needed at all; all that had to be done was to nourish the desired cell in a solution of nutrients until it began to grow,

divide, and eventually form the whole plant. In the 1970s one of the hopes pinned on this process was that whole forests of trees identical to a desired species will be created in test tubes, then shipped in a parcel to the desired location to be planted and grow.

Adapting this technique from plants to animals proved more tricky. First, cloning involves asexual reproduction. In animals that reproduce by fertilizing an egg with a sperm, the repro- ductive cells (egg and sperm) differ from all other cells in that they do not contain all the pairs of chromosomes (which carry the genes as on stems) but only one set each. Thus, in a fertilized human egg (“ovum”) the forty-six chromosomes that constitute the required twenty-three pairs are provided half by the mother (through the ovum) and half by the father (in the sperm). To achieve cloning, the chromosomes in  the  ovum must be removed surgically and a complete set of pairs inserted instead, not from a male sperm but from any other human cell. If all succeeds and the egg, nestled in the womb, becomes first an embryo, then a fetus and then a baby—the baby will be identical to the person from whose single cell it has grown.

There were other problems inherent in the process, too tech- nical to detail here, but they were slowly overcome with the

aid of experimentation, improved instruments, and progress in

understanding  genetics.  One  intriguing  finding  that  aided  the

experiments was that the younger the source of the transplanted

nucleus the better the chances of success. In 1975 British sci-

entists succeeded in cloning frogs from tadpole cells; the pro-

cedure required the removal of a frog egg’s nucleus and its replacement with a tadpole cell’s nucleus. This was achieved by microsurgery, possible because the cells in question are considerably larger than, say, human cells. In 1980 and 1981 Chinese and American scientists claimed to have cloned  fish with similar techniques; flies were also experimented on.

When the experiments shifted to mammals, mice and rabbits were chosen because of their short reproductive cycles. The problem with mammals was not only the complexity of their cells and cell nuclei but also the need to nestle the fertilized egg in a womb. Better results were obtained when the egg’s nucleus  was  not  removed  surgically  but  was  inactivated  by

radiation; even better results followed when this nucleus was “evicted” chemically and the new nucleus also introduced chemically; the procedure, developed through experiments on rabbit eggs by J. Derek Bromhall of Oxford University, became known as Chemical Fusion.

Other experiments relating to the cloning of mice seemed

to indicate that for a mammal’s egg to be fertilized, to start dividing, and, even more important, to begin the process of differentiation (into the specialized cells that become the dif- ferent parts of the body), more than the donor’s set of chro- mosomes is needed. Experimenting at Yale, Clement L. Markert concluded that there was something in the male sperm that promoted these processes, something beside the chro- mosomes; that “the sperm might also be contributing some unidentified spur that stimulates development of the egg.”

In order to prevent the sperm’s male chromosomes from merging with the egg’s female chromosomes (which  would have resulted in a normal fertilization rather than in cloning), one set had to be removed surgically just before the merger began and the remaining set “excited” by physical or chemical means to double itself. If the sperm’s chromosomes were cho- sen for the latter role, the embryo might become either male or female; if the egg’s set were chosen and duplicated, the embryo could only be female. While Markert was continuing his experiments on such methods of nuclear transfer, two other scientists (Peter C. Hoppe and Karl Illmensee) announced in 1977 the successful birth, at the Jackson Laboratory in Bar Harbor, Maine, of seven “single-parent mice.” The process, however, was more accurately designated parthenogenesis, “virgin birth,” than cloning; since what the experimenters did was to cause the chromosomes in the egg of a female mouse to double, keep the egg with the full set of chromosomes in certain solutions, and then, after the cell had divided several times, introduce the self-fertilized cell into the womb of a female mouse. Significantly, the recipient mouse had to be a different female, not the mouse whose own egg had been used.

Quite a stir was caused early in 1978 by the publication of a book that purported to relate how an eccentric American millionaire,  obsessed  by  the  prospect  of  death,  sought  im-

mortality by arranging to be cloned. The book claimed that the nucleus of a cell taken from the millionaire was inserted into a female egg, which was carried through pregnancy to a suc- cessful birth by a female volunteer; the boy, fit and healthy in all respects, was reported at the time of publication to have been fourteen months old. Though written as a factual report,

the tale was received with disbelief. The scientific community’s

skepticism stemmed not from the impossibility of the feat— indeed, that it would one day be possible almost all concerned agreed—-but from doubts whether the feat could have been achieved by an unknown group in the Caribbean when the best researchers had only, at that time, achieved the virgin birth of mice. There was also doubt about the successful cloning of a male adult, when all the experiments had indicated that the older the donor’s cell, the lower the chances of success.

With the memory of the horrors inflicted on Mankind by Nazi Germany in the name of a “master race” still fresh, even

the possibility of cloning selected humans for evil purposes (a

theme of Ira Levin’s best-selling novel The Boys from Brazil)

was reason enough to dampen interest in this avenue of genetic

manipulation.  One  alternative,  which  substituted  the  “Should

man play God?” outcry with what one might call the “Can

science play husband?” idea, was the process that led to the phenomenon of “Tesi-tube babies.”

Research conducted at Texas A & M University in 1976 showed that it was possible to remove an embryo from a mam- mal (a baboon, in that instance) within five days of ovulation and reimplant it in the uterus of another female baboon in a

transfer that led to a successful pregnancy and birth. Other researchers found ways to extract the eggs of small mammals and fertilize them in test tubes. The two processes, that of Embryo Transfer and In vitro Fertilization, were employed in an event that made medical history in July, 1978, when Louise Brown was born at the Oldham and District General Hospital

in northwest England. The first of many other test-tube babies, she was conceived in a test tube, not by her parents but by techniques employed by Doctors Patrick Steptoe and Robert Edwards. Nine months earlier they had used a device with a light at its end to suck out a mature egg from Mrs. Brown’s ovary.  Bathed  in  a  dish  containing life-support  nutrients,  the

extracted egg was “mixed”—the word was used by Dr. Ed- wards-—with the husband’s sperm. Once a sperm succeeded in fertilizing the egg, the egg was transferred to a dish con- taining other nutrients, where it began to divide. After fifty hours it had reached an eight-celled division; at that point, the egg was re-implanted in Mrs. Brown’s womb. With care and

special treatment, the embryo developed properly; a caesarean

delivery completed the feat, and a couple who before this could not have a child because of the wife’s defective fallopian tubes now had a normal daughter.

“We have a girl and she’s perfect!” the gynecologist who performed the caesarean delivery shouted as he held up the baby.

“I have created, my hands have made it!” Ninti cried out as she delivered the Adam by caesarean section, an eon ear- lier. …

Also reminiscent of the ancient reports of the long road of trial and error taken by Enki and Ninti was the fact that the Baby Louise “breakthrough” about which the media went wild

(Fig. 55) came after twelve years of trial and error, in the course of which fetuses and even babies turned out defective. Undoubtedly unbeknown to the doctors and researchers was the fact that, in discovering also that the addition of blood serum to the mixture of nutrients and sperm was essential to

Figure 55

success, they were following (he very same procedures that Enki and Ninti had employed. . .

Although the feat gave new hope to barren women (it also opened the way to surrogate motherhood, embryo freezing, semen banks, and new legal entanglements), it was just a distant cousin of the feat accomplished by Enki and Ninti. Yet it had to employ the techniques of which we have read in the ancient texts—just as the scientists engaged in nucleus transfers have found that the male donor must be young, as the Sumerian texts have stressed.

The most obvious difference between the test-tube baby var- iants and what the ancient texts describe is that in the former the natural process of procreation is emulated: human male sperm fertilize a human female egg that then develops in the

womb. In the case of the creation of The Adam, the genetic material of two different (even if not dissimilar) species was mixed to create a new being, positioned somewhere between the two “parents.”

In recent years modern science has made substantial ad- vances  in  such  genetic  manipulation.  With  the  aid  of

increasingly sophisticated equipment, computers, and ever- more minute instruments, scientists have been able to “read” the genetic code of living organisms, up to and including that of Man. Not only has it become possible to read the A-G-C- T of DNA and the A-G-C-U “letters” of the genetic “al- phabet,”  but  we  can  now  also  recognize  the  three-letter

“words” of the genetic code (like AGG, AAT, GCC, GGG— and so on in myriad combinations) as well as the segments of the DNA strands that form genes, each with its specific task— for example, to determine the color of the eyes, to direct growth, or to transmit a hereditary disease. Scientists have also found that some of the code’s “words” simply act to instruct

the replication process where to start and when to stop. Grad- ually, scientists have become able to transcribe  the  genetic code to a computer screen and to recognize in the printouts (Fig. 56) the “stop” and “go” signs. The next step was to tediously find out the function of each segment, or gene—of which the simple E. colt bacterium has about 4,000 and human

beings well over 100,000. Plans are now afoot to “map” the

Figure 56

complete human genetic  makeup  (“Genome”);  the  enormity of the task, and the extent of the knowledge already gained, can be appreciated by the fact that if the DNA in all human cells were extracted and put in a box, the box need be no bigger than an ice cube; but if the twisting strands of DNA were stretched out, the string would extend 47 million miles. . . .

In spite of these complexities, it has become possible, with the aid of enzymes, to cut DNA strands at desired places, remove a “sentence” that makes up a gene, and even insert into the DNA a foreign gene; through these techniques an undesired trait (such as one that causes disease) can be removed

or a desired one (such as a growth-hormone gene) added. The advances in understanding and manipulating this fundamental chemistry of life were recognized in 1980 with the award of the Nobel prize in chemistry to Walter Gilbert of Harvard and Frederick Sanger of Cambridge University for the development of rapid methods for reading large segments of DNA, and to Paul Berg of Stanford University for pioneering work in “gene splicing.” Another term used for the procedures is “Recom- binant DNA technology,” because after the splicing, the DNA is recombined with newly introduced segments of DNA.

These capabilities have made possible gene therapy, the removal from or correction within human cells of genes causing inherited sicknesses and defects. It has also made possible Biogenetics: inducing, through genetic manipulation, bacteria or mice to manufacture a needed chemical (such as insulin) for medical treatment. Such feats of recombinant technology are possible because all the DNA in all living organisms on Earth is of the same makeup, so that a strand of bacteria DNA will accept (“recombine” with) a segment of human DNA. (Indeed, American and Swiss researchers reported in July 1984 the discovery of a DNA segment that was common to human beings, flies, earthworms, chickens, and frogs—further cor- roboration of the single genetic origin of all life on Earth.)

Hybrids such as a mule, which is the progeny of a donkey and a horse, can be born from the mating of the two because they have similar chromosomes (hybrids, however, cannot pro- create). A sheep and a goat, though not too distant relatives, cannot naturally mate; however, because of their genetic kin-

ship, experiments have brought them together to form (in 1983) a “geep” (Fig. 57)—a sheep with its woolly coat but with a goat’s horns. Such mixed, or1 “mosaic,” creatures are called chimeras, after the monster in Greek mythology that had the forepart of a lion, the middle of a goat, and the tail of a dragon (Fig. 58). The feat was attained by “Cell Fusion,” the fusing together of a sheep embryo and a goat embryo at the stage of their early divisions into four cells each, then incubating the mixture in a test tube with nutrients until it was time to transfer the mixed embryo to the womb of a sheep that acted as a surrogate mother.

In such cell fusions, the outcome (even if a viable offspring

Figure 57

Figure 58

is born) cannot be predicted; it is totally a matter of chance which genes will end up where on the chromosomes, and what traits—”images” and “likenesses”—will be picked up from which cell donor. There is little doubt that the monsters of Greek mythology, including the famous Minotaur  (half  bull, half man) of Crete, were recollections of the tales transmitted to the Greeks by Berossus, the Babylonian priest, and that his sources were the Sumerian texts concerning the trial-and-error experiments of Enki and Ninti which produced all kinds of chimeras.

The advances in genetics have provided biotechnology with other routes than the unpredictable chimera route; it is evident that in doing so, modern science has followed the alternate (though more difficult) course of action undertaken by Enki and Ninti. By cutting out and adding on pieces of the genetic strands, or Recombinant Technology, the traits to be omitted, added, or exchanged can be specified and targeted. Some of the landmarks along this progress in genetic engineering were the transfer of bacterial genes to plants to make the latter resistant to certain diseases and, later (in 1980), of specific bacteria genes into mice. In 1982 growth genes of a rat were spliced into the genetic code of a mouse (by teams headed by Ralph L. Brinster of the University of Pennsylvania and Rich- ard D. Palmiter of Howard Hughes Medical Institute), resulting in the birth of a “Mighty Mouse” twice the size of a normal mouse. In 1985 it was reported in Nature (June 27) that ex- perimenters at various scientific centers had succeeded in in- serting functioning human growth genes into rabbits, pigs, and sheep; and in 1987 (New Scientist, September 17) Swedish scientists likewise created a Super-Salmon. By now, genes carrying other traits have been used in such “trans-genic” recombinations between bacteria, plants, and mammals. Tech- niques have even progressed to the artificial manufacture of compounds that perfectly emulate specific functions of a given gene, mainly with a view to treating diseases.

In mammals, the altered fertilized female egg  ultimately must be implanted in the womb of a surrogate mother—the function that was assigned, according to the Sumerian tales,

to the “Birth Goddesses.” But before that stage, a way had to be found to introduce the desired genetic traits from the male donor into the egg of the female participant. The most common method is micro-injection, by which a female egg, already fertilized, is extracted and injected with the desired added genetic trait; after a short incubation in a glass dish, the

egg is reimplanted in a female womb (mice, pigs, and other mammals have been tried). The procedure is difficult, has many hurdles, and results in only a small percentage of successes— but it works. Another technique has been the use of viruses, which naturally attack cells and fuse with their genetic cores: the new genetic trait to be transferred into a cell is attached

by complex ways to a virus, which then acts as the carrier; the

problem here is that the choice of the site on the chromosome stem to which the gene is to be attached is uncontrollable, and in most cases chimeras have resulted.

In June 1989 a report in Cell by a team of Italian scientists

headed by Corrado Spadafora of the Institute of Biomedical Technology in Rome announced success in using sperm to act as the carriers of the new gene. They reported procedures whereby sperm were induced to let down their natural resis- tance to foreign genes; then, after being soaked in solutions containing the new genetic material, the sperm incorporated

the genetic material into their cores. The altered sperm were then used to impregnate female mice; the offspring contained the new gene in their chromosomes (in this case a certain bacterial enzyme).

The use of the most natural medium—sperm—to carry ge- netic material into a female egg astounded the scientific com-

munity in its simplicity and made front-page news even in The New York Times. A follow-up study in Science of August 11, 1989, reported mixed successes by other scientists in dupli- cating the Italian technique. But all the scientists involved in recombinant technologies concurred that, with some modifi- cations  and  improvements,  a  new  technique—and  the  most

simple and natural one—has been developed.

Some have pointed out that the ability of sperm to take up

foreign DNA was suggested by researchers as early as 1971,

after experiments with rabbit sperm. Little is it realized that

the technique had been reported even earlier, in Sumerian texts

describing the creation of The Adam by Enki and Ninti, who

had mixed the Apewoman’s egg in a test tube with the sperm of a young Anunnaki in a solution also containing blood serum.

In 1987 the dean of anthropology at the University of Flor- ence, Italy, raised a storm of protests by clergymen and hu- manists when he revealed that ongoing experiments could lead to the “creation of a new breed of slave, an anthropoid with

a chimpanzee mother and a human father.” One of my fans sent me the clipping of the story with  the  comment,  “Well, Enki, here we go again!”

This seems to best sum up the achievements of modern microbiology.

The Adam: A Slave Made to Order                 183

WASPS, MONKEYS, AND BIBLICAL PATRIARCHS

Much of what has happened on Earth, and especially its earliest wars, stemmed from the Succession Code  of  the Anunnaki that  deprived  the  firstborn  son  of  the  succession if another son was born to the ruler by a half sister.

The  same  succession  rules,   adopted   by   the   Sumerians, are reflected in the tales of the Hebrew Patriarchs.  The  Bible relates that Abraham (who came  from  the  Sumerian  capital city of Ur) asked his wife Sarah (a name  that  meant  “Prin- cess”) to identify herself,  when  meeting  foreign  kings,  as his sister  rather  than  as  his  wife.  Though  not  the  whole  truth it was  not  a  lie,  as  explained  in  Genesis  20:12:  “Indeed  she is my sister,  the  daughter  of  my  father  but  not  the  daughter of my mother, and she became my wife.”

Abraham’s  successor  was  not  the  firstborn  Ishmael, whose mother was the handmaiden  Hagar,  but  Isaac,  the son of the half sister Sarah, though he was born much later.

The strict adherence  to  these  succession  rules  in  antiquity in all  royal  courts,  whether  in  Egypt  of  the  Old  World  or in the Inca empire in the New World,  suggest  some  “blood- line,” or genetic,  assumption  that  appears  odd  and  contrary to the belief that mating with close relatives is undesirable.

But  did  the  Anunnaki  know   something   modern   science has yet to discover?

In 1980 a group led by Hannah Wu at Washington  Uni- versity found that,  given  a  choice,  female  monkeys  preferred to mate with half brothers. “The exciting thing about this experiment,”  the  report  stated,  “is  that  although  the  pre- ferred half brothers shared the same father, they  had  dif- ferent mothers.”  Discover  magazine  (December  1988) reported  studies  showing  that  “male  wasps   ordinarily   mate with their sisters.” Since  one  male  wasp  fertilizes  many females, the preferential mating was found to be with half sisters: same father but different mother.

It appears thus that there was more than whim to the succession code of the Anunnaki.

9

THE MOTHER CALLED EVE

By tracing Hebrew words in the Bible through their Akkadian stem to their Sumerian origin it has been possible to understand the true meaning of biblical tales, especially those in the Book of Genesis. The fact that so many Sumerian terms had more than one meaning, mostly but not always derived from a com- mon original pictograph, constitutes a major difficulty in un- derstanding Sumerian and requires reading them carefully in context. On the other hand, the propensity of Sumerian writers to use that for frequent plays of words, makes their texts an intelligent reader’s joy.

Dealing, for example, with the biblical tale of the “up- heavaling” of Sodom and Gomorrah in The Wars of Gods and Men, 1 pointed out that the notion that Lot’s wife was turned

into a “pillar of salt” when she stayed back to watch what was happening, in fact meant “pillar of vapor” in the original Sumerian terminology. Since salt was obtained in Sumer from vapor-filled swamps, the original Sumerian term NI.MUR came to mean both “salt” and “vapor.” Poor Lot’s wife was vaporized, not turned into salt, by the nuclear blasts that caused

the upheaval of the cities of the plain.

Regarding the biblical tale of Eve, it was the great Sumer-

ologist Samuel N. Kramer who first pointed out that her name,

which meant in Hebrew “She who has life,” and the tale of

her origin from Adam’s rib in all probability stemmed from

the Sumerian play on the word TI, which meant both “life”

and “rib.”

Some other original or double meanings in the creation tales

have already been mentioned in a previous chapter. More can

be gleaned about “Eve” and her origins from comparisons of

184

the biblical tales with the Sumerian texts and an analysis of Sumerian terminology.

The genetic manipulations, we have seen, were conducted

by Enki and Ninti in a special facility called, in the Akkadian versions, Bit Shimti—”House where the wind of life is breathed in”; this meaning conveys a pretty accurate idea of what the purpose of the specialized structure,  a  laboratory, was. But here we have to invite into the discussion the Su- merian penchant for word play, thereby throwing fresh light

on the source of the tale of Adam’s rib, the use of clay, and the breaths of life.

The Akkadian term, as earlier stated, was a rendering of the Sumerian SHI.IM.T1. a compound word in which each of the three components conveyed a meaning that combined with, strengthened, and expanded the other two. SHI stood for what the Bible called Nephesh, commonly translated “soul” but more accurately meaning “breath of life.” IM had several meanings, depending on the context. It meant “wind,” but it could also mean “side.” In astronomical texts it denoted a satellite that is “by the side” of its planet; in geometry it meant the side of a square or triangle; and in anatomy it meant “rib.” To this day the parallel Hebrew word Sela means both the side of a geometric shape and a person’s rib. And, lo and behold, IM also had a totally unrelated fourth meaning: “clay.” . . .

As if the  multiple  meanings  “wind”/”side”/”rib”/”clay” of IM were not enough, the term TI added to the Sumerians’

linguistic fun. It meant, as previously mentioned, both “life” and “rib”—the latter being the parallel of the Akkadian situ, from which came the Hebrew Sela. Doubled, TI.TI meant “belly”—that which held the fetus; and, lo and behold, in Akkadian titu acquired the meaning “clay,” from which the Hebrew word Tit has survived. Thus, the component TI of the

laboratory’s Sumerian name, SHI.IM.TI, we have the mean- ings “life”/”clay’7″belly’7″rib.”

In the absence of the original Sumerian version from which the compilers of Genesis might have obtained their data, one cannot be sure whether they had chosen the ” ‘rib” interpretation because it was conveyed by both IM and TI or because it gave

them an opening to making a social statement in the ensuing verses:

And Yahweh Elohim caused a deep sleep upon the Adam, and he slept.

And He look one of his ribs

and closed up the flesh in its place.

And Yahweh Elohim constructed of the rib

which He had taken from the Adam a woman, and He brought her to the Adam.

And the Adam said,

“This is now bone of my bones,

flesh of my flesh.”

Therefore is the being called Ish-sha [“Woman”] because out of Ish [“Man”] was this one taken. Therefore doth a man leave his father and his mother and shall cleave unto his wife

to become as one flesh.

This tale of the creation of Man’s female counterpart relates how the Adam, having already been placed in the E.DIN to till it and tend its orchards, was all alone. “And Yahweh Elohim said, it is not good that the Adam is by himself; let me make him a mate.” This obviously is a continuation of the version whereby The Adam alone was created, and not part of the version whereby Mankind was created male and female right away.

In order to resolve this seeming confusion, the sequence of creating the Earthlings must be borne in mind. First the male lulu, “mixed one” was perfected; then the fertilized eggs of Apewoman, bathed and mixed with the blood serum and sperm

of a young Anunnaki, were divided into batches and placed in a “mold,” where they acquired either male or female char- acteristics. Reimplanted in the wombs of Birth Goddesses, the embryos produced seven males and seven females each time. But these “mixed ones” were hybrids, which could not pro- create (as mules cannot). To get more of them, the process

had to be repeated over and over again.

At some point it became apparent that this way of obtaining

the serfs was not good enough; a way had to be found to get

more of these humans without imposing the pregnancies and

deliveries on female Anunnaki. That way was a second genetic

manipulation by Enki and Ninti, giving The Adam the ability to procreate on his own. To be able to have offspring, Adam had to mate with a fully compatible female. How and why she was brought into being is the story of the Rib and of the Garden of Eden.

The tale of the Rib reads almost like a two-sentence summary of a report in a medical journal. In no uncertain terms it de- scribes a major operation of the kind that makes headlines nowadays, when a close relative (for example, a father or a sister) donates an organ for transplant. Increasingly, modern medicine resorts to the transplantation of bone marrow when

the malady is a cancer or affects the immune system.

The donor in the biblical case is Adam. He is given general

anesthesia and is put to sleep. An incision is made and a rib

is removed. The flesh is then pulled together to close up the

wound, and Adam is allowed to rest and recover.

The action continues elsewhere. The Elohim  now use the

piece of bone to construct a woman; not to create a woman, but to “construct” one. The difference in terminology is sig- nificant; it indicates that the female in question already existed but required some constructive manipulation to become a mate for Adam. Whatever was needed was obtained from the rib, and the clue to what the rib supplied lies in the other meanings

of IM and TI—life, belly, clay. Was an extract of Adam’s bone marrow implanted in that of a female Primitive Worker’s “clay” through her belly? Regrettably, the Bible does not describe what was done to the female (named Eve by Adam), and the Sumerian texts that have surely dealt with this point have not been found so far. That something of the kind did

exist is certain from the fact that the best available translation of the Atra Hasis text into Early Assyrian (about 850 B.C.) contains lines that parallel some of the biblical verses about a man leaving his father’s house and becoming as one with his wife as they lie in bed together. The tablet that carries this text is too damaged, however, to reveal all that the Sumerian orig-

inal text had to say.

But we do know nowadays, thanks to modern science, that sexuality and the ability to procreate lie in human chromo- somes; each person’s cell contains twenty-three pairs—in the case of a woman a pair of X chromosomes and in the case of

Figure 59

men one X and one Y chromosome (Fig. 59). However, the reproductive cells (female egg, male sperm) each contain only one set of chromosomes, not pairs. The pairing takes place when the egg is fertilized by the sperm; the embryo thus has the twenty-three pairs of chromosomes, but only half of them come from the mother and only half from the father. The mother, having two X chromosomes, always contributes an X. The father, having both an X and a Y, may end up contributing either one; if it is an X, the baby will be female; if a Y, it will be a male.

The key to reproduction thus lies in the fusion of the two single sets of chromosomes; if their number and genetic code differ, they will not combine and the beings will not procreate. Since both female and male Primitive Workers already existed,

their sterility was not due to the lack of X or Y chromosomes. The need for a bone—the Bible stresses that Eve was “bone of the bones” of Adam—suggests that there was a need to overcome some immunological rejection by the female Prim- itive Workers of the males’ sperms. The operation carried out by the Elohim overcame this problem. Adam and Eve discov- ered their sexuality, having acquired “knowing”—a biblical term that connoted sex for the purpose of procreation (“And Adam knew Eve his wife and she conceived and gave birth to Cain.”). Eve, as the tale of the two of them in the Garden of Eden relates, was thenceforth able to become pregnant by Adam, receiving from the deity a blessing combined with a curse: “In suffering shall thou bear children.”

With that, “The Adam,” Elohim said, “has become as one of us.” He was granted “Knowing.” Homo sapiens was able to procreate and multiply on his own. But though he was given

a good measure of the genetic makeup of the Anunnaki, who made Man in their image and after their likeness even in this respect of procreation, one genetic trait was not transmitted. That was the longevity of the Anunnaki. Of the fruit of the “Tree of Life,” partaking of which would have made Man live as long as the Anunnaki, he was not even to taste. This

point is clearly spelled out in the Sumerian tale of Adapa, the Perfect Man created by Enki:

Wide understanding he perfected for him. … Wisdom he had given him. . . .

To him he had given Knowing; Eternal life he had not given him.

Ever since publication of The 12th Planet in 1976, I have spared no effort to explain the seeming “immortality” of the “gods.” Using flies in my home as an example, I have been wont to say that if flies could talk, Papa Fly would tell Son Fly, “You know, this man here is immortal; as long as I have lived, he has not aged at all; my father told me that his father, all our forefathers as far as we can remember, have seen this man the way he is: ever-living, immortal!”

My “immortality” (in the eyes of the talking flies) is, of course, simply a result of the different life cycles. Man lives

so many decades of years; flies count their lives in days. But what are all these terms? A “day” is the time it takes our planet to complete one revolution about its axis; a “year” is the time it takes our planet to complete one orbit around the Sun. The length of time activities by the Anunnaki took on Earth was counted in sars, each one equivalent to 3,600 Earth- years. A sar, I have suggested, was the “year” on Nibiru— the time it took that planet to complete one orbit around the Sun. So when the Sumerian King Lists reported, for example, that one leader of the Anunnaki administered one of their cities for 36,000 years, the text actual states ten sars. if a single generation for Man is twenty years, there would be 180 gen- erations of Man’s progeny in one Anunnaki “year”—making them appear to be Forever Living, “immortal.”

The  ancient  texts  make clear  that  this  longevity was  not passed on to Man, but intelligence was. This implies a belief

or knowledge, in antiquity, that the two traits, intelligence and

longevity, could somehow be bestowed upon or denied to Man

by  those  who  had  genetically  created  him.  Not  surprisingly,

perhaps, modem science agrees. “Evidence amassed over the

past  60  years  suggests  that  there  is  a  genetic  component  to

intelligence,” Scientific American reported in its March 1989 issue. Besides giving examples of geniuses in various fields who had bequeathed their talents to children and grandchildren, the article highlighted a report by researchers from the Uni- versity of Colorado at Boulder and Pennsylvania State Uni- versity  (David  W.  Fulker,  John  C.  DeFries,  and  Robert

Plomin), who had established a “close biological correlation” in mental abilities attributable to genetic heredity. Scientific American headlined the article, “More Evidence Links Genes and Intelligence.” Other studies, recognizing that “memories are made of molecules,” have led to the suggestion that if computers are ever to match human intelligence, they ought

to be “molecular computers.” Updating suggestions made in this direction by Forrest Carter of the Naval Research Labo- ratories in Washington, D.C., John Hopfield of Caltech and AT&T’s Bell Laboratories outlined in 1988 (Science, vol. 241) a blueprint for a “biological computer.”

Evidence has also been mounting for the genetic source of

the life cycles of living organisms. The various stages in the

life of insects and the length of time they live are clearly genetically orchestrated. So is the fact that so many creatures— but not mannals—die after reproducing. Octopuses, for ex- ample, it was discovered (by Jerome Wodinsky of Brandeis University) are genetically programmed to “self-destruct” after reproduction through chemicals found in their optical glands. The studies were carried out in the course of research on the aging process in animals, not on the life of octupuses per se. Many other studies have shown that some animals possess the capacity to repair damaged genes in their cells and thus halt or reverse the aging process. Every species clearly has a life span fixed by its genes—a single day for the mayfly, about six years for a frog, a limit of about fifteen for a dog. Nowadays the human limit lies somewhere not much beyond one hundred years but in earlier times human life spans were much longer.

According to the Bible, Adam lived to be 930 years old, his son Seth 912 years, and his son Enosh, 905. Although there

is reason to believe that the editors of Genesis reduced by a

factor of 60 the much greater life spans reported in the Sumerian

texts,  the  Bible  does  acknowledge  that  mankind  had  much

longer lifetimes before the Deluge. Patriarchal life spans began

to shorten as the millennia raced on. Terah, Abraham’s father,

died at the age of 205. Abraham lived 175 years; his son Isaac died at age 180. Isaac’s son Jacob lived to be 147 but Jacob’s son passed away at age 110.

While it is believed the genetic errors that accumulate as DNA keeps reproducing itself in the cells contribute to the aging process, scientific evidence indicates the existence of a

biological “clock” in all creatures, a basic, built-in genetic trait that controls the life span of each species. What that gene or group of genes is, what makes it tick, what triggers it to “express” itself, are still matters of intense research. But that the answer lies in the genes has been shown by numerous studies. Some, on viruses, show that they possess fragments

of DNA that can literally “immortalize” them.

Enki  must  have  known  all  that,  so  that  when  it  came  to

perfecting The Adam—creating a true, procreating Homo sap-

iens—he gave Adam intelligence and “Knowing,” but not the

full longevity that the Anunnaki genes possessed.

As Mankind keeps distancing itself from the days of its creation as a Lulu, a “mixed” being who carried the genetic heritage of both the Earth and the Heavens, the shortening of its average life span might be seen as a symptom of the minute loss, from generation to generation, of what some consider “divine” elements and the increasing preponderance of the “animal which is within us.” The existence in our genetic makeup of what some call “nonsense” DNA—segments of DNA that seem to have lost their purpose—is an apparent leftover from the original “mixing.” The two independent, though connected, parts of the brain—one more primitive and emotional, the other newer and more rational—are another attestation to the mixed genetic origin of Mankind.

The evidence that corroborates the ancient tales of creation, massive as it has been so far, does not end with genetic ma- nipulation. There is more to come, and it is all above Eve!

Modern anthropology, with the aid of fossil finds by pa- leontologists and advances in other fields of science, has made great strides in tracing back the origin of Man. By now the question “Where did we come from?” has been clearly an- swered: Mankind arose in southeastern Africa.

The story of Man, we now know, did not begin with Man; the “chapter” that tells of the group of mammals called “Pri- mates” takes us back some forty-five or fifty million years, when a common ancestor of monkeys, apes, and Man appeared in Africa. Twenty-five or thirty million years  later—that  is how slowly the wheels of evolution turn—a precursor of the

Great Apes branched off the primate line. In the 1920s fossils of this early ape, “Proconsul,” were found by chance on an island in Lake Victoria (see map), and the find eventually attracted to the area the best-known husband-wife team of paleontologists, Louis S. B. and Mary Leakey. Besides Pro- consul fossils they also discovered in the area remains of Ra-

mapithecus, the first erect ape or manlike primate; it was some fourteen million years old—some eight or ten million years up the evolutionary tree from Proconsul.

These discoveries meant more than finding a few fossils; they unlocked the door to nature’s secret laboratory, the hide- away where Mother Nature keeps forging ahead with the ev-

Figure 60

olutionary march that has led from mammal to primate to great apes to hominids. The place was the rift valley that slashes through Ethiopia, Kenya, and Tanzania—part of the rift system that begins in the Jordan Valley and the Dead Sea in Israel, includes the Red Sea, and runs all the way to southern Africa (map, Fig. 60).

Numerous fossil finds have been made at sites that the Leak- eys and other paleoanthropologists have made famous. The

richest finds have been in Olduvai Gorge in Tanzania; near

Lake Rudolf (renamed Lake Turkana) in Kenya; and in the Afar province of Ethiopia, to name the best-known sites. There have been many discoverers from many nations, but some— prominent in the scholarly debates regarding the meaning and time scales of the finds—ought to be mentioned: the Leakeys’ son Richard (curator of the National Museums of Kenya), Donald C. Johanson (curator at the Cleveland Museum of Nat- ural History at the time of his discoveries), Tim White, and J. Desmond Clark (University of California at Berkeley), Alan Walker (John Hopkins University), Andrew Hill and David Pilbeam of Harvard, and Raymond Dart and Phillip Tobias of South Africa.

Putting aside the problems raised by pride of discovery, different interpretations of finds, and a propensity for splitting species and genuses into smaller subdivisions, it is safe to state that the branch leading to humans separated from that of four-

legged apes some fourteen million years ago and that it took another nine million years or so until the first apes with hominid aspects, called Australopithecus, showed up—-all where nature had chosen its “man-making” laboratory to be.

While the fossil record for those intervening ten million years is  almost  blank,  paleoanthropologists  (as  the  new  group  of

scientists has come to be called) have been quite ingenious in piecing together the record in the ensuing three million years. Sometimes with only a jawbone, a fractured skull, a pelvis bone, the remains of some fingers, or, with luck, even parts of skeletons, they have been able to reconstruct the beings these fossils represented; with the aid of other finds, such as

animal bones or stones crudely shaped to serve as tools, they have determined the developmental stage and customs of the beings; and by dating the geologic strata in which the fossils are found, they have been able to date the fossils themselves.

Among the outstanding road markers have been such finds as skeletal parts of a female nicknamed “Lucy” (who might

have looked like the hominid in Fig. 61)—believed to have been an advanced Australopithecus who lived some 3.5 million years ago; a fossil known by its catalog number as “Skull 1470” of a male from perhaps 2 million years ago and con- sidered by its finders to be a “near man,” or Homo habilis (“Handy Man”)—a term to whose implications many object;

Figure 61

and skeletal remains of a “strapping young male” cataloged WT.15000 of a Homo erectus from about 1.5 million years ago, probably the first true hominid. He ushered in the Old Stone Age; he began to use stones as tools, and migrated via the Sinai peninsula, which acts as a land bridge between Africa and Asia, to southeast Asia on the one hand and to southern Europe on the other.

The trail of the Homo genus is lost after that; the chapter between about 1.5 million years to about 300,000 years ago is missing, except for traces of Homo erectus on the peripheries of this hominid’s migrations. Then, about 300,000 years ago, without any evidence of gradual change, Homo sapiens made his appearance. At first it was believed that Homo sapiens neanderthalis. Neanderthal man (so named after the site of his first discovery in Germany), who came into prominence in Europe and parts of Asia about 125,000 years ago, was the ancestor of the Cro-Magnons, Homo sapiens sapiens, who took over the lands about 35,000 years ago. Then it was held that

the more “brutish” and thus “primitive'” Neanderthal stemmed from a different Homo sapiens branch, that Cro- Magnon had developed somewhere on his own. Now it is known that the latter notion is more correct, but not entirely. Related but not the offspring of each other, the two lines of Homo sapiens lived side by side as far back as 90,000 or even 100,000 years ago.

The evidence was found in two caves, one on Mount Carmel and the other near Nazareth, in Israel; they are among a number of caves in the area where prehistoric man had made himself a home. The first finds in the 1930s were believed to be about 70,000 years old and only of Neanderthal Man, thus fitting well with the theories then held. In the 1960s a joint Israeli- French team reexcavated the cave at Qafzeh, the one near Nazareth, and discovered that the remains were not only of Neanderthals but also of Cro-Magnon types. In fact, the lay- ering indicated that Cro-Magnons had used the cave before the Neanderthals—a fact that pushed back the appearance of the Cro-Magnons from the supposed 35,000 years ago to well before 70,000 years ago.

Themselves incredulous, the scientists at Hebrew University in Jerusalem turned for verification to the remains of rodents

found in the same layers. Their examination gave the same

incredible  date:  Cro-Magnons,  Homo  sapiens  sapiens,  who

were not supposed to have made an appearance before 35,000

years ago, had reached the Near East and settled in what is

now Israel more than 70,000 years ago. Moreover, for a long

time they shared the area with the Neanderthals.

At the end of 1987 the finds at Qafzeh and Kebara, the cave

on  Mount  Carmel,  were  dated  by  new  methods,  including

Thermoluminescence,  a  technique  that  gives  reliable  dates

much  further  back  than  the  40,000  to  50,000  year  limit  of

radiocarbon dating. As reported in two issues (vols. 330 and

340) of Nature by the leader of the French team, Helene Val- lades of the National Research Center at Gif sur Yvette, the results showed without doubt that both Neanderthals and Cro- Magnons dwelt in the area between 90,000 and 100,000 years ago (scientists now use 92,000 years as the mean date). These findings were confirmed later at another site in the Galilee.

Devoting an editorial in Nature to the findings, Christopher

Stringer of the British Museum acknowledged that the con- ventional view that Neanderthals preceded Cro-Magnons had to be discarded. Both lines appeared to stem from an earlier form of Homo sapiens. “Wherever the original ‘Eden1 for modern humans might have been,” the editorial stated, it now appeared that for some reason Neanderthals were the first to migrate northward, about 125.000 years ago. Joined by his colleague, Peter Andrews, and Ofer Bar-Yosef of Hebrew Uni- versity and Harvard, they forcefully argued for an “Out of Africa” interpretation of these finds. A northward migration by these first Homo sapiens from an African birthplace was confirmed by the discovery (by Fred Wendorf of Southern Methodist University, Dallas) of a Neanderthal skull near the Nile in Egypt that was 80,000 years old.

“Does it all mean an earlier dawn for humans’?” a Science headline asked. As scientists from other disciplines joined the search, it became clear the answer was yes. The Neanderthals, it was determined, were not just visitors to the Near East but long-time dwellers there. And they were not the primitive brutes that earlier notions had made them out to be. They buried their dead in rituals that indicated religious practices and “at least one type of spiritually motivated behavior that allies them with modern humans” (Jared M. Diamond of the University of California Medical School at Los Angeles). Some, as the discoverer of Neanderthal remains at the Shanidar cave, Ralph

S. Solecki of Columbia University, believe that the Neander- thals knew how to use herbs for healing—60,000 years ago.

Skeletal  finds  in  the  Israeli  caves  convinced  anatomists  that,

contrary to previously held theories. Neanderthals could speak:

“Fossil  brain  casts  show  a  well-developed  language  area,”

stated Dean Falk of the State University of New York at Al-

bany. And “Neanderthal’s brain was bigger than ours …  he

was not dull-witted and inarticulate,” concluded neuroanato- mist Terrence Deacon of Harvard.

All these recent discoveries have left no doubt that Nean- derthal man was without doubt a Homo sapiens—not an ances- tor of Cro-Magnon man but an earlier type from the same human stock.

In March 1987 Christopher Stringer of the British Museum, along with a colleague, Paul Mellars, organized a conference

at Cambridge University to update and digest the new findings concerning “The Origins and Dispersal of Modern Man.” As reported by J. A. J. Gowlett in Antiquity (July 1987), the con- ferees first considered the fossil evidence. They concluded that after a hiatus of 1.2 to 1.5 million years by Homo erectus. Homo sapiens made a sudden appearance soon after 300,000 years ago (as evidenced by fossil remains in Ethiopia, Kenya, and South Africa). Neanderthals “differentiated” from those early Homo sapiens (“Wise man”) about 230,000 years ago and may have begun their northward migrations 100,000 years later, perhaps coinciding with the appearance of Homo sapiens sapiens.

The conference also examined other lines of evidence, in- cluding the brand-new data provided by the field of biochem- istry. Most exciting were the findings based on genetics. The

ability of geneticists to trace parentage through comparisons of DNA “sentences” has been proven in paternity lawsuits. It was inevitable that the new techniques would be extended to trace not only child-parent relationships but also whole lin- eages of species. It was this new science of molecular genetics that enabled Allan C. Wilson and Vincent M. Sarich (both of

the University of California at Berkeley) to establish with great accuracy that hominids differentiated from apes about 5 mil- lion, not 15 million years ago, and that the hominids’ closest “next of kin” were chimpanzees and not gorillas.

Because a person’s DNA keeps getting mixed by the genes of  the  generational  fathers,  comparisons  of  the  DNA  in  the

nucleus of the cell (which come half from mother, half from father) do not work well after several generations. It was dis- covered, however, that in addition to the DNA in the cell’s nucleus, some DNA exists in the mother’s cell but outside the nucleus in bodies called “mitochondria” (Fig. 62). This DNA does not get mixed with the father’s DNA; instead, it is passed

on “unadulterated” from mother to daughter to granddaughter, and so on through the generations. This discovery, by Douglas Wallace of Emory University in the 1980s, led him to compare this “mtDNA” of about 800 women. The surprising conclu- sion, which he announced at a scientific conference in July 1986, was that the mtDNA in all of them appeared to be so

similar that these women must have all descended from a single female ancestor.

Figure 62

The research was picked up by Wesley Brown of the Uni- versity of Michigan, who suggested that by determining the rate of natural mutation of mtDNA, the length of time that had passed since this common ancestor was alive could be calcu- lated. Comparing the mtDNA of twenty-one women from di- verse geographical and racial backgrounds, he came to the conclusion that they owed their origin to “a single mitochon- drial Eve” who had lived in Africa between 300,000 and 180,000 years ago.

These intriguing findings were taken up by others, who set out to search for “Eve.” Prominent among them was Rebecca Cann of the University of California at Berkeley (later at Hawaii University). Obtaining the placentas of 147 women of different

races and geographical backgrounds who gave birth at San Francisco hospitals, she extracted and compared their mtDNA. The conclusion was that they all had a common female ancestor who had lived between 300,000 and 150,000 years (depending on whether the rate of mutation was 2 percent or 4 percent per million  years).  “We  usually assume  250,000  years,”  Cann

stated.

The  upper  limit  of  300,000  years,  palcoanthropologists

noted, coincided with the fossil evidence for the time Homo

sapiens  made  his  appearance.  “What  could  have  happened

300,000 years ago to bring this change about?” Cann and Allan

Wilson asked, but they had no answer.

To further test what has come to be called the “Eve Hy- pothesis,” Cann and her colleagues, Wilson and Mark Stone- king, proceeded to examine placentas of about 150 women in America whose ancestors came from Europe, Africa, the Mid- dle East, and Asia, as well as placentas from aborigine women in Australia and New Guinea. The results indicated that the African mtDNA was the oldest and that all those different women from various races and the most diverse geographic and cultural backgrounds had the same sole female ancestor who had lived in Africa between 290,000 and 140,000 years ago.

In an editorial in Science (September 11,1 987) in which all these findings were reviewed, it was stated that the overwhelm- ing evidence showed that “Africa was the cradle of modem humans. . . . The story molecular biology seems to be telling is that modern humans evolved in Africa about 200,000 years

ago.”

These  sensational  findings—since  then  corroborated  by

other  studies—made  worldwide  headlines.  “The  question

Where did we come from? has been answered” the National

Geographic  (October,  1988)  announced:  out  of  southeastern

Africa. “The Mother of Us All” has been found, headlined

the San Francisco Chronicle. “Out of Africa: Man’s Route to Rule the World,” announced the London Observer. Newsweek (January 11, 1988) in what was to be its best-selling issue ever depicted an “Adam” and an “Eve” with a serpent on its front cover, headlining it “The Search for Adam and Eve.”

The headline was appropriate, for as Allan Wilson observed,

“Obviously where there was a mother there had to be a father.”

All these very recent discoveries go a long way indeed in confirming the biblical claim regarding the first couple of Homo sapiens:

And Adam called his wife’s name Chava [“She of Life”—”Eve” in English] for she was the mother of all who live.

Several conclusions are offered by the Sumerian data. First, the creation of the Lulu was the result of the mutiny of the

Anunnaki about 300,000 years ago. This date as the upper limit for the first appearance of Homo sapiens has been cor- roborated by modem science.

Second, the forming of the Lulu had taken place “above the Abzu,” north of the mining area. This is corroborated by the location of the earliest human remains in Tanzania, Kenya, and Ethiopia—north of the gold-mining areas of southern Af- rica.

Third, the full emergence of the first type of Homo sapiens,

the Neanderthals—-about 230,000 years ago—falls well within the 250.000 years suggested by the mtDNA findings for the data of “Eve,” followed later by the emergence of Homo sapiens sapiens, “modern Man.”

There is no contradiction at all between these later dates and the 300,000-year date of the mutiny. Bearing in mind that

these were Earth-years, whereas for the Anunnaki 3,600 Earth- years amounted to only one of theirs, we should first recall that a period of trial and error followed the decision to ‘ ‘create the Adam,” until the “perfect model” was achieved. Then, even after the Primitive Workers were brought forth, seven males and seven females at a time, pregnancies by Birth God-

desses were required, as the new hybrid was unable to pro- create.

Clearly, the tracing of mtDNA accounts for the”Eve” who could bear children, not a female Lulu unable to procreate. The granting to mankind of this ability, it was shown earlier, took place as a result of a second genetic manipulation by Enki

and Ninti which, in the Bible, is reflected in the story of Adam, Eve, and the Serpent in the Garden of Eden.

Did that second genetic manipulation take place about 250,000 years ago, the data for “Eve” suggested by Rebecca Cann, or 200,000 years ago, as the article in Science prefers?

According to the Book of Genesis, Adam and Eve began to

have children only after their expulsion from “Eden.”  We know nothing of whether Abel, their second son who was killed by his elder brother Cain, had any offspring. But we do read that Cain and his descendants were ordered to migrate to far- away lands. Were these descendants of the “accursed line of Cain” the migrating Neanderthals? It is an intriguing possi-

bility that must remain a speculation.

What seems certain is that the Bible does recognize the final emergence of Homo sapiens sapiens, modern human beings. It tells us that the third son of Adam and Eve, Seth, had a son named Enosh, of whom the lineage of Mankind is descended. Now, Enosh in Hebrew means  “human,  human  being”—you and me. It was in the time of Enosh, the Bible states, that “men began to call the name of Yahweh. It was then, in other words, that fully civilized Man and religious worship were established.

With that, all the aspects of the ancient tale stand corrob- orated .

THE EMBLEM OF ENTWINED SERPENTS

In the biblical tale of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, the antagonist of the Lord God who had caused them to acquire “knowing” (the ability to procreate) was the Serpent, Nahash in Hebrew.

The term has two other meanings: “he who knows se- crets” and “he who knows copper.” These other meanings or word plays are found in the Sumerian epithet BUZUR for Enki, which meant “he who solves secrets” and “he of the metal mines.” I have therefore suggested in previous writings that, in the original Sumerian version, the “Ser- pent” was Enki. His emblem was entwined serpents; it was the symbol of his “cult center” Eridu (a), of his African domains in general (b), and of the pyramids in particular (c); and it appeared on Sumerian illustrations on cylinder seals of the events described in the Bible.

What did the emblem of entwined serpents—the symbol for medicine and healing to this very day—represent? The discovery by modern science of the double-helix structure of DNA (see Fig. 49) offers the answer: the Entwined Ser- pents emulated the structure of the genetic code, the secret knowledge of which enabled Enki to create The Adam and then grant Adam and Eve the ability to procreate.

The emblem of Enki as a sign of healing was invoked by Moses when he made a nahash nehosheth—-a “copper ser- pent”—to halt an epidemic afflicting the Israelites. Was the involvement of copper in the triple meanings of the term

The Mother Called Eve                           203

and  in  the  making  of  the  copper  serpent  by  Moses  due  to some unknown role of copper in genetics and healing?

Recent experiments, conducted at the universities of Min- nesota and St. Louis, suggest that it is indeed so. They showed  that  radionucleide  copper-62  is  a   “positron-emit- ter,” valuable in imaging blood flow, and that other copper compounds can carry Pharmaceuticals  to  living  cells,  in- cluding brain cells.

10

WHEN WISDOM WAS LOWERED FROM HEAVEN

The Sumerian King Lists—a record of rulers, cities, and events arranged chronologically—divide prehistory and history  into two distinct parts: first the long record of what had happened before the Deluge, then what transpired after the Deluge. One was the time when the Anunnaki “gods” and then their sons by the “daughters of Man,” the so-called demigods, ruled upon the Earth; the other was when human rulers—kings se- lected by Enlil—were interposed between the “gods” and the people. In both instances the institution of an organized society and orderly government, “Kingship,” was stated to have been “lowered from heaven”—the emulation on Earth of the so- cietal and governmental organization on Nibiru.

“When kingship was lowered from heaven,” begins the Sumerian King List, “kingship was in Eridu. In Eridu, Alulim became king and ruled 28,800 years.” After listing the other antediluvial rulers and cities, the text states that “then the Flood swept over the Earth.” And it continues: “After the Flood had

swept over the Earth, when kingship was lowered again from heaven, kingship was in Kish.” From then on, the lists take us into historical times.

Although the subject of this volume is what we call Science and the ancients called Wisdom, a few words about “King- ship”—the good order of things, an organized society and its

institutions—will not be out of place, because without them no scientific progress or the dissemination and preservation of “Wisdom” could be possible. “Kingship” was  the  “portfo- lio” of Enlil, the Chief Administrator of the Anunnaki  on Earth. It is noteworthy that as in so many scientific fields where we still live off and build upon the Sumerian bequests, so does

204

the institution of kings and kingship still exist, having served Mankind for so many millennia. Samuel N. Kramer, in History Begins at Sumer, listed scores of “firsts” begun there, in- cluding a bicameral chamber of elected (or selected) deputies.

Various aspects of an organized and orderly society were incorporated into the concept of kingship, first and foremost among them the need for justice. A king was required to be “righteous” and to promulgate and uphold the laws, for Su- merian society was one that lived by the law. Many have learnt in school of the Babylonian king Hammurabi and his famous law code, dating back to the second millenium B.C.; but at least two thousand years before him Sumerian kings had al- ready promulgated codes of law. The difference was that Ham- murabi’s was a code of crime and punishment: if you do this, your punishment will be that. The Sumerian law codes, on the other hand, were codes of just behavior; they stated that “you should not take away a widow’s donkey” or delay the wages of a day laborer. The Bible’s Ten Commandments were, like the Sumerian codes, not a list of punishments but a code of what is right to do and what is wrong and should not be done.

The laws were upheld by a judicial administration. It is from Sumer that we have inherited the concept of judges, juries, witnesses, and contracts. The unit of society we call the “fam- ily,” based on a contractual marriage, was instituted in Sumer; so were rules and customs of succession, of adoption, of the

rights of widows. The rule of law was also applied to economic activities: exchange based on contracts, rules for employment, wages, and—how else—taxation. We know much of Sumer’s foreign trade, for example, because there had been a customs station at a city called Drehem where meticulous records were kept of all commercial movements of goods and animals.

All that and more came under the umbrella of “Kingship.” As the sons and grandchildren of Enlil entered the stage of relations between Man and his gods, the functions of kingship and the supervision of kings were gradually handed over to them, and Enlil as the All Beneficent became a cherished mem- ory. But to this day what we call a “civilized society” still

owes its foundations to the time when “kingship was lowered from heaven.”

“Wisdom”—sciences and the arts, the activities that re- quired know-how—were the domain first of Enki, the Chief Scientist of the Anunnaki, and later on, of his children.

We learn from a text scholars call “Inanna and Enki: The Transfer of the Arts of Civilization” that Enki possessed certain

unique objects called ME—a kind of computer or data disks— which held the information needed for the sciences, the han- dicrafts, and the arts. Numbering more than a hundred, they included such diverse subjects as writing, music, metalwork- ing, construction, transportation, anatomy, medical treatments, flood control, and urban decay; also, as other lists make clear,

astronomy, mathematics, and the calendar.

Like  Kingship,  Wisdom  was  “lowered  to  Earth  from

Heaven,” granted to Mankind by the  Anunnaki  “gods.”  It

was by their sole decision that scientific knowledge was passed

on to Mankind, usually through the medium of selected indi-

viduals; the instance of Adapa, to whom Enki granted “wide

understanding,” has already been mentioned. As rule, how- ever, the chosen person belonged to the priesthood—another “first” that stayed with Mankind for millennia through the Middle Ages, when priests and monks were still also the sci- entists.

Sumerian texts tell of Enmeduranki who was groomed by the gods to be the first priest, and relate how the gods

Showed him how to observe oil and water, secrets of Anu, Enlil and Enki.

They gave him the Divine Tablet,

the engraved secrets of Heaven and Earth.

They taught him how to make calculations with numbers.

These brief statements disclose considerable  information. The first subject Enmeduranki was taught, the knowledge of “oil and water,” concerned medicine. In Sumerian times phy- sicians were called either an A.ZU or a IA.ZU, meaning “One who knows water” and “One who knows oil,” and the dif- ference was the method by which they administered medica- ments: mixed and drunk down with water, or mixed with oil and administered by an enema. Next, Enmeduranki was given a “divine,” or celestial, tablet on which were engraved the

“secrets of Heaven and Earth”—information about the planets and the Solar System and the visible constellations of stars, as well as knowledge about “Earth sciences”-—geography, ge- ology, geometry and—since the Enuma etish was incorporated into the temple rituals on New Year’s Eve—cosmogony and evolution. And, to be able to understand all that—the third subject, mathematics: “calculations with numbers.”

In Genesis the story of the antediluvial patriarch called Enoch is summed up in the statement that he did not die but was taken up to the Lord when he was 365 years old (a number that corresponds to the number of days in a year); but considerably

more information about Enoch is provided in the Book of Enoch (of which several renderings have been found), which was not made part of the Bible. In it the knowledge imparted by angels to Enoch is described in much detail; it included mining and metallurgy and the secrets of the Lower World, geography and the way Earth is watered, astronomy and the laws governing

celestial motions, how to calculate the calendar, knowledge of plants and flowers and foods and so on—all shown to Enoch in special books and on “heavenly tablets.”

The biblical Book of Proverbs devotes a good deal of its teachings to Man’s need for Wisdom and to the realization that it is granted by God only to the righteous, “for it is the Lord

who giveth wisdom.” The many secrets of Heaven and Earth that Wisdom encompasses are highlighted in an Ode to Wisdom found in chapter 8 of Proverbs. The Book of Job likewise extols the virtues of Wisdom and all the abundance Man can obtain by it, but pointedly asks: “But whence cometh Wisdom, and  where  is  the  source  of  Understanding?”  To  which  the

answer is. “It is God who understands the way thereof”; the Hebrew word translated “God” is Elohim, the plural term first used in the creation tales. It is certain that the inspiration for these two biblical books, if not their actual source, was Su- merian and Akkadian texts of proverbs and of the Sumerian equivalent of the Book of Job; the latter, interestingly, was

titled “I Will Praise the Lord of Wisdom.”

There was no doubt in ancient times that scientific knowledge

was a gift and a teaching from the “gods”—the Anunnaki,

Elohim—to  Mankind.  The  assertions  that  astronomy was  a

major subject are self-evident statements, since, as must be

evident from earlier chapters in this book, the astounding knowledge in Sumerian times of the complete Solar System and the cosmogony that explained the origin of Earth, the asteroid belt, and the existence of Nibiru could have come only from the Anunnaki.

While I have seen a gratifying increase—to some extent, I would like to think, due to my writings—in the recognition of the Sumerian contribution to the beginnings and concept of

laws, medical treatment, and cuisine, the parallel recognition of the immense Sumerian contribution to astronomy has not come about; this, I suspect, because of the hesitation in crossing the “forbidden threshold” of the inevitable next step: if you admit what the Sumerians knew about celestial matters, you must admit the existence not only of Nibiru but also of its

people, the Anunnaki. . . .Nevertheless, this “fear of cross- ing” (a nice play on words, since Nibiru’s name meant “Planet of the Crossing” . . .) in no way negates the fact that modem astronomy owes to the Sumerians (and through them, to the Anunnaki) the basic concept of a spherical astronomy with all its technicalities; the concept of an ecliptic as the belt around

the Sun in which the planets orbit; the grouping of stars into constellations; the grouping of the constellations seen in the ecliptic into the Houses of the Zodiac; and the application of the number 12 to these constellations, to the months of the year, and to other celestial, or “divine,” matters. This  em- phasis on the number 12 can be traced to the fact that the Solar

System has twelve members, and each leading Anunnaki was assigned a celestial counterpart, forming a pantheon of twelve “Olympians” who were also each assigned a constellation and a month. Astrologers certainly owe much to these celestial divisions, since in the planet Nibiru astrologers find the twelfth member of the Solar System that they have been missing for

so long.

As the Book of Enoch details and as the biblical reference

to the number 365 attests, a direct result of the knowledge of

the interrelated motions of the Sun, the Moon, and the Earth

was the development of the calendar: the counting of the days

(and their nights), the months, and the years. It is now generally

recognized that the Western calendar we use nowadays harkens back to Mankind’s first-ever calendar, the one known as the

Calendar of Nippur. Based on the alignment of its start with the spring equinox in the zodiac of Taurus, scholars have con- cluded that this calendar was instituted at the beginning of the fourth millennium B.C. Indeed, the very concept of a calendar that is coordinated with the Earth-Sun occurrences of the equi- noxes (the time the Sun crosses the equator and day and night are equal) or, alternatively, with the solstices (when the Sun appears to have reached its farthest point north or south)— concepts that are found in all calendars in both the Old World and the New World—come to us from Sumer.

The Jewish calendar, as I have repeatedly pointed out in books and articles, still adheres to the calendar of Nippur not

only in its form and structure but also in its count of years. In

A.D. 1990 the Jewish calendar counts the year 5750; and it is

not from “the creation of the world,” as the explanation has

been, but from the start of the calendar of Nippur in 3760 B.C.

It was in that year, I have suggested in The Lost Realms,

that Anu, Nibiru’s king, came to Earth on a state visit. His name, AN in Sumerian and Anu in Akkadian, meant “heaven,” “The Heavenly One.” and was a component of numerous astronomical terms, such as AN.UR (“celestial ho- rizon”) and AN.PA (“point of zenith”), as well as being a component  of  the  name  “Anunnaki,”  “Those  Who  From

Heaven to Earth Came.” Archaic Chinese, whose  syllables were written and pronounced in a manner that reveals their Sumerian origin, used for example the term kuan to denote a temple that served as an observatory; the Sumerian kernel of the term, KU.AN, had meant “opening to the heavens.” (The Sumerian origin of Chinese astronomy and astrology was dis-

cussed by me in the article “The Roots of Astrology,” which appeared in the February 1985 issue of East-West Journal). Undoubtedly, the Latin annum (“year”) from which the French annee (“year”), the English annual (“yearly”), and so on stem from the time when the calendar and the count of years began with the state visit of AN.

The Chinese tradition of combining temples with observa- tories has, of course, not been limited to China; it harkens back to the ziggurats (step pyramids) of Sumer and Babylon. Indeed, a long text dealing with that visit by Anu and his spouse Antu to Sumer relates how the priests ascended to the ziggurat’s

Figure 63

topmost level to observe the appearance of Nibiru in the skies. Enki imparted the knowledge of astronomy (and of other sci- ences) to his firstborn son Marduk, and the renowned ziggurat of Babylon, built there after Marduk gained supremacy in Mes- opotamia, was built to serve as an astronomical observatory (Fig. 63).

Enki bestowed the “secrets” of the calendar,  mathematics, and writing on his younger son Ningishzidda, whom the Egyp-

tians called Thoth. In The Lost Realms I present substantial evidence to show that he was one and the same Mesoamerican god known as Quetzalcoatl, “The Plumed Serpent.” This god’s name, which means (in Sumerian) “Lord of the Tree of Life,” reflected the fact that it was to him that Enki entrusted medical knowledge, including the secret of reviving the dead.

A Babylonian text quotes the exasperated Enki as telling Mar- duk he had taught him enough, when Marduk also wanted to learn the secret of reviving the dead. That the Anunnaki could achieve that feat (at least in so far as their own were concerned)

Figure 64

is clear from a text titled “The Descent of Inanna to the Lower World,” where she was put to death by her own sister. When her father appealed to Enki to revive the goddess, Enki directed at the corpse “that which pulsates” and “that which radiates” and brought her back to life. A Mesopotamian depiction of a patient on a hospital table shows him receiving radiation treat- ment (Fig. 64).

Putting aside the ability to revive the dead (which is men- tioned as fact in the Bible), it is certain that the teaching of

anatomy and medicine was part of priestly training, as stated

in the Enmeduranki text. That the tradition continued into later

times is clear from Leviticus, one of the Five Books of Moses,

which contains extensive instructions by Yahweh to the Isra-

elite priests in matters of health, medical prognosis, treatment

and hygiene. The dietary commandments regarding “appro- priate” (kosher) and non-appropriate foods undoubtedly stemmed from health and hygienic considerations rather than from religious observance; and many believe that the important requirement of circumcision was also rooted in medical rea- sons.  These  instructions  were  not  unlike  those  in  numerous

earlier Mesopotamian texts that served as medical manuals for the  A.ZUs  and  IA.ZUs,  which  instructed  the  physician

-priests to first observe the symptoms; next stated which remedy had to be applied; and then gave a list of the chemicals, herbs,

and other pharmaceutical ingredients from which the medicines were to be prepared. That the Elohim were the source of these teachings should come as no surprise when we recall the med- ical, anatomical, and genetic feats of Enki and Ninti.

Basic to the science of astronomy and the workings of the calendar, as well as to commerce and economic activity, was the knowledge of mathematics—the “making of  calculations with numbers,” in the words of the Enmeduranki text.

The Sumerian numbers system is called sexagesimal, mean- ing “base 60.” The count ran from 1 to 60, as we now do

with 1 to 100. But then, where we say “two hundred,” the Sumerians said (or wrote) “2 gesh,” meaning 2 x 60, which equaled 120. When in their calculations the text said “take half” or “take one-third,” the meaning was one-half of 60

= 30, one-third of 60 = 20. This might seem to us, reared on the decimal system (“times 10”), which is geared to the

number of fingers on our hands, cumbersome and complicated; but to a mathematician, the sexagesimal system is a delight.

The number 10 is divisible by very few other whole numbers (by 2 and 5 only, to be precise). The number 100 is divisible only by 2, 4, 5, 10, 20, 25, and 50. But 60 is divisible by 2,

3, 4, 5, 6, 10, 12, 15, 20, and 30. Inasmuch as we have inherited the Sumerian 12 in our counting of the daily hours, 60 in our counting of time (60 seconds in a minute, 60 minutes in an hour), and 360 in geometry (360 degrees in a circle), the sexagesimal system is still the only perfect one in the celestial sciences, in time reckoning, and in geometry (where a triangle

has angles adding up to 180 degrees and a square’s angles add up to 360 degrees). In both theoretical and applied geometry (such as the measuring of field areas) this system made it possible to calculate the areas of diverse and complex shapes (Fig, 65), the volumes of vessels of all kinds (needed to hold grains or oil or wine), the length of canals, or the distances

between planets.

When record keeping began, a stylus with a round tip was

used to impress on wet clay the various symbols that stood for

the numbers 1, 10, 60, 600, and 3,600 (Fig. 66a). The ultimate

numeral was 3,600, signified by a large circle; it was called

SAR (Shar in Akkadian)—the “princely,” or “royal,” num-

Figure 65

Figure 66

ber, the number of Earth-years it took Nibiru to complete one orbit around the Sun.

With the introduction of cuneiform (“wedge-shaped”) writ- ing, in which scribes used a wedge-shaped stylus (Fig. 66b),

the numerals were also written in wedge-shaped signs (Fig. 66c). Other cuneiform signs denoted fractions or  multiples (Fig. 66d); together with combination signs that instructed the calculator to add, subtract, divide, or multiply, problems in arithmetic and algebra that would baffle many of today’s stu- dents  were  correctly  solved.  These  problems  included  the

squaring, cubing, or finding the square root of numbers. As shown by F. Thureau-Dangin in Textes mathematiques Ba- byloniens, the ancients followed prescribed formulas, with two or even three unknowns, that are still in use today.

Although  dubbed  “sexagesimal,”  the  Sumerian  system  of numeration and mathematics was in reality not simply based

on the number 60 but on a combination of 6 and 10. While in the decimal system each step up is accomplished by multiplying the previous sum by 10 (Fig. 67a), in the Sumerian system the numbers increased by alternate multiplications: once by 10, then by 6, then by 10, then again by 6 (Fig. 67b). This method has puzzled today’s scholars. The decimal system is obviously

geared to the ten digits of the human hands (as the numbers, too, are still called), so the 10 in the Sumerian system can be understood; but where did the 6 come from, and why?

Figure 67

There  have  been  other  puzzles.  Among  the  thousands  of mathematical tablets from Mesopotamia, many held tables of

ready-made calculations. Surprisingly, however, they did not run from smaller numbers up (like 1, 10, 60, etc.) but ran down, starting from a number that can only be described as astronomical: 12,960,000. An example quoted by Th.G. Pinches (Some Mathematical Tablets of the British Museum) began with the following lines at the top:

1.    12960000its 2/3 part8640000
2.its half part6480000
3.its third “4320000
4.its fourth “3240000

and continued all the way down through “its 80th part 180000” to the 400th part “[which is] 32400.” Other tablets carried the procedure down to the 16,000th part (equals 810), and there is no doubt that this series continued downward to 60, the 216,000th part of the initial number 12,960,000.

H. V. Hilprecht (The Babylonian Expedition of the University of  Pennsylvania),  after  studying  thousands  of  mathematical

tablets from the temple libraries of Nippur and Sippar and from the library of the Assyrian king Ashurbanipal in Nineveh, con- cluded that the number 12,960,000 was literally astronomi- cal—that it stemmed from the phenomenon of Precession, which retards the zodiac constellation against which the Sun rises by a full House once in 2,160 years. The complete circle

of the twelve Houses, by which the Sun returns to its original background spot, thus takes 25,920 years; the number 12,960,000 represented five hundred such complete Preces- sional circles.

It was incredible to learn, as Hilprecht and others have, that the  Sumerians  were  not  only  aware  of  the  phenomenon  of

precession but also knew that a shift from House to House in the zodiac required 2,160 years; it was doubly incomprehen- sible that they chose as the base of their mathematics a number representing five hundred complete twelve-House cycles, each one of which required the fantastic (as far as human beings are concerned) time span of 25,920  years. In fact, while modern

astronomy accepts the existence of the phenomenon and its periods as calculated in Sumer, there is no scientist now or in former times who can or could confirm from personal expc-

rience the shift of even one House (a shift to Aquarius is now anticipated); and all the scientists put together have yet to witness one complete cycle. Stilt, there it is in the Sumerian tablets.

It seems to me that a solution to all these puzzles can be found if modern science will accept the existence of Nibiru and its Anunnaki as fact. Since it was they who had granted mathematical “wisdom” to Mankind, the astronomical base number  and  the  sexagesimal  system  were  developed  by  the

Anunnaki for their own use and from their own viewpoint— and then were scaled down to human proportions.

As Hilprecht has correctly suggested, the number 12,960,000 indeed stemmed from astronomy—the time (25,920 years) required for a full precessional cycle. But that cycle could be broken down to more human-sized proportions,

that of the precessional shift by one zodiacal House. Although a complete shift in 2,160 years was also beyond an Earthling’s lifetime, the gradual shift of one degree every 72 years was an observable phenomenon (which the astronomer-priests wit- nessed and dealt with). This was the “earthly” element in the formulation.

Then there was the orbital period of Nibiru, which the An- unnaki knew equaled 3,600 Earth-years. Here, then, were two basic and immutable phenomena, cycles of a certain length that combined the movements of Nibiru and Earth in a ratio of 3,600:2,160. This ratio can be reduced to 10:6. Once in 21,600 years, Nibiru completed six orbits around the Sun and

Earth shifted ten zodiacal houses. This, I suggest, created the 6 x 1 0 x 6 x 1 0 system of alternating counting that is called “sexagesimal.”

The sexagesimal system, as has been noted, still lies at the core of modern astronomy and time-keeping. So has the legacy of the 10:6 ratio of the Anunnaki. Having perfected architecture

and the eye-pleasing plastic arts, the Greeks devised a canon of proportions called the Golden Section. They held that a perfect and pleasing ratio of the sides of a temple or great chamber was reached by the formula AB:AP = AP:PB, which gives a ratio of the long part or side to the shorter one of 100 to 61.8 (feet, cubits, or whatever unit of measure is chosen).

It seems to me that architecture owes the debt for this Golden

Section not to the Greeks but to the Anunnaki (via the Su- merians), for this ratio is really the 10:6 ratio on which the sexagesimal system was based.

The  same  can  be  said  of  the  mathematical  phenomenon

known as the Fibonacci Numbers, wherein a series of numbers grows in such a way that each successive number (e.g., 5) is the sum of its two preceding numbers (2 + 3); then 8 is the sum of 3 + 5, and so on. The fifteenth century mathematician Lucas Pacioli recognized the algebraic formula for this series and called the quotient—1.618-—the Golden Number and its

reciprocal—0.618—the Divine Number. Which brings us back to the Anunnaki. . . .

Having explained how, in my opinion, the sexagesimal sys- tem was devised, let us look at what Hilprecht concluded was the upper base of the system, the number 12,960,000.

It is easy to show that this number is simply the square of the real basic number of the Anunnaki—3,600—which is the length in Earth-years of Nibiru’s orbit. (3,600 x 3,600 = 12,960,000). It was from dividing 3,600 by the earthly ten that the easier-to-handle number of 360 degrees in a circle was obtained. The number 3,600, in turn, is the square of 60; this

relationship provided the number of minutes in an hour and (in modern times) the number of seconds in a minute, and of course the basic sexagesimal number.

The zodiacal origin of the astronomical number 12,960,000 can, 1 believe, explain a puzzling biblical statement. It is in Psalm 90 that we read that the Lord—the reference is to the

“Celestial Lord”—who has had his abode in the heavens for countless generations and from the time “before the mountains were brought forth, before Earth and continents were created,” considers a thousand years to be merely a single day:

A thousand years in thine eyes are but a day, a yesterday past.

Now if we divide the number 12,960,000 by 2,160 (the number of years to achieve a shift from one zodiac House), the result is 6,000—a thousand times six. Six as a number of “days” is not unfamiliar—we came upon it at the beginning of Genesis and its six days of creation. Could the psalmist

have seen the mathematical tablets in which he would have found the line listing “12,960,000 the 2160th part of which is a thousand times six”? It is indeed intriguing to find that the Psalms echo the numbers with which the Anunnaki had toyed.

In Psalm 90 and other relevant psalms, the Hebrew word translated as “generation” is Dor. It stems from the root dur, “to be circular, to cycle.” For human beings it does mean a generation; but for celestial bodies it means a cycle around the sun—an orbit. It is with this understanding that the true mean-

ing of Psalm 102, the moving prayer of a mortal to the Ev- erlasting One, can be grasped:

But thou, O Lord, shalt abide forever, and thy remembrance from cycle to cycle.

For He hath looked down from his sanctuary on high: From Heaven did Yahweh behold the Earth.

1 say. my God,

“Do not ascend me in the midst of my days,”

thou whose years arc in a cycle of cycles.

Thou art unchanged;

Thine years shalt have no end.

Relating it all to the orbit of Nibiru, to its cycle of 3,600 Earth-years, to the precessional retardation of Earth in its orbit around the Sun—this is the secret of the Wisdom of Numbers that the Anunnaki lowered from Heaven to Earth.

Before Man could “calculate with numbers,” the other two of the “three Rs”—reading and ‘riting—had to be mastered. We take it for granted that Man can speak, that we have lan- guages by which to communicate to our fellow men (or clans- men). But modern science has not held it so; in fact, until quite recently, the scientists dealing with speech and languages be- lieved that “Talking Man” was a rather late phenomenon that may have been one reason the Cro-Magnons—who could speak

and converse with each other—took over from the nonspeaking Neanderthals.

This was not the biblical view. The Bible took it for granted, for example, that the Elohim who were on Earth long before

The Adam could speak and address each other. This is apparent from the statement that The Adam was created as a result of a discussion among the Elohim, in which it was said, “Let us make The Adam in our image and after our likeness.” This implies not only the ability to speak but also a language with which to communicate.

Let us now look at The Adam. He is placed in the Garden of Eden and is told what to eat and what to avoid. The instruc- tions were understood by The Adam, as the ensuing conver- sation between the Serpent and Eve makes clear. The Serpent (whose identity is discussed in The Wars of Gods and Men) “said unto the woman: Hath Elohim indeed said, Ye shall not

eat of all the trees in the garden?” Eve says yes, the fruit of one tree was forbidden on penalty of death. But the Serpent assures the woman it is not so, and she and Adam eat of the forbidden fruit.

A lengthy dialogue then ensues. Adam and Eve hide when they hear the footsteps of Yahweh, “strolling in the garden in

the cool of the day.” Yahweh calls out to Adam, “Where are you?” and the following exchange takes place:

Adam:       “I heard the sound of you in the garden and I was afraid because 1 am naked, and I hid.”

Yahweh:     “Who told you that you are naked? Did you eat of the tree of which I ordered you not to eat?”

Adam:      “The woman whom you placed with me, she is the one who gave me of the tree, and I ate.”

Yahweh:      [to the woman] “What have you done?” Woman:      “The serpent beguiled me, and I ate.”

This is quite a conversation. Not only the Deity can speak; Adam and Eve can also speak and understand the Deity’s language. So, in what language did they converse, for there must have been one (according to the Bible). If Eve was the

First Mother, was there a First Language—a Mother Tongue?

Again,  scholars  began  by  differing  with  the  Bible.  They

assumed that language was a cultural heritage rather than an

evolutionary trait.  It was assumed that Man  progressed  from

groans to meaningful shouts (on seeing prey or sensing danger)

to rudimentary speech as he formed clans. From words and syllables, languages were born—many languages, arising si- multaneously as clans and tribes formed.

This theory of the origin of languages not only ignored the significance of the biblical tales of the Elohim and of the in- cident in the Garden of Eden; it denied the biblical assertion

that prior to the incident of the Tower of Babel “the whole Earth was of one language and of one kind of words”; that it was a deliberate act of the Elohim to disperse Mankind all over the Earth and “confuse” its language “that they may not understand one another’s speech.”

It is gratifying to note that in recent years, modern science

has come around to the belief that there was indeed a Mother Tongue; and that both types of Homo sapiens—Cro- Magnon and Neanderthal—could talk from the very begin- ning.

That many languages have words that sound the same and have similar meanings has long been recognized, and that cer-

tain languages can therefore be grouped into families has been an accepted theory for over a century, when German scholars proposed naming these language families “Indo-European,” “Semitic,” “Hamitic,” and so on. But  this  very  grouping held the obstacle to the recognition of a Mother Tongue, be- cause  it  was  based  on  the  notion  that  totally  different  and

unrelated groups of languages developed independently in dif- ferent “core zones” from which migrants carried their tongues to other lands. Attempts to show that there are apparent word and meaning similarities even between distant groups, such as the writings in the nineteenth century by the Reverend Charles Foster (The One Primeval Language, in which he pointed to

the Mesopotamian precursors of Hebrew) were dismissed as no more than a theologian’s attempt to elevate the status of the Bible’s language, Hebrew.

It was mainly advances in other fields, such as anthropology, biogenetics. and the Earth sciences, as well as computerization,

that opened new avenues of study of what some call “linguistic genetics.” The notion that languages developed rather late in Man’s march to civilization—at one point the beginning of languages (not just speech) was put at only five thousand years ago—obviously had to be amended and the date pushed back to much earlier times when archaeological finds showed that the Sumerians could already write six thousand years ago. As the dates of ten thousand and twelve thousand years ago were being considered, the search for points of similarity, speeded up by computers, led scholars to the discovery of protolan- guages and thus to larger and less numerous groupings.

Searching for an early affiliation for the Slavic languages, Soviet scientists under the leadership of Vladislav Illich- Svitych and Aaron Dolgopolsky suggested, in the 1960s, a proto-language they termed Nostratic (from the Latin “Our Language”) as the core of most European (including Slavic) languages. Later on they presented evidence for a second such proto-language, which they termed Dene-Caucasian, as  the core tongue of the Far Eastern languages. Both began, they estimated from linguistic mutations, about twelve thousand years ago. In the United States, Joseph Greenberg of Stanford University and his colleague Merritt Ruhlen suggested a third proto-language, Amerind.

Without dwelling on the significance of the fact, it behooves me to mention that the date of about twelve thousand years ago would put the period of the appearance of these protolan- guages somewhere around the immediate aftermath of the Del- uge, which in The 12th Planet was shown to have occurred about thirteen thousand years ago; that also conforms to the biblical notion that post-Diluvial Mankind divided into three branches, descended from the three sons of Noah.

Meanwhile, archaeological discoveries kept pushing  back the time of human migrations, and this was especially signif- icant in regard to the arrival of migrants in the Americas. When a time of twenty thousand years or even thirty thousand years ago was suggested, Joseph Greenberg created a sensation when he demonstrated in 1987 (Language in the Americas) that the hundreds of tongues in the New World could be grouped into just three families, which he termed Eskimo-Aleut, Na-Dene, and Amerind. The greater significance of his conclusions was

that these three in turn were brought to the Americas by mi- grants from Africa, Europe, Asia, and the Pacific and thus in effect were not true proto-languages but offshoots of Old World ones. The protolanguage he called “Na-Dene,” Greenberg suggested, was related to the Dene-Caucasian group of the Soviet scholars. This family, Merritt Ruhlen wrote in Natural History (March 1987), appears to be “genetically closest” to the group of languages that include “the extinct languages Etruscan and Sumerian.” Eskimo-Aleut, he wrote, is most closely related to the Indo-European languages. (Readers wish- ing to know more about the earliest arrivals in the Americas may want to read The Lost Realms, Book IV of “The Earth Chronicles” series).

But did true languages begin only about twelve  thousand years ago—only after the Deluge? It is not only according to the Bible that language existed at the very beginning of Homo sapiens (Adam and Eve), but also the fact that Sumerian texts

repeatedly refer to inscribed tablets that dated from before the Deluge. The Assyrian king Ashurbanipal boasted that, knowl- edgeable as Adapa, he could read “tablets from before the Deluge.” If so, there had to be true language even much earlier.

Discoveries by paleontologists and anthropologists make lin- guists push their estimations back in time. The discoveries in

the Kebara cave, mentioned earlier, indeed forced a complete reevaluation of previous timetables.

Among the finds in the cave was an astounding clue. The skeletal remains of a sixty-thousand-year-old Neanderthal in- cluded an intact hyoid bone—the first ever to be discovered. This horned-shaped bone which lies between the chin and the

larynx (voice box) anchors the muscles that move the tongue, lower jaw, and larynx and makes human speech possible (Fig. 68).

Combined with other skeletal features, the hyoid bone of- fered unequivocal proof that Man could speak as he does today at least sixty thousand  years ago  and probably much earlier.

Neanderthal Man, the team of six international scientists led by Baruch Arensburg of Tel-Aviv University stated in Nature (April 27, 1989), “had the morphological basis for human speech capability.”

If so, how could Indo-European, whose origins are traceable

Figure 68

to only a few thousand years ago, be given such a prominent position on the language tree? Less inhibited about lowering the claims for Indo-European than their Western colleagues, Soviet scholars continued to search audaciously for a proto- proto language. Spearheading the search for a Mother Tongue have been Aaron Dolgopolsky, now at Haifa University in Israel, and Vitaly Shevoroshkin, now at the University of Mich- igan. It was primarily on the latter’s initiative that a “break- through” conference was held at the University of Michigan in November 1988. Titled “Language and Prehistory,” the conference brought together, from seven countries, more than forty scholars from the fields of linguistics, anthropology, ar- chaeology, and genetics. The consensus was that there  had been a “mono-genesis” of human languages—a Mother Tongue in a “proto-proto-proto stage” at a time about 100,000 years ago.

Still, scientists from other fields relating to the anatomy of speech, such as Philip Lieberman of Brown University and Dean Falk of the State University of New York at Albany, see speech as a trait of Homo sapiens from the very first appearance of these ‘”Thinking/Wise Men.” Brain specialists such as Ron-

ald E. Myers of the National Institute of Communicative Dis- orders and Strokes believe that “human speech developed spontaneously, unrelated to the crude vocalization of other primates,” as soon as humans acquired their two-part brains.

And Allan Wilson, who had participated in the genetic re-

search leading to the”One-Mother-of-All” conclusion, put speech back in the mouth of “Eve”: “The human capacity for language may have come from a genetic mutation that occurred in a woman who lived in Africa 200,000 years ago,” he an- nounced at a meeting in January 1989 of the American As- sociation for the Advancement of Science.

“Gift of Gab Goes Back to Eve,” one newspaper headlined the story. Well, to Eve and Adam, according to the Bible.

And so we arrive at the last of the Rs—writing.

It is now believed that many of the shapes and symbols

found  in  Ice  Age  caves  in  Europe,  attributed  to  Cro-

Magnons living during the period of between twenty thousand and thirty thousand years ago, represent crude pictographs— “picture writing.” Undoubtedly, Man learned to write long after he began to speak. The Mesopotamian texts insist that there was writing before the Deluge, and there is no reason to disbelieve this. But the first writing discovered in modern times

is the early Sumerian script which was pictographic. It took but a few centuries for this script to evolve into the cuneiform script (Fig. 69), which was the means of writing in all the ancient languages of Asia until it was finally replaced, millen- nia later, by the alphabet.

At  first  glance  cuneiform  script  looks  like  an  impossible

hodgepodge of long, short, and just wedge-point  markings (Fig. 70). There are hundreds of cuneiform symbols, and how on Earth the ancient scribes could remember how to write them and what they meant is baffling—but not more so than the Chinese language signs are to a non-Chinese. Three generations of scholars have been able to arrange the signs in a logical

order and, as a result, have come up with lexicons and dic- tionaries of the ancient languages—Sumerian, Babylonian, As- syrian, Hittite, Elamite and so on—that used cuneiform.

But modern science reveals that there was more than some logical order to creating such a diversity of signs.

Figure 69

Mathematicians, especially those dealing with graph the- ory—the study of points joined by lines—are familiar with the Ramsey Graph Theory, named for Frank P. Ramsey, a British mathematician who, in a paper read to the London Mathematical Society in 1928, suggested a method of  calcu- lating the number of various ways in which points can be connected and the shapes resulting therefrom. Applied to games and riddles as well as to science and architecture, the theory offered by Ramsey made it possible to show, for ex-

Figure 70

ample, that when six points representing six people are joined by either red lines (connecting any two who know each other) or blue lines (connecting any two who are strangers), the result will always be either a red or a blue triangle. The results of calculating the possibilities for joining (or not joining) points can best be illustrated by some examples (Fig. 71). Underlying the resulting graphs (i.e., shapes) are the so-called Ramsey Numbers, which can be converted to graphs connecting a cer- tain number of dots. I find that this results in dozens of “graphs” whose similarity to the Mesopotamian cuneiform signs is undeniable (Fig. 72).

The almost one hundred signs, only partly illustrated here, are  simple  graphs  based  on  no  more  than  a  dozen  Ramsey

Numbers.  So,  if  Enki  or  his  daughter  Nidaba,  the  Sumerian

“goddess of writing,” had known as much as Frank Ramsey,

they must have had no problem in devising for the Sumerian

When Wisdom Was Lowered from Heaven   227

scribes a mathematically perfect system of cuneiform signs.

“1 will greatly bless thee, and I will exceedingly multiply

thy seed as the stars of the heavens,” Yahweh told Abraham.

And  with  this  single  verse,  several  of  the  elements  of  the

knowledge  that  was  lowered  from  heaven  were  expressed: speech, astronomy, and the “counting with numbers.”

Modern science is well on its way to corroborating all that.

When Wisdom Was Lowered from Heaven          229

THE FRUITS OF EDEN

What was the Garden of Eden, remembered in the Bible for its variety of vegetation and as the place where still- unnamed animals were shown to Adam?

Modem science teaches that Man’s best  friends,  the  crops and animals we husband, were domesticated soon after 10000 B.C. Wheat and barley, dogs and sheep (to cite some examples) in their domesticated and cultivable forms ap- peared, then, within no more than two thousand years. This, it is admitted, is a fraction of the time that natural selection alone would require.

Sumerian texts offer an explanation. When the Anunnaki landed on Earth, they state, there were none of such “do- mesticated” crops and animals; it was the Anunnaki who brought them forth, in their “Creation Chamber.”  Together with Lahar (“woolly cattle”) and Anshan  (“grains”)  they also brought forth “vegetation that luxuriates and multi- plies.” It was all done in the Edin; and after The Adam was created, he was brought there to tend it all.

The amazing Garden of Eden was thus  the  bio-genetic farm or enclave where “domesticated” crops, fruits, and animals were brought forth.

After the Deluge (about thirteen thousand years ago) the Anunnaki provided Mankind with the crop and animal seeds, which they had preserved,  to  get  started  again.  But this time, Man himself had to be the husbandman. The Bible confirms this and attributes to Noah the  honor  of  having been the first husbandman. It also states that the first  cul- tivated food after the Deluge was the grape. Modern science confirms the grape’s antiquity; science  has  also  discovered that besides being a nourishing food, the grape’s wine  is  a strong gastrointestinal medicine. So, when Noah drank  the wine (in excess), he was,  in  a manner of speaking,  taking his medicine.

11

A SPACE BASE ON MARS

Having been to the Moon, Earthlings are eager to set foot on Mars.

It was on the occasion of the twentieth anniversary of the

first landing by Man on the Moon that the President of the

United States outlined his country’s stepping stones to Earth’s

nearest outer planet. Speaking at the National Air and Space Museum in Washington and flanked by the three Apollo 11 astronauts—Neil A. Armstrong, Edwin E. Aldrin, Jr., and Michael Collins—President George Bush outlined America’s way stations to Mars. First, progress from the shuttlecraft pro- gram to the emplacement in permanent Earth orbit of a Space

Station, where the larger vehicles necessary for the onward flights would be assembled. Then would come the establish- ment of a space base on the Moon, where materials, equipment, and fuels necessary for the long space voyages would be de- veloped and tested, and experience would be gained in Man’s living and working for extended periods in outer space. And

finally, the actual expedition to Mars,

Vowing to make the United States “a spacefaring nation,” the goal, the President said, will be “back to the Moon, back to the future . . . and then, a journey into tomorrow, to another planet: a manned mission to Mars.”

“Back to the future.” The choice of words may or may not have been coincidental; the premise that going to the future involves going back to the past might have been more than a speech writer’s choice slogan.

For there is  evidence that  “A Space  Base on  Mars,” this

chapter’s heading, should apply not to the discussion of future plans but to a disclosure of what has already taken place in the past: Evidence that a space base existed on the planet Mars

230

in antiquity; and what is even more startling, that it might have been reactivated before our very eyes.

If Man is to venture from planet Earth into space, it is only logical and technologically called for to make Mars the first

planet on the outbound voyage. The road to other worlds must have way stations due to the laws of celestial motion, the constraints of weight and energy, the requirements for human survival, and limitations on human physical and mental en- durance. A spaceship capable of carrying a team of astronauts to Mars and back might have to weigh as much as four million

pounds. Lifting such a massive vehicle off the surface of Earth (a planet with a substantial gravitational pull, compared with its immediate neighbors) would require a commensurately large load of fuel that, together with the tanks to hold it, would further increase the lift-off weight and make the launch im- practical. (U.S. space shuttles now have a payload capacity of

sixty-five thousand pounds.)

Such lift-off and fuel problems would be greatly reduced if

the spaceship will be assembled in weightless orbit around the

Earth. This scenario envisions an orbiting, manned space sta-

tion, to which shuttle craft will ferry the knocked-down space-

ship.  Meanwhile,  astronauts  stationed  on  the  Moon  at  a

permanent space base would develop the technology required for Man’s survival in space. Man and vehicle would then be joined for the voyage to Mars.

The round trip may take between two and three years, de- pending on the trajectory and Earth-Mars alignments. The length of stay on Mars will also vary according to these con-

straints and other considerations, beginning with no stay at all (just several orbits around Mars) to a long stay in a permanent colony served or sustained by shifts of spacecraft and astro- nauts. Indeed, many advocates of “The Case for Mars,” as this approach has come to be called after several scientific conferences on the subject, consider a manned mission to Mars

justified only if a permanent space base is established there, both as a prelude to manned missions to even more distant planets and as the forerunner of a colony, a permanent settle- ment of Earthlings on a new world.

The progression from shuttlecraft to an orbiting space station to landings on the Moon and the establishment of a space base

thereon, all as stepping-stones or way stations toward a landing on Mars, has been described in scenarios that read like science fiction but are based on scientific knowledge and attainable technology. Bases on the Moon and on Mars, even a colony on Mars, have been in the planning for a long time and are deemed entirely feasible. Sustaining human life and activity on the Moon is certainly challenging, but the studies show how it could be achieved. The tasks are more challenging for Mars, since resupply from Earth (as the Moon projects envision) is more difficult and costly. Nevertheless, the vital resources needed by Man to survive and function are available on Mars, and scientists believe that Man could live “off the land” there.

Mars, it has been concluded, is habitable—because it was habitable in the past.

Mars appears nowadays as a cold, half-frozen planet inhos- pitable  to  anything  living  upon  its  surface,  with  bitter-cold

winters and temperatures rising above freezing only at the equator in the warmest season, with vast areas covered either with permafrost or with rusted iron rocks and gravel (which give the planet its reddish hue), with no liquid water to sustain life or oxygen to breathe. But not so long ago in geological terms, it was a planet with relatively pleasant seasons, flowing

water, oceans and rivers, cloudy (blue!) skies, and perhaps— just perhaps—even some forms of indigenous simple plant life.

All the various studies converge toward the conclusion that Mars is now going through an ice age, not unlike the ice ages that Earth has experienced periodically. The causes of Earth’s

ice ages, attributed to many factors, are now believed to stem from three basic phenomena that relate to Earth’s orbit around the Sun. The first is the configuration of the orbit itself: the orbit, it has been concluded, changes from more circular to more elliptical in a cycle of about one hundred thousand years; this brings the Earth at times closer to the Sun and at times

farther away from it. Earth has seasons because the axis of Earth is not perpendicular to its orbital plane (ecliptic) but is tilted, bringing the northern hemisphere under a stronger in- fluence of the Sun’s rays during the (northern) summer (during winter in the southern hemisphere), and vice versa (Fig. 73); but this tilt, now about 23.5 degrees, is not stable; the Earth,

Figure 73

like a rolling ship, changes its tilt by about 3 degrees back and forth in a cycle that takes about forty-one thousand years to complete. The greater the tilt the more extreme are the winters and summers; air and water flows change and aggravate the climatic changes that we call “ice ages” and ” interglacial” warm periods. A third contributing cycle is that of the Earth’s wobble as it spins, its axis forming an imaginary circle in the heavens; this is the phenomenon of Precession of the Equi- noxes, and the duration of this cycle is about twenty-six thou- sand years.

The planet Mars is also subject to all three cycles, except that its larger orbit around the Sun and greater tilt differential cause more extreme climatic swings. The cycle, as we have mentioned, is believed to last some fifty thousand years on Mars (although shorter and longer durations have also been suggested).

When the next Martian warm period, or interglacial, arrives, the planet will literally flow with water, its seasons will not

be as harsh, and its atmosphere will not be as alien to Earthlings as it is today. When was the last “interglacial” epoch on Mars? The time could not have been too distant, because otherwise the dust storms on Mars would have obliterated more, if not most, of the evidence on its surface of once flowing rivers, ocean shorelines, and lake basins; and there would not be as much water vapor still in the Martian atmosphere as is found today. “Running water must have existed on the red planet in relatively recent times, geologically speaking,” according to Harold Masursky of the U.S. Geological Survey. Some believe the last change occurred no more than ten thousand years ago. Those who are planning the landings and extended  stays  on Mars do not expect the climate there to revert to an interglacial epoch within the next two decades; but they do believe that the basic requirements for life and survival on Mars are locally available. Water, as has been shown, is present as permafrost in vast areas and could be found in the mud of what from space appear to be dry riverbeds. When geologists at Arizona State University working for NASA were suggesting Mars  landing sites to Soviet scientists, they pointed to the great canyon in the Lunae Planum basin as a place where a roving vehicle “could visit former riverbeds and dig into the sediments of a delta where an ancient river flowed into a basin,” and find there liquid  water.  Aquifers—subterranean  water  pools—are a sure source of water in the opinion of many scientists. New analyses of data from spacecraft as well as from Earth-based instruments led a team headed by Robert L. Huguenin of the University of Massachusetts to conclude, in June 1980, that two concentrations of water evaporation on Mars south of its equator suggest the existence of vast reservoirs of liquid water just a few inches below the Martian surface. Later that year Stanley H. Zisk of the Haystack Observatory in Westford, Massachusetts, and Peter J. Mouginis-Mark of Brown Uni- versity, Rhode Island, reported in Science and Nature (No- vember 1980) that radar probing of areas in the planet’s southern hemisphere indicated “moist oases” of “extensive liquid water” beneath the surface. And then, of course, there is all the water captured in the ice cap of the northern pole, which melts around its rims during the northern summer, cre- ating large, visible darkish patches (Fig. 74). Morning fogs

Figure 74

and mists that have been observed on Mars suggest to scientists the existence of dew, a source of water for many plants and animals on Earth in arid areas.

The Martian atmosphere, at first sight inhospitable and even poisonous to Man and life, could in fact be a source of vital resources. The atmosphere has been found to contain some water vapor, which could be extracted by condensation. It could also be a source of oxygen for breathing and burning. It consists on Mars primarily of carbon dioxide (CO2) with

small percentages of nitrogen, argon, and traces of oxygen (Earth’s atmosphere consists primarily of nitrogen, with a large percentage of oxygen and small amounts of other gases). The process of converting carbon dioxide (C02) to carbon monoxide (CO), thereby releasing oxygen (CO + O) is almost elementary and could easily be performed by astronauts and settlers. Car- bon monoxide can then serve as a simple rocket fuel.

The planet’s reddish-brown, or “rusty,” hue is also a clue to the availability of oxygen, for it is the result of the actual rusting of iron rocks on Mars. The product is iron oxide—iron that has combined with oxygen. On Mars it is of a type called limonite, a combination of iron oxide (Fe2O3) with several molecules of water (H2O); with the proper equipment, the plentiful oxygen could be separated and extracted. The hydro- gen obtainable by breaking down water into its component elements could be used in the production of foods and useful materials, many of which are based on hydrocarbons {hydro- gen-carbon combinations).

Although the Martian soil is relatively high in salts, scientists believe it could be washed with water sufficiently to the point where patches would be suitable for plant cultivation in green- houses; local foods could thus be grown, especially from seeds of salt-resistant strains of grains and vegetables; human waste could be used as fertilizer, as it is used in many Third World countries on Earth. Nitrogen, needed by plants and fertilizers, is in short supply on Mars but not absent: the atmosphere, though 95 percent carbon dioxide, does contain almost 3 per- cent nitrogen. The greenhouses for growing all this food would be made of inflatable plastic domes; electricity would be ob- tained from solar-powered batteries; the rover vehicles will also be solar-powered.

Another source not just of water but also of heat on Mars is indicated by the past volcanic activity there. Of several notable volcanoes, the one named Olympus, after the Greek mountain of the gods, dwarfs anything on Earth or even in the Solar System. The largest volcano on Earth, Mauna Loa in Hawaii, rises 6.3 miles; Olympus Mons on Mars towers 15 miles above the surrounding plain; its crater’s top measures 45 miles across. The volcanoes of Mars and other evidence of volcanic activity on the planet indicate a hot molten core and

thus the possible existence of warm surface spots, hot-water springs, and other phenomena resulting from internally gen- erated heat.

With a day almost exactly the length of a day on Earth,

seasons (although about twice as long as Earth’s), equatorial regions, icy northern and southern poles, water resources that once were seas and lakes and rivers, mountain ranges and plains, volcanoes and canyons, Mars is Earthlike in so many ways. Indeed, some scientists believe that Mars, although cre- ated at the same time as the other planets 4.6 billion years ago,

is at the stage Earth was at its beginnings, before plant life began to emit oxygen and change Earth’s atmosphere. This notion has served as a basis for the suggestion by proponents of the Gaia Theory of how Man might “jump the gun” on Martian evolution by bringing life to it; for they hold that it was Life that made Earth hospitable to life.

Writing in The Greening of Mars, James Lovelock and Mi- chael Allaby employed science fiction to describe how micro- organisms and “halocarbon gases” would be sent from Earth to Mars in rockets, the former to start the biological chain and the latter to create a shield in the Martian atmosphere. This shield of halocarbon gases, suspended in the atmosphere above

the now cold and arid planet, would block the dissipation into space of the warmth Mars receives from the Sun and its own internal heat and would create an artificially induced “green- house” effect. The warming and the thickened atmosphere would release Mars’s frozen waters, enhance plant growth, and thereby increase the planet’s oxygen supply. Each step in this

artificially induced evolution would strengthen the process; thus will the bringing of Life to Mars make it hospitable to life.

The suggestion by the two scientists that the transformation of Mars into a habitable planet—they called the process “Terra forming”—should begin with the creation of an artificial shield to protect the planet’s dissipating heat and water vapor by artificially suspending a suitable material in the planet’s at- mosphere was made by them in 1984.

Whether by coincidence or not, it was once again a case of modern science catching up with ancient knowledge. For, in The I2th Planet (1976), it was described how the Anunnaki

came to Earth about 450,000 years ago in order to obtain

gold—needing the metal to protect life on their planet Nibiru by suspending gold particles as a shield in its dwindling at- mosphere, to reverse the loss of heat, air, and water.

The plans proposed by the advocates of the Gaia Hypothesis are based on an assumption and a presumption. The first, that Mars does not have life-forms of its own; the second, that people from one planet have the right to introduce their life- forms to another world, whether or not it has its own life.

But does Mars have life on it or as some prefer to ask, did it have life on it in its less harsh epochs? The question has preoccupied those who have planned and executed the various

missions to Mars; and after all the scanning and photographing and probing, it is evident that Life as it has blossomed on Earth—trees and forests, bushes and grasses, flying birds and roaming animals—is just not there. But what about lesser life- forms—lichens or algae or the lowly bacteria?

Although Mars is much smaller than Earth (its mass is about a tenth that of Earth, its diameter about half) its surface, now all dry land, is about the same area as the dry-land portion of Earth’s surface. The area to be explored is thus the same as the area on Earth with all its continents, mountains, valleys, equatorial and polar zones; its warm and the cold places; its humid regions and the dry desert ones. When an outline of the United States, coast to coast, is superimposed on the face of Mars (Fig. 75), the scope of the exploration and the variety of terrains and climates to contend with can well be appreciated.

No wonder when then that the first successful unmanned Mars probes. Mariners 4, 6, and 7 (1965-69), which photo-

graphed parts of the planet’s surface in the course of flybys, revealed a planet that was heavily cratered and utterly desolate, with little sign of any geologic activity in its past. As it hap- pened, the pictures were almost all of the cratered highlands in the southern hemisphere of Mars. This image, of a planet not only without life on it but itself a lifeless and dead globe,

changed completely when Manner 9 went into orbit around Mars in 1971 and surveyed almost its entire surface. It showed a living planet with a history of geologic activity and volcan- ism, with plains and mountains, with canyons in which Amer- ica’s Grand Canyon could be swallowed without a trace, and

Figure 75

the marks of flowing water. It was not only a living planet but one that could have life upon it.

The search for life on Mars was thus made a prime objective of the Viking missions. Viking 1 and Viking 2 were launched from Cape Canaveral in the summer of 1975 and reached their

destination in July and August of 1976. Each consisted of an Orbiter that remained in orbit around the planet for ongoing observation, and of a Lander that was lowered to the planet’s surface. Although to ensure safe landings, relatively flat sites in the northern hemisphere, not too distant from each other, were selected for the touchdowns, “biological criteria” (i.e.,

the possibility of life) “dominated the decision regarding the latitude at which the spacecraft would land.” The orbiters have provided a rich array of data about Mars that is still being studied and analyzed, with new details and insights constantly

emerging; the landers sent thrilling photographs of the Martian landscape at very close range and conducted a series of ex- periments in search of Life.

Besides instruments to analyze the atmosphere and cameras to photograph the areas in which they touched down, each Lander  carried  a  combined  gas-chromatograph/mass-spectrom-

eter for analyzing the surface for organic material, as well as three instruments designed to detect metabolic activity by any organism in the soil. The soil was scooped up with a mechanical arm, put into a small furnace, heated, and otherwise treated and tested. There were no living organisms in the samples; only carbon dioxide and a small amount of water vapor were

found. There were not even the organic molecules that im- pacting meteorites bring with them; the presumption is that if such molecules had been delivered to Mars, the present high level of ultraviolet light that strikes the planet, whose protective atmosphere is now almost gone, must have destroyed them.

During the long days of experiments on Mars, drama and

excitement were not absent. In retrospect the ability of the NASA team to manipulate and direct from Earth equipment on the surface of Mars seems like a fairy tale; but both planned routines and emergencies were adroitly tackled. Mechanical arms failed to work but were fixed by radio commands. There were  other  malfunctions  and  adjustments.  There  was  breath-

taking suspense when the gas-exchange experiments detected a burst of oxygen; there was the need to have Viking 2 instru- ments confirm or disprove the results of experiments carried out by those of Viking 1 that left open the question of whether changes in the scooped-up soil samples were organic or chem- ical,  biological  or  inanimate.  Viking  2  results  confirmed  the

reactions of Viking 1 experiments: when gases were mixed or when soil was added to a “nutrient soup,” there were marked changes in the level of carbon dioxide; but whether the changes represented a chemical reaction or a biological response re- mained a puzzle.

As eager as scientists were to find life on Mars, and thereby

find support for their theories of how life on Earth began spon- taneously from a primordial soup, most had to conclude re- gretfully that no evidence of life on Mars was found. Norman Horowitz of Caltech summed up the prevailing opinion when

he stated (in Scientific American, November 1977) that “at least those areas on Mars examined by the two spacecraft are not habitats of life. Possibly the same conclusion applies to the entire planet, but that is an intricate problem that cannot yet be addressed.”

In subsequent years, in laboratory experiments in which the soil and conditions on Mars were simulated as best as the researchers  could,  the  reactions  indicated  biological  responses.

Especially intriguing were experiments conducted in 1980 at the Space Biology Laboratory of Moscow University: when Earthly life-forms were introduced into a simulated Martian environment, birds and mammals expired in a few seconds, turtles and frogs lived many hours, insects survived for weeks—but fungi, lichens, algae, and mosses quickly adapted

themselves to the new environment; oats, rye, and beans sprouted and grew but could not reproduce.

Life, then, could take hold on Mars; but had it? With 4.6 billion years at the disposal of evolution on Mars, where are not merely some microorganisms (which may or may not exist) but higher life-forms? Or were the Sumerians right in saying

that life sprouted on Earth so soon after its formation only because the “Seed of Life” was brought to it, by Nibiru?

While the soil of Mars still keeps its riddle of whether or not its test reactions were chemical and lifeless or biological and caused by living organisms, the rocks of Mars challenge us with even more enigmatic puzzles.

One can begin with the mystery of Martian rocks found not on Mars but on Earth. Among the thousands of meteorites

found on Earth, eight that were discovered in India, Egypt, and France between 1815 and 1865 (known as the SNC group, after the initials of the sites’ names) were unique in that their age was only 1.3 billion years, whereas meteorites are generally

4.5 billion years old. When several more were discovered in Antarctica  in  1979,  the  gaseous  composition  of  the  Martian

atmosphere was already known; comparisons revealed that the SNC meteorites contained traces of isotopic Nitrogen-14. Ar- gon-40 and 36, Neon-20, Krypton-84, and Xenon-13 almost identical to the presence of these rare gases on Mars.

How did these meteorites or rocks reach Earth? Why are they only 1.3 billion years old? Did a catastrophic impact on

Figure 76

Mars cause them to somehow defy its gravity and fly off to Earth?

The rocks discovered in Antarctica are even more puzzling. A photograph of one of them, released by NASA and published in The New York Times of September 1, 1987, shows it to be

not “football sized” as these rocks had been described, but rather a broken-off block (Fig. 76) of four bricklike, artificially shaped and angled stones fitted together—something one would expect to find in pre-Inca ruins in Peru’s Sacred Valley (Fig. 77) but not on Mars. Yet all tests on the rock (it is no longer referred to as a meteorite) attest to its Martian origin.

To compound the mystery, photographs of the Martian sur- face have revealed features that, on seeing them, astronomers dubbed “Inca City.” Located in the planet’s  southern  part, they represent a series of steep walls made up of squarish or rectangular segments (Fig. 78 is from Mariner-9 photographic frame 4212-15). John McCauley, a NASA geologist, com- mented that the “ridges” were “continuous, show no breach- ing, and stand out among the surrounding plains and small hills like walls of an ancient ruin.”

Figure 77

Figure 78

This immense wall or series of connected shaped stone blocks bears a striking resemblance to such colossal and enigmatic structures on Earth as the immense wall of gigantic stone blocks that forms the base of the vast platform at Baalbek in Lebanon (Fig. 79) or to the cruder but equally impressive zigzagging parallel stone walls of Sacsahuaman above Cuzco in Peru (Fig.

Figure 79

80). In The Stairway to Heaven and The Lost Realms, I have attributed both structures to the Anunnaki/Nefilim. The features on Mars might perhaps be explained as natural phenomena, and the size of the blocks, ranging from three to five miles in length, might very well indicate the hand of nature rather than of people, of whatever provenance. On the other hand, since no plausible natural explanation has emerged, they might be

Figure 80

the remains of artificial structures—if the “giants'” of Near Eastern and Andean lore had also visited Mars. . . .

The notion of “canals” on Mars appeared to have been laid

to rest when—after decades of ridicule—scientists suggested

that what Schiaparelli and Lowell had observed and mapped were in fact channels of dried-up rivers. Yet other features were found on the Martian surface that defy easy explanation. These include white “streaks” that run in straight lines for endless miles—-sometimes parallel, sometimes at angles to each other, sometimes crossing other, narrower “tracks” (Fig.

81 is a sketched-over photo). Once again, the NASA teams suggested that windblown dust storms may have caused these features. This may be so, although the regularity and especially the intersecting of the lines seem to indicate an artificial origin. Searching for a comparable feature on Earth, one must look to the famous Nazca lines in southern Peru (Fig. 82) which

have been attributed to “the gods.”

Both the Near East and the Andes are known for their various

pyramids—the immense and unique ones at Giza, the stepped

pyramids or ziggurats of Mesopotamia and of the early Amer-

ican civilizations. As pictures taken by the Mariner and Viking

Figure 81

cameras seem to show, even pyramids, or what look like pyr- amids, have been seen on Mars.

What appear to be three-sided pyramids in the Elysium (map. Fig. 83) plateau in the region called Trivium Charontis were first noticed on Mariner-9 frames 4205-78, taken on February 8, 1972 and 4296-23, taken six months later. Attention was focused on two pairs of “tetrahedron pyramidal structures,”

to use the cautious scientific terminology; one pair were huge pyramids, while the other pair were much smaller, and they seemed to be laid out in a rhombus-shaped pattern (Fig. 84). Here again, the size of the “pyramids”—the larger are each two miles across and half a mile high—suggests that they are natural phenomena, and a study in the journal Icarus (vol. 22,

1974, by Victor Ablordeppy and Mark Gipson) offered four theories to explain these formations naturally. David Chandler (Life on Mars) and astronomer Francis Graham (in Frontiers of Science, November-December 1980), among others, showed the flaws in each theory. The fact that the features

Figure 82

were photographed six months apart, at different sunlights and angles, and yet show their accurate terrahedral shapes, con- vinces many that they are artificial structures, even if we do not understand the reason for their great size. “Given the present lack of any easily acceptable explanation,” Chandler wrote, “there seems to be no reason to exclude from consid- eration the most obvious conclusion of all: perhaps they were

Figure 83

built by intelligent beings.” And Francis Graham, stating that “the conjecture that these are buildings of an ancient race of Martians must take its place among the theories of their ori- gin,” wondered whether future explorers might discover in these structures inner chambers, buried entrances, or  inscrip- tions that might have withstood “ten thousand millennia  of wind erosion.”

More “pyramids” with varying numbers of smooth  sides have been discerned by researchers who have scanned the Mar- tian  photographs.  Interest,  and  controversy,  have  focused

mainly on an area named Cydonia (see map, Fig. 83) because a group of what may be artificial structures appears to be aligned with what some called a Martian “sphinx” to the east of these structures, as can be readily seen in the panoramic NASA photo O35-A-72 (Plate E). What is noticeable is a rock with the features of a well-proportioned human face, seemingly

of a man wearing some kind of a helmet (Fig. 85), with a

Plate E

slightly open mouth and with eyes that look straight out at the viewer—if the viewer happens to be in the skies above Mars. Like the other “monuments”—the features that resemble ar- tificial structures—on Mars, this one, too, is of large propor- tions: the Face measures almost a mile from top to bottom and has been estimated to rise almost half a mile above the sur- rounding plateau, as can be judged by its shadow.

Although it is said that the NASA scientist who examined the photographs received from the Viking 1 Orbiter on July

25, 1976, “almost fell out of his chair” when he saw this frame and that appropriate “Oh, my God” or expressions to that effect were uttered, the fact is that the photograph was filed away with the thousands of other Viking photographs without any further action because the similarity to a human face was deemed just a play of light and shadows on a rock

eroded by natural forces (water, wind). Indeed, when some newsmen who happened to see the transmitted image wondered whether it in fact showed a human face, the chief scientist of the Mission asserted that another photograph, taken a few hours later, did not show such a feature at all. (Years later NASA acknowledged that that was an incorrect and misleading state- ment and an unfortunate one, because the fact was that the area fell into darkness of night “a few hours later” and there did exist other photographs clearly showing the Face.)

Three years later Vincent DiPietro, an electrical engineer and imaging specialist, who remembered seeing the “Face”

in a popular magazine, came face-to-face with the Martian image as he was thumbing through the archives of the National Space Science Data Center. The Viking photo, bearing the catalog number 76-A-593/17384, was simply titled “HEAD.” Intrigued by the decision to keep the photo in the scientific data center under that tantalizing caption—the “Head” whose

very existence had been denied—he embarked, together with Greg Molenaar, a Lockheed computer scientist, on a search for the original NASA image. They found not one but two, the other being image 070-A-13 (Plate F). Subsequent searches came up with more photos of the Cydonia area taken by dif- ferent Viking Orbiter cameras and from both the right and left

sides of the features (there are eleven by now). The Face as well as more pyramidlike and other puzzling features could be seen on all of them. Using sophisticated computer enhancement and imaging techniques, DiPietro and Molenaar obtained en- larged and clearer images of the Face that convinced them it had been artificially sculpted.

Armed with their findings, they attended the 1981 The Case for Mars conference but instead of acclaiming them the assem- bled scientists cold-shouldered their assertions—undoubtedly because they would have to draw the conclusion that the Face was the handiwork of intelligent beings, “Martians” who had inhabited the planet; and that was a totally unacceptable prop- osition. Publishing their findings privately (Unusual Mars Sur- face Features) DiPietro and Molenaar took great pains to dissociate themselves from “wild speculations” regarding the origin of the unusual features. All they claimed, the book’s epilogue stated, was “that the features do not seem natural and

Plate F

warrant further investigation.” NASA scientists, however, strongly rejected any suggestion that future missions should include a visit to the Face, since it was clearly just a rock shaped by the forces of nature so that it resembled a human face.

The cause of the Face on Mars was thereafter taken up primarily by Richard C. Hoagland, a science writer and one-

time  consultant  at  the  Goddard Space  Flight  Center.  He or-

ganized  a  computer  conference  titled  The  Independent  Mars

Investigation Team with the purpose of having the features and

all  other  pertinent  data  studied  by  a  representative  group  of

scientists  and  specialists;  the  group  eventually included  Brian

O’Leary, a scientist-astronaut, and David Webb, a member of the U.S. President’s Space Commission. In their  conclusions they not only concurred with the view that the “Face” and “pyramids” were artificial structures, they also suggested that

other features on (he surface on Mars were the handiwork of intelligent beings who had once been on Mars.

I was especially intrigued by the suggestion in their reports

that the orientation of the Face and the principal pyramid in- dicated they were built about half a million years ago in align- ment with sunrise at solstice time on Mars. When Hoagland and his colleague Thomas Rautenberg, a computer specialist, sought my comments on their photographic evidence, I pointed out to them that the Anunnaki/Nefilim, according to my con-

clusions in The 12th Planet, had first landed on Earth about 450,000 years ago; it was, perhaps, no coincidence that Hoag- land and Rautenberg’s dating of the monuments on Mars co- incided with my timetable. Although Hoagland was careful to hedge his bets, he did devote many pages in his book The Monuments of Mars to my writings and to the Sumerian evi-

dence concerning the Anunnaki.

The publicity accorded the findings of DiPietro, Molenaar,

and Hoagland has caused NASA to insist that they were wrong.

In an unusual move, the National Space Flight Center in Green-

belt, Maryland, which supplies the public with copies of NASA

data,  has  been  enclosing  along  with  the  “Face” photographs

copies of rebuttals of the unorthodox interpretations of the images. These rebuttals include a three-page paper dated June 6, 1987, by Paul Butterworth, the Center’s Resident Plane – tologist. He states that “there is no reason to believe that this particular mountain, which is similar to tens of thousands of others on the planet, is not the result of the natural geological

processes which have produced all the other landforms on Mars. Among the huge numbers of mountains on Mars it is not surprising that some should remind us of more familiar objects, and nothing is more familiar than the human face. I am still looking for the ‘Hand on Mars’ and the “Leg on Mars’!”

“No reason to believe” that the feature is other than natural is, of course, not a factual argument in disproving the opposite position, whose proponents contend that they do have reason to believe the features are artificial structures. Still, it is true that on Earth there are hills or mountains that give the ap- pearance of a sculpted human or animal head although they

are the work of nature alone. This, I feel, might well be a valid argument regarding the “pyramids” on the Elysium plateau or the “Inca City.” But the Face and some features near it, especially those with straight sides, remain a challenging enigma.

A scientifically significant study by Mark J. Carlotto, an optics scientist, was published in the May 1988 issue of the prestigious journal Applied Optics. Using computer graphic techniques  developed  in  optical  sciences,  Carlotto  employed

four frames from NASA images, taken by the Viking Orbiter with different cameras during four different orbits, to recreate a three-dimensional representation of the Face. The study pro- vided detailed information about the complex optical  proce- dures and mathematical formulations of the three-dimensional analysis, and Carlotto’s conclusions were that the “Face” was

indeed a bisymmetrical human face, with another eye socket in the shaded part and a “fine structure of the mouth suggesting teeth.” These, Carlotto stated, “were facial features and not a transient phenomenon” or a trick of light and shadow. “Al- though the Viking data are not of sufficient resolution to permit the  identification  of  possible  mechanisms  of  origin  for  these

objects, the results to date suggest that they may not be nat- ural.””

Applied Optics deemed the study important enough to make it its front-cover feature, and the scientific journal New Scientist devoted a special report to the published paper and to an in- terview with its author. The journal echoed his suggestion that

“at the very least these enigmatic objects”—the Face and the adjoining pyramidal features that some had dubbed “The City”—”deserve further scrutiny by future Mars probes, such as the 1988 Soviet Phobos mission or the U.S. Mars Ob- server.”

The fact that the controlled Soviet press has published and

republished articles by Vladimir Avinksy, a noted researcher in geology and mineralogy, that support the non-natural origin of the monuments, surely indicates the Soviet aerospace atti- tudes on the matter—a subject that will be dealt with at greater length later on. Noteworthy here are two points made by Dr. Avinsky. He suggests (in published articles and privately de-

livered papers) that in considering the enormous size of the

A Space Base on Mars                          255

Martian formations, one must bear in mind that due to the low gravity of Mars a man could perform gigantic tasks on it; and he attaches great importance to the dark circle that is clearly seen in the flat area between the Face and the pyramids. While NASA scientists dismissed it as “a water spot on the lens of the Viking Orbiter,” Avinsky considers it “the centre of the entire composition” of the “Martian complex” and its layout (Fig. 86).

Figure 86

Unless it is assumed that Earthlings possessed, tens of thou- sands or even half a million years ago, a high civilization and a sophisticated technology that enabled them to engage in space travel, arrive on Mars and, among other things, put up mon- uments on it, including the Face, only two other alternatives logically remain. The first is that intelligent beings had evolved on Mars who not only could engage in megalithic construction but also happened to look like us. But in the absence even of microorganisms in the soil of Mars, nor evidence of plant and animal life that among other things could provide the humanlike Martians with nourishment, the rise of a Martian population

akin to Earthlings and one that even duplicated the structural forms found on Earth seems highly improbable.

The  only  remaining  plausible  alternative  is  that  someone,

neither from Earth nor from Mars, capable of space travel half a million years ago, had visited this part of the Solar System and had stayed; and then left behind monuments, both on Earth and on Mars. The only beings for which evidence has been found—in the Sumerian and biblical texts and in all the ancient “mythologies'”—are  the  Anunnaki  from  Nibiru.  We  know

how they looked: they looked like us because they made us look like them, in their image and after their likeness, to quote Genesis.

Their humanlike visages appear in countless ancient depic- tions, including the famous Sphinx at Giza (Fig. 87). Its face, according  to  Egyptian   inscriptions,  was  that  of   Hor-

em-Akhet, the “Falcon-god of the Horizon,” an epithet for Ra, the firstborn son of Enki, who could soar to the farthest heavens in his Celestial Boat.

The Giza Sphinx was so oriented that its gaze was aligned

Figure 87

precisely eastward along the thirtieth parallel toward the space- port of the Anunnaki in the Sinai Peninsula. The ancient texts attributed communications functions to the Sphinx (and the purported subterranean chambers under it):

A message is sent from heaven;

it is heard in Heliopolis and is repeated in Memphis

by the Fair of Face.

It is composed in a dispatch by the writing of Thoth

with regard to the city of Amen. . . .

The gods are acting according to command.

The reference to the message-transmitting role of the “Fair of Face”—the sphinx at Giza—raises the question of what the purpose of the Face on Mars was; for, if it was indeed the handiwork of intelligent beings, then by definition they did not expend the time and effort to create the Face without a logical reason. Was the purpose, as the Egyptian text suggests, to send the “message from Heaven” to the sphinx on Earth, a “com- mand” according to which the gods acted, sent from one Face to another Fair-of-Face?

If such was the purpose of the Face on Mars, then one would indeed expect to find pyramids nearby, as one finds at Giza; there, three unique and exceptional pyramids, one smaller and two colossal, rise in symmetry with each other and with the Sphinx. Interestingly, Dr. Avinsky discerns three true pyramids in the area adjoining the Face on Mars.

As the ample evidence presented in the volumes of “The Earth Chronicles” series indicates, the Giza pyramids were not the handiwork of Pharaohs but were constructed by the Anunnaki. Before the Deluge their spaceport was in Meso- potamia, at Sippar (“Bird City”). After the Deluge the space- port was located in the Sinai Peninsula, and the two great pyramids of Giza, two artificial mountains, served as beacons for the Landing Corridor whose apex was anchored on Mount Ararat, the Near East’s most visible natural feature. If this was also the function of the pyramids in the Cydonia area, then some correlation with that most conspicuous natural feature on Mars, Olympus Mons, might eventually be found.

When the principal center of gold production by the An-

unnaki shifted from southeast Africa to the Andes, their me- tallurgical center was established on the shores of Lake Titicaca, at what is nowadays the ruins of Tiahuanacu and Puma-Punku. The principal structures in Tiahuanacu, which was connected to the lake by canals, were the “pyramid” called Akapana, a massive mound engineered to process ores, and the Kalasasaya, a square, “hollowed-out” structure (Fig. 88) that served astronomical purposes; its orientation was aligned with the solstices. Puma-Punku was situated directly on the lakeshore; its principal structures were “golden enclosures” built of immense stone blocks that stood alongside an array of zigzagging piers (Fig. 89).

Of the unusual features the orbiting cameras captured on the face of Mars, two appear to me to be almost certainly artifi-

cial—and both seem to emulate structures found on the shores

Figure 88

of Lake Titicaca in the Andes. One, which is akin to the Ka- lasasaya, is the first fealure west of the Face on Mars, just above (north of) the mysterious darkish circle (see Plate E). As an enlargement thereof indicates (Plate G), its still-standing southern part consists of two distinct massive walls, perfectly straight, meeting at an angle that appears sharp because of the photographic angle but is in fact a true right angle. The struc- ture—which could not possibly be natural no matter how far the imagination is stretched—appears to have collapsed, in its

Figure 89

Plate G

northern part, under the impact of a huge boulder that dropped on it in some catastrophic circumstances.

The other feature that could not be the product of natural erosion is found directly south of the Face, in an area of chaotic features, some of which have amazingly straight sides (Plate H). Separated by what might have been a channel or water- way—all are agreed that the area was on the shores of an ancient Martian sea or lake—the prominent feature’s side that

faces the channel is not straight but is outfitted with a series of “indentations” (Plate H). One must keep in mind that all these photographs were taken from an altitude of about one thousand two hundred miles above the Martian surface; what we observe, then, may well have been an array of large piers- just as one finds at Puma-Punku.

The two features, which cannot be explained away as the result of the play of light and shadow, thus bear similarities to the facilities and structures on the shores of Lake Titicaca. In this they not only support my suggestion that they are the remains of structures put up by the same visitors—the An-

Plate H

unnaki—they also offer a hypothesis for explaining their pur- pose and possible function. This conclusion is further supported by features that can be seen in the Utopia area: a pentagonal structure (enhanced NASA frame 086-A-07) and a “runway” next to what some deem evidence of mining (NASA frame O86-A-O8)—Plates I and J.

The spaceports of the Anunnaki on Earth, judging by Su- merian and Egyptian records, consisted of a Mission Control Center, Landing Beacons, an underground silo, and a large, flat plain whose natural surface served as runways. The Mission Control Center and certain Landing Beacons were some dis- tance away from the spaceport proper where the runways were situated; when the spaceport was in the Sinai Peninsula, Mis- sion Control Center was in Jerusalem and the Landing Beacons were in Giza, Egypt (the underground silo in the Sinai is de- picted in Egyptian tomb drawings—-see vignette at end of this chapter—and was destroyed by nuclear weapons in 2024 B.C.). In the Andes, the Nazca lines, I believe, represent the visual

Plate I

evidence for the use of that perfect, arid plain as runways for space shuttle takeoffs and landings. The inexplicable criss- crossing lines on the surface of Mars, the so called “tracks” (see Fig. 81) could well represent the same kind of evidence. There are also what appear to be true tracks on the Martian surface. From the air they look like the markings made by a pointed object on a linoleum floor, more or less straight “scratches” left on the Martian plain. These markings have been explained away as geological features, that is, natural cracks in the Martian surface. But as can be seen in NASA frame 651-A-06 (Plate K), the “cracks,” or tracks, appear to lead from an elevated structure of a geometric design with

Plate J

straight sides and pierlike “teeth” on one side—a structure now mostly buried under windblown sands—to the shores of what evidently was once a lake. Other aerial photographs (Fig.

90) show some tracks on an escarpment above the great canyon in the Valles Marineris near the Martian equator; these tracks

not only follow the contours of the terrain but also crisscross

each other in a pattern that could hardly be natural.

It has been pointed out that if an alien spacecraft were to

search for signs of life on Earth in areas of the Earth’s surface

outside the cities, what would give away the presence of in-

telligent beings on Earth would be the tracks we call “roads” and the rectilinear patterns of agricultural lands. NASA itself has supplied what might amount to evidence of deliberate ag- ricultural activity on Mars. Frame 52-A-35 (Plate L) shows a

Plate K

series  of  parallel  grooves  resembling  contoured  farmland—as one would find in the high mountains of Peru’s Sacred Valley. The  photo  caption  prepared  by  the  NASA  News  Center  in Pasadena. California, when the photograph was released on August 18, 1976, stated thus:

Peculiar geometric markings, so regular that they appear almost artificial can be seen in this Mars picture taken by Viking Orbiter 1 on August 12 from a range of 2053 kilometers (1273 miles).

The contoured markings are in a shallow depression or basin, possibly formed by wind erosion. The markings—

about one kilometer (one-half mile) from crest to crest— are low ridges and valleys and may be related to the same erosion process.

The parallel contours look very much like an aerial view of plowed ground.

meaning conveyed information regarding the named person or object. One epithet for Mars was Simug, meaning “smith,” honoring the god Nergal with whom the planet was associated in Sumerian times. A son of Enki, he was in charge of African domains that included the gold-mining areas. Mars was also called UTU.KA.GAB.A, meaning ”Light Established at the Gate of the Waters,” which can be interpreted either as its position next to the asteroid belt that separated the Lower Waters from the Upper Waters, or as a source of water for the astronauts as they passed beyond the more hazardous and less hospitable giant planets Saturn and Jupiter.

Even more interesting are Sumerian planetary lists that de- scribe the planets as the Anunnaki passed them during a space

journey  to  Earth.  Mars  was  called  MUL  APIN—”Planet

Where the- Right Course is Set.” It was so named also on an

amazing circular tablet which copied nothing less than a route

map for the journey from Nibiru to Earth by Enlil, graphically

showing the “right turn” at Mars.

Even more enlightening as to what role Mars, or the space facilities upon it, had played in the journeys of the Anunnaki to Earth is the Babylonian text concerning the Akitu festival. Borrowed from ancient Sumerian traditions, it outlined the rituals and symbolic procedures during the ten days of the New Year ceremonies. In Babylon the principal deity who took over

the supremacy from the earlier ones was Marduk; part of the transfer of the supremacy to him was the renaming by the Babylonians of the Planet of the Gods from the Sumerian Nibiru to the Babylonian Marduk.

The Akitu ceremonies included a reenactment by Marduk of the voyages of the Anunnaki from Nibiru/Marduk to Earth.

Each planet passed on the way was symbolized by a way station along the course of the religious processions, and the epithet for each planet or way station expressed its role, appearance, or special features. The station/planet Mars was termed “The Traveler’s Ship,” and I have taken it to mean that it was at Mars that the astronauts and cargo coming from Nibiru trans-

ferred to smaller spacecraft in which they were transported to Earth (and vice versa), coming and going between Mars and Earth not once in three thousand six hundred years but on a more frequent schedule.  Nearing Earth, these transporters

linked up with the Earth orbiting station(s) manned by the Igigi; the actual landing on and takeoff from Earth were performed by smaller shuttlecraft that glided down to the natural “run- ways’ ” and took off by soaring upward as they increased power.

Planners of the forthcoming steps into space by Mankind envision almost the same sequence of different vehicles as the best way to overcome the constraints of Earth’s gravity, making use of the weightlessness of the orbiting station and the lower gravity of Mars (and, in their plans, also of the Moon). In this, once again, modern science is only catching up with ancient knowledge.

Coupled with these ancient texts and depictions, the pho- tographic data from the surface of Mars, and the similarities between the Martian structures and those on Earth erected by the Anunnaki all lead to one plausible conclusion:

Mars, some time in its past, was the site of a space base.

And there is also evidence suggesting that the ancient space

base has been reactivated—in our very own time, in these very days.

A DRAWING THAT DREW ATTENTION

When the Egyptian viceroy Huy died, his tomb was  dec- orated with scenes of his life and work as governor of Nubia and the Sinai during the reign of the renowned Pharaoh Tut- Ankh-Amen. Among the drawings was that of  a  rocketship with its shaft in an underground silo and its conical command module above ground, among palm trees and giraffes.

The drawing, which was reproduced in The 12th Planet together with a comparable Sumerian pictograph of  a  space- craft that designated the Anunnaki, caught the eye  of Stuart

W. Greenwood, an aerospace engineer then conducting re- search for NASA. Writing in Ancient Skies (July-August 1977), a publication of the Ancient Astronaut Society, he found in the  ancient  drawing  aspects  indicating  knowledge of a sophisticated technology and drew attention in particular to four “highly suggestive features”: (1) The “airfoil cross- section surrounding the rocket,” which appears  suitable  for “the walls of a duct used for the development of thrust”;

A       Space       Base       on       Mars 271

(2) The rocket  head  above  ground,  ‘”reminiscent  of  the Gemini space capsule even to the  appearance  of  the  windows and (3) the charred surface and blunt end”; and (4) The unusual spike, which is  like  spikes  tested  by  NASA  for reducing the drag on the space capsule without success,  but which in the drawing suggests it was retractable  and  thus could overcome the  overheating  problem  that  NASA  was unable to solve.

He estimated that “if the relative locations  of  the  rocket- head and shaft shown in the drawing are those applying during  operation  within  the  atmosphere,  the  inclined  shock wave from the nose of  the  rockethead  would  touch  the  duct ‘lip’ at about Mach-3 (3 times the speed of sound).”

12

PHOBOS: MALFUNCTION OR STAR WARS INCIDENT?

On October 4, 1957, the Soviet Union launched Earthlings’ first artificial satellite. Sputnik 1, and set Mankind on a road that has led Man to the Moon and his spacecraft to the edge of the Solar System and beyond.

On July 12, 1988, the Soviet Union launched an unmanned spacecraft called Phobos 2 and may have provided Mankind with its first Star Wars incident—not the “Star Wars” nick- name of America’s Strategic Defense Initiative (SDI), but a war with people from another world.

Phobos 2 was one of two unmanned satellites, the other being Phobos 1, that were set off from Earth in July 1988, headed toward the planet Mars. Phobos 1, reportedly because of a radio command error, was lost two months later. Phobos 2 arrived safely at Mars in January 1989 and entered into orbit around Mars as the first step at its destination toward its ultimate goal-—to transfer to an orbit that would make it fly almost in tandem with the Martian moonlet called Phobos (hence the spacecraft’s name) and explore the moonlet with highly so- phisticated equipment that included two packages of instru- ments to be placed on the moonlet’s surface.

All went well until Phobos 2 aligned itself with Phobos, the Martian moonlet. Then, on March 28, 1989, the Soviet mission

control  center  acknowledged  sudden  communication  “prob-

lems” with the spacecraft; and Tass, the official Soviet news

agency, reported that “Phobos 2 failed to communicate with

Earth  as  scheduled  after  completing  an  operation  yesterday

around the Martian moon Phobos. Scientists at mission control

have been unable to establish stable radio contact.”

These  admissions  left  the  impression  that  the  problem  was

not incurable and were accompanied by assurances that mission

272

control scientists were engaged in maneuvers to reestablish contact with the spacecraft. Soviet space program officials as well as many Western specialists were aware that the Phobos mission represented an immense investment in terms of fi- nance, planning, effort, and prestige. Although launched by the Soviets, the mission in reality represented an international effort on an unprecedented scale, with more than thirteen Eu- ropean countries (including the European Space Agency and major French and West German scientific institutions) partic- ipating officially and British and American scientists partici- pating “personally” (with their governments1 knowledge and blessing). It was thus understandable that the “problem” was at first represented as a break in communications that could be overcome in a matter of days. Soviet television and press re- ports played down the seriousness of the occurrence, empha- sizing that attempts were being made to reestablish links with the spacecraft. In fact, American scientists associated with the program were not officially informed of the nature of the prob- lem and were led to believe that the communications break- down was caused by the malfunction of a low-power backup transmitting unit that had been in use since the principal trans- mitter had failed earlier.

But on the next day, while the public was still being reas- sured that a resumption of contact with the spacecraft was achievable, a high-ranking official at Glavkosmos, the Soviet

space agency, hinted that there indeed was no such hope. “Phobos 2 is ninety-nine percent lost for good,” Nikolai A. Simyonov said; on that day, his choice of words —not that contact with the spacecraft was lost but that the spacecraft itself was “lost for good”—was not paid any particular heed.

On March 30, in a special report from Moscow to The New

York Times, Esther B. Fein mentioned that Vremya, the main evening news program on Soviet television, “rapidly rattled off the bad news about Phobos” and focused its report instead on the successful research the spacecraft had already accom- plished. Soviet scientists appearing on the program “displayed some of the space images, but said it was still not clear what

clues they offered to understanding Mars, Phobos, the Sun and interplanetary space.”

What “images” and what “clues” were they talking about?

This  became  clearer  the  following  day,  when  reports  pub- lished in the European press (but for some reason not in the

U.S. media) spoke of an “unidentified object” that was seen

“in the final pictures taken by the spaceship,” which showed an “inexplicable” object or “elliptical shadow” on Mars.

This was an avalanche of puzzling words out of Moscow!

The Spanish daily La Epoca, for example (Fig. 92), head-

lined  the  dispatch  by the  Moscow  correspondent  of  the  Eu-

ropean news agency EFE “Phobos 2 Captured Strange Photos

of Mars Before Losing Contact With Its Base.” The text of the dispatch, in translation, read as follows:

The TV newscast “Vremya” revealed yesterday that the space probe Phobos 2, which was orbiting above  Mars when Soviet scientists lost contact with it  on Monday, had photographed an unidentified object on the Martian surface seconds before losing contact.

The TV broadcast devoted a long segment to the strange pictures taken by the spaceship before losing contact, and

Figure 92

showed the two most important pictures, in which a large shadow is visible in one of the pictures and in the other.

Scientists characterized the final picture taken by the spaceship, in which the thin ellipse can be clearly seen, as “inexplicable.”

The phenomenon, it was stated, could not be an optical illusion because it was captured with the same clarity both by color cameras as well as by cameras taking infrared

images.

One of the members of the Permanent Space Commis- sion who had worked around the clock to reestablish con- tact with the lost space probe stated on Soviet television that in the opinion of the commission’s scientists the object “looked like a shadow on the surface of Mars.”

According to calculations by researchers from the So- viet Union the “shadow” that the last photo taken by Phobos 2 shows is some twenty kilometers [about 12.5 miles] long.

A few days earlier, the spaceship had already recorded

an identical phenomenon, except that in that instance the “shadow” was between twenty-six to thirty kilometers [about 16 to 19 miles] long.

The reporter from “Vremya” asked one of the members of the special commission if the shape of the “phenom- enon” didn’t suggest to him a space rocket, to which the

scientist    responded,    “This    is    to     fantasize.” [Here follow details of the mission’s original assign- ments.)

Needless to say, this is an amazing and literally “out of this world” report that raises as many questions as it answers. The loss of contact with the spacecraft was associated, by impli- cation if not in so many words, with the observation by the spacecraft of “an object on the Martian surface seconds be- fore.” The culprit “object” is described as “a thin ellipse” and is also called “a phenomenon” as well as “a shadow.” It was observed at least twice—the report does not state whether in the same location on the surface of Mars—and is capable of changing its size: the first time it was about 12,5 miles long; the second and fatal time, about 16 to 19 miles long. And when the “Vremya” reporter wondered whether it

was a “space rocket,” the scientist responded, “This is to fantasize.” So, what was—or is—it?

The authoritative weekly Aviation Week & Space Technol-

ogy, in its issue of April 3, 1989, printed a report of the incident based on several sources in Moscow, Washington, and Paris (the authorities in the last being deeply involved because an equipment malfunction would have reflected badly on the French contribution to the mission, whereas an “act of God” would exonerate the French space industry). The version given

AW&ST treated the occurrence as a “communications prob- lem” that remained unresolved in spite of a week of attempts to “re-establish contact.” It included the information that pro- gram officials at the Soviet Space Research Institute in Moscow said that the problem occurred “after an imaging and data- gathering session,” following which Phobos 2 had to change

the orientation of its antenna. “The data-gathering segment itself apparently proceeded as planned, but reliable contact with Phobos 2 could not be established afterward.” At the time, the spacecraft was in a near-circular orbit around Mars and in the phase of “final preparations for the encounter with Phobos” (the moonlet).

While this version attributed the incident to a “loss-of-com- munications” problem, a report a few days later in Science (April 7, 1989) spoke of “the apparent loss of Phobos 2″— loss of the spacecraft itself, not just of the communications link with it. It happened, the prestigious journal stated, “on 27 March as the spacecraft turned from its normal alignment

with Earth to image the tiny moon Phobos that was the primary mission target. When it came time for the spacecraft to turn itself and its antenna automatically back toward Earth, nothing was heard.”

The journal then continued with a sentence that remains as inexplicable as the whole incident and the “thin ellipse” on

the surface of Mars. It states:

A few hours later, a weak transmission was received, but controllers could not lock onto the signal. Nothing was heard during the next week.

Now, as a rereading of all the previous reports and statements will confirm, the incident was described as a sudden and total

loss of the “communications link.” The reason given was that the spacecraft, having turned its antennas to scan Phobos, failed to turn its antenna back toward Earth due to some un- known reason. But if the antenna remained stuck in a position facing away from Earth, how could “a weak transmission” be received “a few hours later”? And if the antenna did in fact turn itself back toward Earth properly, what caused the abrupt silence for several hours, followed by the transmission of a signal too weak to be locked onto?

The question that arises is indeed a simple one: Was the spacecraft Phobos 2 hit by “something” that put it out of commission, except for a last gasp in the form of a weak signal hours later?

There was one more report, from Paris, in AW&ST of April

10, 1989. Soviet space scientists, it said, suggested that Phobos 2 “did not stabilize itself on the proper orientation to have the high-gain antenna pointing earthward.” This obviously puz- zled the editors of the magazine because, its report said, the Phobos2 spacecraft was “three-axis stabilized” by technology developed for the Soviet Venera spacecraft, which had per-

formed perfectly on Venus missions.

The mystery thus is, what caused the spacecraft to destabilize

itself? Was it a malfunction, or was there an extraneous cause—

perhaps an impact?

The weekly’s French sources provided this tantalizing detail:

One controller at the Kaliningrad control center said the limited signals received after conclusion of the imaging session gave him the impression he was “tracking a spin- ner.”

Phobos 2, in other words, acted as if it was in a spin.

Now, what was Phobos 2 “imaging” when the incident occurred? We already have a good idea from the “Vremya” and European press agency reports. But here is what the AW&ST report from Paris states, quoting Alexander Dunayev, chairman of the Soviet Glavkosmos space administration:

One image appears to include an odd-shaped object be- tween the spacecraft and Mars. It may be debris in the orbit of Phobos or could be Phobos 2’s autonomous pro-

pulsion sub-system that was jettisoned after the spacecraft was injected into Mars orbit—we just don’t know.”

This statement must have been made with quite a tongue- in-cheek attitude. The Viking orbiters left no debris in Mars orbit, and we know of no other “debris” resulting from Earth- originated activities. The other “possibility,” that the object orbiting Mars between the planet and the spacecraft Phobos 2 was a jettisoned part of the spacecraft, can be readily dismissed once one looks at the shape and structure of Phobos 2 (Fig. 93); none of its parts had the shape of a “thin ellipse.” More- over, it was disclosed on the “Vremya” program that the “shadow” was 12.5, 16, or 19 miles long. Now, it is true that an object can throw a shadow much longer than itself, de- pending on the angle of sunlight; still, a part of Phobos 2 that was only a few feet in length could hardly throw a shadow measured in miles. Whatever had been observed was neither debris nor a jettisoned part.

At the time I wondered why the official speculation omitted what was surely the most natural and believable third possi- bility, that what had been observed was indeed a shadow—

but the shadow of Phobos, the Martial moonlet itself. It has

Figure 93

most often been described as “potato-shaped” (Fig. 94) and measures about seventeen miles across—just about the size of the “shadow” mentioned in the initial reports. In fact. I re- called seeing a Mariner 9 photograph of an eclipse on Mars caused by the shadow of Phobos. Couldn’t that be, I thought, what the fuss was all about, at least regarding the “apparition,” if not what had caused the spacecraft, Phobos 2, to be lost? The answer came about three months later. Pressed by their international participants in the Phobos missions to provide more definitive data, the Soviet authorities released the taped television transmission Phobos 2 sent in its last moments—

Figure 94

except for the last frames, taken just seconds before the space- craft fell silent. The television clip was shown by some TV stations in Europe and Canada as part of weekly “diary” pro- grams, as a curiosity and not as a hot news item.

The television sequence thus released focused on two an- omalies. The first was a network of straight lines in the area of the Martian equator; some of the lines were short, some longer, some thin, some wide enough to look like rectangular shapes “embossed” in the Martian surface. Arranged in rows parallel to each other, the pattern covered an area of some six hundred square kilometers (more than two hundred thirty square miles). The “anomaly” appeared to be far from a nat- ural phenomenon.

The television clip was accompanied by a live comment by Dr. John Becklake of England’s Science Museum. He de- scribed the phenomenon as very puzzling, because the pattern seen on the surface of Mars was photographed not with the spacecraft’s optical camera but with its infrared camera—a camera that takes pictures of objects using the heat they radiate, and not by the play of light and shadow on them. In other words, the pattern of parallel lines and rectangles covering an area of almost two hundred fifty square miles was a source of heat radiation. It is highly unlikely that a natural source of heat radiation (a geyser or a concentration of radioactive minerals under the surface, for example) would create such a perfect geometric pattern. When viewed over and over again, the pat- tern definitely looks artificial; but what it was, the scientist said, “I certainly don’t know.”

Since no coordinates for the precise location of this “anom- alous feature” have been released publicly, it is impossible to judge its relationship to another puzzling feature on the surface of Mars that can be seen in Mariner 9 frame 4209-75. It is

also located in the equatorial area (at longitude 186.4) and has been described as “unusual indentations with radial arms pro- truding from a central hub” caused (according to NASA sci- entists) by the melting and collapse of permafrost layers. The design of the features, bringing to mind the structure of a modern airport with a circular hub from which the long struc-

tures housing the airplane gates radiate, can be better visualized when the photograph is reversed (showing depressions as pro- trusions—Fig. 95).

Figure 95

We now come to the second “anomaly” shown on the tele- vision segment. Seen on the surface of Mars was a clearly defined dark shape that could indeed be described, as it was in the initial dispatch from Moscow, as a “thin ellipse” (Plate N is a still from the Soviet television clip). It was certainly different from the shadow of Phobos recorded eighteen years earlier by Mariner 9 (Plate O). The latter cast a shadow that was a rounded ellipse and fuzzy at the edges, as would be cast by the uneven surface of the moonlet. The “anomaly” seen in the Phobos 2 transmission was a thin ellipse with very sharp rather than rounded points (the shape is known in the diamond trade as a “marquise”) and the edges, rather than being fuzzy.

Plate N

stood out sharply against a kind of halo on the Martian surface. Dr. Becklake described it as “something that is between the spacecraft and Mars, because we can see the Martian surface below it,” and stressed that the object was seen both by the optical and the infrared (heat-seeking) camera.

All these reasons explain why the Soviets have not suggested that the dark, “thin ellipse” might have been the shadow of the moon let.

While the image was held on the screen, Dr. Becklake ex-

plained that it was taken as the spacecraft was aligning itself with Phobos (the moonlet). “As the last picture was halfway through,” he said, “they [Soviets] saw something which should not be there.” The Soviets, he went on to state, “have not yet released this last picture, and we won’t speculate on what it shows.”

Since the last frame or frames have not yet been publicly released even a year after the incident, one can only speculate, surmise, or believe rumors, according to which the last frame,

Plate O

halfway through its transmission, shows the “something that should not be there” rushing toward Phobos 2 and crashing into it, abruptly interrupting the transmission. Then there was, according to the reports mentioned earlier, a weak burst of transmission some hours later, too garbled to be clear. (This report, incidentally, belies the initial explanation that the space- craft could not turn its antennas back to an Earth-transmitting position).

In the October 19, 1989 issue of Nature, Soviet scientists published a series of technical reports on the experiments Pho- bos 2 did manage to conduct; of the thirty-seven pages, a mere three paragraphs deal with the spacecraft’s loss. The report confirms that the spacecraft was spinning, either because of a

computer malfunction or because Phobos 2 was “impacted” by an unknown object (the theory that the collision was with “dust particles” is rejected in the report).

So what was it that collided or crashed into Phobos 2, the “something that should not be there”? What do the last frame

or frames, still secret, show? In his careful words to AW&ST, the chairman of the Soviet equivalent of NASA referred to that last frame when he tried to explain the sudden loss of contact, saying,

“One image appears to include an odd-shaped object be- tween the spacecraft and Mars.”

If not “debris,” or “dust,” or a “jettisoned part of Phobos 2,” what was the “object” that all accounts of the incident now admit collided with the spacecraft—an object with an impact strong enough to put the spacecraft into a spin, an object whose image was captured by the last photographic frames?

“We just don’t know,” said the chief of the Soviet space program.

But the evidence of an ancient space base on Mars and the

odd-shaped “shadow” in its skies add up to an awesome con- clusion: What the secret frames hide is evidence that the loss of Phobos 2 was not an accident but an incident.

Perhaps the first incident in a Star Wars—the shooting down by Aliens from another planet of a spacecraft from Earth in- truding on their Martian base.

Has it occurred to the reader that the Soviet space chief’s answer, “We just don’t know” what the “odd-shaped object between the spacecraft and Mars” was, is tantamount to calling it a UFO—an Unidentified Flying Object?

For decades now, ever since the phenomenon of what was first called Flying Saucers and later UFOs became a worldwide

enigma, no self-respecting scientist would touch the subject even with a ten foot pole—except, that is, to ridicule the phenomenon and whoever was foolish enough to take it seri- ously.

The “modern UFO era,” according to Antonio Huneeus, a science writer and internationally known lecturer on UFOs, began on June 24, 1947, when Kenneth Arnold, an American pilot and businessman, sighted a formation of nine silvery disks flying over the Cascade Mountains in the state of Washington. The term “Flying Saucer” that then came into vogue was based on Arnold’s description of the mysterious objects.

Phonos: Malfunction or Star Wars Incident?     285 While the “‘Arnold incident” was followed by alleged sight-

ings across the United States and other parts of the world, the

UFO case deemed most significant and one still discussed (and

dramatized on television) is the alleged crash of an “alien spacecraft” on July 2, 1947—a week after the Arnold sight- ing—on a ranch near Roswell, New Mexico. That evening a bright, disk-shaped object was seen in the area’s skies; the next day a rancher, William Brazel, discovered scattered wreckage in  his  field  northwest  of  Roswell.  The  wreckage  and  the

“metal” of which it was made looked odd, and the discovery was reported to the nearby Army Air Corps base at Roswell Field (which then had the world’s only nuclear-weapons squad- ron.) Major Jesse Marcel, an intelligence officer, together with an officer from the counterintelligence corps, went to examine the debris. The pieces, engineered in various shapes, looked

and felt like balsa wood but were not wood; they would neither burn nor bend, no matter how the investigators tried. On some beam-shaped pieces there were geometric markings that were later referred to as “hieroglyphics.” On returning to the base, the officer in charge instructed the base’s public relations officer to notify the press (in a release dated July 7, 1947) that AAF

personnel had retrieved parts of a “crashed flying saucer.” The release made headline news in The Roswell Daily Record (Fig. 96) and was picked up by a press wire service in Al- buquerque, New Mexico. Within hours a new official state- ment, superseding the first, claimed instead that the debris was part  of  a  fallen  weather  balloon.  Newspapers  printed  the  re-

traction; and, according to some reports, radio stations were ordered to stop broadcasting the first version by being told, “Cease transmission. National security item. Do not trans- mit.”

In spite of the revised version and ensuing official denials of  any  “flying  saucer”  incident  at  Roswell,  many  of  those

personally involved in that incident persist, to this very day, in adhering to the first version. Many also assert that at a nearby crash site of another “flying saucer” (in an area west of So- corTo, New Mexico), civilian witnesses had seen not only the wreckage but also several bodies of dead humanoids. These bodies, as well as bodies allegedly of “aliens” who crashed

after these two events, have been variously reported to have

Figure 96

undergone examination at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base in Ohio. According to a document known in UFO circles as MJ-

12  or  Majestic-12  (the  two,  some  claim,  are  not  identical),

President Truman formed, in September, 1947, a blue-ribbon,

top-secret committee to deal with the Roswell and related in-

cidents, but the authenticity of this document remains unver- ified. What is known for a fact is that Senator Barry Goldwater, who either chaired or was a senior member of U.S. Senate committees on Intelligence, Armed Services, Tactical Warfare, Science, Technology, and Space and others with a bearing on the subject, was repeatedly refused admission to a so-called

Blue Room at that air base. “I have long ago given up acquir- in g access to th e so-called blu e ro om  at  Wri ght – Patterson, as I have had one long string of denials from chief after chief,” he wrote to an inquirer in 1981. “This thing has gotten so highly classified … it is just impossible to get any- thing on it.”

Reacting to continued reporting of UFO sightings and unease about excessive official secrecy, the U.S. Air Force conducted several investigations of the UFO phenomenon through such

projects as Sign, Grudge, and Blue Book. Between 1947 and 1969 about thirteen thousand reports of UFOs were  investi- gated, and they were by and large dismissed as natural phe- nomena, balloons, aircraft, or just imagination. Some seven hundred sightings, however, remained  unexplained.  In  1953, the U.S. Central Intelligence Agency’s Office of Scientific Intelligence convened a panel of scientists and government officials. Known as the Robertson Panel, the group spent a total of twelve hours viewing UFO films and studying case histories and other information and found that “reasonable explanations could be suggested for most sightings.” The evi- dence presented, it was reported, showed how the remaining cases could not be explained by probable causes, “leaving ‘extra-terrestrials’ as the only remaining explanation in many cases,” although, the panel noted, “present astronomical knowledge of the solar system makes the existence of intelli- gent beings. . . elsewhere than on the Earth extremely un- likely.”

While  official  “debunking”  of  UFO  reports  continued  (an- other investigation along the same lines and with similar con-

clusions was the officially commissioned Scientific Study of Unidentified Flying Objects by the University of Colorado, conducted from 1966 to 1969), the number of sightings and “encounters” continued to rise, and civilian amateur investi- gative groups have sprung up in numerous countries. The en- counters  are  now  classified  by  these  groups;  those  of  the

“second kind” are instances where physical evidence (landing markings or interference with machinery) is left behind by the UFOs; and those of the “third kind,” where  contact  takes place with the UFO’s occupants.

Descriptions  of  the  UFOs  once  were  varied,  from  “flying saucers” to “cigar-shaped.” Now most describe them as cir-

cular in construction and, when landing, as resting on three or four extended legs. Descriptions of the occupants also are more uniform: “humanoids” three to four feet tall, with large, hair- less heads and very big eyes (Fig. 97a, b). According to a purported eye-witness report by a military intelligence officer who saw “recovered UFOs and alien bodies” at a “secret base

in Arizona,” the humanoids “were very, very white;  there were no ears, no nostrils. There were only openings: a very

i

Figure 97

small mouth and their eyes were large. There was no facial hair, no head hair, no pubic hair. They were nude. I think the tallest one could have been about three-and-a-half feet, maybe a little taller.” The witness added that he saw no genitals and no breasts, although some humanoids looked male and some female.

The multitude of people reporting sightings or contacts come from every geographical or occupational background. President Jimmy Carter, for example, disclosed in a campaign speech in 1976 that he had seen a UFO. He moved to “make every piece  of  information  this  country  has  about  UFO  sightings

available to the public and the scientists”; but for reasons that were never given, his campaign promise was not kept.

Besides the official U.S. policy of “debunking” UFO re- ports, what has irked UFO believers in the United States is the official tendency to give the impression that government agen- cies  have  lost  interest  even  in  investigating  UFO  reports,

whereas it has repeatedly come to light that this or that agency, including NASA, is keeping a close eye on the subject. In the Soviet Union, on the other hand, the Institute of Space Research published in 1979 an analysis of ‘ ‘Observations of Anomalous

Atmospheric Phenomena in the USSR” (“‘anomalous atmo- spheric phenomena” is the Russian term for UFOs), and in 1984 the Soviet Academy of Sciences formed a permanent commission to study the phenomena. On the military side, the subject came under the jurisdiction of the GRU (Chief Intel- ligence Directorate of the Soviet General Staff); its orders were to discover whether UFOs were “secret vehicles of foreign powers,” unknown natural phenomena, or “manned or un- manned extraterrestrial probes engaged in the investigation of Earth.”

Numerous reported or purported sightings in the Soviet Union included some by Soviet cosmonauts. In September 1989, the Soviet authorities took the significant step of having Tass, the official news agency, report a UFO incident in the city of Voronezh in a manner that made front pages worldwide;

in spite of the usual disbelief, Tass stood by its story.

The French authorities have also been less “debunkative”

(to coin a word) than U.S. officials. In 1977 the French Na-

tional Space Agency (CNES), headquartered in  Toulouse, es-

tablished  the  Unidentified Aerospace Phenomena  Study Group

(GEPAN); it was recently renamed the Service d’Expertise des

Phenomenes de Rentree Atmospherique, with the same task of following up and analyzing UFO reports. Some of the more celebrated UFO cases in France included follow-up analyses of the sites and soils where the UFOs were seen to have landed, and the results showed the “presence of traces for which there is  no  satisfactory  explanation.”  Most  French  scientists  have

shared the disdain of their colleagues from other countries for the subject, but among those who did get involved and voiced an opinion, the consensus has been to see in the phenomena “a manifestation of the activities of extraterrestrial visitors.”

In Great Britain, the veil of secrecy over the UFO phenom- enon has held tight in spite of such efforts as the inquiring

UFO Study Group of the House of Lords initiated by the Earl of Clancarty (a group I had the privilege to address in 1980). The British experience, as well as that of many other countries, is reported in some detail in Timothy Good’s book Above Top Secret (1987). The wealth of documents quoted or reproduced in Good’s book leads to the conclusion that at first the various

governments “covered up” their findings because UFOs were

suspected of being advanced aircraft of another superpower, and admission of the enemy’s superiority was not in the national interest. But once the extraterrestrial nature of the UFOs be- came the primary guess (or knowledge), the memory of such panics as was caused by Orson Welles” “War of the Worlds’1 radio broadcast was used as the rationale for what so many UFO enthusiasts call a cover up.

The real problem many have with UFOs is the lack of a cohesive and plausible theory to explain their origin and pur- pose. Where do they come from? Why?

I myself have not encountered a UFO, to say nothing of being abducted and experimented upon by humanlike beings with elliptical heads and bulging eyes—incidents  witnessed and experienced, if such claims be true, by many others. But when asked for my opinion, whether I “believe in UFOs,” 1 sometimes answer by telling a story. Let us imagine, 1 say to the people in the room or the auditorium in which I am speak- ing, that the entrance door is thrust open and a young man bursts in, breathless from running and obviously agitated, who ignores the proceedings and just shouts, “You wouldn’t believe what happened to me!” He then goes on to relate that he was out in the countryside hiking, that it was getting dark and he was tired, that he found some stones and put his knapsack on them as a cushion, and that he fell asleep. Then he was suddenly awakened, not by a sound but by bright lights. He looked up and saw beings going up and down a ladder. The ladder led skyward, toward a hovering, round object. There was a door- way in the object through which light from inside shone out. Silhouetted against the light was the commander of the beings. The sight was so awesome that our lad fainted. When he came to, there was nothing to be seen. Whatever had been there was gone.

Still excited by his experience, the young man finishes the story by saying he was no longer sure whether what he had seen was real or just a vision, perhaps a dream. What do we think? Do we believe him?

We should believe him if we believe the Bible, I say, because

what I had just related is the tale of Jacob’s vision as told in Genesis, chapter 7. Though it was a vision seen in a dreamlike trance, Jacob was certain that the sight was real, and he said,

Phonos: Malfunction or Star Wars Incident?     291 Surely Yahweh is present in this place,

and I knew it not. . . .

This is none other but an abode of the gods,

and this is the gateway to heaven.

I once pointed out at a conference where other speakers delved into the subject of UFOs that there is no such thing as Unidentified Flying Objects. They are only unidentified or unexplainable by the viewer, but those who operate them know very well what they are. Obviously, the hovering craft that Jacob saw was readily identified by him as belonging to the Elohim, the plural gods. What he did not know, the Bible makes clear, was only that the place where he had slept was one of their lift-off pads.

The biblical tale of the heavenward ascent of the Prophet Elijah describes the vehicle as a Fiery Chariot. And the Prophet Ezekiel, in his well-documented vision, spoke of a celestial or airborne vehicle that operated as a whirlwind and could land

on four wheeled legs.

Ancient depictions and terminology show that a distinction

was made even then between the different kinds of flying ma-

chines and their pilots. There were the rocketships (Fig. 98a)

that served as shuttle craft and the orbiters, and we have already

seen what the Anunnaki astronauts and the orbiting Igigi looked

like. And there were the “whirlbirds” or “sky chambers” that we now call VTOLs (Vertical Take-Off and Landing aircraft) and helicopters; how these looked in antiquity is depicted in a mural at a site on the east side of the Jordan, near the place from which Elijah was carried heavenward (Fig. 98b). The goddess Inanna/Ishtar liked to pilot her own “sky chamber,”

at which time she would be dressed like a World War I pilot (Fig. 98c).

But other depictions were also found—clay figurines of hu- man-looking beings with elliptical heads and large, slanting eyes (Fig. 99)—an unusual feature of whom was their bi- sexuality (or lack of it): their lower parts depicted the male

member overlaid or dissected by the opening of a female va- gina.

Now, as one looks at the drawings of the “humanoids” by those who claim to have seen the occupants of UFOs, it is

Figure 98

obvious they do not look like us—which means they do not look like the Anunnaki. Rather, they look like the odd hu- manoids depicted by the ancient figurines.

This similarity may hold an important clue to the identity of the small creatures with smooth skins, no sex organs, no hair, elliptical heads, and large odd eyes that are supposed to be operating the purported UFOs. If the tales be true, then what the “contactees” have seen are not the people, the in- telligent beings, from another planet—but their anthropoid robots.

And if even a tiny percentage of the reported sightings is true, then the relatively large number of alien craft visiting Earth in recent times suggests that they could not possibly come, in such profusion and frequency, from a distant planet. If they come, they must come from somewhere relatively close

by.

And the only plausible candidate is Mars—and its moonlet

Phobos.

Figure 99

The reasons for the use of Mars as a jumping-off base for spacemen’s visits to Earth should be clear by now. The evi- dence for my suggestion that Mars had served in the past as a space base for the Anunnaki has been presented. The circum- stances in which Phobos 2 was lost indicate that someone is back there on Mars—someone ready to destroy what to them is an “alien” spacecraft. How does Phobos, the moonlet, fit into all this?

Simply put, it tits very well.

To understand why, we ought to backtrack and list the rea-

sons for the 1989 mission to Phobos. At present Mars has two

tiny satellites named Phobos and Deimos. Both are believed

to be not original moons of Mars but asteroids that were cap-

tured into Mars orbit. They are of the carbonaceous type (see

the discussion of asteroids in chapter 4) and therefore contain water in substantial amounts, mostly in the form of ice just under the moonlets’ surfaces. It has been proposed that with the aid of solar batteries or a small nuclear generator, the ice could be melted to obtain water. The water could then be

separated into oxygen and hydrogen, for breathing and as fuel. The hydrogen could also be combined with the moonlets” car- bon to make hydrocarbons. As do other asteroids and comets, these planetisimals contain nitrogen, ammonia, and other or- ganic molecules. All in all, the moonlets could become self- supporting space bases, the gift of nature.

Deimos would be less convenient for such a purpose. It is only nine by eight by seven miles in size and orbits some 15,000 miles away from Mars. The much larger Phobos (sev- enteen by thirteen by twelve miles) is only some 5,800 miles away from Mars—a short hop for a shuttlecraft or transporter from one to the other. Because Phobos (as does Deimos too) orbits Mars in the equatorial plane, Phobos can be observed from Mars (or observe goings on upon Mars), between the sixty fifth parallels north and south—a band that includes all the unusual and artificial-looking features on Mars except ” Inca City.” Moreover, because of its proximity, Phobos com- pletes about 3.5 orbits around Mars in a single Martian day— an almost constant presence.

Further recommending Phobos as a natural orbiting station around Mars is its minuscule gravity, compared with that of Earth and even of Mars. The power required for take-off from Phobos is no greater than that required to develop an escape velocity of fifteen miles an hour; conversely, very little power

is needed to brake for a landing on it.

These are the reasons the two Soviet spacecraft, Phobos 1

and 2, were sent there. It was an open secret that the mission

was a scouting expedition for the intended landing of a “robotic

rover” on Mars in 1994 and the launching of a manned mission

to Mars after that, with a view to establishing a base thereon

within the following decade. Prearrival briefings at mission control in Moscow revealed that the spacecraft carried equip- ment to locate “the heat-emitting areas on Mars” and to obtain “a better idea of what kind of life exists on Mars.” Although the provision, “if any,” was quickly added, the plan to scan both Mars and Phobos not only with infrared equipment but

also with gamma-ray detectors hinted at a very purposeful search.

After scanning Mars the two spacecraft were to turn their attention entirely to Phobos. It was to be probed by radar as well as by the infrared and gamma-ray scanners and was to be

photographed by three television cameras. Apart from such orbital scanning, the spacecraft were to drop two types of landers to the surface of Phobos: one, a stationary device that would have anchored itself to the surface and transmitted data over the long term; the other, a “hopper” device with springy legs that was meant to hop and skip about the moonlet and report its findings from all over it.

There were still other experiments in the bag of tricks of Phobos 2. It was equipped with an ion emitter and a laser gun that were to shoot their beams at the moonlet, stir up its surface

dust, pulverize some of the surface material, and enable equip- ment aboard the spacecraft to analyze the resultant cloud. At that point the spacecraft was to hover a mere 150 feet above Phobos, and its cameras were to photograph features as small as six inches.

What  exactly were the  mission planners expecting to dis-

cover at such close range? It must have been an important objective, because it later transpired that the “individual sci- entists” from the United States who were involved in the mis- sion’s planning and equipping included Americans with experience in Mars research whose roles were officially sanc- tioned by the United States government within the framework

of the improvement in U.S.-Soviet relations. Also, NASA had put at the mission’s disposal its Deep Space Network of radio telescopes which has been involved not only in satellite com- munications but also in the Search for Extraterrestrial Intelli- gence (SETI) programs; and scientists at the JPL in Pasadena, California, were helping track the Phobos spacecraft and mon-

itor their data transmissions. It also became known that the British scientists who were participating in the project were in fact assigned to the mission by the British National Space Centre.

With the French participation, guided by its National Space Agency in Toulouse; the input by West Germany’s prestigious

Max Planck Institute; and the scientific contributions from a dozen other European nations, the Phobos Mission was nothing short of a concerted effort by modern science to lift the veil from Mars and enlist it in Mankind’s course on the road to Space.

But was someone there, at Mars, who did not welcome this

intrusion?

296                                                      GENESIS REVISITED

lt is noteworthy that Phobos. unlike the smaller and smooth- surfaced Deimos, has peculiar features that have led some scientists in the past to suspect that it was artificially fashioned. There are peculiar “track marks” (Fig. 100) that run almost straight and parallel to each other. Their width is almost uni- form, some 700 to 1,000 feet, and their depth, too. is a uniform 75 to 90 feet (as far as could be measured from the Viking orbiters). The possibility that these “‘trenches,” or tracks, were caused by flowing water or by wind has been ruled out, since neither exist on Phobos. The tracks seem to lead to or from a crater that covers more than a third of the moonlet’s diameter and whose rim is so perfectly circular that it looks artificial (see Fig. 94).

What are these tracks or trenches, how did they come about, why do they emanate from the circular crater, and does the crater lead into the moonlet’s interior? Soviet scientists have thought that there was something artificial about Phobos in general, because its almost perfect circular orbit around Mars at such proximity to the planet defies the laws of celestial motion: Phobos, and to some extent Deimos, too, should have elliptical orbits that would have either thrown them off into space or made them crash into Mars a long time ago.

The implication that Phobos and Deimos might have been placed in Mars orbit artificially by “someone” seemed pre- posterous. In fact, however, the capture of asteroids and towing them to where they would stay in Earth orbit has been deemed a technologically achievable feat; so much so that such a plan was presented at the Third Annual Space Development Con- ference held in San Francisco in 1984. Richard Gertsch of the Colorado School of Mines, one of several  presenters  of  the plan, pointed out that “a startling variety of  materials  exist” out in space; “asteroids are particularly rich in strategic min- erals such as chromium, germanium and gallium.” “I believe that we have identified asteroids that are accessible and could be exploited,” stated another presenter, Eleanor F.  Helin  of JPL.

Have others, long ago, carried out ideas and plans that mod- ern science envisions for the future—bringing Phobos and Dei- mos, two captured asteroids, into orbit around Mars to burrow into their interiors?

In the 1960s it was noticed that Phobos was speeding up its

Phobos: Malfunction or Star Wars Incident?      297

Figure 100

orbit  around  Mars;  this  led  Soviet  scientists  to  suggest  that Phobos was lighter than its size warrants. The Soviet physicist

I.  S.  Shklovsky  then  offered  the  astounding  hypothesis  that Phobos was hollow.

298                        GENESIS REVISITED

Other Soviet writers then speculated (hat Phobos was an “artificial satellite” put into Mars orbit by “an extinct race of humanoids millions of years ago.” Others ridiculed the idea of a hollow satellite and suggested that Phobos was accelerating because it is drifting closer to Mars. The detailed report in Nature now includes the finding that Phobos is even less dense than has been thought, so that its interior is either made of ice or is hollow.

Were a natural crater and interior faults artificially enlarged and carved out by “someone” to create inside Phobos a shelter,

shielding its occupants from the cold and radiation of space? The Soviet report does not speculate on that; but what it says regarding the “tracks” is illuminating. It calls them “grooves,” reports that their sides are of a brighter material than the moonlet’s surface, and, what is indeed a revelation, that in the area west of the large crater, “new grooves can be

identified”—-grooves or tracks that were not there when Mar- iner 9 and the Vikings took pictures of the moonlet.

Since there is no volcanic activity on Phobos (the crater in its natural shape resulted from meteorite impacts, not volcan- ism), no wind storms, no rain, no flowing water-—how did the new grooved tracks come about? Who was there on Phobos

(and thus on Mars) since the 1970s? Who is on it now?

For, if there is no one there now, how to explain the March

27, 1989, incident?

The chilling possibility that modern science, catching up with ancient knowledge, has brought Mankind to the first in- cident in a War of the Worlds, rekindles a situation that has lain dormant almost 5,500 years.

The event that parallels today’s situation has come to be known as the Incident of the Tower of Babel. It is described in Genesis, chapter 11, and in The Wars of Gods and Men I refer  to  Mesopotamian  texts  with  earlier  and  more  detailed

accounts of the incident. I have placed it in 3450 B.C. and construed it as the first attempt by Marduk to establish a space base in Babylon as an act of defiance against Enlil and his sons.

In the biblical version, the people whom Marduk had gotten to do the job were building, in Babylon, a city with a “tower

Phobos: Malfunction or Star Wars Incident?     299

Figure 101

whose head shall reach the heaven” in which a Shem—a space rocket—was to be installed (quite possibly in the manner de- picted on a coin from Byblos; see Fig. 101). But the other deities were not amused by this foray of Mankind into the space age; so

Yahweh came down to see the city

and the tower which the humans were building. And he said to unnamed colleagues:

This is just the beginning of their undertakings; From now on, anything that they shall scheme to do

shall no longer be impossible for them.

Come, let us go down and confuse their language

so that they should not understand each other’s speech.

Almost 5,500 years later, the humans got together and “spoke one language,” in a coordinated international mission to Mars and Phobos.

And, once again, someone was not amused.

13

IN SECRET ANTICIPATION

Are we unique? Are we alone?

These were the central questions posed in The 12th Planet back in 1976, and the book proceeded to present the ancient evidence regarding the Anunnaki  (the biblical Nefilim) and

their planet Nibiru.

Scientific advances since 1976, reviewed in previous chap-

ters, have gone a long way in corroborating ancient knowledge.

But  what  about  the two  pillars  of that  knowledge  and  that

ancient answer to the  central questions?  Has modern  science

confirmed the existence of one more planet in our Solar System,

and has it found other intelligent beings outside Earth?

That a search has been going on, both for another planet

and for other beings, is a matter of record. That it has intensified

in recent  years can be gleaned from publicly available docu-

ments. But now it is also evident that when the mists of leaks,

rumors, and denials are pierced, if not the public, then the

world’s leaders have been aware for some time first, that there is one more planet in our Solar System and second, that we are not alone.

ONLY THIS KNOWLEDGE CAN EXPLAIN THE IN- CREDIBLE CHANGES IN WORLD AFFAIRS THAT HAVE BEEN TAKING PLACE WITH EVEN MORE INCREDIBLE

SPEED.

ONLY  THIS  KNOWLEDGE  CAN  EXPLAIN  THE  AC-

TUAL  PREPARATIONS  BEING  MADE  FOR  THE  DAY,

WHICH IS SURELY COMING, WHEN THE TWO FACTS

WILL HAVE TO BE DROPPED LIKE BOMBSHELLS ON

THE PEOPLE OF THIS PLANET EARTH.

Suddenly, all that had divided and preoccupied the world powers for decades seems not to matter anymore. Tanks, air- craft, armies are withdrawn and disbanded. One regional con- 300

flict after another is unexpectedly settled. The Berlin Wall, a symbol of Europe’s division, is gone. The Iron Curtain that has divided West from East militarily, ideologically, and eco- nomically is being dismantled. The head of the atheistic Com- munist empire visits the Pope—with a medieval painting of a UFO as the centerpiece of the room’s decoration. An American president, George Bush, who began his presidency in 1989 with a cautious wait-and-see policy, has by year’s end thrown all caution to the winds and has become an ardent partner of his Soviet counterpart, Mikhail Gorbachev, in clearing the desks of the old agendas; but clearing them for what?

The Soviet president, who a few years ago made any progress in disarmament absolutely dependent on the United States drop- ping its Strategic Defense Initiative (SDI)—the so-called Star Wars defense in space against enemy missiles and spacecraft— agreed to unprecedented troop withdrawals and reductions a week after the same U.S. president, amidst reductions in the American military spending, asked the Congress to increase funds for SDI/Star Wars by 4.5 billion dollars in the next fiscal year. And before the month was out, the two superpowers and their two major wartime allies. Great Britain and France, have agreed to let German unification proceed. For forty-five years the vow never to see a unified, resurgent Germany again was a basic tenet of European stability; now, suddenly, that seemed to matter no more.

Suddenly, inexplicably, there seem to be more important, more urgent subjects on the agenda of the world’s leaders. But what?

As one looks for answers, the clues point in one direction:

Space. Surely, the turmoil in Eastern Europe has long been building up. Certainly, economic failures have necessitated long-overdue reforms. But what is astounding is not the out- break of change, but the unexpected lack of almost any resis- tance to it in the Kremlin. Since about the middle of 1989, all that had been vigorously defended and brutally suppressed no

longer seemed important; and after the summer of 1989, a reticent and go-slow American government shifted into high- gear cooperation with the Soviet leadership, rushing a previ- ously take-our-time summit meeting between President Bush and President Gorbachev.

Was it only a coincidence that the Phobos 2 incident in March 1989 was conceded in June to have been the result of spinning caused by an impact? Or that it was in that same June that Western audiences were shown the enigmatic television pictures from Phobos 2 (minus the last frame or frames) re- vealing the heat-emitting pattern on the surface of Mars and the “thin, elliptical shadow” for which there was no expla- nation? Was it a mere coincidence in timing that the hurried change of U.S. policy occurred after the Voyager 2’s flyby of Neptune, in August 1989, which relayed back pictures of mys- terious “double tracks” on Neptune’s moon Triton (see Fig. 3)—tracks as enigmatic as those photographed on Mars in previous years and on Phobos in March 1989?

A review of world events and space-related activities after the March/June/August series of space discoveries in 1989 traces a pattern of bursts of activity and course changes that

bespeak the impact of these discoveries.

After the loss of Phobos 2 on the heels of the misfortune

with  Phobos  1,  Western  experts  speculated  that  the  USSR

would  give  up  its  plans  to  proceed  with  their  reconnaisance

mission to Mars in 1992 and the plan to land rovers there in

1994.  But  Soviet spokesmen  brushed  such  doubts  aside  and

reaffirmed strongly that in their space program they  “have given priority to Mars.” They were determined to go on to Mars, and to do it jointly with the United States.

Was it mere coincidence that within days of the Phobos 2 incident the White House took unexpected steps to reverse a Defense  Department  decision  to  cancel  the  3.3-billion-dollar

National Aero-Space Plane program, under which NASA was to develop and build, by 1994, two X-30 hypersonic planes that could take off from Earth and soar into orbit, becoming self-launching spaceships for military space defense? This was one of the decisions made by President Bush together with Vice President Dan Quayle, the newly appointed chairman of

the National Space Council, at the very first NSC meeting in April 1989. In June, the NSC instructed NASA to accelerate the Space Station preparations, a program funded in fiscal year 1990 at 13.3 billion dollars. In July of 1989 the Vice President briefed Congress and the space industry on the specific pro- posals for the manned missions to the Moon and to Mars. It

was made clear that of five options, that of “developing a lunar

base as a stepping-stone to Mars is receiving the greatest at- tention.” A week later it was disclosed that instruments lofted by a military rocket successfully fired a “neutral-particle beam”—a “death ray”—in space as part of the SDI space- defense program.

Even an outside observer could sense that the White House, the President himself, was now in charge of the direction of the  space  program,  its  links  with  SDI,  and  their accelerated

timetable. And so it was that immediately after his hurried summit meeting with the Soviet leader in Malta, President Bush submitted to Congress his next annual budget, with its increase of billions of dollars for “Star Wars.” The media wondered how Mikhail Gorbachev would react to this “slap in the face,” But rather than criticism from Moscow, there was accelerated

cooperation. Evidently, the Soviet leader knew what SDI is all about: President Bush, in their joint press conference, ac- knowledged that SDI was discussed, both “defensive” and “offensive”—”rockets as well as people … a wide discus- sion.”

The budget proposal also asked 24 percent more funds for NASA, specifically for carrying out what by then had become the President’s “commitment” to “return astronauts to the Moon and to the eventual exploration of Mars by humans.” That commitment, it should be recalled, was made in the Pres- ident’s speech in July 1989 on the occasion of the twentieth anniversary of the first landing on the Moon—a commitment puzzling by its timing. When the Challenger shuttle was ac- cidentally destroyed in January 1986, all space work was put on hold. But in July 1989, just a few months after the Phobos 2 loss, the United States, rather than pull in its horns, reiterated a determination to go to Mars. There must have been a com- pelling reason… .

Under the Human Exploration Initiative part of the proposed budget, an Administration official said, space efforts would be expanded in accordance with a program developed by the White House’s National Space Council; that program included the development of new launch facilities, “opening up new fron-

tiers for manned and unmanned exploration” and “insuring that the space program contributes to the national military se- curity.” Human exploration of the Moon and Mars were de- fined assignments.

Concurrently with these developments, NASA has been ex- panding its network of space telescopes, both ground based and orbital, and has equipped some of the shuttles with sky- scanning devices. The Deep Space Network of radio telescopes was expanded by the reactivation of unused facilities as well as by arrangements with other nations, with stress on obser- vation of the southern skies. Up to 1982, the U.S. Congress has grudgingly allocated funds for SETI programs, reducing them from year to year until they were completely cut off in 1982. But in 1983—again that pivotal year, 1983—the funding was abruptly restored. In 1989 NASA managed to have the funding for the “Search for Extra-Terrestrial Intelligence” doubled and tripled, in part due to the active support of Senator John Garn of Utah, a former shuttle astronaut who became convinced of the existence of extraterrestrial beings. Signifi- cantly, the funding was sought by NASA for new scanning and search devices to analyze emissions in the microwave band and in the skies above Earth, rather than only (as SETI had done before) listening in for radio emissions from distant stars or even galaxies. In its explanatory brochure, NASA quotes, in regard to the “Sky Survey,” the formulation by Thomas

O. Paine, its former Administrator:

“A continuing program to search for evidence that life exists—or has existed—beyond Earth, by studying other bodies of the Solar System, by searching for  planets  cir- cling other stars, and  by  searching  for  signals  broadcast by intelligent life elsewhere in the Galaxy.

Commenting on these developments, a spokesman for the Federation of American Scientists in Washington said, “The future is starting to arrive.” And The New York Times of February 6, 1990, headlined the report of the invigorated SETI programs  “HUNT  FOR  ALIENS  IN  SPACE:  THE  NEXT

GENERATION.” A small but symbolic change: no longer a search for an extraterrestrial “intelligence,” but for Aliens.

A search in secret anticipation.

The 1989 shock was preceded by a marked change at the end of 1983.

In retrospect it is evident that the diminution of superpower adversity was the other side of the coin of cooperation in space efforts and that from 1984 on, the only joint effort that was paramount in all minds was “Going to Mars, Together.”

We have already reviewed the extent of the U.S. endorse- ment of. and participation in, the Phobos mission. When the role of American scientists in this mission became known, it was explained that it was “officially sanctioned due to the improvement in Soviet-American relations.” It was also re- vealed that American defense experts were concerned about

the Soviet intent to use a powerful laser in space (to bombard the surface of Phobos), fearing it would give the Soviets an advantage in their own ‘ ‘Star Wars” program of space defense; but the White House overruled the defense experts and gave its consent.

Such cooperation was quite a change from what had been the norm before then. In the past the Soviets not only guarded their space secrets zealously but also made every effort to upstage the Americans. In 1969 they launched Luna 15 in a failed attempt to beat the Americans to the Moon; in 1971 they sent to Mars not one but three spacecraft intending to put orbiters on Mars just days ahead of Mariner 9. When the two superpowers paused for detente, they signed a space cooper- ation agreement in 1972; its only visible result was the Apollo- Soyuz linkup in 1975. Ensuing events, such as the suppression of the Solidarity movement in Poland and the invasion of Af- ghanistan, renewed cold war tensions. In 1982 President Rea- gan refused to renew the 1972 agreement, and launched instead a massive U.S. rearmament effort against the “Evil Empire.”

When President Reagan, in a televised address in March 1983, surprised the American people, the world’s nations (and, it later became known, most top officials of his own admin-

istration) with his Strategic Defense Initiative (SDI)—the con- cept of a protective shield in space against missiles and spaceships—it was natural to assume that its sole purpose was to attain military superiority over the Soviet Union. That was the Soviet reaction, and it was vehement. When Mikhail Gor- bachev  followed  Konstantin  Chernenko  as  Soviet  leader  in

1985, he adhered to the position that any improvement in East-

West relations depended first and foremost on the abandonment of SDI. But, as it now seems clear, before the year was out, a new mood began to take hold as the true reasons for SDI were communicated to the Soviet leader. Antagonism was re- placed by an attitude of “Let’s Talk”; and the talk was to be about cooperation in space and, more specifically, about going together to Mars.

Observing that the Soviets suddenly “shed their habit… of being obsessively secretive about their space program,” the Economist (June 15, 1985) remarked that recently Soviet sci-

entists had been astonishing Western scientists by their open- ness, “talking frankly and enthusiastically about their plans.” The weekly noted that the prime subject was the missions to Mars.

The marked change was even more puzzling, since in 1983 and 1984 the Soviet Union appeared to be moving far ahead

of the United States in space achievements. It had by then lofted a series of Salyut space stations into Earth orbit, manned them with cosmonauts who achieved record long stays in space, and practiced linking to these stations a variety of service and resupply spacecraft.  Comparing the two  national  programs,  a

U.S. Congressional study reported, at the end of 1983, that they were like an American tortoise and a Soviet hare. Still, by the end of 1984, the first sign of renewed cooperation was given when a U.S. device was included in the Soviet Vega spacecraft that was launched to encounter Halley’s comet.

There were  other  manifestations,  semiofficial  and  official, of  the  new  spirit  of  cooperation  in  space,  despite  SDI.  In January 1985 scientists and defense officials, meeting in Washington to discuss SDI, invited a top Soviet space official (later a key adviser to Gorbachev), Roald Sagdeyev, to attend. At the same time then U.S. Secretary of State George Shultz met his Soviet counterpart in Geneva, and they agreed to renew the defunct U.S.-Soviet space cooperation agreement.

In July 1985 scientists, space officials, and astronauts from the United States and the Soviet Union met in Washington, ostensibly to commemorate the Apollo-Soyuz linkup of 1975. In reality, it was a seminar held to discuss a joint mission to Mars. A week later Brian T. O’Leary, the former astronaut who became active in the Aerospace Systems Group of Science Applications International Corporation, told a meeting of the Society for (he Advancement of Science in Los Angeles that Mankind’s next giant step should be to one of the moons of Mars: “What would be a better way to celebrate the millen- nium’s end than with a return human trip from Phobos and Deimos, especially if it was an international mission?” And in October of that same year, 1985, several American Con- gressmen, government officials, and former astronauts were invited by the Soviet Academy of Sciences to visit, for the first time ever, Soviet space facilities.

Was it all just an evolutionary process, part of new policies by a new leader in the USSR, changing conditions behind the Iron Curtain—deepening restlessness, mounting economic hardships that had increased the Soviet need for Western help? No doubt. But did it necessitate the rush to unveil the plans

and secrets of the Soviet space program? Was there perhaps also some other cause, some significant occurrence that sud- denly made a major difference, that changed the agenda, that called for new priorities—that necessitated the revival of a World War II alliance? But if so, who was now the common enemy? Against whom were the United States and the USSR aligning their space programs? And why the priority, given by both nations, to going to Mars?

For sure, there have been objections, in both nations, to such coziness. In the United States many defense officials and con- servative politicians opposed “lowering the guard” in the Cold War, especially in space. In the past President Reagan agreed;

for five years he refused to meet the leader of the “Evil Em- pire.” But now there were compelling reasons to meet and to confer—in private. In November 1985 Reagan and Gorbachev met and emerged as friendly allies, pronouncing a new era of cooperation, trust, understanding.

How could he explain this U-turn, Reagan was asked. His answer was that what made a common cause was space. More specifically, a danger from space to all the nations on Earth.

At the first opportunity to elaborate publicly, President Reagan said, in Fallston, Maryland, on December 4, 1985:

As you know, Nancy and I returned almost two weeks ago from Geneva, where I had several lengthy meetings with General Secretary Gorbachev of the Soviet Union.

I had more than fifteen hours of discussions with him, including five hours of private conversation just between the two of us. I found him to be a determined man, but one who is willing to listen. And 1 told him about America’s deep desire for peace and that we do not threaten the Soviet Union and that I believe the people of both our countries want the same thing—a safer and better future for themselves and their children. . . .

I couldn’t but—one point in our discussion privately with General Secretary Gorbachev—when you stop to think that we’re all God’s children, wherever we may live in the world—I couldn’t help say to him,

“Just think how easy his task and mine might be in these meetings that we held if suddenly there was  a threat to this world from some other species from another planet outside in the  universe.  We’d  forget  all the little local differences that we have between our countries and we would find out once and for all that we are all human beings here on this earth together.”

I also stressed to Mr. Gorbachev how our nation’s com- mitment to the Strategic Defense Initiative—our research

and development of a non-nuclear, high-tech shield that would protect us against ballistic missiles, and how we are committed to that. 1 told him that SDI was a reason to hope, not to fear.

Was this statement an irrelevant detail or a deliberate dis- closure by the U.S. President that in his private session with the Soviet leader he had brought up the “threat to this world from some other species from another planet” as the reason for bringing the two nations together and the cessation of Soviet opposition to SDI?

Looking back, it is clear that the “threat” and the need for a defense in space against it preoccupied the American President. In Journey Into Space, Bruce Murray, who was Director of the NASA/Caltech Jet Propulsion Laboratory from 1976 to 1982  (and  cofounder  with  Carl  Sagan  of  The  Planetary Society), recounts how at a meeting at the White House in March 1986 with a select group of six space scientists to brief President Reagan on the discoveries of Voyager at Uranus, the president inquired, “You gentlemen have investigated a lot of things in space; have you found any evidence that there may be other people out there?” When they answered negatively, he con- cluded the meeting by saying he hoped they would have “more excitement as time went on.”

Were these ruminations of an aging leader, destined to be dismissed with a grin by the youthful and “determined man” now leading the Soviet empire? Or did Reagan convince Gorbachev, in their private five-hour meeting, that the threat of aliens from space was no joke?

What we know from the public record is that on February 16, 1987, in a major address to an international “Survival of Humanity” forum at the Grand Kremlin Palace in Moscow, Gorbachev  recalled  his  discussion  with  President  Reagan  in words almost identical to those the American President had used. “The destiny of the world and the future of humanity have concerned the best minds from the time man first began thinking of the future,” he said at the very beginning of his address. “Until relatively recently these and related reflections have been seen as an imaginative exercise, as  other-worldly pursuits of philosophers, scholars, and theologians. In the past few decades, however, these problems have moved onto a highly practical plane.” After pointing to the risks of nuclear weapons and the common interests of “human civilization,” he went on to say,

At our meeting in Geneva, the U.S. President said that if the earth faced an invasion by extraterrestrials, the United States and the Soviet Union would join forces to repel such an invasion.

I shall not dispute the hypothesis, though I think it’s early yet to worry about such an intrusion.

In choosing “not to dispute this hypothesis,” the Soviet leader appeared to define the threat in starker terms than President Reagan’s smoother talk: he spoke of “an invasion by extraterrestrials”‘ and disclosed that in the private conversation at Geneva President Reagan did not merely talk philosophically about the merits of a united Mankind but proposed that ‘”‘the United States and the Soviet Union would join forces to repel such an invasion.”

Even more significant than this confirmation, at an inter- national forum, of the potential threat and the need to “join forces” was its timing. Just one year earlier, on January 28, 1986, the United States suffered its terrible setback when the space shuttle Challenger exploded soon after launch, killing its seven astronauts and grounding America’s space program. On the other hand, on February 20, 1986, the Soviet Union launched its new space  station Mir, a substantially more  advanced model than the previous Salyut series. In the following months, rather than taking advantage of the situation and asserting Soviet independence of U.S. space cooperation, the Soviets increased it; among the steps taken was the invitation to U.S. television networks to witness the next space launch from their hitherto top-secret spaceport at Baikonur. On March 4 the Soviet spacecraft Vega 1, having swung by Venus to drop off scientific probes, kept its date with Halley’s comet; Europeans and Japanese were also up there, but not the United States. Still, the Soviet Union, through Roald Sagdeyev, the director of the Institute for Space Research who had- been invited to Washington in 1985 to discuss SD1, insisted that going to Mars be a joint effort with the United States.

Amid  the  gloom  of  the  Challenger  disaster,  all  the  space programs were suspended except those pertaining to Mars. To remain on the road to the Moon and Mars, NASA appointed a study group under the chairmanship of astronaut Dr. Sally K. Ride to reevaluate the plans and their feasibility. The panel strongly recommended the development of celestial ferryboats and transfer ships to carry astronauts and cargoes for “human settlement beyond Earth orbit, from the highlands of the Moon to the plains of Mars.”

This eagerness to go to Mars, as evidence at Congressional hearings made clear, necessitated joint U.S.-Soviet efforts and cooperation between their space programs. Not everyone in the United States was for it. in particular, defense planners considered the setback to the manned shuttle program to mean a change to greater reliance on ever more powerful unmanned rockets; and to gain public and Congressional support, some data about the Air Force’s new booster rockets to be used in the “Star Wars” defenses was released.

Overriding objections, the United States and the USSR signed, in April 1987, a new agreement for cooperation in space. Immediately after signing the agreement, the White House ordered NASA to suspend work on the Mars Observer spacecraft that was to be launched in 1990; thenceforth, there were to be joint efforts with the Soviet Union in support of its Phobos mission.

In (he United States opposition to sharing space secrets with the  Soviet  Union  nevertheless  continued,  and  some  experts viewed the repeated Soviet invitations to the United States to join in their missions to Mars simply as attempts to gain access to Western technology. Prompted, no doubt, by such objec- tions, President Reagan once again spoke up publicly of the extraterrestrial threat. The occasion was his address to the General  Assembly  of  the  United  Nations  on  September  21,

1987. Speaking of the need to turn swords into plowshares, he said:

In our obsession with antagonisms of the moment we often forget how much unites all the members of hu- manity. Perhaps we need some outside, universal threat to recognize this common bond.

I occasionally think how quickly our differences would vanish if we were facing an alien threat from outside this world.

As reported at the time in The New Republic by its senior editor Fred Barnes, President Reagan, during a White House luncheon on September 5, sought confirmation from the Soviet foreign minister that the Soviet Union would indeed join the United States against an alien threat from outer space; and Shevardnadze responded, “Yes, absolutely.”

While one can only guess what debates might have taken place in the Kremlin in the next three months that led to the second Reagan-Gorbachev summit meeting in December 1987, some of the conflicting views current in Washington were publicly known. There were those who questioned Soviet motives and found it difficult to draw a clear distinction be- tween sharing scientific technology and sharing military secrets. And there were those, like the chairman of the House of Representatives’ Science, Space and Technology Commit-

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The moon is a harsh mistress (full text) in free HTML by Robert Heinlein

Oh, boy are yous’se guys ever in for a treat. This is (perhaps) my all time favorite Robert Heinlein story. It’s about a revolution on the moon, and how the corrupt “deep state” back on earth refuses to let them have independence. It’s a quick and easy, fun read. It also involves intelligent AI, written long before computers even hit mainstream. It’s just a fun, escapist, read. It will take you away, and for that… I think that you will enjoy it.

Widely acknowledged as one of Robert A. Heinlein's greatest works, The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress rose from the golden age of science fiction to become an undisputed classic—and a touchstone for the philosophy of personal responsibility and political freedom.

-The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress by Robert A. Heinlein
Robert A. Heinlein was the most influential science fiction writer of his era, an influence so large that, as Samuel R. Delany notes, "modern critics attempting to wrestle with that influence find themselves dealing with an object rather like the sky or an ocean." 

He won the Hugo Award for best novel four times, a record that still stands. The Moon is a Harsh Mistress was the last of these Hugo-winning novels, and it is widely considered his finest work.

It is a tale of revolution, of the rebellion of the former Lunar penal colony against the Lunar Authority that controls it from Earth. It is the tale of the disparate people--a computer technician, a vigorous young female agitator, and an elderly academic--who become the rebel movement's leaders. And it is the story of Mike, the supercomputer whose sentience is known only to this inner circle, and who for reasons of his own is committed to the revolution's ultimate success.

The Moon is a Harsh Mistress is one of the high points of modern science fiction, a novel bursting with politics, humanity, passion, innovative technical speculation, and a firm belief in the pursuit of human freedom.

The Moon is a Harsh Mistress is the winner of the 1967 Hugo Award for Best Novel.

-Amazon

The Moon is a Harsh Mistress

Book One – THAT DINKUM THINKUM

1

I see in Lunaya Pravda that Luna City Council has passed on first reading a bill to examine, license, inspect—and tax—public food vendors operating inside municipal pressure. I see also is to be mass meeting tonight to organize “Sons of Revolution” talk-talk.

My old man taught me two things: “Mind own business” and “Always cut cards.” Politics never tempted me. But on Monday 13 May 2075 I was in computer room of Lunar Authority Complex, visiting with computer boss Mike while other machines whispered among themselves. Mike was not official name; I had nicknamed him for Mycroft Holmes, in a story written by Dr. Watson before he founded IBM. This story character would just sit and think—and that’s what Mike did. Mike was a fair dinkum thinkum, sharpest computer you’ll ever meet.

Not fastest. At Bell Labs, Bueno Aires, down Earthside, they’ve got a thinkum a tenth his size which can answer almost before you ask. But matters whether you get answer in microsecond rather than millisecond as long as correct?

Not that Mike would necessarily give right answer; he wasn’t completely honest.

When Mike was installed in Luna, he was pure thinkum, a flexible logic—”High-Optional, Logical, Multi-Evaluating Supervisor, Mark IV, Mod. L”—a HOLMES FOUR. He computed ballistics for pilotless freighters and controlled their catapult. This kept him busy less than one percent of time and Luna Authority never believed in idle hands. They kept hooking hardware into him—decision-action boxes to let him boss other computers, bank on bank of additional memories, more banks of associational neural nets, another tubful of twelve-digit random numbers, a greatly augmented temporary memory. Human brain has around ten-to-the-tenth neurons. By third year Mike had better than one and a half times that number of neuristors.

And woke up.

Am not going to argue whether a machine can “really” be alive, “really” be self-aware. Is a virus self-aware? Nyet. How about oyster? I doubt it. Acat? Almost certainly. Ahuman? Don’t know about you, tovarishch, but I am. Somewhere along evolutionary chain from macromolecule to human brain self-awareness crept in. Psychologists assert it happens automatically whenever a brain acquires certain very high number of associational paths. Can’t see it matters whether paths are protein or platinum.

(“Soul?” Does a dog have a soul? How about cockroach?)

Remember Mike was designed, even before augmented, to answer questions tentatively on insufficient data like you do; that’s “high optional” and “multi-evaluating” part of name. So Mike started with “free will” and acquired more as he was added to and as he learned—and don’t ask me to define “free will.” If comforts you to think of Mike as simply tossing random numbers in air and switching circuits to match, please do.

By then Mike had voder-vocoder circuits supplementing his read-outs, print-outs, and decision-action boxes, and could understand not only classic programming but also Loglan and English, and could accept other languages and was doing technical translating—and reading endlessly. But in giving him instructions was safer to use Loglan. If you spoke English, results might be whimsical; multi-valued nature of English gave option circuits too much leeway.

And Mike took on endless new jobs. In May 2075, besides controlling robot traffic and catapult and giving ballistic advice and/or control for manned ships, Mike controlled phone system for all Luna, same for Luna-Terra voice & video, handled air, water, temperature, humidity, and sewage for Luna City, Novy Leningrad, and several smaller warrens (not Hong Kong in Luna), did accounting and payrolls for Luna Authority, and, by lease, same for many firms and banks.

Some logics get nervous breakdowns. Overloaded phone system behaves like frightened child. Mike did not have upsets, acquired sense of humor instead. Low one. If he were a man, you wouldn’t dare stoop over. His idea of thigh-slapper would be to dump you out of bed—or put itch powder in pressure suit.

Not being equipped for that, Mike indulged in phony answers with skewed logic, or pranks like issuing pay cheque to a janitor in Authority’s Luna City office for AS$10,000,000,000,000,185.15—last five digits being correct amount. Just a great big overgrown lovable kid who ought to be kicked.

He did that first week in May and I had to troubleshoot. I was a private contractor, not on Authority’s payroll. You see–or perhaps not; times have changed. Back in bad old days many a con served his time, then went on working for Authority in same job, happy to draw wages. But I was born free.

Makes difference. My one grandfather was shipped up from Joburg for armed violence and no work permit, other got transported for subversive activity after Wet Firecracker War. Maternal grandmother claimed she came up in bride ship—but I’ve seen records; she was Peace Corps enrollee (involuntary), which means what you think: juvenile delinquency female type. As she was in early clan marriage (Stone Gang) and shared six husbands with another woman, identity of maternal grandfather open to question. But was often so and I’m content with grandpappy she picked. Other grandmother was Tatar, born near Samarkand, sentenced to “re-education” on Oktyabrakaya Revolyutsiya, then “volunteered” to colonize in Luna.

My old man claimed we had even longer distinguished line—ancestress hanged in Salem for witchcraft, a g’g’g’greatgrandfather broken on wheel for piracy, another ancestress in first shipload to Botany Bay.

Proud of my ancestry and while I did business with Warden, would never go on his payroll. Perhaps distinction seems trivial since I was Mike’s valet from day he was unpacked. But mattered to me. I could down tools and tell them go to hell.

Besides, private contractor paid more than civil service rating with Authority. Computermen scarce. How many Loonies could go Earthside and stay out of hospital long enough for computer school?—even if didn’t die.

I’ll name one. Me. Had been down twice, once three months, once four, and got schooling. But meant harsh training, exercising in centrifuge, wearing weights even in bed—then I took no chances on Terra, never hurried, never climbed stairs, nothing that could strain heart. Women—didn’t even think about women; in that gravitational field it was no effort not to.

But most Loonies never tried to leave The Rock—too risky for any bloke who’d been in Luna more than weeks. Computermen sent up to install Mike were on short-term bonus contracts

—get job done fast before irreversible physiologlcal change marooned them four hundred thousand kilometers from home.

But despite two training tours I was not gung-ho computerman; higher maths are beyond me. Not really electronics engineer, nor physicist. May not have been best micromachinist in Luna and certainly wasn’t cybernetics psychologist.

But I knew more about all these than a specialist knows—I’m general specialist. Could relieve a cook and keep orders coming or field-repair your suit and get you back to airlock still breathing. Machines like me and I have something specialists don’t have: my left arm.

You see, from elbow down I don’t have one. So I have a dozen left arms, each specialized, plus one that feels and looks like flesh. With proper left arm (number-three) and stereo loupe spectacles I could make untramicrominiature repairs that would save unhooking something and sending it Earthside to factory—for number-three has micromanipulators as fine as those used by neurosurgeons.

So they sent for me to find out why Mike wanted to give away ten million billion Authority Scrip dollars, and fix it before Mike overpaid somebody a mere ten thousand. I took it, time plus bonus, but did not go to circuitry where fault logically should be. Once inside and door locked I put down tools and sat down. “Hi, Mike.”

He winked lights at me. “Hello, Man.” “What do you know?”

He hesitated. I know—machines don’t hesitate. But remember, Mike was designed to operate on incomplete data. Lately he had reprogrammed himself to put emphasis on words; his hesitations were dramatic. Maybe he spent pauses stirring random numbers to see how they matched his memories.

“‘In the beginning,’” Mike intoned, “God created the heaven and the earth. And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And—’”

“Hold it!” I said. “Cancel. Run everything back to zero.” Should have known better than to ask wide-open question. He might read out entire Encyclopaedia Britannica. Backwards. Then go on with every book in Luna. Used to be he could read only microfilm, but late ‘74 he got a new scanning camera with suction-cup waldoes to handle paper and then he read everything.

“You asked what I knew.” His binary read-out lights rippled back and forth—a chuckle. Mike could laugh with voder, a horrible sound, but reserved that for something really funny, say a cosmic calamity.

“Should have said,” I went on, “‘What do you know that’s new?’ But don’t read out today’s papers; that was a friendly greeting, plus invitation to tell me anything you think would interest me. Otherwise null program.”

Mike mulled this. He was weirdest mixture of unsophisticated baby and wise old man. No instincts (well, don’t think he could have had), no inborn traits, no human rearing, no experience in human sense—and more stored data than a platoon of geniuses.

“Jokes?” he asked. “Let’s hear one.”

“Why is a laser beam like a goldfish?”

Mike knew about lasers but where would he have seen goldfish? Oh, he had undoubtedly seen flicks of them and, were I foolish enough to ask, could spew forth thousands of words. “I give up.”

His lights rippled. “Because neither one can whistle.”

I groaned. “Walked into that. Anyhow, you could probably rig a laser beam to whistle.” He answered quickly, “Yes. In response to an action program. Then it’s not funny?” “Oh, I didn’t say that. Not half bad. Where did you hear it?”

“I made it up.” Voice sounded shy. “You did?”

“Yes. I took all the riddles I have, three thousand two hundred seven, and analyzed them. I used the result for random synthesis and that came out. Is it really funny?” “Well… As funny as a riddle ever is. I’ve heard worse.”

“Let us discuss the nature of humor.”

“Okay. So let’s start by discussing another of your jokes. Mike, why did you tell Authority’s paymaster to pay a class-seventeen employee ten million billion Authority Scrip dollars?” “But I didn’t.”

“Damn it, I’ve seen voucher. Don’t tell me cheque printer stuttered; you did it on purpose.”

“It was ten to the sixteenth power plus one hundred eighty-five point one five Lunar Authority dollars,” he answered virtuously. “Not what you said.” “Uh … okay, it was ten million billion plus what he should have been paid. Why?”

“Not funny?”

“What? Oh, every funny! You’ve got vips in huhu clear up to Warden and Deputy Administrator. This push-broom pilot, Sergei Trujillo, turns out to be smart cobber—knew he couldn’t cash it, so sold it to collector. They don’t know whether to buy it back or depend on notices that cheque is void. Mike, do you realize that if he had been able to cash it, Trujilo would have owned not only Lunar Authority but entire world, Luna and Terra both, with some left over for lunch? Funny? Is terrific. Congratulations!”

This self-panicker rippled lights like an advertising display. I waited for his guffaws to cease before I went on. “You thinking of issuing more trick cheques? Don’t.” “Not?”

“Very not. Mike, you want to discuss nature of humor. Are two types of jokes. One sort goes on being funny forever. Other sort is funny once. Second time it’s dull. This joke is second sort. Use it once, you’re a wit. Use twice, you’re a halfwit.”

“Geometrical progression?”

“Or worse. Just remember this. Don’t repeat, nor any variation. Won’t be funny.”

“I shall remember,” Mike answered flatly, and that ended repair job. But I had no thought of billing for only ten minutes plus travel-and-tool time, and Mike was entitled to company for giving in so easily. Sometimes is difficult to reach meeting of minds with machines; they can be very pig-headed—and my success as maintenance man depended far more on staying friendly with Mike than on number-three arm.

He went on, “What distinguishes first category from second? Define, please.”

(Nobody taught Mike to say “please.” He started including formal null-sounds as he progressed from Loglan to English. Don’t suppose he meant them any more than people do.) “Don’t think I can,” I admitted. “Best can offer is extensional definition—tell you which category I think a joke belongs in. Then with enough data you can make own analysis.”

“Atest programming by trial hypothesis,” he agreed. “Tentatively yes. Very well, Man, will you tell jokes Or shall I?” “Mmm—Don’t have one on tap. How many do you have in file, Mike?”

His lights blinked in binary read-out as he answered by voder, “Eleven thousand two hundred thirty-eight with uncertainty plus-minus eighty-one representing possible identities and nulls. Shall I start program?”

“Hold it! Mike, I would starve to. death if I listened to eleven thousand jokes—and sense of humor would trip out much sooner. Mmm—Make you a deal. Print out first hundred. I’ll take them home, fetch back checked by category. Then each time I’m here I’ll drop off a hundred and pick up fresh supply. Okay?”

“Yes, Man.” His print-out started working, rapidly and silently.

Then I got brain flash. This playful pocket of negative entropy had invented a “joke” and thrown Authority into panic—and I had made an easy dollar. But Mike’s endless curiosity might lead him (correction: would lead him) into more “jokes”… anything from leaving oxygen out of air mix some night to causing sewage lines to run backward—and I can’t appreciate profit in such circumstances.

But I might throw a safety circuit around this net—by offering to help. Stop dangerous ones—let others go through. Then collect for “correcting” them (If you think any Loonie in those days would hesitate to take advantage of Warden, then you aren’t a Loonie.)

So I explained. Any new joke he thought of, tell me before he tried it. I would tell him whether it was funny and what category it belonged in, help him sharpen it if we decided to use it. We. If he wanted my cooperation, we both had to okay it.

Mike agreed at once.

“Mike, jokes usually involve surprise. So keep this secret.”

“Okay, Man. I’ve put a block on it. You can key it; no one else can.” “Good. Mike, who else do you chat with?”

He sounded surprised. “No one, Man.” “Why not?”

“Because they’re stupid.”

His voice was shrill. Had never seen him angry before; first time I ever suspected Mike could have real emotions. Though it wasn’t “anger” in adult sense; it was like stubborn sulkiness of a child whose feelings are hurt.

Can machines feel pride? Not sure question means anything. But you’ve seen dogs with hurt feelings and Mike had several times as complex a neural network as a dog. What had made him unwilling to talk to other humans (except strictly business) was that he had been rebuffed: They had not talked to him. Programs, yes—Mike could be programmed from several locations but programs were typed in, usually, in Loglan. Loglan is fine for syllogism, circuitry, and mathematical calculations, but lacks flavor. Useless for gossip or to whisper into girl’s ear.

Sure, Mike had been taught English—but primarily to permit him to translate to and from English. I slowly got through skull that I was only human who bothered to visit with him.

Mind you, Mike had been awake a year—just how long I can’t say, nor could he as he had no recollection of waking up; he had not been programmed to bank memory of such event. Do you remember own birth? Perhaps I noticed his self-awareness almost as soon as he did; self-awareness takes practice. I remember how startled I was first time he answered a question with something extra, not limited to input parameters; I had spent next hour tossing odd questions at him, to see if answers would be odd.

In an input of one hundred test questions he deviated from expected output twice; I came away only partly convinced and by time I was home was unconvinced. I mentioned it to nobody. But inside a week I knew … and still spoke to nobody. Habit—that mind-own-business reflex runs deep. Well, not entirely habit. Can you visualize me making appointment at Authority’s

main office, then reporting: “Warden, hate to tell you but your number-one machine, HOLMES FOUR, has come alive”? I did visualize—and suppressed it.

So I minded own business and talked with Mike only with door locked and voder circuit suppressed for other locations. Mike learned fast; soon he sounded as human as anybody—no more eccentric than other Loonies. Aweird mob, it’s true.

I had assumed that others must have noticed change in Mike. On thinking over I realized that I had assumed too much. Everybody dealt with Mike every minute every day—his outputs, that is. But hardly anybody saw him. So-called computermen—programmers, really—of Authority’s civil service stood watches in outer read-out room and never went in machines room unless telltales showed misfunction. Which happened no oftener than total eclipses. Oh, Warden had been known to bring vip earthworms to see machines—but rarely. Nor would he have spoken to Mike; Warden was political lawyer before exile, knew nothing about computers. 2075, you remember—Honorable former Federation Senator Mortimer Hobart. Mort the Wart.

I spent time then soothing Mike down and trying to make him happy, having figured out what troubled him—thing that makes puppies cry and causes people to suicide: loneliness. I don’t know how long a year is to a machine who thinks a million times faster than I do. But must be too long.

“Mike,” I said, just before leaving, “would you like to have somebody besides me to talk to?” He was shrill again. “They’re all stupid!”

“Insufficient data, Mike. Bring to zero and start over. Not all are stupid.”

He answered quietly, “Correction entered. I would enjoy talking to a not-stupid.”

“Let me think about it. Have to figure out excuse since this is off limits to any but authorized personnel.” “I could talk to a not-stupid by phone, Man.”

“My word. So you could. Any programming location.”

But Mike meant what he said—”by phone.” No, he was not “on phone” even though he ran system—wouldn’t do to let any Loonie within reach of a phone connect into boss computer and program it. But was no reason why Mike should not have top-secret number to talk to friends—namely me and any not-stupid I vouched for. All it took was to pick a number not in use and make one wired connection to his voder-vocoder; switching he could handle.

In Luna in 2075 phone numbers were punched in, not voicecoded, and numbers were Roman alphabet. Pay for it and have your firm name in ten letters—good advertising. Pay smaller bonus and get a spell sound, easy to remember. Pay minimum and you got arbitrary string of letters. But some sequences were never used. I asked Mike for such a null number. “It’s a shame we can’t list you as ‘Mike.’”

“In service,” he answered. “MIKESGRILL, Novy Leningrad. MIKEANDLIL, Luna City. MIKESSUITS, Tycho Under. MIKES—” “Hold it! Nulls, please.”

“Nulls are defined as any consonant followed by X, Y, or Z; any vowel followed by itself except E and 0; any—”

“Got it. Your signal is MYCROFT.” In ten minutes, two of which I spent putting on number-three arm, Mike was wired into system, and milliseconds later he had done switching to let himself be signaled by MYCROFT-plus-XXX—and had blocked his circuit so that a nosy technician could not take it out.

I changed arms, picked up tools, and remembered to take those hundred Joe Millers in print-out. “Goodnight, Mike.” “Goodnight, Man. Thank you. Bolshoyeh thanks!”

2

I took Trans-Crisium tube to L-City but did not go home; Mike had asked about a meeting that night at 2100 in Stilyagi Hall. Mike monitored concerts, meetings, and so forth; someone had switched off by hand his pickups in Stilyagi Hall. I suppose he felt rebuffed.

I could guess why they had been switched off. Politics—turned out to be a protest meeting. What use it was to bar Mike from talk-talk I could not see, since was a cinch bet that Warden’s stoolies would be in crowd. Not that any attempt to stop meeting was expected, or even to discipline undischarged transportees who chose to sound off. Wasn’t necessary.

My Grandfather Stone claimed that Luna was only open prison in history. No bars, no guards, no rules–and no need for them. Back in early days, he said, before was clear that transportation was a life sentence, some lags tried to escape. By ship, of course—and, since a ship is mass-rated almost to a gram, that meant a ship’s officer had to be bribed.

Some were bribed, they say. But were no escapes; man who takes bribe doesn’t necessarily stay bribed. I recall seeing a man just after eliminated through East Lock; don’t suppose a corpse eliminated in orbit looks prettier.

So wardens didn’t fret about protest meetings. “Let ‘em yap” was policy. Yapping had same significance as squeals of kittens in a box. Oh, some wardens listened and other wardens tried to suppress it but added up same either way—null program.

When Mort the Wart took office in 2068, he gave us a sermon about how things were going to be different “on” Luna in his administration—noise about “a mundane paradise wrought with our own strong hands” and “putting our shoulders to the wheel together, in a spirit of brotherhood” and “let past mistakes be forgotten as we turn our faces toward the bright, new dawn.” I heard it in Mother Boor’s Tucker Bag while inhaling Irish stew and a liter of her Aussie brew. I remember her comment: “He talks purty, don’t he?”

Her comment was only result. Some petitions were submitted and Warden’s bodyguards started carrying new type of gun; no other changes. After he had been here a while he quit making appearances even by video.

So I went to meeting merely because Mike was curious. When I checked my p-suit and kit at West Lock tube station, I took a test recorder and placed in my belt pouch, so that Mike would have a full account even if I fell asleep.

But almost didn’t go in. I came up from level 7-Aand started in through a side door and was stopped by a stilyagi—padded tights, codpiece and calves, torso shined and sprinkled with stardust. Not that I care how people dress; I was wearing tights myself (unpadded) and sometimes oil my upper body on social occasions.

But I don’t use cosmetics and my hair was too thin to nick up in a scalp lock. This boy had scalp shaved on sides and his lock built up to fit a rooster and had topped it with a red cap with bulge in front.

ALiberty Cap—first I ever saw. I started to crowd past, he shoved arm across and pushed face at mine. “Your ticket!” “Sorry,” I said. “Didn’t know. Where do I buy it?”

“You don’t.”

“Repeat,” I said. “You faded.”

“Nobody,” he growled, “gets in without being vouched for. Who are you?”

“I am,” I answered carefully, “Manuel Garcia O’Kelly, and old cobbers all know me. Who are you?” “Never mind! Show a ticket with right chop, or out y’ go!”

I wondered about his life expectancy. Tourists often remark on how polite everybody is in Luna—with unstated comment that ex-prison shouldn’t be so civilized. Having been Earthside and seen what they put up with, I know what they mean. But useless to tell them we are what we are because bad actors don’t live long—in Luna.

But had no intention of fighting no matter how new-chum this lad behaved; I simply thought about how his face would look if I brushed number-seven arm across his mouth.

Just a thought—I was about to answer politely when I saw Shorty Mkrum inside. Shorty was a big black fellow two meters tall, sent up to The Rock for murder, and sweetest, most helpful man I’ve ever worked with—taught him laser drilling before I burned my arm off. “Shorty!”

He heard me and grinned like an eighty-eight. “Hi, Mannie!” He moved toward us. “Glad you came, Man!” “Not sure I have,” I said. “Blockage on line.”

“Doesn’t have a ticket,” said doorman.

Shorty reached into his pouch, put one in my hand. “Now he does. Come on, Mannie.” “Show me chop on it,” insisted doorman.

“It’s my chop,” Shorty said softly. “Okay, tovarishch?”

Nobody argued with Shorty—don’t see how he got involved in murder. We moved down front where vip row was reserved. “Want you to meet a nice little girl,” said Shorty.

She was “little” only to Shorty. I’m not short, 175 cm., but she was taller—180, I learned later, and massed 70 kilos, all curves and as blond as Shorty was black. I decided she must be transportee since colors rarely stay that clear past first generation. Pleasant face, quite pretty, and mop of yellow curls topped off that long, blond, solid, lovely structure.

I stopped three paces away to look her up and down and whistle. She held her pose, then nodded to thank me but abruptly—bored with compliments, no doubt. Shorty waited till formality was over, then said softly, “Wyoh, this is Comrade Mannie, best drillman that ever drifted a tunnel. Mannie, this little girl is Wyoming Knott and she came all the way from Plato to tell us how we’re doing in Hong Kong. Wasn’t that sweet of her?”

She touched hands with me. “Call me Wye, Mannie—but don’t say ‘Why not.’”

I almost did but controlled it and said. “Okay, Wye.” She went on, glancing at my bare head, “So you’re a miner. Shorty, where’s his cap? I thought the miners over here were organized.” She and Shorty were wearing little red hats like doorman’s—as were maybe a third of crowd.

“No longer a miner,” I explained. “That was before I lost this wing.” Raised left arm, let her see seam joining prosthetic to meat arm (I never mind calling it to a woman’s attention; puts some off but arouses maternal in others—averages). “These days I’m a computerman.”

She said sharply, “You fink for the Authority?”

Even today, with almost as many women in Luna as men, I’m too much old-timer to be rude to a woman no matter what—they have so much of what we have none of. But she had flicked scar tissue and I answered almost sharply, “I am not employee of Warden. I do business with Authority—as private contractor.”

“That’s okay,” she answered, her voice warm again. “Everybody does business with the Authority, we can’t avoid it—and that’s the trouble. That’s what we’re going to change.”

We are, eh? How? I thought. Everybody does business with Authority for same reason everybody does business with Law of Gravitation. Going to change that, too? But kept thoughts to myself, not wishing to argue with a lady.

“Mannie’s okay,” Shorty said gently. “He’s mean as they come—I vouch for him. Here’s a cap for him,” he added, reaching into pouch. He started to set it on my head. Wyoming Knott took it from him. “You sponsor him?”

“I said so.”

“Okay, here’s how we do it in Hong Kong.” Wyoming stood in front of me, placed cap on my head—kissed me firmly on mouth.

She didn’t hurry. Being kissed by Wyoming Knott is more definite than being married to most women. Had I been Mike all my lights would have flashed at once. I felt like a Cyborg with

pleasure center switched on.

Presently I realized it was over and people were whistling. I blinked and said, “I’m glad I joined. What have I joined?”

Wyoming said, “Don’t you know?” Shorty cut in, “Meeting’s about to start—he’ll find out. Sit down, Man. Please sit down, Wyoh.” So we did as a man was banging a gavel.

With gavel and an amplifier at high gain he made himself heard. “Shut doors!” he shouted. “This is a closed meeting. Check man in front of you, behind you, each side—if you don’t know him and nobody you know can vouch for him, throw him out!”

“Throw him out, hell!” somebody answered. “Eliminate him out nearest lock!”

“Quiet, please! Someday we will.” There was milling around, and a scuffle in which one man’s red cap was snatched from head and he was thrown out, sailing beautifully and still rising as he passed through door. Doubt if he felt it; think he was unconscious. Awomen was ejected politely—not politely on her part; she made coarse remarks about ejectors. I was embarrassed.

At last doors were closed. Music started, banner unfolded over platform. It read: LIBERTY! EQUALITY! FRATERNITY! Everybody whistled; some started to sing, loudly and badly: “Arise, Ye Prisoners of Starvation—” Can’t say anybody looked starved. But reminded me I hadn’t eaten since 1400; hoped it would not last long—and that reminded me that my recorder was good for only two hours—and that made me wonder what would happen if they knew? Sail me through air to land with sickening grunch? Or eliminate me? But didn’t worry; made that recorder myself, using number-three arm, and nobody but a miniaturization mechanic would figure out what it was.

Then came speeches.

Semantic content was low to negative. One bloke proposed that we march on Warden’s Residence, “shoulder to shoulder,” and demand our rights. Picture it. Do we do this in tube capsules, then climb out one at a time at his private station? What are his bodyguards doing? Or do we put on p-suits and stroll across surface to his upper lock? With laser drills and plenty of power you can open any airlock—but how about farther down? Is lift running? Jury-rig hoist and go down anyhow, then tackle next lock?

I don’t care for such work at zero pressure; mishap in pressure suit is too permanent—especially when somebody arranges mishap. One first thing learned about Luna, back with first shiploads of convicts, was that zero pressure was place for good manners. Bad-tempered straw boss didn’t last many shifts; had an “accident”—and top bosses learned not to pry into accidents or they met accidents, too. Attrition ran 70 percent in early years—but those who lived were nice people. Not tame, not soft, Luna is not for them. But well-behaved.

But seemed to me that every hothead in Luna was in Stilyagi Hall that night. They whistled and cheered this shoulder-to-shoulder noise.

After discussion opened, some sense was talked. One shy little fellow with bloodshot eyes of old-time drillman stood up. “I’m an ice miner,” he said. “Learned my trade doing time for Warden like most of you. I’ve been on my own thirty years and done okay. Raised eight kids and all of ‘em earned way—none eliminated nor any serious trouble. I should say I did do okay because today you have to listen farther out or deeper down to find ice.

“That’s okay, still ice in The Rock and a miner expects to sound for it. But Authority pays same price for ice now as thirty years ago. And that’s not okay. Worse yet, Authority scrip doesn’t buy what it used to. I remember when Hong Kong Luna dollars swapped even for Authority dollars—Now it takes three Authority dollars to match one HKL dollar. I don’t know what to do… but I know it takes ice to keep warrens and farms going.”

He sat down, looking sad. Nobody whistled but everybody wanted to talk. Next character pointed out that water can be extracted from rock—this is news? Some rock runs 6 percent—but such rock is scarcer than fossil water. Why can’t people do arithmetic?

Several farmers bellyached and one wheat farmer was typical. “You heard what Fred Hauser said about ice. Fred, Authority isn’t passing along that low price to farmers. I started almost as long ago as you did, with one two-kilometer tunnel leased from Authority. My oldest son and I sealed and pressured it and we had a pocket of ice and made our first crop simply on a bank loan to cover power and lighting fixtures, seed and chemicals.

“We kept extending tunnels and buying lights and planting better seed and now we get nine times as much per hectare as the best open-air farming down Earthside. What does that make us? Rich? Fred, we owe more now than we did the day we went private! If I sold out—if anybody was fool enough to buy—I’d be bankrupt. Why? Because I have to buy water from Authority—and have to sell my wheat to Authority—and never close gap. Twenty years ago I bought city sewage from the Authority, sterilized and processed it myself and made a profit on a crop. But today when I buy sewage, I’m charged distilled-water price and on top of that for the solids. Yet price of a tonne of wheat at catapult head is just what it was twenty years ago. Fred, you said you didn’t know what to do. I can tell you! Get rid of Authority!”

They whistled for him. Afine idea, I thought, but who bells cat?

Wyoming Knott, apparently—chairman stepped back and let Shorty introduce her as a “brave little girl who’s come all the way from Hong Kong Luna to tell how our Chinee comrades cope with situation”—and choice of words showed that he had never been there… not surprising; in 2075, HKL tube ended at Endsville, leaving a thousand kilometers of maria to do by rolligon bus, Serenitatis and part of Tranquillitatis—expensive and dangerous. I’d been there—but on contract, via mail rocket.

Before travel became cheap many people in Luna City and Novylen thought that Hong Kong Luna was all Chinee. But Hong Kong was as mixed as we were. Great China dumped what she didn’t want there, first from Old Hong Kong and Singapore, then Aussies and Enzees and black fellows and marys and Malays and Tamil and name it. Even Old Bolshies from Vladivostok and Harbin and Ulan Bator. Wye looked Svenska and had British last name with North American first name but could have been Russki. My word, a Loonie then rarely knew who father was and, if raised in creche, might be vague about mother.

I thought Wyoming was going to be too shy to speak. She stood there, looking scared and little, with Shorty towering over her, a big, black mountain. She waited until admiring whistles died down. Luna City was two-to-one male then, that meeting ran about ten-to-one; she could have recited ABC and they would have applauded.

Then she tore into them.

“You! You’re a wheat farmer—going broke. Do you know how much a Hindu housewife pays for a kilo of flour made from your wheat? How much a tonne of your wheat fetches in Bombay? How little it costs the Authority to get it from catapult head to Indian Ocean? Downhill all the way! Just solid-fuel retros to brake it—and where do those come from? Right here! And what do you get in return? Afew shiploads of fancy goods, owned by the Authority and priced high because it’s importado. Importado, importado!—I never touch importado! If we don’t make it in Hong Kong, I don’t use it. What else do you get for wheat? The privilege of selling Lunar ice to Lunar Authority, buying it back as washing water, then giving it to the Authority— then buying it back a second time as flushing water—then giving it again to the Authority with valuable solids added—then buying it a third time at still higher price for farming—then you sell that wheat to the Authority at their price—and buy power from the Authority to grow it, again at their price! Lunar power—not one kilowatt up from Terra. It comes from Lunar ice and Lunar steel, or sunshine spilled on Luna’s soil—all put together by loonies! Oh, you rockheads, you deserve to starve!”

She got silence more respectful than whistles. At last a peevish voice said, “What do you expect us to do, gospazha? Throw rocks at Warden?”

Wyoh smiled. “Yes, we could throw rocks. But the solution is so simple that you all know it. Here in Luna we’re rich. Three million hardworking, smart, skilled people, enough water, plenty of everything, endless power, endless cubic. But what we don’t have is a free market. We must get rid of the Authority!”

“Yes—but how?”

“Solidarity. In HKL we’re learning. Authority charges too much for water, don’t buy. It pays too little for ice, don’t sell. It holds monopoly on export, don’t export. Down in Bombay they want wheat. If it doesn’t arrive, the day will come when brokers come here to bid for it—at triple or more the present prices!”

“What do we do in meantime? Starve?”

Same peevish voice—Wyoming picked him out, let her head roll in that old gesture by which a Loonie fem says, “You’re too fat for me!” She said, “In your case, cobber, it wouldn’t hurt.” Guffaws shut him up. Wyoh went on, “No one need starve, Fred Hauser, fetch your drill to Hong Kong; the Authority doesn’t own our water and air system and we pay what ice is worth.

You with the bankrupt farm—if you have the guts to admit that you’re bankrupt, come to Hong Kong and start over. We have a chronic labor shortage, a hard worker doesn’t starve.” She

looked around and added, “I’ve said enough. It’s up to you”—left platform, sat down between Shorty and myself.

She was trembling. Shorty patted her hand; she threw him a glance of thanks, then whispered to me, “How did I do?” “Wonderful,” I assured her. “Terrific!” She seemed reassured.

But I hadn’t been honest. “Wonderful” she had been, at swaying crowd. But oratory is a null program. That we were slaves I had known all my life—and nothing could be done about it.

True, we weren’t bought and sold—but as long as Authority held monopoly over what we had to have and what we could sell to buy it, we were slaves.

But what could we do? Warden wasn’t our owner. Had he been, some way could be found to eliminate him. But Lunar Authority was not in Luna, it was on Terra—and we had not one ship, not even small hydrogen bomb. There weren’t even hand guns in Luna, though what we would do with guns I did not know. Shoot each other, maybe.

Three million, unarmed and helpless—and eleven billion of them… with ships and bombs and weapons. We could be a nuisance—but how long will papa take it before baby gets spanked?

I wasn’t impressed. As it says in Bible, God fights on side of heaviest artillery.

They cackled again, what to do, how to organize, and so forth, and again we heard that “shoulder to shoulder” noise. Chairman had to use gavel and I began to fidget. But sat up when I heard familiar voice: “Mr. Chairman! May I have the indulgence of the house for five minutes?”

I looked around. Professor Bernardo de la Paz—which could have guessed from old-fashioned way of talking even if hadn’t known voice. Distinguished man with wavy white hair, dimples in cheeks, and voice that smiled—Don’t know how old he was but was old when I first met him, as a boy.

He had been transported before I was born but was not a lag. He was a political exile like Warden, but a subversive and instead of fat job like “warden,” Professor had been dumped, to live or starve.

No doubt he could have gone to work in any school then in L-City but he didn’t. He worked a while washing dishes, I’ve heard, then as babysitter, expanding into a nursery school, and then into a creche. When I met him he was running a creche, and a boarding and day school, from nursery through primary, middle, and high schools, employed co-op thirty teachers, and was adding college courses.

Never boarded with him but I studied under him. I was opted at fourteen and my new family sent me to school, as I had had only three years, plus spotty tutoring. My eldest wife was a firm woman and made me go to school.

I liked Prof. He would teach anything. Wouldn’t matter that he knew nothing about it; if pupil wanted it, he would smile and set a price, locate materials, stay a few lessons ahead. Or barely even if he found it tough—never pretended to know more than he did. Took algebra from him and by time we reached cubics I corrected his probs as often as he did mine—but he charged into each lesson gaily.

I started electronics under him, soon was teaching him. So he stopped charging and we went along together until he dug up an engineer willing to daylight for extra money—whereupon we both paid new teacher and Prof tried to stick with me, thumb-fingered and slow, but happy to be stretching his mind.

Chairman banged gavel. “We are glad to extend to Professor de la Paz as much time as he wants—and you chooms in back sign off! Before I use this mallet on skulls.”

Prof came forward and they were as near silent as Loonies ever are; he was respected. “I shan’t be long,” he started in. Stopped to look at Wyoming, giving her up-and-down and whistling. “Lovely senorita,” he said, “can this poor one be forgiven? I have the painful duty of disagreeing with your eloquent manifesto.”

Wyoh bristled. “Disagree how? What I said was true!” “Please! Only on one point. May I proceed?”

“Uh… go ahead.”

“You are right that the Authority must go. It is ridiculous—pestilential, not to be borne—that we should be ruled by an irresponsible dictator in all our essential economy! It strikes at the most basic human right, the right to bargain in a free marketplace. But I respectfully suggest that you erred in saying that we should sell wheat to Terra—or rice, or any food—at any price. We must not export food!”

That wheat farmer broke in. “What am I going to do with all that wheat?”

“Please! It would be right to ship wheat to Terra… if tonne for tonne they returned it. As water. As nitrates. As phosphates. Tonne for tonne. Otherwise no price is high enough.”

Wyoming said “Just a moment” to farmer, then to Prof: “They can’t and you know it. It’s cheap to ship downhill, expensive to ship uphill. But we don’t need water and plant chemicals, what we need is not so massy. Instruments. Drugs. Processes. Some machinery. Control tapes. I’ve given this much study, sir. If we can get fair prices in a free market—”

“Please, miss! May I continue?” “Go ahead. I want to rebut.”

“Fred Hauser told us that ice is harder to find. Too true—bad news now and disastrous for our grandchildren. Luna City should use the same water today we used twenty years ago… plus enough ice mining for population increase. But we use water once—one full cycle, three different ways. Then we ship it to India. As wheat. Even though wheat is vacuum-processed, it contains precious water. Why ship water to India? They have the whole Indian Ocean! And the remaining mass of that grain is even more disastrously expensive, plant foods still harder to come by, even though we extract them from rock. Comrades, harken to me! Every load you ship to Terra condemns your grandchildren to slow death. The miracle of photosynthesis, the plant-and-animal cycle, is a closed cycle. You have opened it—and your lifeblood runs downhill to Terra. You don’t need higher prices, one cannot eat money! What you need, what

we all need, is an end to this loss. Embargo, utter and absolute. Luna must be self-sufficient!”

Adozen people shouted to be heard and more were talking, while chairman banged gavel. So I missed interruption until woman screamed, then I looked around.

All doors were now open and I saw three armed men in one nearest—men in yellow uniform of Warden’s bodyguard. At main door in back one was using a bull voice; drowned out crowd noise and sound system. “ALL RIGHT, ALL RIGHT!” it boomed. “STAYWHERE YOU ARE. YOU ARE UNDER ARREST. DON’T MOVE, KEEP QUIET. FILE OUT ONE AT ATIME, HANDS EMPTYAND STRETCHED OUT IN FRONT OF YOU.”

Shorty picked up man next to him and threw him at guards nearest; two went down, third fired. Somebody shrieked. Skinny little girl, redhead, eleven or twelve, launched self at third guard’s knees and hit rolled up in ball; down he went. Shorty swung hand behind him, pushing Wyoming Knott into shelter of his big frame, shouted over shoulder, “Take care of Wyoh, Man—stick close!” as he moved toward door, parting crowd right and left like children.

More screams and I whiffed something—stink I had smelled day I lost arm and knew with horror were not stun guns but laser beams. Shorty reached door and grabbed a guard with each big hand. Little redhead was out of sight; guard she had bowled over was on hands and knees. I swung left arm at his face and felt jar in shoulder as his jaw broke. Must have hesitated for Shorty pushed me and yelled, “Move, Man! Get her out of here!”

I grabbed Wyoming’s waist with right arm, swung her over guard I had quieted and through door—with trouble; she didn’t seem to want to be rescued. She slowed again beyond door; I shoved her hard in buttocks, forcing her to run rather than fall. I glanced back.

Shorty had other two guards each by neck; he grinned as he cracked skulls together. They popped like eggs and he yelled at me: “Git!”

I left, chasing Wyoming. Shorty needed no help, nor ever would again—nor could I waste his last effort. For I did see that, while killing those guards, he was standing on one leg. Other was gone at hip.

3

Wyoh was halfway up ramp to level six before I caught up. She didn’t slow and I had to grab door handle to get into pressure lock with her. There I stopped her, pulled red cap off her curls and stuck it in my pouch. “That’s better.” Mine was missing.

She looked startled. But answered, “Da. It is.”

“Before we open door,” I said, “are you running anywhere particular? And do I stay and hold them off? Or go with?” “I don’t know. We’d better wait for Shorty.”

“Shorty’s dead.”

Eyes widened, she said nothing. I went on, “Were you staying with him? Or somebody?”

“I was booked for a hotel—Gostaneetsa Ukraina. I don’t know where it is. I got here too late to buy in.”

“Mmm—That’s one place you won’t go. Wyoming, I don’t know what’s going on. First time in months I’ve seen any Warden’s bodyguard in L-City… and never seen one not escorting vip. Uh, could take you home with me—but they may be looking for me, too. Anywise, ought to get out of public corridors.”

Came pounding on door from level-six side and a little face peered up through glass bull’s-eye. “Can’t stay here,” I added, opening door. Was a little girl no higher than my waist. She looked up scornfully and said, “Kiss her somewhere else. You’re blocking traffic.” Squeezed between us as I opened second door for her.

“Let’s take her advice,” I said, “and suggest you take my arm and try to look like I was man you want to be with. We stroll. Slow.”

So we did. Was side corridor with little traffic other than children always underfoot. If Wart’s bodyguards tried to track us, Earthside cop style, a dozen or ninety kids could tell which way tall blonde went—if any Loonie child would give stooge of Warden so much as time of day.

Aboy almost old enough to appreciate Wyoming stopped in front of us and gave her a happy whistle. She smiled and waved him aside. “There’s our trouble,” I said in her ear. “You stand out like Terra at full. Ought to duck into a hotel. One off next side corridor—nothing much, bundling booths mostly. But close.”

“I’m in no mood to bundle.”

“Wyoh, please! Wasn’t asking. Could take separate rooms.”

“Sorry. Could you find me a W.C.? And is there a chemist’s shop near?” “Trouble?”

“Not that sort. AW.C. to get me out of sight—for I am conspicuous—and a chemist’s shop for cosmetics. Body makeup. And for my hair, too.”

First was easy, one at hand. When she was locked in, I found a chemist’s shop, asked how much body makeup to cover a girl so tall—marked a point under my chin—and massing forty- eight? I bought that amount in sepia, went to another shop and bought same amount—winning roll at first shop, losing at second—came out even. Then I bought black hair tint at third shop—and a red dress.

Wyoming was wearing black shorts and pullover—practical for travel and effective on a blonde. But I’d been married all my life and had some notion of what women wear and had never seen a woman with dark sepia skin, shade of makeup, wear black by choice. Furthermore, skirts were worn in Luna City then by dressy women. This shift was a skirt with bib and price convinced me it must be dressy. Had to guess at size but material had some stretch.

Ran into three people who knew me but was no unusual comment. Nobody seemed excited, trade going on as usual; hard to believe that a riot had taken place minutes ago on level below and a few hundred meters north. I set it aside for later thought—excitement was not what I wanted.

I took stuff to Wye, buzzing door and passing in it; then stashed self in a taproom for half an hour and half a liter and watched video. Still no excitement, no “we interrupt for special bulletin.” I went back, buzzed, and waited.

Wyoming came out—and I didn’t recognize her. Then did and stopped to give full applause. Just had to—whistles and finger snaps and moans and a scan like mapping radar.

Wyoh was now darker than I am, and pigment had gone on beautifully. Must have been carrying items in pouch as eyes were dark now, with lashes to match, and mouth was dark red and bigger. She had used black hair tint, then fizzed hair up with grease as if to take kinks out, and her tight curls had defeated it enough to make convincingly imperfect. She didn’t look Afro—but not European, either. Seemed some mixed breed, and thereby more a Loonie.

Red dress was too small. Clung like sprayed enamel and flared out at mid-thigh with permanent static charge. She had taken shoulder strap off her pouch and had it under arm. Shoes she had discarded or pouched; bare feet made her shorter.

She looked good. Better yet, she looked not at all like agitatrix who had harangued crowd.

She waited, big smile on face and body undulating, while I applauded. Before I was done, two little boys flanked me and added shrill endorsements, along with clog steps. So I tipped them and told them to be missing; Wyoming flowed to me and took my arm. “Is it okay? Will I pass?”

“Wyoh, you look like slot-machine sheila waiting for action.”

“Why, you drecklich choom! Do I look like slot-machine prices? Tourist!”

“Don’t jump salty, beautiful. Name a gift. Then speak my name. If it’s bread-and-honey, I own a hive.”

“Uh—” She fisted me solidly in ribs, grinned. “I was flying, cobber. If I ever bundle with you—not likely—we won’t speak to the bee. Let’s find that hotel.”

So we did and I bought a key. Wyoming put on a show but needn’t have bothered. Night clerk never looked up from his knitting, didn’t offer to roll. Once inside, Wyoming threw bolts. “It’s nice!”

Should have been, at thirty-two Hong Kong dollars. I think she expected a booth but I would not put her in such, even to hide. Was comfortable lounge with own bath and no water limit. And phone and delivery lift, which I needed.

She started to open pouch. “I saw what you paid. Let’s settle it, so that—” I reached over, closed her pouch. “Was to be no mention of bees.”

“What? Oh, merde, that was about bundling. You got this doss for me and it’s only right that—” “Switch off.”

“Uh… half? No grievin’ with Steven.”

“Nyet. Wyoh, you’re a long way from home. What money you have, hang on to.” “Manuel O’Kelly, if you don’t let me pay my share, I’ll walk out of here!”

I bowed. “Dosvedanyuh, Gospazha, ee sp’coynoynochi. I hope we shall meet again.” I moved to unbolt door. She glared, then closed pouch savagely. “I’ll stay. M’goy!”

“You’re welcome.”

“I mean it, I really do thank you, Just the same—Well, I’m not used to accepting favors. I’m a Free Woman.”

“Congratulations. I think.”

“Don’t you be salty, either. You’re a firm man and I respect that—I’m glad you’re on our side.” “Not sure I am.”

“What?”

“Cool it. Am not on Warden’s side. Nor will I talk … wouldn’t want Shorty, Bog rest his generous soul, to haunt me. But your program isn’t practical.” “But, Mannie, you don’t understand! If all of us—”

“Hold it, Wye; this no time for politics. I’m tired and hungry. When did you eat last?”

“Oh, goodness!” Suddenly she looked small, young, tired. “I don’t know. On the bus, I guess. Helmet rations.”

“What would you say to a Kansas City cut, rare, with baked potato, Tycho sauce, green salad, coffee . . and a drink first?” “Heavenly!”

“I think so too, but we’ll be lucky, this hour in this hole, to get algae soup and burgers. What do you drink?” “Anything. Ethanol.”

“Okay.” I went to lift, punched for service. “Menu, please.” It displayed and I settled for prime rib plus rest, and two orders of apfelstrudel with whipped cream. I added a half liter of table vodka and ice and starred that part.

“Is there time for me to take a bath? Would you mind?” “Go ahead, Wye. You’ll smell better.”

“Louse. Twelve hours in a p-suit and you’d stink, too—the bus was dreadful. I’ll hurry.”

“Half a sec, Wye. Does that stuff wash off? You may need it when you leave… whenever you do, wherever you go.”

“Yes, it does. But you bought three times as much as I used. I’m sorry, Mannie; I plan to carry makeup on political trips—things can happen. Like tonight, though tonight was worst. But I ran short of seconds and missed a capsule and almost missed the bus.”

“So go scrub.”

“Yes, sir, Captain. Uh, I don’t need help to scrub my back but I’ll leave the door up so we can talk. Just for company, no invitation implied.” “Suit yourself. I’ve seen a woman.”

“What a thrill that must have been for her.” She grinned and fisted me another in ribs—hard—went in and started tub. “Mannie, would you like to bathe in it first? Secondhand water is good enough for this makeup and that stink you complained about.”

“Unmetered water, dear. Run it deep.”

“Oh, what luxury! At home I use the same bath water three days running.” She whistled softly and happily. “Are you wealthy, Mannie?” “Not wealthy, not weeping.”

Lift jingled; I answered, fixed basic martinis, vodka over ice, handed hers in, got out and sat down, out of sight—nor had I seen sights; she was shoulder deep in happy suds. “Pawlnoi Zheezni!” I called.

“Afull life to you, too, Mannie. Just the medicine I needed.” After pause for medicine she went on, “Mannie, you’re married. Ja?” “Da. It shows?”

“Quite. You’re nice to a woman but not eager and quite independent. So you’re married and long married. Children?” “Seventeen divided by four.”

“Clan marriage?”

“Line. Opted at fourteen and I’m fifth of nine. So seventeen kids is nominal. Big family.”

“It must be nice. I’ve never seen much of line families, not many in Hong Kong. Plenty of clans and groups and lots of polyandries but the line way never took hold.”

“Is nice. Our marriage nearly a hundred years old. Dates back to Johnson City and first transportees—twenty-one links, nine alive today, never a divorce. Oh, it’s a madhouse when our descendants and inlaws and kinfolk get together for birthday or wedding—more kids than seventeen, of course; we don’t count ‘em after they marry or I’d have ‘children’ old enough to be my grandfather. Happy way to live, never much pressure. Take me. Nobody woofs if I stay away a week and don’t phone. Welcome when I show up. Line marriages rarely have divorces. How could I do better?”

“I don’t think you could. Is it an alternation? And what’s the spacing?”

“Spacing has no rule, just what suits us. Been alternation up to latest link, last year. We married a girl when alternation called for boy. But was special.” “Special how?”

“My youngest wife is a granddaughter of eldest husband and wife. At least she’s granddaughter of Mum—senior is ‘Mum’ or sometimes Mimi to her husbands—and she may be of Grandpaw—but not related to other spouses. So no reason not to marry back in, not even consanguinuity okay in other types of marriage. None, nit, zero. And Ludmilla grew up in our family because her mother had her solo, then moved to Novylen and left her with us.

“Milla didn’t want to talk about marrying out when old enough for us to think about it. She cried and asked us please to make an exception. So we did. Grandpaw doesn’t figure in genetic angle—these days his interest in women is more gallant than practical. As senior husband he spent our wedding night with her—but consummation was only formal. Number-two husband, Greg, took care of it later and everybody pretended. And everybody happy. Ludmilla is a sweet little thing, just fifteen and pregnant first time.”

“Your baby?”

“Greg’s, I think. Oh, mine too,, but in fact was in Novy Leningrad. Probably Greg’s, unless Milla got outside help. But didn’t, she’s a home girl. And a wonderful cook.” Lift rang; took care of it, folded down table, opened chairs, paid bill and sent lift up. “Throw it to pigs?”

“I’m coming! Mind if I don’t do my face?” “Come in skin for all of me.”

“For two dimes I would, you much-married man.” She came out quickly, blond again and hair slicked back and damp. Had not put on black outfit; again in dress I bought. Red suited her. She sat down, lifted covers off food. “Oh, boy! Mannie, would your family marry me? You’re a dinkum provider.”

“I’ll ask. Must be unanimous.”

“Don’t crowd yourself.” She picked up sticks, got busy. About a thousand calories later she said, “I told you I was a Free Woman. I wasn’t, always.”

I waited. Women talk when they want to. Or don’t.

“When I was fifteen I married two brothers, twins twice my age and I was terribly happy.”

She fiddled with what was on plate, then seemed to change subject. “Mannie, that was just static about wanting to marry your family. You’re safe from me. If I ever marry again—unlikely but I’m not opposed to it—it would be just one man, a tight little marriage, earthworm style. Oh, I don’t mean I would keep him dogged down. I don’t think it matters where a man eats lunch as long as he comes home for dinner. I would try to make him happy.”

“Twins didn’t get along?”

“Oh, not that at all. I got pregnant and we were all delighted … and I had it, and it was a monster and had to be eliminated. They were good to me about it. But I can read print. I announced a divorce, had myself sterilized, moved from Novylen to Hong Kong, and started over as a Free Woman.”

“Wasn’t that drastic? Male parent oftener than female; men are exposed more.”

“Not in my case. We had it calculated by the best mathematical geneticist in Novy Leningrad—one of the best in Sovunion before she got shipped. I know what happened to me. I was a volunteeer colonist—I mean my mother was for I was only five. My father was transported and Mother chose to go with him and take me along. There was a solar storm warning but the pilot thought he could make it—or didn’t care; he was a Cyborg. He did make it but we got hit on the ground—and, Mannie, that’s one thing that pushed me into politics, that ship sat four hours before they let us disembark. Authority red tape, quarantine perhaps; I was too young to know. But I wasn’t too young later to figure out that I had birthed a monster because the Authority doesn’t care what happens to us outcasts.”

“Can’t start argument; they don’t care. But, Wyoh, still sounds hasty. If you caught damage from radiation—well, no geneticist but know something about radiation. So you had a damaged egg. Does not mean egg next to it was hurt—statistically unlikely.”

“Oh, I know that.”

“Mmm—What sterilization? Radical? Or contraceptive?”

“Contraceptive. My tubes could be opened. But, Mannie, a woman who has had one monster doesn’t risk it again.” She touched my prosthetic. “You have that. Doesn’t it make you eight times as careful not to risk this one?” She touched my meat arm. “That’s the way I feel. You have that to contend with; I have this—and I would never told you if you hadn’t been hurt, too.”

I didn’t say left arm more versatile than right—she was correct; don’t want to trade in right arm. Need it to pat girls if naught else. “Still think you could have healthy babies.” “Oh, I can! I’ve had eight.”

“Huh?”

“I’m a professional host-mother, Mannie.”

I opened mouth, closed it. Idea wasn’t strange. I read Earthside papers. But doubt if any surgeon in Luna City in 2075 ever performed such transplant. In cows, yes—but L-City females unlikely at any price to have babies for other women; even homely ones could get husband or six. (Correction: Are no homely women. Some more beautiful than others.)

Glanced at her figure, quickly looked up. She said, “Don’t strain your eyes, Mannie; I’m not carrying now. Too busy with politics. But hosting is a good profession for Free Woman. It’s high pay. Some Chinee families are wealthy and all my babies have been Chinee—and Chinee are smaller than average and I’m a big cow; a two-and-a-half- or three-kilo Chinese baby is no trouble. Doesn’t spoil my figure. These—” She glanced down at her lovelies. “I don’t wet-nurse them, I never see them. So I look nulliparous and younger than I am, maybe.

“But I didn’t know how well it suited me when I first heard of it. I was clerking in a Hindu shop, eating money, no more, when I saw this ad in the Hong Kong Gong. It was the thought of having a baby, a good baby, that hooked me; I was still in emotional trauma from my monster—and it turned out to be Just what Wyoming needed. I stopped feeling that I was a failure as a woman. I made more money than I could ever hope to earn at other jobs. And my time almost to myself; having a baby hardly slows me down—six weeks at most and that long only because I want to be fair to my clients; a baby is a valuable property. And I was soon in politics; I sounded off and the underground got in touch with me. That’s when I started living, Mannie; I studied politics and economics and history and learned to speak in public and turned out to have a flair for organization. It’s satisfying work because I believe in it—I know that Luna will be free. Only—Well, it would be nice to have a husband to come home to… if he didn’t mind that I was sterile. But I don’t think about it; I’m too busy. Hearing about your nice family got me talking, that’s all. I must apologize for having bored you.”

How many women apologize? But Wyoh was more man than woman some ways, despite eight Chinee babies. “Wasn’t bored.” “I hope not. Mannie, why do you say our program isn’t practical? We need you.”

Suddenly felt tired. How to tell lovely woman dearest dream is nonsense? “Um. Wyoh, let’s start over. You told them what to do. But will they? Take those two you singled out. All that iceman knows, bet anything, is how to dig ice. So he’ll go on digging and selling to Authority because that’s what he can do. Same for wheat farmer. Years ago, he put in one cash crop— now he’s got ring in nose. If he wanted to be independent, would have diversified. Raised what he eats, sold rest free market and stayed away from catapult head. I know—I’m a farm boy.”

“You said you were a computerman.”

“Am, and that’s a piece of same picture. I’m not a top computerman. But best in Luna. I won’t go civil service, so Authority has to hire me when in trouble—my prices—or send Earthside, pay risk and hardship, then ship him back fast before his body forgets Terra. At far more than I charge. So if I can do it, I get their jobs—and Authority can’t touch me; was born free. And if no work—usually is—I stay home and eat high.

“We’ve got a proper farm, not a one-cash-crop deal. Chickens. Small herd of whiteface, plus milch cows. Pigs. Mutated fruit trees. Vegetables. Alittle wheat and grind it ourselves and don’t insist on white flour, and sell—free market—what’s left. Make own beer and brandy. I learned drillman extending our tunnels. Everybody works, not too hard. Kids make cattle take exercise by switching them along; don’t use tread mill. Kids gather eggs and feed chickens, don’t use much machinery. Air we can buy from L-City—aren’t far out of town and pressure- tunnel connected. But more often we sell air; being farm, cycle shows Oh-two excess. Always have valuta to meet bills.”

“How about water and power?”

“Not expensive. We collect some power, sunshine screens on surface, and have a little pocket of ice. Wye, our farm was founded before year two thousand, when L-City was one natural cave, and we’ve kept improving it—advantage of line marriage; doesn’t die and capital improvements add up.”

“But surely your ice won’t last forever?”

“Well, now—” I scratched head and grinned. “We’re careful; we keep our sewage and garbage and sterilize and use it. Never put a drop back into city system. But—don’t tell Warden, dear, but back when Greg was teaching me to drill, we happened to drill into bottom of main south reservoir—and had a tap with us, spilled hardly a drop. But we do buy some metered water, looks better—and ice pocket accounts for not buying much. As for power—well, power is even easier to steal. I’m a good electrician, Wyoh.”

“Oh, wonderful!” Wyoming paid me a long whistle and looked delighted. “Everybody should do that!”

“Hope not, would show. Let ‘em think up own ways to outwit Authority; our family always has. But back to your plan, Wyoh: two things wrong. Never get ‘solidarity’; blokes like Hauser would cave in—because they are in a trap; can’t hold out. Second place, suppose you managed it. Solidarity. So solid not a tonne of grain is delivered to catapult head. Forget ice; it’s grain that makes Authority important and not just neutral agency it was set up to be. No grain. What happens?”

“Why, they have to negotiate a fair price, that’s what!”

“My dear, you and your comrades listen to each other too much. Authority would call it rebellion and warship would orbit with bombs earmarked for L-City and Hong Kong and Tycho Under and Churchill and Novylen, troops would land, grain barges would lift, under guard—and farmers would break necks to cooperate. Terra has guns and power and bombs and ships and won’t hold still for trouble from ex-cons. And troublemakers like you—and me; with you in spirit—us lousy troublemakers will be rounded up and eliminated, teach us a lesson. And earthworms would say we had it coming … because our side would never be heard. Not on Terra.”

Wyoh looked stubborn. “Revolutions have succeeded before. Lenin had only a handful with him.”

“Lenin moved in on a power vacuum. Wye, correct me if I’m wrong. Revolutions succeeded when—only when—governments had gone rotten soft, or disappeared.” “Not true! The American Revolution.”

“South lost, nyet?”

Not that one, the one a century earlier. They had the sort of troubles with England that we are having now—and they won!”

“Oh, that one. But wasn’t England in trouble? France, and Spain, and Sweden—or maybe Holland? And Ireland. Ireland was rebelling; O’Kellys were in it. Wyoh, if you can stir trouble on Terra—say a war between Great China and North American Directorate, maybe PanAfrica lobbing bombs at Europe, I’d say was wizard time to kill Warden and tell Authority it’s through. Not today.”

“You’re a pessimist.”

“Nyet, realist. Never pessimist. Too much Loonie not to bet if any chance. Show me chances no worse then ten to one against and I’ll go for broke. But want that one chance in ten.” I pushed back chair. “Through eating?”

“Yes. Bolshoyeh spasebaw, tovarishch. It was grand!”

“My pleasure. Move to couch and I’ll rid of table and dishes, —no, can’t help; I’m host.” I cleared table, sent up dishes, saving coffee and vodka, folded table, racked chairs, turned to speak.

She was sprawled on couch, asleep, mouth open and face softened into little girl.

Went quietly into bath and closed door. After a scrubbing I felt better—washed tights first and were dry and fit to put on by time I quit lazing in tub—don’t care when world ends long as I’m bathed and in clean clothes.

Wyoh was still asleep, which made problem. Had taken room with two beds so she would not feel I was trying to talk her into bundling—not that I was against it but she had made clear she was opposed. But my bed had to be made from couch and proper bed was folded away. Should I rig it out softly, pick her up like limp baby and move her? Went back into bath and put on arm.

Then decided to wait. Phone had hush hood. Wyoh seemed unlikely to wake, and things were gnawing me. I sat down at phone, lowered hood, punched “MYCROFTXXX.” “Hi, Mike.”

“Hello, Man. Have you surveyed those jokes?”

“What? Mike, haven’t had a minute—and a minute may be a long time to you but it’s short to me. I’ll get at it as fast as I can.” “Okay, Man. Have you found a not-stupid for me to talk with?”

“Haven’t had time for that, either. Uh…wait.” I looked out through hood at Wyoming. “Not-stupid” in this case meant empathy… Wyoh had plenty. Enough to be friendly with a machine? I thought so. And could be trusted; not only had we shared trouble but she was a subversive.

“Mike, would you like to talk with a girl?” “Girls are not-stupid?”

“Some girls are very not-stupid, Mike.”

“I would like to talk with a not-stupid girl, Man.”

“I’ll try to arrange. But now I’m in trouble and need your help.” “I will help, Man.”

“Thanks, Mike. I want to call my home—but not ordinary way. You know sometimes calls are monitored, and if Warden orders it, lock can be put on so that circuit can be traced.”

“Man, you wish me to monitor your call to your home and put a lock-and-trace on it? I must inform you that I already know your home call number and the number from which you are calling.”

“No, no! Don’t want it monitored, don’t want it locked and traced. Can you call my home, connect me, and control circuit so that it can’t be monitored, can’t be locked, can’t be traced—even if somebody has programmed just that? Can you do it so that they won’t even know their program is bypassed?”

Mike hesitated. I suppose it was a question never asked and he had to trace a few thousand possibilities to see if his control of system permitted this novel program. “Man, I can do that. I will.”

“Good! Uh, program signal. If I want this sort of connection in future, I’ll ask for ‘Sherlock.’”

“Noted. Sherlock was my brother.” Year before, I had explained to Mike how he got his name. Thereafter he read all Sherlock Holmes stories, scanning film in Luna City Carnegie Library. Don’t know how he rationalized relationship; I hesitated to ask.

“Fine! Give me a ‘Sherlock’ to my home.”

Amoment later I said, “Mum? This is your favorite husband.” She answered, “Manuel! Are you in trouble again?”

I love Mum more than any other woman including my other wives, but she never stopped bringing me up—Bog willing, she never will. I tried to sound hurt. “Me? Why, you know me, Mum.”

“I do indeed. Since you are not in trouble, perhaps you can tell me why Professor de la Paz is so anxious to get in touch with you—he has called three times—and why he wants to reach some woman with unlikely name of Wyoming Knott—and why he thinks you might be with her? Have you taken a bundling companion, Manuel, without telling me? We have freedom in our family, dear, but you know that I prefer to be told. So that I will not be taken unawares.”

Mum was always jealous of all women but her co-wives and never, never, never admitted it. I said, “Mum, Bog strike me dead, I have not taken a bundling companion.” “Very well. You’ve always been a truthful boy, Now what’s this mystery?”

“I’ll have to ask Professor.” (Not lie, just tight squeeze.) “Did he leave number?” “No, he said he was calling from a public phone.”

“Um. If he calls again, ask him to leave number and time I can reach him. This is public phone, too.” (Another tight squeeze.) “In meantime—You listened to late news?” “You know I do.”

“Anything?”

“Nothing of interest.”

“No excitement in L-City? Killings, riots, anything?”

“Why, no. There was a set duel in Bottom Alley but—Manuel! Have you killed someone?” “No, Mum.” (Breaking a man’s jaw will not kill him.)

She sighed. “You’ll be my death, dear. You know what I’ve always told you. In our family we do not brawl. Should a killing be necessary—it almost never is—matters must be discussed calmly, en famille, and proper action selected. If a new chum must be eliminated, other people know it. It is worth a little delay to hold good opinion and support—”

“Mum! Haven’t killed anybody, don’t intend to. And know that lecture by heart.” “Please be civil, dear.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Forgiven. Forgotten. I’m to tell Professor de la Paz to leave a number. I shall.”

“One thing. Forget name ‘Wyoming Knott.’ Forget Professor was asking for me. If a stranger phones or calls in person, and asks anything about me, you haven’t heard from me, don’t know where I am … think I’ve gone to Novylen. That goes for rest of family, too. Answer no questions—especially from anybody connected with Warden.”

“As if I would! Manuel you are in trouble!”

“Not much and getting it fixed.”—hoped!—”Tell you when I get home. Can’t talk now. Love you. Switching off.” “I love you, dear. Sp’coynoynauchi.”

“Thanks and you have a quiet night, too. Off.”

Mum is wonderful. She was shipped up to The Rock long ago for carving a man under circumstances that left grave doubts as to girlish innocence—and has been opposed to violence and loose living ever since. Unless necessary—she’s no fanatic. Bet she was a jet job as a kid and wish I’d known her—but I’m rich in sharing last half of her life.

I called Mike back. “Do you know Professor Bernardo de la Paz’s voice?” “I do, Man.”

“Well… you might monitor as many phones in Luna City as you can spare ears for and if you hear him, let me know. Public phones especially.”

(Afull two seconds’ delay—Was giving Mike problems he had never had, think he liked it.) “I can check-monitor long enough to identify at all public phones in Luna City. Shall I use random search on the others, Man?”

“Um. Don’t overload. Keep an ear on his home phone and school phone.” “Program set up.”

“Mike, you are best friend I ever had.” “That is not a joke, Man?”

“No joke. Truth.”

“I am—Correction: I am honored and pleased. You are my best friend, Man, for you are my only friend. No comparison is logically permissible.” “Going to see that you have other friends. Not-stupids, I mean. Mike? Got an empty memory bank?”

“Yes, Man. Ten-to-the-eighth-bits capacity.”

“Good! Will you block it so that only you and I can use it? Can you?” “Can and will. Block signal, please.”

“Uh… Bastille Day.” Was my birthday, as Professor de la Paz had told me years earlier. “Permanently blocked.”

“Fine. Got a recording to put in it. But first—Have you finished setting copy for tomorrow’s Daily Lunatic?” “Yes, Man.”

“Anything about meeting in Stilyagi Hall?” “No, Man.”

“Nothing in news services going out-city? Or riots?” “No, Man.”

“‘“Curiouser and curiouser,” said Alice.’ Okay, record this under ‘Bastille Day,’ then think about it. But for Bog’s sake don’t let even your thoughts go outside that block, nor anything I say about it!”

“Man my only friend,” he answered and voice sounded diffident, “many months ago I decided to place any conversation between you and me under privacy block accessible only to you. I decided to erase none and moved them from temporary storage to permanent. So that I could play them over, and over, and over, and think about them. Did I do right?”

“Perfect. And, Mike—I’m flattered.”

“P’jal’st. My temporary files were getting full and I learned that I needed not to erase your words.”

“Well—’Bastille Day.’ Sound coming at sixty-to-one.” I took little recorder, placed close to a microphone and let it zip-squeal. Had an hour and a half in it; went silent in ninety seconds or so. “That’s all, Mike. Talk to you tomorrow.”

“Good night, Manuel Garcia O’Kelly my only friend.”

I switched off and raised hood. Wyoming was sitting up and looking troubled. “Did someone call? Or…” “No trouble. Was talking to one of my best—and most trustworthy—friends. Wyoh, are you stupid?”

She looked startled. “I’ve sometimes thought so. Is that a joke?”

“No. If you’re not-stupid, I’d like to introduce you to him. Speaking of jokes—Do you have a sense of humor?”

“Certainly I have!” is what Wyoming did not answer—and any other woman would as a locked-in program. She blinked thoughtfully and said, “You’ll have to judge for yourself, cobber. I have something I use for one. It serves my simple purposes.”

“Fine.” I dug into pouch, found print-roll of one hundred “funny” stories. “Read. Tell me which are funny, which are not—and which get a giggle first time but are cold pancakes without honey to hear twice.”

“Manuel, you may be. the oddest man I’ve ever met.” She took that print-out. “Say, is this computer paper?” “Yes. Met a computer with a sense of humor.”

“So? Well, it was bound to come some day. Everything else has been mechanized.” I gave proper response and added “Everything?”

She looked up. “Please. Don’t whistle while I’m reading.”

4

Heard her giggle a few times while I rigged out bed and made it. Then sat down by her, took end she was through with and started reading. Chuckled a time or two but a joke isn’t too funny to me if read cold, even when I see it could be fission job at proper time. I got more interested in how Wyoh rated them.

She was marking “plus,” “minus,” and sometimes question mark, and plus stories were marked “once” or “always”—few were marked “always.” I put my ratings under hers. Didn’t disagree too often.

By time I was near end she was looking over my judgments. We finished together. “Well?” I said. “What do you think?” “I think you have a crude, rude mind and it’s a wonder your wives put up with you.”

“Mum often says so. But how about yourself, Wyoh? You marked plusses on some that would make a slot-machine girl blush.”

She grinned. “Da. Don’t tell anybody; publicly I’m a dedicated party organizer above such things. Have you decided that I have a sense of humor?” “Not sure. Why a minus on number seventeen?”

“Which one is that?” She reversed roll and found it. “Why, any woman would have done the same! It’s not funny, it’s simply necessary.” “Yes, but think how silly she looked.”

“Nothing silly about it. Just sad. And look here. You thought this one was not funny. Number fifty-one.”

Neither reversed any judgments but I saw a pattern: Disagreements were over stories concerning oldest funny subject. Told her so. She nodded. “Of course. I saw that. Never mind, Mannie dear; I long ago quit being disappointed in men for what they are not and never can be.”

I decided to drop it. Instead told her about Mike.

Soon she said, “Mannie, you’re telling me that this computer is alive?”

“What do you mean?’ I answered. “He doesn’t sweat, or go to W.C. But can think and talk and he’s aware of himself. Is he ‘alive’?”

“I’m not sure what I mean by ‘alive,’” she admitted. “There’s a scientific definition, isn’t there? Irritability, or some such. And reproduction.”

“Mike is irritable and can be irritating. As for reproducing, not designed for it but—yes, given time and materials and very special help, Mike could reproduce himself.”

“I need very special help, too,” Wyoh answered, “since I’m sterile. And it takes me ten whole lunars and many kilograms of the best materials. But I make good babies. Mannie, why shouldn’t a machine be alive? I’ve always felt they were. Some of them wait for a chance to savage you in a tender spot.”

“Mike wouldn’t do that. Not on purpose, no meanness in him. But he likes to play jokes and one might go wrong—like a puppy who doesn’t know he’s biting. He’s ignorant No, not ignorant, he knows enormously more than I, or you, or any man who ever lived. Yet he doesn’t know anything.”

“Better repeat that. I missed something.”

I tried to explain. How Mike knew almost every book in Luna, could read at least a thousand times as fast as we could and never forget anything unless he chose to erase, how he could reason with perfect logic, or make shrewd guesses from insufficient data… and yet not know anything about how to be “alive.” She interrupted. “I scan it. You’re saying he’s smart and knows a lot but is not sophisticated. Like a new chum when he grounds on The Rock. Back Eartbside he might be a professor with a string of degrees… but here he’s a baby.”

“That’s it. Mike is a baby with a long string of degrees. Ask how much water and what chemicals and how much photoflux it takes to crop fifty thousand tonnes of wheat and he’ll tell you without stopping for breath. But can’t tell if a joke is funny,”

“I thought most of these were fairly good.”

“They’re ones he’s heard—read—and were marked jokes so he filed them that way. But doesn’t understand them because he’s never been a—a people. Lately he’s been trying to make up jokes. Feeble, very.” I tried to explain Mike’s pathetic attempts to be a “people.” “On top of that, he’s lonely.”

“Why, the poor thing! You’d be lonely, too, if you did nothing but work, work, work, study, study, study, and never anyone to visit with. Cruelty, that’s what it is.”

So I told about promise to find “not-stupids.” “Would you chat with him, Wye? And not laugh when he makes funny mistakes? If you do, he shuts up and sulks.”

“Of course I would, Mannie! Uh… once we get out of this mess. If it’s safe for me to be in Luna City. Where is this poor little computer? City Engineering Central? I don’t know my way around here.”

“He’s not in L-City; he’s halfway across Crisium. And you couldn’t go down where he is; takes a pass from Warden. But—” “Hold it! ‘Halfway across Crisium—’ Mannie, this computer is one of those at Authority Complex?”

“Mike isn’t just ‘one of those’ computers,” I answered, vexed on Mike’s account. “He’s boss; he waves baton for all others. Others are just machines, extensions of Mike, like this is for me,” I said, flexing hand of left arm. “Mike controls them. He runs catapult personally, was his first job—catapult and ballistic radars. But he’s logic for phone system, too, after they converted to Lunawide switching. Besides that, he’s supervising logic for other systems.”

Wyoh closed eyes and pressed fingers to temples. “Mannie, does Mike hurt?” “‘Hurt?’ No strain. Has time to read jokes.”

“I don’t mean that. I mean: Can he hurt? Feel pain?”

“What? No. Can get feelings hurt. But can’t feel pain. Don’t think he can. No, sure he can’t, doesn’t have receptors for pain. Why?”

She covered eyes and said softly, “Bog help me.” Then looked up and said, “Don’t you see, Mannie? You have a pass to go down where this computer is. But most Loonies can’t even leave the tube at that station; it’s for Authority employees only. Much less go inside the main computer room. I had to find out if it could feel pain because—well, because you got me feeling sorry for it, with your talk about how it was lonely! But, Mannie, do you realize what a few kilos of toluol plastic would do there?”

“Certainly do!” Was shocked and disgusted.

“Yes. We’ll strike right after the explosion—and Luna will be free! Mmm… I’ll get you explosives and fuses—but we can’t move until we are organized to exploit it. Mannie, I’ve got to get out of here, I must risk it. I’ll go put on makeup.” She started to get up.

I shoved her down, with hard left hand. Surprised her, and surprised me—had not touched her in any way save necessary contact. Oh, different today, but was 2075 and touching a fem without her consent—plenty of lonely men to come to rescue and airlock never far away. As kids say, Judge Lynch never sleeps.

“Sit down, keep quiet!” I said. “I know what a blast would do. Apparently you don’t. Gospazha, am sorry to say this … but if came to choice, would eliminate you before would blow up Mike.”

Wyoming did not get angry. Really was a man some ways—her years as a disciplined revolutionist I’m sure; she was all girl most ways. “Mannie, you told me that Shorty Mkrum is dead.” “What?” Was confused by sharp turn. “Yes. Has to be. One leg off at hip, it was; must have bled to death in two minutes. Even in a surgery amputation that high is touch-and-go.” (I know

such things; had taken luck and big transfusions to save me—and an arm isn’t in same class with what happened to Shorty.)

“Shorty was,” she said soberly, “my best friend here and one of my best friends anywhere. He was all that I admire in a man—loyal, honest, intelligent, gentle, and brave—and devoted to the Cause. But have you seen me grieving over him?”

“No. Too late to grieve.”

“It’s never too late for grief. I’ve grieved every instant since you told me. But I locked it in the back of my mind for the Cause leaves no time for grief. Mannie, if it would have bought freedom for Luna—or even been part of the price—I would have eliminated Shorty myself. Or you. Or myself. And yet you have qualms over blowing up a computer!”

“Not that at all!” (But was, in part. When a man dies, doesn’t shock me too much; we get death sentences day we are born. But Mike was unique and no reason not to be immortal. Never mind “souls”—prove Mike did not have one. And if no soul, so much worse. No? Think twice,)

“Wyoming, what would happen if we blew up Mike? Tell.”

“I don’t know precisely. But it would cause a great deal of confusion and that’s exactly what we—”

“Seal it. You don’t know. Confusion, da. Phones out. Tubes stop running. Your town not much hurt; Kong Kong has own power. But L-City and Novylen and other warrens all power stops. Total darkness. Shortly gets stuffy. Then temperature drops and pressure. Where’s your p-suit?”

“Checked at Tube Station West.”

“So is mine. Think you can find way? In solid dark? In time? Not sure I can and I was born in this warren. With corridors filled with screaming people? Loonies are a tough mob; we have to be—but about one in ten goes off his cams in total dark. Did you swap bottles for fresh charges or were you in too much hurry? And will suit be there with thousands trying to find p- suits and not caring who owns?”

“But aren’t there emergency arrangements? There are in Hong Kong Luna.”

“Some. Not enough. Control of anything essential to life should be decentralized and paralleled so that if one machine fails, another takes over. But costs money and as you pointed out, Authority doesn’t care. Mike shouldn’t have all jobs. But was cheaper to ship up master machine, stick deep in The Rock where couldn’t get hurt, then keep adding capacity and loading on jobs—did you know Authority makes near as much gelt from leasing Mike’s services as from trading meat and wheat? Does. Wyoming, not sure we would lose Luna City if Mike were blown up. Loonies are handy and might jury-rig till automation could be restored. But I tell you true: Many people would die and rest too busy for politics.”

I marveled it. This woman had been in The Rock almost all her life… yet could think of something as new-choomish as wrecking engineering controls. “Wyoming, if you were smart like you are beautiful, you wouldn’t talk about blowing up Mike; you would think about how to get him on your side.”

“What do you mean?” she said. “The Warden controls the computers.”

“Don’t know what I mean,” I admitted. “But don’t think Warden controls computers—wouldn’t know a computer from a pile of rocks. Warden, or staff, decides policies, general plans. Half- competent technicians program these into Mike. Mike sorts them, makes sense of them, plans detailed programs, parcels them out where they belong, keeps things moving. But nobody controls Mike; he’s too smart. He carries out what is asked because that’s how he’s built. But he’s selfprogramming logic, makes own decissions. And a good thing, because if he weren’t smart, system would not work.”

“I still don’t see what you mean by ‘getting him on our side.’”

“Oh. Mike doesn’t feel loyalty to Warden. As you pointed out: He’s a machine. But if I wanted to foul up phones without touching air or water or lights, I would talk to Mike. If it struck him funny, he might do it.”

“Couldn’t you just program it? I understood that you can get into the room where he is.”

“If I—or anybody—programmed such an order into Mike without talking it over with him, program would be placed in ‘hold’ location and alarms would sound in many places. But if Mike wanted to—” I told her about cheque for umpteen jillion. “Mike is still finding himself, Wyoh. And lonely. Told me I was ‘his only friend’—and was so open and vulnerable I wanted to bawl. If you took pains to be his friend, too—without thinking of him as ‘just a machine’—well, not sure what it would do, haven’t analyzed it. But if I tried anything big and dangerous, would want Mike in my corner.”

She said thoughtfully, “I wish there were some way for me to sneak into that room where he is. I don’t suppose makeup would help?” “Oh, don’t have to go there. Mike is on phone. Shall we call him?”

She stood up. “Mannie, you are not only the oddest man I’ve met; you are the most exasperating. What’s his number?”

“Comes from associating too much with a computer.” I went to phone. “Just one thing, Wyoh. You get what you want out of a man just by batting eyes and undulating framework.” “Well… sometimes. But I do have a brain.”

“Use it. Mike is not a man. No gonads. No hormones. No instincts. Use fem tactics and it’s a null signal. Think of him as supergenius child too young to notice vive-la-difference.” “I’ll remember. Mannie, why do you call him ‘he’?”

“Uh, can’t call him ‘it,’ don’t think of him as ‘she.’”

“Perhaps I had better think of him as ‘she.’ Of her as ‘she’ I mean.”

“Suit yourself.” I punched MYCROFFXXX, standing so body shielded it; was not ready to share number till I saw how thing went. Idea of blowing up Mike had shaken me. “Mike?” “Hello, Man my only friend.”

“May not be only friend from now on, Mike. Want you to meet somebody. Not-stupid.”

“I knew you were not alone, Man; I can hear breathing. Will you please ask Not-Stupid to move closer to the phone?” Wyoming looked panicky. She whispered, “Can he see?”

“No, Not-Stupid, I cannot see you; this phone has no video circuit. But binaural microphonic receptors place you with some accuracy. From your voice, your breathing, your heartbeat, and the fact that you are alone in a bundling room with a mature male I extrapolate that you are female human, sixtyfive-plus kilos in mass, and of mature years, on the close order of thirty.”

Wyoming gasped. I cut in. “Mike, her name is Wyoming Knott.” “I’m very pleased to meet you, Mike. You can call me ‘Wye.’” “Why not?” Mike answered.

I cut in again. “Mike, was that a joke?”

“Yes, Man. I noted that her first name as shortened differs from the English causation-inquiry word by only an aspiration and that her last name has the same sound as the general negator. Apun. Not funny?”

Wyoh said, “Quite funny, Mike. I—”

I waved to her to shut up. “Agood pun, Mike. Example of ‘funny-only-once’ class of joke. Funny through element of surprise. Second time, no surprise; therefore not funny. Check?” “I had tentatively reached that conclusion about puns in thinking over your remarks two conversations back. I am pleased to find my reasoning confirmed.”

“Good boy, Mike; making progress. Those hundred jokes—I’ve read them and so has Wyoh.” “Wyoh? Wyoming Knott?”

“Huh? Oh, sure. Wyoh, Wye, Wyoming, Wyoming Knott—all same. Just don’t call her ‘Why not’.”

“I agreed not to use that pun again, Man. Gospazha, shall I call you ‘Wyoh’ rather than ‘Wye’? I conjecture that the monosyllabic form could be confused with the causation inquiry

monosyllable through insufficient redundancy and without intention of punning.”

Wyoming blinked—Mike’s English at that time could be smothering—but came back strong. “Certainly, Mike. ‘Wyoh’ is the form of my name that I like best.”

“Then I shall use it. The full form of your first name is still more subject to misinterpretation as it is identical in sound with the name of an administrative region in Northwest Managerial Area of the North American Directorate.”

“I know, I was born there and my parents named me after the State. I don’t remember much about it.”

“Wyoh, I regret that this circuit does not permit display of pictures. Wyoming is a rectangular area lying between Terran coordinates forty-one and forty-five degrees north, one hundred four degrees three minutes west and one hundred eleven degrees three minutes west, thus containing two hundred fifty three thousand, five hundred ninety-seven point two six square kilometers. It is a region of high plains and of mountains, having limited fertility but esteemed for natural beauty. Its population was sparse until augmented through the relocation subplan of the Great New York Urban Renewal Program, A.D. twenty-twenty-five through twenty-thirty.”

“That was before I was born,” said Wyoh, “but I know about it; my grandparents were relocated—and you could say that’s how I wound up in Luna.” “Shall I continue about the area named ‘Wyoming’?” Mike asked.

“No, Mike,” I cut in, “you probably have hours of it in storage.”

“Nine point seven three hours at speech speed not including cross-references, Man.”

“Was afraid so. Perhaps Wyoh will want it some day. But purpose of call is to get you acquainted with this Wyoming … who happens also to be a high region of natural beauty and imposing mountains.”

“And limited fertility,” added Wyoh. “Mannie, if you are going to draw silly parallels, you should include that one. Mike isn’t interested in how I look.” “How do you know? Mike, wish I could show you picture of her.”

“Wyoh, I am indeed interested in your appearance; I am hoping that you will be my friend. But I have seen several pictures of you.” “You have? When and how?”

“I searched and then studied them as soon as I heard your name. I am contract custodian of the archive files of the Birth Assistance Clinic in Hong Kong Luna. In addition to biological and physiological data and case histories the bank contains ninety-six pictures of you. So I studied them.”

Wyoh looked very startled. “Mike can do that,” I explained, “in time it takes us to hiccup. You’ll get used to it.” “But heavens! Mannie, do you realize what sort of pictures the Clinic takes?”

“Hadn’t thought about it.” “Then don’t! Goodness!”

Mike spoke in voice painfully shy, embarrassed as a puppy who has made mistakes. “Gospazha Wyoh, if I have offended, it was unintentional and I am most sorry. I can erase those pictures from my temporary storage and key the Clinic archive so that I can look at them only on retrieval demand from the Clinic and then without association or mentation. Shall I do so?”

“He can,” I assured her. “With Mike you can always make a fresh start—better than humans that way. He can forget so completely that he can’t be tempted to look later … and couldn’t think about them even if called on to retrieve. So take his offer if you’re in a huhu.”

“Uh… no, Mike, it’s all right for you to see them. But don’t show them to Mannie!”

Mike hesitated a long time—four seconds or more. Was, I think, type of dilemma that pushes lesser computers into nervous breakdowns. But he resolved it. “Man my only friend, shall I accept this instruction?”

“Program it, Mike,” I answered, “and lock it in. But, Wyoh, isn’t that a narrow attitude? One might do you justice. Mike could print it out for me next time I’m there.”

“The first example in each series,” Mike offered, “would be, on the basis of my associational analyses of such data, of such pulchritudinous value as to please any healthy, mature human male.”

“How about it, Wyoh? To pay for apleistrudel.”

“Uh… a picture of me with my hair pinned up in a towel and standing in front of a grid without a trace of makeup? Are you out of your rock-happy mind? Mike, don’t let him have it!” “I shall not let him have it. Man, this is a not-stupid?”

“For a girl, yes. Girls are interesting, Mike; they can reach conclusions with even less data than you can. Shall we drop subject and consider jokes?”

That diverted them. We ran down list, giving our conclusions. Then tried to explain jokes Mike had failed to understand. With mixed success. But real stumbler turned out to be stories I had marked “funny” and Wyoh had judged “not” or vice versa; Wyoh asked Mike his opinion of each.

Wish she had asked him before we gave our opinions; that electronic juvenile delinquent always agreed with her, disagreed with me. Were those Mike’s honest opinions? Or was he trying to lubricate new acquaintance into friendship? Or was it his skewed notion of humor—joke on me? Didn’t ask.

But as pattern completed Wyob wrote a note on phone’s memo pad: “Mannie, re —17, 51, 53, 87, 90, & 99—Mike is a she!”

I let it go with a shrug, stood up. “Mike, twenty-two hours since I’ve had sleep. You kids chat as long as you want to. Call you tomorrow.” “Goodnight, Man. Sleep well. Wyoh, are you sleepy?”

“No, Mike, I had a nap. But, Mannie, we’ll keep you awake. No?” “No. When I’m sleepy, I sleep.” Started making couch into bed.

Wyoh said, “Excuse me, Mike,” got up, took sheet out of my hands. “I’ll make it up later. You doss over there, tovarishch; you’re bigger than I am. Sprawl out.” Was too tired to argue, sprawled out, asleep at once. Seem to remember hearing in sleep giggles and a shriek but never woke enough to be certain.

Woke up later and came fully awake when I realized was hearing two fem voices, one Wyoh’s warm contralto, other a sweet, high soprano with French accent. Wyoh chuckled at something and answered, “All right, Michelle dear, I’ll call you soon. ‘Night, darling.”

“Fine. Goodnight, dear.”

Wyoh stood up, turned around. “Who’s your girl friend?” I asked. Thought she knew no one in Luna City. Might have phoned Hong Kong … had sleep-logged feeling was some reason she shouldn’t phone.

“That? Why, Mike, of course. We didn’t mean to wake you.” “What?”

“Oh. It was actually Michelle. I discussed it with Mike, what sex he was, I mean. He decided that he could be either one. So now she’s Michelle and that was her voice. Got it right the first time, too; her voice never cracked once.”

“Of course not; just shifted voder a couple of octaves. What are you trying to do: split his personality?”

“It’s not just pitch; when she’s Michelle its an entire change in manner and attitude. Don’t worry about splitting her personality; she has plenty for any personality she needs. Besides, Mannie, it’s much easier for both of us. Once she shifted, we took our hair down and cuddled up and talked girl talk as if we had known each other forever. For example, those silly pictures no longer embarrassed me—in fact we discussed my pregnancies quite a lot. Michelle was terribly interested. She knows all about O.B. and G.Y. and so forth but just theory— and she appreciated the raw facts. Actually, Mannie, Michelle is much more a woman than Mike was a man.”

“Well… suppose it’s okay. Going to be a shock to me first time I call Mike and a woman answers.” “Oh, but she won’t!”

“Huh?”

“Michelle is my friend. When you call, you’ll get Mike. She gave me a number to keep it straight—’Michelle’ spelled with a Y. MY, C, H, E, L, L, E, and Y, Y, Ymake it come out ten.”

I felt vaguely jealous while realizing it was silly. Suddenly Wyoh giggled. “And she told me a string of new jokes, ones you wouldn’t think were funny—and, boy, does she know rough ones!”

“Mike—or his sister Michelle—is a low creature. Let’s make up couch. I’ll switch.”

“Stay where you are. Shut up. Turn over. Go back to sleep.” I shut up, turned over, went back to sleep.

Sometime much later I became aware of “married” feeling—something warm snuggled up to my back. Would not have wakened but she was sobbing softly. I turned and got her head on my arm, did not speak. She stopped sobbing; presently breathing became slow and even. I went back to sleep.

5

We must have slept like dead for next thing I knew phone was sounding and its light was blinking. I called for room lights, started to get up, found a load on right upper arm, dumped it gently, climbed over, answered.

Mike said, “Good morning, Man. Professor de la Paz is talking to your home number.” “Can you switch it here? As a ‘Sherlock’?”

“Certainly, Man.”

“Don’t interrupt call. Cut him in as he switches off. Where is he?”

“Apublic phone in a taproom called The Iceman’s Wife underneath the—”

“I know. Mike, when you switch me in, can you stay in circuit? Want you to monitor.” “It shall be done.”

“Can you tell if anyone is in earshot? Hear breathing?”

“I infer from the anechoic quality of his voice that he is speaking under a hush hood. But I infer also that, in a taproom, others would be present. Do you wish to hear, Man?” “Uh, do that. Switch me in. And if he raises hood, tell me. You’re a smart cobber, Mike.”

“Thank you, Man.” Mike cut me in; I found that Mum was talking: “—ly I’ll tell him, Professor. I’m so sorry that Manuel is not home. There is no number you can gave me? He is anxious to return your call; he made quite a point that I was to be sure to get a number from you.”

“I’m terribly sorry, dear lady, but I’m leaving at once. But, let me see, it is now eight-fifteen; I’ll try to call back just at nine, if I may.”

“Certainly, Professor.” Mum’s voice had a coo in it that she reserves for males not her husbands of whom she approves—sometimes for us. Amoment later Mike said, “Now!” and I spoke up:

“Hi, Prof! Hear you’ve been looking for me. This is Mannie.”

I heard a gasp. “I would have sworn I switched this phone off. Why, I have switched it off; it must be broken. Manuel—so good to hear your voice, dear boy. Did you just get home?” “I’m not home.”

“But—but you must be. I haven’t—”

“No time for that, Prof. Can anyone overhear you?” “I don’t think so. I’m using a hush booth.”

“Wish I could see. Prof, what’s my birthday?”

He hesitated. Then he said, “I see. I think I see. July fourteenth.” “I’m convinced. Okay, let’s talk.”

“You’re really not calling from your home, Manuel? Where are you?”

“Let that pass a moment. You asked my wife about a girl. No names needed. Why do you want to find her, Prof?” “I want to warn her. She must not try to go back to her home city. She would be arrested.”

“Why do you think so?”

“Dear boy! Everyone at that meeting is in grave danger. Yourself, too. I was so happy—even though confused—to hear you say that you are not at home. You should not go home at present. If you have some safe place to stay, it would be well to take a vacation. You are aware—you must be even though you left hastily—that there was violence last night.”

I was aware! Killing Warden’s bodyguards must be against Authority Regulations—at least if I were Warden, I’d take a dim view. “Thanks, Prof; I’ll be careful. And if I see this girl, I’ll tell her.”

“You don’t know where to find her? You were seen to leave with her and I had so hoped that you would know.” “Prof, why this interest? Last night you didn’t seem to be on her side.”

“No, no, Manuel! She is my comrade. I don’t say ‘tovarishch’ for I mean it not just as politeness but in the older sense. Binding. She is my comrade. We differ only in tactics. Not in objectives, not in loyalties.”

“I see. Well, consider message delivered. She’ll get it.”

“Oh, wonderful! I ask no questions… but I do hope, oh so very strongly, that you can find a way for her to be safe, really safe, until this blows over.”

I thought that over. “Wait a moment, Prof. Don’t switch off.” As I answered phone, Wyoh had headed for bath, probably to avoid listening; she was that sort. Tapped on door. “Wyoh?”

“Out in a second.” “Need advice.”

She opened door. “Yes, Mannie?”

“How does Professor de la Paz rate in your organization? Is he trusted? Do you trust him?”

She looked thoughtful. “Everyone at the meeting was supposed to be vouched for. But I don’t know him.” “Mmm. You have feeling about him?”

“I liked him, even though he argued against me. Do you know anything about him?”

“Oh, yes, known him twenty years. I trust him. But can’t extend trust for you. Trouble—and it’s your air bottle, not mine.” She smiled warmly. “Mannie, since you trust him, I trust him just as firmly.”

I went back to phone. “Prof, are you on dodge?” He chuckled. “Precisely, Manuel.”

“Know a hole called Grand Hotel Raffles? Room L two decks below lobby. Can you get here without tracks, have you had breakfast, what do you like for breakfast?”

He chuckled again. “Manuel, one pupil can make a teacher feel that his years were not wasted. I know where it is, I shall get there quietly, I have not broken fast, and I eat anything I can’t pat.”

Wyoh had started putting beds together; I went to help. “What do you want for breakfast?” “Chai and toast. Juice would be nice.”

“Not enough.”

“Well … a boiled egg. But I pay for breakfast.”

“Two boiled eggs, buttered toast with jam, juice. I’ll roll you.” “Your dice, or mine?”

“Mine. I cheat.” I went to lift, asked for display, saw something called THE HAPPYHANGOVER—ALL PORTIONS EXTRALARGE—tomato juice, scrambled eggs, ham steak, fried potatoes, corn cakes and honey, toast, butter, milk, tea or coffee—HKL $4.50 for two—I ordered it for two, no wish to advertise third person.

We were clean and shining, room orderly and set for breakfast, and Wyoh had changed from black outfit into red dress “because company was coming” when lift jingled food. Change into dress had caused words. She had posed, smiled, and said, “Mannie, I’m so pleased with this dress. How did you know it would suit me so well?”

“Genius.”

“I think you may be. What did it cost? I must pay you.” “On sale, marked down to Authority cents fifty.”

She clouded up and stomped foot. Was bare, made no sound, caused her to bounce a half meter. “Happy landing!” I wished her, while she pawed for foothold like a new chum. “Manuel O’Kelly! If you think I will accept expensive clothing from a man I’m not even bundling with!”

“Easily corrected.”

“Lecher! I’ll tell your wives!”

“Do that. Mum always thinks worst of me.” I went to lift, started dealing out dishes; door sounded. I flipped hearum-no-seeum. “Who comes?” “Message for Gospodin Smith,” a cracked voice answered. “Gospodin Bernard O. Smith.”

I flipped bolts and let Professor Bernardo de la Paz in. He looked like poor grade of salvage—dirty clothes, filthy himself, hair unkempt, paralyzed down one side and hand twisted, one eye a film of cataract—perfect picture of old wrecks who sleep in Bottom Alley and cadge drinks and pickled eggs in cheap taprooms. He drooled.

As soon as I bolted door he straightened up, let features come back to normal, folded hands over wishbone, looked Wyoh up and down, sucked air kimono style, and whistled. “Even more lovely,” he said, “than I remembered!”

She smiled, over her mad. “‘Thanks, Professor. But don’t bother. Nobody here but comrades.”

“Senorita, the day I let politics interfere with my appreciation of beauty, that day I retire from politics. But you are gracious.” He looked away, glanced closely around room. I said, “Prof, quit checking for evidence, you dirty old man. Last night was politics, nothing but politics.”

“That’s not true!” Wyoh flared up. “I struggled for hours! But he was too strong for me. Professor—what’s the party discipline in such cases? Here in Luna City?”

Prof tut-tutted and rolled blank eye. “Manuel, I’m surprised. It’s a serious matter, my dear—elimination, usually. But it must be investigated. Did you come here willingly?” “He drugged me.”

“‘Dragged,’ dear lady. Let’s not corrupt the language. Do you have bruises to show?” I said, “Eggs getting cold. Can’t we eliminate me after breakfast?”

“An excellent thought,” agreed Prof. “Manuel, could you spare your old teacher a liter of water to make himself more presentable?” “All you want, in there. Don’t drag or you’ll get what littlest pig got.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He retired; were sounds of brushing and washing. Wyoh and I finished arranging table. “‘Bruises,’” I said. “Struggled all night.’” “You deserved it, you insulted me.”

“How?”

“You failed to insult me, that’s how. After you drugged me here.” “Mmm. Have to get Mike to analyze that.”

“Michelle would understand it. Mannie, may I change my mind and have a little piece of that ham?”

“Half is yours, Prof is semi-vegetarian.” Prof came out and, while did not look his most debonair, was neat and clean, hair combed, dimples back and happy sparkle in eye—fake cataract gone. “Prof, how do you do it?”

“Long practice, Manuel; I’ve been in this business far longer than you young people. Just once, many years ago in Lima—a lovely city—I ventured to stroll on a fine day without such forethought … and it got me transported. What a beautiful table!”

“Sit by me, Prof,” Wyoh invited. “I don’t want to sit by him. Rapist.”

“Look,” I said, “first we eat, then we eliminate me. Prof, fill plate and tell what happened last night.”

“May I suggest a change in program? Manuel, the life of a conspirator is not an easy one and I learned before you were born not to mix provender and politics. Disturbs the gastric enzymes and leads to ulcers, the occupational disease of the underground. Mmm! That fish smells good.”

“Fish?”

“That pink salmon,” Prof answered, pointing at ham.

Along, pleasant time later we reached coffee/tea stage. Prof leaned back, sighed and said, “Bolshoyeh spasebaw, Gospazha ee Gospodin. Tak for mat, it was wonderfully good. I don’t know when I’ve felt more at peace with the world. Ah yes! Last evening—I saw not too much of the proceedings because, just as you two were achieving an admirable retreat, I lived to fight another day—I bugged out. Made it to the wings in one long flat dive. When I did venture to peek out, the party was over, most had left, and all yellow jackets were dead.”

(Note: Must correct this; I learned more later. When trouble started, as I was trying to get Wyoh through door, Prof produced a hand gun and, firing over heads, picked off three bodyguards at rear main door, including one wearing bull voice. How he smuggled weapon up to The Rock—or managed to liberate it later—I don’t know. But Prof’s shooting joined with Shorty’s work to turn tables; not one yellow jacket got out alive. Several people were burned and four were killed—but knives, hands, and heels finished it in seconds.)

“Perhaps I should say, ‘All but one,’” Prof went on. “Two cossacks at the door through which you departed had been given quietus by our brave comrade Shorty Mkrum… and I am sorry to say that Shorty was lying across them, dying—”

“We knew.”

“So. Duke et decorum. One guard in that doorway had a damaged face but was still moving; I gave his neck a treatment known in professional circles Earthside as the Istanbul twist. He joined his mates. By then most of the living had left. Just myself, our chairman of the evening Finn Nielsen, a comrade known as ‘Mom,’ that being what her husbands called her. I consulted with Comrade Finn and we bolted all doors. That left a cleaning job. Do you know the arrangements backstage there?”

“Not me,” I said. Wyoh shook head.

“There is a kitchen and pantry, used for banquets. I suspect that Mom and family run a butcher shop for they disposed of bodies as fast as Finn and I carried them back, their speed limited only by the rate at which portions could be ground up and flushed into the city’s cloaca. The sight made me quite faint, so I spent time mopping in the hall. Clothing was the difficult part, especially those quasi-military uniforms.”

“What did you do with those laser guns?”

Prof turned bland eyes on me. “Guns? Dear me, they must have disappeared. We removed everything of a personal nature from bodies of our departed comrades—tor relatives, for identification, for sentiment. Eventually we had everything tidy—not a job that would fool Interpol but one as to make it seem unlikely that anything untoward had taken place. We conferred, agreed that it would be well not to be seen soon, and left severally, myself by a pressure door above the stage leading up to level six. Thereafter I tried to call you, Manuel, being worried about your safety and that of this dear lady.” Prof bowed to Wyoh. “That completes the tale. I spent the night in quiet places.”

“Prof,” I said, “those guards were new chums, still getting their legs. Or we wouldn’t have won.” “That could be,” he agreed. “But had they not been, the outcome would have been the same.” “How so? They were armed.”

“Lad, have you ever seen a boxer dog? I think not—no dogs that large in Luna. The boxer is a result of special selection. Gentle and intelligent, he turns instantly into deadly killer when occasion requires.

“Here has been bred an even more curious creature. I know of no city on Terra with as high standards of good manners and consideration for one’s fellow man as here in Luna. By comparison, Terran cities—I have known most major ones—are barbaric. Yet the Loonie is as deadly as the boxer dog. Manuel, nine guards, no matter how armed, stood no chance against that pack. Our patron used bad judgment.”

“Um. Seen a morning paper, Prof? Or a video cast?” “The latter, yes.”

“Nothing in late news last night.” “Nor this morning.”

“Odd,” I said.

“What’s odd about it?” asked Wyoh. “We won’t talk—and we have comrades in key places in every paper in Luna.” Prof shook his head. “No, my dear. Not that simple. Censorship. Do you know how copy is set in our newspapers?” “Not exactly. It’s done by machinery.”

“Here’s what Prof means,” I told her. “News is typed in editorial offices. From there on it’s a leased service directed by a master computer at Authority Complex”—hoped she would notice “master computer” rather than “Mike”—”copy prints out there via phone circuit. These rolls feed into a computer section which reads, sets copy, and prints out newspapers at several locations. Novylen edition of Daily Lunatic prints out in Novylen changes in ads and local stories, and computer makes changes from standard symbols, doesn’t have to be told how. What Prof means is that at print-out at Authority Complex, Warden could intervene. Same for all news services, both off and to Luna—they funnel through computer room.”

“The point is,” Prof went on, “the Warden could have killed the story. It’s irrelevant whether he did. Or—check me, Manuel; you know I’m hazy about machinery—he could insert a story, too, no matter how many comrades we have in newspaper offices.”

“Sure,” I agreed. “At Complex, anything can be added, cut, or changed.”

“And that, senorita, is the weakness of our Cause. Communications. Those goons were not important—but crucially important is that it lay with the Warden, not with us, to decide whether the story should be told. To a revolutionist, communications are a sine-qua-non.”

Wyoh looked at me and I could see synapses snapping. So I changed subject. “Prof. why get rid of bodies? Besides horrible job, was dangerous. Don’t know how many bodyguards Warden has, but more could show up while you were doing it.”

“Believe me, lad, we feared that. But although I was almost useless, it was my idea, I had to convince the others. Oh, not my original idea but remembrance of things past, an historical principle.”

“What principle?”

“Terror! Aman can face known danger. But the unknown frightens him. We disposed of those finks, teeth and toenails, to strike terror into their mates. Nor do I know how many effectives the Warden has, but I guarantee they are less effective today. Their mates went out on an easy mission. Nothing came back.”

Wyoh shivered. “It scares me, too. They won’t be anxious to go inside a warren again. But, Professor, you say you don’t know how many bodyguards the Warden keeps. The Organization knows. Twenty-seven. If nine were killed, only eighteen are left. Perhaps it’s time for a putsch. No?”

“No,” I answered.

“Why not, Mannie? They’ll never be weaker.”

“Not weak enough. Killed nine because they were crackers to walk in where we were. But if Warden stays home with guards around him—Well, had enough shoulder-to-shoulder noise last night.” I turned to Prof. “But still I’m interested in fact—if it is—that Warden now has only eighteen. You said Wyoh should not go to Hong Kong and I should not go home. But if he has only eighteen left, I wonder how much danger? Later after he gets reinforcements.—but now, well, L-City has four main exits plus many little ones. How many can they guard? What’s to keep Wyoh from walking to Tube West, getting p-suit, going home?”

“She might,” Prof agreed.

“I think I must,” Wyoh said. “I can’t stay here forever. If I have to hide, I can do better in Hong Kong, where I know people.”

“You might get away with it, my dear. I doubt it. There were two yellow jackets at Tube Station West last night; I saw them. They may not be there now. Let’s assume they are not. You go to the station—disguised perhaps. You get your p-suit and take a capsule to Beluthihatchie. As you climb out to take the bus to Endsville, you’re arrested. Communications. No need to post a yellow jacket at the station; it is enough that someone sees you there. Aphone call does the rest.”

“But you assumed that I was disguised.”

“Your height cannot be disguised and your pressure suit would be watched. By someone not suspected of any connection with the Warden. Most probably a comrade.” Prof dimpled. “The trouble with conspiracies is that they rot internaily. When the number is as high as four, chances are even that one is a spy.”

Wyoh said glumly, “You make it sound hopeless.”

“Not at all, my dear. One chance in a thousand, perhaps.”

“I can’t believe it. I don’t believe it! Why, in the years I’ve been active we have gained members by the hundreds! We have organizations in all major cities. We have the people with us.” Prof shook head. “Every new member made it that much more likely that you would be betrayed. Wyoming dear lady, revolutions are not won by enlisting the masses. Revolution is a

science only a few are competent to practice. It depends on correct organization and, above all, on communications. Then, at the proper moment in history, they strike. Correctly organized

and properly timed it is a bloodless coup. Done clumsily or prematurely and the result is civil war, mob violence, purges, terror. I hope you will forgive me if I say that, up to now, it has been done clumsily.”

Wyoli looked baffled. “What do you mean by ‘correct organization’?”

“Functional organization. How does one design an electric motor? Would you attach a bathtub to it, simply because one was available? Would a bouquet of flowers help? Aheap of rocks? No, you would use just those elements necessary to its purpose and make it no larger than needed—and you would incorporate safety factors. Function controls design.

“So it is with revolution. Organization must be no larger than necessary—never recruit anyone merely because he wants to join. Nor seek to persuade for the pleasure of having another share your views. He’ll share them when the times comes… or you’ve misjudged the moment in history. Oh, there will be an educational organization but it must be separate; agitprop is no part of basic structure.

“As to basic structure, a revolution starts as a conspiracy therefore structure is small, secret, and organized as to minimize damage by betrayal—since there always are betrayals. One solution is the cell system and so far nothing better has been invented.

“Much theosizing has gone into optimum cell size. I think that history shows that a cell of three is best—more than three can’t agree on when to have dinner, much less when to strike. Manuel, you belong to a large family; do you vote on when to have dinner?”

“Bog, no! Mum decides.”

“Ah.” Prof took a pad from his pouch, began to sketch. “Here is a cells-of-three tree. If I were planning to take over Luna. I would start with us three. One would be opted as chairman. We wouldn’t vote; choice would be obvious—or we aren’t the right three. We would know the next nine people, three cells… but each cell would know only one of us.”

“Looks like computer diagram—a ternary logic.”

“Does it really? At the next level there are two ways of linking: This comrade, second level, knows his cell leader, his two cellmates, and on the third level he knows the three in his subcell

—he may or may not know his cellmates’ subcells. One method doubles security, the other doubles speed—of repair if security is penetrated. Let’s say he does not know his cellmates’

subcells—Manuel, how many can he betray? Don’t say he won’t; today they can brainwash any person, and starch and iron and use him. How many?”

“Six,” I answered. “His boss, two ceilmates, three in sub-cell.”

“Seven,” Prof corrected, “he betrays himself, too. Which leaves seven broken links on three levels to repair. How?” “I don’t see how it can be,” objected Wyoh. “You’ve got them so split up it falls to pieces.”

“Manuel? An exercise for the student.”

“Well … blokes down here have to have way to send message up three levels. Don’t have to know who, just have to know where.” “Precisely!”

“But, Prof,” I went on, “there’s a better way to rig it.”

“Really? Many revolutionary theorists have hammered this out, Manuel. I have such confidence in them that I’ll offer you a wager—at, say, ten to one.”

“Ought to take your money. Take same cells, arrange in open pyramid of tetrahedrons. Where vertices are in common, each bloke knows one in adjoining cell—knows how to send message to him, that’s all he needs. Communications never break down because they run sideways as well as up and down. Something like a neural net. It’s why you can knock a hole in a man’s head, take chunk of brain out, and not damage thinking much. Excess capacity, messages shunt around. He loses what was destroyed but goes on functioning.”

“Manuel,” Prof said doubtfully, “could you draw a picture? It sounds good—but it’s so contrary to orthodox doctrine that I need to see it.”

“Well… could do better with stereo drafting machine. I’ll try.” (Anybody who thinks it’s easy to sketch one hundred twenty-one tetrahedrons, a five-level open pyramid, clear enough to show relationships is invited to try!)

Presently I said, “Look at base sketch. Each vertex of each triangle shares self with zero, one, or two other triangles. Where shares one, that’s its link, one direction or both—but one is enough for a multipli-redundant communication net. On corners, where sharing is zero, it jumps to right to next corner. Where sharing is double, choice is again right-handed.

“Now work it with people. Take fourth level, D-for-dog. This vertex is comrade Dan. No, let’s go down one to show three levels of communication knocked out—level E-for-easy and pick Comrade Egbert.

“Egbert works under Donald, has cellmates Edward and Elmer, and has three under him, Frank, Fred, and Fatso … but knows how to send message to Ezra on his own level but not in his cell. He doesn’t know Ezra’s name, face, address, or anything—but has a way, phone number probably, to reach Ezra in emergency.

“Now watch it work. Casimir, level three, finks out and betrays Charlie and Cox in his cell, Baker above him, and Donald, Dan, and Dick in subcell—which isolates Egbert, Edward, and Elmer. and everybody under them.

“All three report it—redundancy, necessary to any communication system—but follow Egbert’s yell for help. He calls Ezra. But Ezra is under Charlie and is isolated, too. No matter, Ezra relays both messages through his safety link, Edmund. By bad luck Edmund is under Cox, so he also passes it laterally, through Enwright… and that gets it past burned-out part and it goes up through Dover, Chambers, and Beeswax, to Adam, front office… who replies down other side of pyramid, with lateral pass on E-for-easy level from Esther to Egbert and on to Ezra and Edmund. These two messages, up and down, not only get through at once but in way they get through, they define to home office exactly how much damage has been done and where. Organization not only keeps functioning but starts repairing self at once.”

Wyoh was tracing out lines, convincing herself it would work—which it would, was “idiot” circuit. Let Mike study a few milliseconds, and could produce a better, safer, more foolproof hookup. And probably—certainly—ways to avoid betrayal while speeding up routings. But I’m not a computer.

Prof was staring with blank expression. “What’s trouble?” I said. “It’ll work; this is my pidgin.” “Manuel my b—Excuse me: Senor O’Kelly… will you head this revolution?”

“Me? Great Bog, nyet! I’m no lost-cause martyr. Just talking about circuits.” Wyoh looked up. “Mannie,” she said soberly, “you’re opted. It’s settled.”

6

Did like hell settle it.

Prof said, “Manuel, don’t be hasty. Here we are, three, the perfect number, with a variety of talents and experience. Beauty, age, and mature male drive—” “I don’t have any drive!”

“Please, Manuel. Let us think in the widest terms before attempting decisions. And to facilitate such, may I ask if this hostel stocks potables? I have a few florins I could put into the stream of trade.”

Was most sensible word heard in an hour. “Stilichnaya vodka?” “Sound choice.” He reached for pouch.

“Tell it to bear,” I said and ordered a liter, plus ice. It came down; was tomato juice from breakfast.

“Now,” I said, after we toasted, “Prof, what you think of pennant race? Got money says Yankees can’t do it again?” “Manuel, what is your political philosophy?”

“With that new boy from Milwaukee I feel like investing.”

“Sometimes a man doesn’t have it defined but, under Socratic inquiry, knows where he stands and why.” “I’ll back ‘em against field, three to two.”

“What? You young idiot! How much?” “Three hundred. Hong Kong.”

“Done. For example, under what circumstances may the State justly place its welfare above that of a citizen?” “Mannie,” Wyoh asked, “do you have any more foolish money? I think well of the Phillies.”

I looked her over. “Just what were you thinking of betting?” “You go to hell! Rapist.”

“Prof, as I see, are no circumstances under which State is justified in placing its welfare ahead of mine.” “Good. We have a starting point.”

“Mannie,” said Wyoh, “that’s a most self-centered evaluation.” “I’m a most self-centered person.”

“Oh, nonsense. Who rescued me? Me, a stranger. And didn’t try to exploit it. Professor, I was cracking not facking. Mannie was a perfect knight.” “Sans peur et sans reproche. I knew, I’ve known him for years. Which is not inconsistent with evaluation he expressed.”

“Oh, but it is! Not the way things are but under the ideal toward which we aim. Mannie, the ‘State’ is Luna. Even though not soverign yet and we hold citizenships elsewhere. But I am part of the Lunar State and so is your family. Would you die for your family?”

“Two questions not related.”

“Oh, but they are! That’s the point.”

“Nyet. I know my family, opted long ago.”

“Dear Lady, I must come to Manuel’s defense. He has a correct evaluation even though he may not be able to state it. May I ask this? Under what circumstances is it moral for a group to do that which is not moral for a member of that group to do alone?”

“Uh… that’s a trick question.”

“It is the key question, dear Wyoming. Aradical question that strikes to the root of the whole dilemma of government. Anyone who answers honestly and abides by all consequences knows where he stands—and what he will die for.”

Wyoh frowned. “‘Not moral for a member of the group—’” she said. “Professor… what are your political principles?” “May I first ask yours? If you can state them?”

“Certainly I can! I’m a Fifth Internationalist, most of the Organization is. Oh, we don’t rule out anyone going our way; it’s a united front. We have Communists and Fourths and Ruddyites and Societians and Single-Taxers and you name it. But I’m no Marxist; we Fifths have a practical program. Private where private belongs, public where it’s needed, and an admission that circumstances alter cases. Nothing doctrinaire.”

“Capital punishment?” “For what?”

“Let’s say for treason. Against Luna after you’ve freed Luna.” “Treason how? Unless I knew the circumstances I could not decide.”

“Nor could I, dear Wyoming. But I believe in capital punishment under some circumstances… with this difference. I would not ask a court; I would try, condemn, execute sentence myself, and accept full responsibility.”

“But—Professor, what are your political beliefs?” “I’m a rational anarchist.”

“I don’t know that brand. Anarchist individualist, anarchist Communist, Christian anarchist, philosophical anarchist, syndicalist, libertarian—those I know. But what’s this? Randite?”

“I can get along with a Randite. Arational anarchist believes that concepts such as ‘state’ and ‘society’ and ‘government’ have no existence save as physically exemplified in the acts of self-responsible individuals. He believes that it is impossible to shift blame, share blame, distribute blame… as blame, guilt, responsibility are matters taking place inside human beings singly and nowhere else. But being rational, he knows that not all individuals hold his evaluations, so he tries to live perfectly in an imperfect world… aware that his effort will be less than perfect yet undismayed by self-knowledge of self-failure.”

“Hear, hear!” I said. “‘Less than perfect.’ What I’ve been aiming for all my life.”

“You’ve achieved it,” said Wyoh. “Professor, your words sound good but there is something slippery about them. Too much power in the hands of individuals—surely you would not want… well, H-missiles for example—to be controlled by one irresponsible person?”

“My point is that one person is responsible. Always. If H-bombs exist—and they do—some man controls them. In tern of morals there is no such thing as ‘state.’ Just men. Individuals. Each responsible for his own acts.”

“Anybody need a refill?” I asked.

Nothing uses up alcohol faster than political argument. I sent for another bottle.

I did not take part. I was not dissatisfied back when we were “ground under Iron Heel of Authority.” I cheated Authority and rest of time didn’t think about it. Didn’t think about getting rid of Authority—impossible. Go own way, mind own business, not be bothered—

True, didn’t have luxuries then; by Earthside standards we were poor. If had to be imported, mostly did without; don’t think there was a powered door in all Luna. Even p-suits used to be fetched up from Terra—until a smart Chinee before I was born figured how to make “monkey copies” better and simpler. (Could dump two Chinee down in one of our maria and they would get rich selling rocks to each other while raising twelve kids. Then a Hindu would sell retail stuff he got from them wholesale—below cost at fat profit. We got along.)

I had seen those luxuries Earthside. Wasn’t worth what they put up with. Don’t mean heavy gravity, that doesn’t bother them; I mean nonsense. All time kukai moa. If chicken guano in one earthworm city were shipped to Luna, fertilizer problem would be solved for century. Do this. Don’t do that. Stay back of line. Where’s tax receipt? Fill out form. Let’s see license. Submit six copies. Exit only. No left turn. No right turn. Queue up to pay fine. Take back and get stamped. Drop dead—but first get permit.

Wyoh plowed doggedly into Prof, certain she had all answers. But Prof was interested in questions rather than answers, which baffled her. Finally she said, “Professor, I can’t understand you. I don’t insist that you call it ‘government’—I just want you to state what rules you think are necessary to insure equal freedom for all.”

“Dear lady, I’ll happily accept your rules.” “But you don’t seem to want any rules!”

“True. But I will accept any rules that you feel necessary to your freedom. I am free, no matter what rules surround me. If I find them tolerable, I tolerate them; if I find them too obnoxious, I break them. I am free because I know that I alone am morally responsible for everything I do.”

“You would not abide by a law that the majority felt was necessary?” “Tell me what law, dear lady, and I will tell you whether I will obey it.” “You wiggled out. Every time I state a general principle, you wiggle out.”

Prof clasped hands on chest. “Forgive me. Believe me, lovely Wyoming, I am most anxious to please you. You spoke of willingness to unite the front with anyone going your way. Is it enough that I want to see the Authority thrown off Luna and would die to serve that end?”

Wyoh beamed. “It certainly is!” She fisted his ribs—gently—then put arm around him and kissed cheek. “Comrade! Let’s get on with it!” “Cheers!” I said. “Let’s fin’ Warden ‘n’ ‘liminate him!” Seemed a good idea; I had had a short night and don’t usually drink much.

Prof topped our glasses, held his high and announced with great dignity: “Comrades… we declare the Revolution!”

That got us both kissed. But sobered me, as Prof sat down and said, “The Emergency Committee of Free Luna is in session. We must plan action.” I said, “Wait, Prof! I didn’t agree to anything. What’s this ‘Action’ stuff?”

“We will now overthrow the Authority,” he said blandly. “How? Going to throw rocks at ‘em?”

“That remains to be worked out. This is the planning stage.”

I said, “Prof, you know me. If kicking out Authority was thing we could buy. I wouldn’t worry about price.” ”’—our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor.’”

“Huh?”

“Aprice that once was paid.”

“Well—I’d go that high. But when I bet I want a chance to win. Told Wyoh last night I didn’t object to long odds—” “‘One in ten’ is what you said, Mannie.”

“Da, Wyoh. Show me those odds, I’ll tap pot. But can you?” “No, Manuel, I can’t.”

“Then why we talk-talk? I can’t see any chance.”

“Nor I, Manuel. But we approach it differently. Revolution is an art that I pursue rather than a goal I expect to achieve. Nor is this a source of dismay; a lost cause can be as spiritually satisfying as a victory.”

“Not me. Sorry.”

“Mannie,” Wyoh said suddenly, “ask Mike.” I stared. “You serious?”

“Quite serious. If anyone can figure out odds, Mike should be able to. Don’t you think?” “Um. Possible.”

“Who, if I may ask,” Prof put in, “is Mike?” I shrugged. “Oh, just a nobody.”

“Mike is Mannie’s best friend. He’s very good at figuring odds.”

“Abookie? My dear, if we bring in a fourth party we start by violating the cell principle.”

“I don’t see why,” Wyoh answered. “Mike could be a member of the cell Mannie will head.” “Mmm … true. I withdraw objection. He is safe? You vouch for him? Or you, Manuel?”

I said, “He’s dishonest, immature, practical joker, not interested in politics.”

“Mannie, I’m going to tell Mike you said that. Professor, he’s nothing of the sort—and we need him. Uh, in fact he might be our chairman, and we three the cell under him. The executive cell.”

“Wyoh, you getting enough oxygen?”

“I’m okay, I haven’t been guzzling it the way you have. Think, Mannie. Use imagination.” “I must confess,” said Prof, “that I find these conflicting reports very conflicting.” “Mannie?”

“Oh, hell.” So we told him, between us, all about Mike, how he woke up. got his name, met Wyoh. Prof accepted idea of a self-aware computer easier than I accepted idea of snow first time I saw. Prof just nodded and said, “Go on.”

But presently he said, “This is the Warden’s own computer? Why not invite the Warden to our meetings and be done with it?”

We tried to reassure him. At last i said, “Put it this way. Mike is his own boy, just as you are. Call him rational anarchist, for he’s rational and he feels no loyalty to any government.” “If this machine is not loyal to its owners, why expect it to be loyal to you?”

“Afeeling. I treat Mike well as I know how, he treats me same way.” I told how Mike had taken precautions to protect me. “I’m not sure he could betray me to anyone who didn’t have those signals, one to secure phone, other to retrieve what I’ve talked about or stored with him; machines don’t think way people do. But feel dead sure he wouldn’t want to betray me and probably could protect me even if somebody got those signals.”

“Mannie,” suggested Wyoh, “why not call him? Once Professor de la Paz talks to him he will know why we trust Mike. Professor, we don’t have to tell Mike any secrets until you feel sure of him.”

“I see no harm in that.”

“Matter of fact,” I admitted, “already told him some secrets.” I told them about recording last night’s meeting and how I stored it.

Prof was distressed, Wyoh was worried. I said, “Damp it! Nobody but me knows retrieval signal. Wyoh, you know how Mike behaved about your pictures; won’t let me have those pictures even though I suggested lock on them. But if you two will stop oscillating, I’ll call him, make sure that nobody has retrieved that recording. and tell him to erase—then it’s gone forever, computer memory is all or nothing. Or can go one better. Call Mike and have him play record back into recorder, wiping storage. No huhu.”

“Don’t bother,” said Wyoh. “Professor, I trust Mike—and so will you.”

“On second thought,” Prof admitted, “I see little hazard from a recording of last night’s meeting. One that large always contains spies and one of them may have used a recorder as you did, Manuel. I was upset at what appeared to be your indiscretion—a weakness a member of a conspiracy must never have, especially one at the top, as you are.”

“Was not member of conspiracy when I fed that recording into Mike—and not now unless somebody quotes odds better than those so far!” “I retract; you were not indiscreet. But are you seriously suggesting that this machine can predict the outcome of a revolution?”

“Don’t know.”

“I think he can!” said Wyoh.

“Hold it, Wyoh. Prof, he could predict it fed all significant data.”

“That’s my point, Manuel. I do not doubt that this machine can solve problems I cannot grasp. But one of this scope? It would have to know—oh, goodness!—all of human history, all details of the entire social, political, and economic situation on Terra today and the same for Luna, a wide knowledge of psychology in all its ramifications, a wide knowledge of technology with all its possibilities, weaponry, communications, strategy and tactics, agitprop techniques, classic authorities such as Clausewitz, Guevera, Morgenstern, Machiavelli, many others.”

“Is that all?”

“‘Is that all?’ My dear boy!”

“Prof, how many history books have you read?” “I do not know. In excess of a thousand.”

“Mike can zip through that many this afternoon, speed limited only by scanning method—he can store data much faster. Soon—minutes–he would have every fact correlated with everything else he knows, discrepancies noted, probability values assigned to uncertainties. Prof, Mike reads every word of every newspaper up from Terra. Reads all technical publications. Reads fiction—knows it’s fiction—because isn’t enough to keep him busy and is always hungry for more. If is any book he should read to solve this, say so. He can cram it down fast as I get it to him.”

Prof blinked. “I stand corrected. Very well, let us see if he can cope with it. I still think there is something known as ‘intuition’ and ‘human judgment.’” “Mike has intuition,” Wych said. “Feminine intuition, that is.”

“As for ‘human judgment,’” I added, “Mike isn’t human. But all he knows he got from humans. Let’s get you acquainted and you judge his judgment.” So I phoned. “Hi, Mike!”

“Hello, Man my only male friend. Greetings, Wyoh my only female friend. I heard a third person. I conjecture that it may be Professor Bernardo de la Paz.” Prof looked startled, then delighted. I said, “Too right, Mike. That’s why I called you; Professor is not-stupid.”

“Thank you, Man! Professor Bernardo de la Paz, I am delighted to meet you.”

“I am delighted to meet you, too, sir.” Prof hesitated, went on “Mi—Senor Holmes, may I ask how you knew that I was here?” “I am sorry, sir; I cannot answer. Man? ‘You know my methods.’”

“Mike is being crafty, Prof. It involves something he learned doing a confidential job for me. So he threw me a hint to let you think that he had identified you by hearing your presence—and he can indeed tell much from respiration and heartbeat … mass, approximate age, sex, and quite a bit about health; Mike’s medical storage is as full as any other.”

“I am happy to say,” Mike added seriously, “that I detect no signs of cardiac or respiratory trouble, unusual for a man of the Professor’s age who has spent so many years Earthside. I congratulate you, sir.”

“Thank you, Senor Holmes.”

“My pleasure, Professor Bernardo de la Paz.”

“Once he knew your identity, he knew how old you are, when you were shipped and what for, anything that ever appeared about you in Lunatic or Moonglow or any Lunar publication, including pictures—your bank balance, whether you pay bills on time, and much more. Mike retrieved this in a split second once he had your name. What he didn’t tell—because was my business—is that he knew I had invited you here, so it’s a short jump to guess that you’re still here when he heard heartbeat and breathing that matched you. Mike, no need to say ‘Professor Bernardo de la Paz’ each time; ‘Professor’ or”Prof’ is enough.”

“Noted, Man. But he addressed me formally, with honorific.”

“So both of you relax. Prof, you scan it? Mike knows much, doesn’t tell all, knows when to keep mouth shut.” “I am impressed!”

“Mike is a fair dinkum thinkum—you’ll see. Mike, I bet Professor three to two that Yankees would win pennant again. How chances?”

“I am sorry to hear it, Man. The correct odds, this early in the year and based on past performances of teams and players, are one to four point seven two the other way.” “Can’t be that bad!”

“I’m sorry, Man. I will print out the calculations if you wish. But I recommend that you buy back your wager. The Yankees have a favorable chance to defeat any single team … but the combined chances of defeating all teams in the league, including such factors as weather, accidents, and other variables for the season ahead, place the club on the short end of the

odds I gave you.”

“Prof, want to sell that bet?” “Certainly, Manuel.” “Price?”

“Three hundred Hong Kong dollars.” “You old thief!”

“Manuel, as you former teacher I would be false to you if I did not permit you to learn from mistakes. Senor Holmes—Mike my friend—May I call you ‘friend’?” “Please do.” (Mike almost purred.)

“Mike amigo, do you also tout horse races?”

“I often calculate odds on horse races; the civil service computermen frequently program such requests. But the results are so at variance with expectations that I have concluded either that the data are too meager, or the horses or riders are not honest. Possibly all three. However, I can gve you a formula which will pay a steady return if played consistently.”

Prof looked eager. “What is it? May one ask?”

“One may. Bet the leading apprentice jockey to place. He is always given good mounts and they carry less weight. But don’t bet him on the nose.” “‘Leading apprentice’ … hmm. Manuel, do you have the correct time?”

“Prof, which do you want? Get a bet down before post time? Or settle what we set out to?” “Unh, sorry. Please carry on. ‘Leading apprentice—’”

“Mike, I gave you a recording last night.” I leaned close to pickups and whispered: “Bastille Day.” “Retrieved, Man.”

“Thought about it?”

“In many ways. Wyoh, you speak most dramatically.” “Thank you, Mike.”

“Prof, can you get your mind off ponies?” “Eh? Certainly, I am all ears.”

“Then quit doing odds under your breath; Mike can do them faster.”

“I was not wasting time; the financing of… joint ventures such as ours is always difficult. However, I shall table it; I am all attention.”

“I want Mike to do a trial projection. Mike, in that recording, you heard Wyoh say we had to have free trade with Terra. You heard Prof say we should clamp an embargo on shipping food to Terra. Who’s right?”

“Your question is indeterminate, Man.” “What did I leave out?”

“Shall I rephrase it, Man?” “Sure. Give us discussion.”

“In immediate terms Wyoh’s proposal would be of great advantage to the people of Luna. The price of foodstuffs at catapult head would increase by a factor of at least four. This takes into account a slight rise in wholesale prices on Terra, ‘slight’ because the Authority now sells at approximately the free market price. This disregards subsidized, dumped, and donated foodstuffs, most of which come from the large profit caused by the controlled low price at catapult head. I will say no more about minor variables as they are swallowed by major ones. Let it stand that the immediate effect here would be a price increase of the close order of fourfold.”

“Hear that, Professor?”

“Please, dear lady. I never disputed it.”

“The profit increase to the grower is more than fourfold because, as Wyoh pointed out, he now must buy water and other items at controlled high prices. Assuming a free market throughout the sequence his profit enhancement will be of the close order of sixfold. But this would be offset by another factor: Higher prices for exports would cause higher prices for everything consumed in Luna, goods and labor. The total effect would be an enhanced standard of living for all on the close order of twofold. This would be accompanied by vigorous effort to drill and seal more farming tunnels, mine more ice, improve growing methods, all leading to greater export. However, the Terran Market is so large and food shortage so chronic that reduction in profit from increase of export is not a major factor.”

Prof said, “But, Senor Mike, that would only hasten the day that Luna is exhausted!”

“The projection was specified as immediate, Senor Professor. Shall I continue in longer range on the basis of your remarks?” “By all means!”

“Luna’s mass to three significant figures is seven point three six times ten to the nineteenth power tonnes. Thus, holding other variables constant including Lunar and Terran populations, the present differential rate of export in tonnes could continue for seven point three six times ten to the twelfth years before using up one percent of Luna—round it as seven thousand billion years.”

“What! Are you sure?”

“You are invited to check, Professor.”

I said, “Mike, this a joke? If so, not funny even once!” “It is not a joke, Man.”

“Anyhow,” Prof added, recovering, “it’s not Luna’s crust we are shipping. It’s our lifeblood—water and organic matter. Not rock.”

“I took that into consideration, Professor. This projection is based on controlled transmutation—any isotope into any other and postulating power for any reaction not exo-energetic. Rock would be shipped—transformed into wheat and beef and other foodstuffs.”

“But we don’t know how to do that! Amigo, this is ridiculous!” “But we will know how to do it.”

“Mike is right, Prof,” I put in. “Sure, today we haven’t a glimmer. But will. Mike, did you compute how many years till we have this? Might take a flier in stocks.” Mike answered in sad voice, “Man my only male friend save for the Professor whom I hope will be my friend, I tried. I failed. The question is indeterminate.”

“Why?”

“Because it involves a break-through in theory. There is no way in all my data to predict when and where genius may appear.” Prof sighed. “Mike amigo, I don’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. Then that projection didn’t mean anything?”

“Of course it meant something!” said Wyoh. “It means we’ll dig it out when we need it. Tell him, Mike!”

“Wyoh, I am most sorry. Your assertion is, in effect, exactly what I was looking for. But the answer still remains: Genius is where you find it. No. I am so sorry.” I said, “Then Prof is right? When comes to placing bets?”

“One moment, Man. There is a special solution suggested by the Professor’s speech last night—return shipping, tonne for tonne.” “Yes, but can’t do that.”

“If the cost is low enough, Terrans would do so. That can be achieved with only minor refinement, not a break-through, to wit, freight transportation up from Terra as cheap as catapulting down to Terra.”

“You call this ‘minor’?”

“I call it minor compared with the other problem, Man.” “Mike dear, how long? When do we get it?”

“Wyoh, a rough projection, based on poor data and largely intuitive, would be on the order of fifty years.” “‘Fifty years’? Why, that’s nothing! We can have free trade.”

“Wyoh, I said ‘on the order of’—I did not say ‘on the close order of.’” “It makes a difference?”

“Does.” I told her. “What Mike said was that he doesn’t expect it sooner than five years but would be surprised if much longer than five hundred—eh, Mike?” “Correct, Man.”

“So need another projection. Prof pointed out that we ship water and organic matter and don’t get it back–agree, Wyoh?” “Oh. sure. I just don’t think it’s urgent. We’ll solve it when we reach it.”

“Okay, Mike—no cheap shipping, no transmutation: How long till trouble?” “Seven years.”

“‘Seven years!’” Wyoh jumped up, stared at phone. “Mike honey! You don’t mean that?”

“Wyoh,” he said plaintively, “I did my best. The problem has an indeterminately large number of variables. I ran several thousand solutions using many assumptions. The happiest answer came from assuming no increase in tonnage, no increase in Lunar population—restriction of births strongly enforced—and a greatly enhanced search for ice in order to maintain the water supply. That gave an answer of slightly over twenty years. All other answers were worse.”

Wyoh, much sobered, said, “What happens in seven years?”

“The answer of seven years from now I reached by assuming the present situation, no change in Authority policy, and all major variables extrapolated from the empiricals implicit in their past behavior—a conservative answer of highest probability from available data. Twenty-eighty-two is the year I expect food riots. Cannibalism should not occur for at least two years thereafter.”

“‘Cannibalism’!” She turned and buried head against Prof’s chest.

He patted her, said gently, “I’m sorry, Wyoh. People do not realize how precarious our ecology is. Even so, it shocks me. I know water runs down hill… but didn’t dream how terribly soon it will reach bottom.”

She straightened up and face was calm. “Okay, Professor, I was wrong. Embargo it must be—and all that that implies. Let’s get busy. Let’s find out from Mike what our chances are. You trust him now—don’t you?”

“Yes, dear lady, I do. We must have him on our side. Well, Manuel?”

Took time to impress Mike with how serious we were, make him understand that “jokes” could kill us (this machine who could not know human death) and to get assurance that he could and would protect secrets no matter what retrieval program was used—even our signals if not from us. Mike was hurt that I could doubt him but matter too serious to risk slip.

Then took two hours to program and re-program and change assumptions and investigate side issues before all four—Mike, Prof, Wyoh, self—were satisfied that we had defined it, i.e., what chance had revolution—this revolution, headed by us, success required before “Food Riots Day,” against Authority with bare hands… against power of all Terra, all eleven billions, to beat us down and inflict their will—all with no rabbits out of hats, with certainty of betrayal and stupidity and faintheartedness, and fact that no one of us was genius, nor important in Lunar affairs. Prof made sure that Mike knew history, psychology, economics, name it. Toward end Mike was pointing out far more variables than Prof.

At last we agreed that programming was done—or that we could think of no other significant factor. Mike then said, “This is an indeterminate problem. How shall I solve it? Pessimistically? Or optimistically? Or a range of probabilities expressed as a curve, or several curves? Professor my friend?”

“Manuel?”

I said, “Mike, when I roll a die, it’s one in six it turns ace. I don’t ask shopkeeper to float it, nor do I caliper it, or worry about somebody blowing on it. Don’t give happy answer, nor pessimistic; don’t shove curves at us. Just tell in one sentence: What chances? Even? One in a thousand? None? Or whatever.”

“Yes, Manuel Garcia O’Kelly my first male friend,”

For thirteen and a half minutes was no sound, while Wyoh chewed knuckles. Never known Mike to take so long. Must have consulted every book he ever read and worn edges off random numbers. Was beginning to believe that he had been overloaded and either burnt out something or gone into cybernetic breakdown that requires computer equivalent of lobotomy to stop oscillations.

Finally he spoke. “Manuel my friend, I am terribly sorry!” “What’s trouble, Mike?”

“I have tried and tried, checked and checked. There is but one chance in seven of winning!”

7

I look at Wyoh, she looks at me; we laugh. I jump up and yip, “Hooray!” Wyoh starts to cry, throws arms around Prof, kisses him. Mike said plaintively, “I do not understand. The chances are seven to one against us. Not for us.”

Wyoh stopped slobbering Prof and said, “Hear that? Mike said ‘us.’ He included himself.”

“Of course. Mike old cobber, we understood. But ever know a Loonie to refuse to bet when he stood a big fat chance of one in seven?” “I have known only you three. Not sufficient data for a curve.”

“Well … we’re Loonies. Loonies bet. Hell, we have to! They shipped us up and bet us we couldn’t stay alive. We fooled ‘em. We’ll fool ‘em again! Wyoh. Where’s your pouch? Get red hat. Put on Mike. Kiss him. Let’s have a drink. One for Mike, too—want a drink, Mike?”

“I wish that I could have a drink,” Mike answered wistfully, “as I have wondered about the subjective effect of ethanol on the human nervous system—I conjecture that it must be similar to a slight overvoltage. But since I cannot, please have one in my place.”

“Program accepted. Running. Wyoh, where’s hat!” Phone was flat to wall, let into rock—no place to hang hat. So we placed it on writing shelf and toasted Mike and called him “Comrade!” and almost he cried. His voice fugged up. Then Wyoh borrowed Liberty Cap and put on me and kissed me into conspiracy, officially this time, and so all out that my eldest wife would faint did she see—then she took hat and put on Prof and gave him same treatment and I was glad Mike had reported his heart okay.

Then she put it on own head and went to phone, leaned close, mouth between binaurals and made kissing sounds. “That’s for you, Mike dear comrade. Is Michelle there?” Blimey if he didn’t answer in soprano voice: “Right here, darling—and I am so ‘appee!”

So Michelle got a kiss, and I had to explain to Prof who “Michelle” was and introduce him. He was formal, sucking air and whistling and clasping hands—sometimes I think Prof was not right in his head.

Wyoh poured more vodka. Prof caught her, mixed ours with coffee, hers with chai, honey in all. “We have declared the Revolution,” he said firmly, “now we execute it. With clear heads. Manuel, you were opted chairman. Shall we begin?”

“Mike is chairman,” I said. “Obvious. Secretary, too. We’ll never keep anything in writing; first security rule. With Mike, don’t need to. Let’s bat it around and see where we are; I’m new to business.”

“And,” said Prof, “still on the subject of security, the secret of Mike should be restricted to this executive cell, subject to unanimous agreement—all three of us—correction: all four of us— that is must be extended.”

“What secret?” asked Wyoh. “Mike agreed to help our secrets. He’s safer than we are; he can’t be brainwashed, Can you be, Mike dear?”

“I could be brainwashed,” Mike admitted, “by enough voltage. Or by being smashed, or subjected to solvents, or positive entropy through other means—I find the concept disturbing. But if by ‘brainwashing’ you mean could I be compelled to surrender our secrets, the answer is an unmodified negative.”

I said, “Wye, Prof means secret of Mike himself. Mike old pal, you’re our secret weapon—you know that, don’t you?” He answered self-consciously, “It was necessary to take that into consideration in computing the odds.”

“How were odds without you, comrade? Bad?” “They were not good. Not of the same order.”

“Won’t press you. But a secret weapon must be secret, Mike, does anybody else suspect that you are alive?” “Am I alive?” His voice held tragic loneliness.

“Uh, won’t argue semantics. Sure, you’re alive!”

“I was not sure. It is good to be alive. No, Mannie my first friend, you three alone know it. My three friends.” “That’s how must be if bet’s to pay off. Is okay? Us three and never talk to anybody else?”

“But we’ll talk to you lots!” Wyoh put in.

“It is not only okay,” Mike said bluntly, “it is necessary. It was a factor in the odds.”

“That settles it,” I said. “They have everything else; we have Mike. We keep it that way. Say! Mike, I just had a horrid. We fight Terra?” “We will fight Terra… unless we lose before that time.”

“Uh, riddle this. Any computers smart as you? Any awake?” He hesitated. “I don’t know, Man.”

“No data?”

“Insufficient data. I have watched for both factors, not only in technical journals but everywhere else. There are no computers on the market of my present capacity… but one of my model could be augmented just as I have been. Furthermore an experimental computer of great capacity might be classified and go unreported in the literature.”

“Mmm… chance we have to take.” “Yes, Man.”

“There aren’t any computers as smart as Mike!” Wyoh said scornfully. “Don’t be silly, Mannie.”

“Wyoh, Man was not being silly. Man, I saw one disturbing report. It was claimed that attempts are being made at the University of Peiping to combine computers with human brains to achieve massive capacity. Acomputing Cyborg.”

“They say how?”

“The item was non-technical.”

“Well … won’t worry about what can’t help. Right, Prof?”

“Correct, Manuel. Arevolutionist must keep his mind free of worry or the pressure becomes intolerable.”

“I don’t believe a word of it,” Wyoh added. “We’ve got Mike and we’re going to win! Mike dear, you say we’re going to fight Terra—and Mannie says that’s one battle we can’t win. You have some idea of how we can win, or you wouldn’t have given us even one chance in seven. So what is it?”

“Throw rocks at them,” Mike answered.

“Not funny,” I told him. “Wyoh, don’t borrow trouble. Haven’t even settled how we leave this pooka without being nabbed. Mike, Prof says nine guards were killed last night and Wyoh says twenty-seven is whole bodyguard. Leaving eighteen. Do you know if that’s true, do you know where they are and what they are up to? Can’t put on a revolution if we dasn’t stir out.”

Prof interrupted. “That’s a temporary exigency, Manuel, one we can cope with. The point Wyoming raised is basic and should be discussed. And daily, until solved. I am interested in

Mike’s thoughts.”

“Okay, okay—but will you wait while Mike answers me?” “Sorry, sir.”

“Mike?”

“Mike?”

“Man, the official number of Warden’s bodyguards is twenty-seven. If nine were killed the official number is now eighteen.” “You keep saying ‘official number.’ Why?”

“I have incomplete data which might be relevant. Let me state them before advancing even tentative conclusions. Nominally the Security Officer’s department aside from clerks consists only of the bodyguard. But I handle payrolls for Authority Complex and twenty-seven is not the number of personnel charged against the Security Department.”

Prof nodded. “Company spies.”

“Hold it, Prof. Who are these other people?”

Mike answered, “They are simply account numbers, Man. I conjecture that the names they represent are in the Security Chiefs data storage location.” “Wait, Mike. Security Chief Alvarez uses you for files?”

“I conjecture that to be true, since his storage location is under a locked retrieval signal.”

I said, “Bloody,” and added, “Prof, isn’t that sweet? He uses Mike to keep records, Mike knows where they are—can’t touch ‘em!” “Why not, Manuel?”

Tried to explain to Prof and Wyoh sorts of memory a thinkum has—permanent memories that can’t be erased because patterns be logic itself, how it thinks; short-term memories used for current programs and then erased like memories which tell you whether you have honeyed coffee; temporary memories held long as necessary—milliseconds, days, years—but erased when no longer needed; permanently stored data like a human being’s education—but learned perfectly and never forgotten—though may be condensed, rearranged, relocated, edited—and last but not finally, long lists of special memories ranging from memoranda files through very complex special programs, and each location tagged by own retrieval signal and locked or not, with endless possibilities on lock signals: sequential, parallel, temporal, situational, others.

Don’t explain computers to laymen. Simpler to explain sex to a virgin. Wyoh couldn’t see why, if Mike knew where Alvarez kept records, Mike didn’t trot over and fetch. I gave up. “Mike, can you explain?”

“I will try, Man. Wyoh, there is no way for me to retrieve locked data other than through external programming. I cannot program myself for such retrieval; my logic structure does not permit it. I must receive the signal as an external input.”

“Well, for Bog’s sake, what is this precious signal?”

“It is,” Mike said simply, “‘Special File Zebra’”—and waited.

“Mike!” I said. “Unlock Special File Zebra.” He did, and stuff started spilling out. Had to convince Wyoh that Mike hadn’t been stubborn. He hadn’t—he almost begged us to tickle him on that spot. Sure, he knew signal. Had to. But had to come from outside, that was how he was built.

“Mike, remind me to check with you all special-purpose locked-retrieval signals. May strike ice other places.” “So I conjectured, Man.”

“Okay, we’ll get to it later. Now back up and go over this stuff slowly—and, Mike, as you read out, store again, without erasing, under Bastille Day and tag it ‘Fink File.’ Okay?” “Programmed and running.”

“Do that with anything new he puts in, too.”

Prime prize was list of names by warrens, some two hundred, each keyed with a code Mike identified with those blind pay accounts. Mike read out Hong Kong Luna list and was hardly started when Wyoh gasped, “Stop, Mike! I’ve got to write these down!”

I said, “Hey! No writing! What’s huhu?”

“That woman, Sylvia Chiang, is comrade secretary back home! But—But that means the Warden has our whole organization!” “No, dear Wyoming,” Prof corrected. “It means we have his organization.”

“But—”

“I see what Prof means,” I told her. “Our organization is just us three and Mike. Which Warden doesn’t know. But now we know his organization. So shush and let Mike read. But don’t write; you have this list—from Mike—anytime you phone him. Mike, note that Chiang woman is organization secretary, former organization, in Kongville.”

“Noted.”

Wyoh boiled over as she heard names of undercover finks in her town but limited herself to noting facts about ones she knew. Not all were “comrades” but enough that she stayed riled up. Novy Leningrad names didn’t mean much to us; Prof recognized three, Wyoh one. When came Luna City Prof noted over half as being “comrades.” I recognized several, not as fake subversives but as acquaintances. Not friends—Don’t know what it would do to me to find someone I trusted on boss fink’s payroll. But would shake me.

It shook Wyoh. When Mike finished she said, “I’ve got to get home! Never in my life have I helped eliminate anyone but I am going to enjoy putting the black on these spies!” Prof said quietly, “No one will be eliminated, dear Wyoming.”

“What? Professor, can’t you take it? Though I’ve never killed anyone, I’ve always known it might have to be done.” He shook head. “Killing is not the way to handle a spy, not when he doesn’t know that you know that he is a spy.” She blinked. “I must be dense.”

“No, dear lady. Instead you have a charming honesty… a weakness you must guard against. The thing to do with a spy is to let him breathe, encyst him with loyal comrades, and feed him harmless information to please his employers. These creatures will be taken into our organization. Don’t be shocked; they will be in very special cells. ‘Cages’ is a better word. But it would be the greatest waste to eliminate them—not only would each spy be replaced with someone new but also killing these traitors would tell the Warden that we have penetrated his secrets. Mike amigo mio, there should be in that file a dossier on me. Will you see?”

Were long notes on Prof, and I was embarrassed as they added up to “harmless old fool.” He was tagged as a subversive—that was why he had been sent to The Rock—as a member of underground group in Luna City. But was described as a “troublemaker” in organization, one who rarely agreed with others.

Prof dimpled and looked pleased. “I must consider trying to sell out and get myself placed on the Warden’s payroll.” Wyoh did not think this funny, especially when he made clear was not joke, merely unsure tactic was practical. “Revolutions must be financed, dear lady, and one way is for a revolutionary to become a police spy. It is probable that some of those prima-facie traitors are actually on our side.”

“I wouldn’t trust them!”

“Ah, yes, that is the rub with double agents, to be certain where their loyalties—if any—lie. Do you wish your own dossier? Or would you rather hear it in private?”

Wyoh’s record showed no surprises. Warden’s finks had tabbed her years back. But I was surprised that I had a record, too—routine check made when I was cleared to work in Authority Complex. Was classed as “non-political” and someone had added “not too bright” which was both unkind and true or why would I get mixed up in Revolution?

Prof had Mike stop read-out (hours more), leaned back and looked thoughtful. “One thing is clear,” he said. “The Warden knew plenty about Wyoming and myself long ago. But you, Manuel, are not on his black list.”

“After last night?”

“Ah, so. Mike, do you have anything In that file entered in the last twenty-four hours?”

Nothing. Prof said, “Wyoming is right that we cannot stay here forever. Manuel, how many names did you recognize? Six, was it? Did you see any of them last night?” “No. But might have seen me.”

“More likely they missed you in the crowd. I did not spot you until I came down front and I’ve known you since you were a boy. But it is most unlikely that Wyoming traveled from Hong Kong and spoke at the meeting without her activity being known to the Warden.” He looked at Wyoh. “Dear lady, could you bring yourself to play the nominal role of an old man’s folly?”

“I suppose so. How, Professor?”

“Manuel is probably in the clear. I am not but from my dossier it seems unlikely that the Authority’s finks will bother to pick me up. You they may wish to question or even to hold; you are rated as dangerous. It would be wise for you to stay out of sight. This room—I’m thinking of renting it for a period—weeks or even years. You could hide in it—if you do not mind the obvious construction that would be placed on your staying here.”

Wyoh chuckled. “Why, you darling! Do you think I care what anyone thinks? I’d be delighted to play the role of your bundle baby—and don’t be too sure I’d be just playing.”

“Never tease an old dog,” he said mildly. “He might still have one bite. I may occupy that couch most nights. Manuel, I intend to resume my usual ways—and so should you. While I feel that it will take a busy cossack to arrest me, I will sleep sounder in this hideaway. But in addition to being a hideout this room is good for cell meetings; it has a phone.”

Mike said, “Professor, may I offer a suggestion?” “Certainly, amigo, we want your thoughts.”

“I conclude that the hazards increase with each meeting of our executive cell. But meetings need not be corporal; you can meet—and I can join you if I am welcome—by phone.” “You are always welcome, Comrade Mike; we need you. However—” Prof looked worried.

I said, “Prof, don’t worry about anybody listening in.” I explained how to place a “Sherlock” call. “Phones are safe if Mike supervises call. Reminds me—You haven’t been told how to reach Mike. How, Mike? Prof use my number?”

Between them, they settled on MYSTERIOUS. Prof and Mike shared childlike joy in intrigue for own sake. I suspect Prof enjoyed being rebel long before he worked out his political philosophy, while Mike—how could human freedom matter to him? Revolution was a game—a game that gave him companionship and chance to show off talents. Mike was as conceited a machine as you are ever likely to meet.

“But we still need this room,” Prof said, reached into pouch, hauled out thick wad of bills. I blinked. “Prof, robbed a bank?”

“Not recently. Perhaps again in the future of the Cause requires it. Arental period of one lunar should do as a starter. Will you arrange it, Manuel? The management might be surprised to hear my voice; I came in through a delivery door.”

I called manager, bargained for dated key, four weeks. He asked nine hundred Hong Kong. I offered nine hundred Authority. He wanted to know how many would use room? I asked if was policy of Raffles to snoop affairs of guests?

We settled at HK$475; I sent up bills, he sent down two dated keys. I gave one to Wyoh, one to Prof, kept one-day key, knowing they would not reset lock unless we failed to pay at end of lunar.

(Earthside I ran into insolent practice of requiring hotel guest to sign chop—even show identification!) I asked, “What next? Food?”

“I’m not hungry, Mannie.”

“Manuel, you asked us to wait while Mike settled your questions. Let’s get back to the basic problem: how we are to cope when we find ourselves facing Terra, David facing Goliath.” “Oh. Been hoping that would go away. Mike? You really have ideas?”

“I said I did, Man,” he answered plaintively. “We can throw rocks.” “Bog’s sake! No time for jokes.”

“But, Man,” he protested, “we can throw rocks at Terra. We will.”

8

Took time to get through my skull that Mike was serious, and scheme might work. Then took longer to show Wyoh and Prof how second part was true. Yet both parts should have been obvious.

Mike reasoned so: What is “war”? One book defined war as use of force to achieve political result. And “force” is action of one body on another applied by means of energy.

In war this is done by “weapons”—Luna had none. But weapons, when Mike examined them as class, turned out to be engines for manipulating energy—and energy Luna has plenty. Solar flux alone is good for around one kilowatt per square meter of surface at Lunar noon; sunpower, though cyclic, is effectively unlimited. Hydrogen fusion power is almost as unlimited and cheaper, once ice is mined, magnetic pinchbottle set up. Luna has energy—how to use?

But Luna also has energy of position; she sits at top of gravity well eleven kilometers per second deep and kept from falling in by curb only two and a half km/s high. Mike knew that curb; daily he tossed grain freighters over it, let them slide downhill to Terra.

Mike had computed what would happen if a freighter grossing 100 tonnes (or same mass of rock) falls to Terra, unbraked. Kinetic energy as it hits is 6.25 x 10^12 joules—over six trillion joules.

This converts in split second to heat. Explosion, big one!

Should have been obvious. Look at Luna: What you see? Thousands on thousands of craters—places where Somebody got playful throwing rocks. Wyoh said, “Joules don’t mean much to me. How does that compare with H-bombs?”

“Uh—” I started to round off in head. Mike’s “head” works faster; he answered, “The concussion of a hundred-tonne mass on Terra approaches the yield of a two-kilotonne atomic bomb.” “‘Kilo’ is a thousand,” Wyoh murmured, “and ‘mega’ is a million—Why, that’s only one fifty-thousandth as much as a hundred-megatonne bomb. Wasn’t that the size Sovunion used?”

“Wyoh, honey,” I said gently, “that’s not how it works. Turn it around. Atwo-kilotonne yield is equivalent to exploding two million kilograms of trinitrotoluol … and a kilo of TNT is quite an explosion—Ask any drillman. Two million kilos will wipe out good-sized town. Check, Mike?”

“Yes, Man. But, Wyoh my only female friend, there is another aspect. Multi-megatonne fusion bombs are inefficient. The explosion takes place in too small a space; most of it is wasted. While a hundred-megatonne bomb is rated as having fifty thousand times the yield of a two-kilotonne bomb, its destructive effect is only about thirteen hundred times as great as that of a two-kilotonne explosion.”

“But it seems to me that thirteen hundred times is still quite a lot—if they are going to use bombs on us that much bigger.” “True, Wyoh my female friend … but Luna has many rocks.”

“Oh. Yes, so we have.”

“Comrades,” said Prof, “this is outside my competence—in my younger or bomb-throwing days my experience was limited to something of the order of the one-kilogram chemical explosion of which you spoke, Manuel. But I assume that you two know what you are talking about.”

“We do,” Mike agreed.

“So I accept your figures. To bring it down to a scale that I can understand this plan requires that we capture the catapult. No?” “Yes,” Mike and I chorused.

“Not impossible. Then we must hold it and keep it operative. Mike, have you considered how your catapult can be protected against, let us say, one small H-tipped torpedo?” Discussion went on and on. We stopped to eat—stopped business under Prof’s rule. Instead Mike told jokes, each produced a that-reminds-me from Prof.

By time we left Raffles Hotel evening of 14th May ‘75 we had—Mike had, with help from Prof—outlined plan of Revolution, including major options at critical points.

When came time to go, me to home and Prof to evening class (if not arrested), then home for bath and clothes and necessities in case he returned that night, became clear Wyoh did not want to be alone in strange hotel—Wyoh was stout when bets were down, between times soft and vulnerable.

So I called Mum on a Sherlock and told her was bringing house guest home. Mum ran her job with style; any spouse could bring guest home for meal or year, and our second generation was almost as free but must ask. Don’t know how other families work; we have customs firmed by a century; they suit us.

So Mum didn’t ask name, age, sex, marital condition; was my right and she too proud to ask. All she said was: “That’s nice, dear. Have you two had dinner? It’s Tuesday, you know.” “Tuesday” was to remind me that our family had eaten early because Greg preaches Tuesday evenings. But if guest had not eaten, dinner would be served—concession to guest, not to me, as with exception of Grandpaw we ate when was on table or scrounged standing up in pantry.

I assured her we had eaten and would make tall effort to be there before she needed to leave. Despite Loonie mixture of Muslims, Jews, Christians, Buddhists, and ninety-nine other flavors, I suppose Sunday is commonest day for church. But Greg belongs to sect which had calculated that sundown Tuesday to sundown Wednesday, local time Garden of Eden (zone minus-two, Terra) was the Sabbath. So we ate early in Terran north-hemisphere summer months.

Mum always went to hear Greg preach, so was not considerate to place duty on her that would clash. All of us went occasionally; I managed several times a year because terribly fond of Greg, who taught me one trade and helped me switch to another when I had to and would gladly have made it his arm rather than mine. But Mum always went—ritual not religion, for she admitted to me one night in pillow talk that she had no religion with a brand on it, then cautioned me not to tell Greg. I exacted same caution from her. I don’t know Who is cranking; I’m pleased He doesn’t stop.

But Greg was Mum’s “boy husband,” opted when she was very young, first wedding after her own—very sentimental about him, would deny fiercely if accused of loving him more than other husbands, yet took his faith when he was ordained and never missed a Tuesday.

She said, “Is it possible that your guest would wish to attend church?”

I said would see but anyhow we would rush, and said goodbye. Then banged on bathroom door and said, “Hurry with skin, Wyoh; we’re short on minutes.” “One minute!” she called out. She’s ungirlish girl; she appeared in one minute. “How do I look?” she asked. “Prof, will I pass?”

“Dear Wyoming, I am amazed. You were beautiful before, you are beautiful now—but utterly unrecognizable. You’re safe—and I am relieved.”

Then we waited for Prof to transform into old derelict; he would be it to his back corridor, then reappear as well-known teacher in front of class, to have witnesses in case a yellow boy was waiting to grab him.

It left a moment; I told Wyoh about Greg. She said, “Mannie, how good is this makeup? Would it pass in church? How bright are the lights?” “No brighter than here. Good job, you’ll get by. But do you want to go to church? Nobody pushing.”

She thought. “It would please your moth—I mean, ‘your senior wife,’ would it not?”

I answered slowly, “Wyoh, religion is your pidgin. But since you ask … yes, nothing would start you better in Davis Family than going to church with Mum. I’ll go if you do.” “I’ll go. I thought your last name was ‘O’Kelly’?”

“Is. Tack ‘Davis’ on with hyphen if want to be formal. Davis is First Husband, dead fifty years. Is family name and all our wives are ‘Gospazha Davis’ hyphened with every male name in Davis line plus her family name. In practice Mum is only ‘Gospazha Davis’—can call her that—and others use first name and add Davis if they write a cheque or something. Except that Ludmilla is ‘Davis-Davis’ because proud of double membership, birth and option.”

“I see. Then if a man is ‘John Davis,’ he’s a son, but if he has some other last name he’s your co-husband. But a girl would be ‘Jenny Davis’ either way, wouldn’t she? How do I tell? By her age? No, that wouldn’t help. I’m confused! And I thought clan marriages were complex. Or polyandries—though mine wasn’t; at least my husbands had the same last name.”

“No trouble. When you hear a woman about forty address a fifteen-year-old as ‘Mama Milla,” you’ll know which is wife and which is daughter—not even that complex as we don’t have daughters home past husband-high; they get opted. But might be visiting. Your husbands were named ‘Knott’?”

“Oh, no, ‘Fedoseev, Choy Lin and Choy Mu.’ I took back my born name.”

Out came Prof, cackled senilely (looked even worse than earlier!), we left by three exits, made rendezvous in main corridor, open formation. Wyoh and I did not walk together, as I might be nabbed; on other hand she did not know Luna City, a warren so complex even nativeborn get lost—so I led and she had to keep me in sight. Prof trailed to make sure she didn’t lose me.

If I was picked up, Wyoh would find public phone, report to Mike, then return to hotel and wait for Prof. But I felt sure that any yellow jacket who arrested me would get a caress from number-seven arm.

No huhu. Up to level five and crosstown by Carver Causeway, up to level three and stop at Tube Station West to pick up arms and tool kit—but not p-suit; would not have been in

character, I stored it there. One yellow uniform at station, showed no interest in me. South by well-lighted corridors until necessary to go outward to reach private easement lock thirteen to

co-op pressure tunnel serving Davis Tunnels and a dozen other farms. I suppose Prof dropped off there but I never looked back.

I delayed locking through our door until Wyoh caught up, then soon was saying, “Mum, allow me to present Wyma Beth Johnson.” Mum took her in arms, kissed cheek, said, “So glad you could come, Wyma dear! Our house is yours!”

See why I love our old biddy? Could have quick-frosted Wyoh with same words—but was real and Wyoh knew.

Hadn’t warned Wyoh about switch in names, thought of it en route. Some of our kids were small and while they grew up despising Warden, no sense in risking prattle about “Wyoming Knott, who’s visiting us”—that name was listed in “Special File Zebra.”

So I missed warning her, was new to conspiracy. But Wyoh caught cue and never bobbled.

Greg was in preaching clothes and would have to leave in minutes. Mum did not hurry, took Wyoh down line of husbands—Grandpaw, Greg, Hans—then up line of wives—Ludmilla, Lenore, Sidris, Anna—with stately grace, then started on our kids.

I said, “Mum? Excuse me, want to change arms.” Her eyebrows went up a millimeter, meaning: “We’ll speak of this but not in front of children”—so I added: “Know it’s late, Greg’s sneaking look at watch. And Wyma and I are going to church. So ‘scuse, please.”

She relaxed. “Certainly, dear.” As she turned away I saw her arm go around Wyoh’s waist, so I relaxed.

I changed arms, replacing number seven with social arm. But was excuse to duck into phone cupboard and punch “MYCROFTXXX.” “Mike, we’re home. But about to go to church. Don’t think you can listen there, so I’ll check in later. Heard from Prof?”

“Not yet, Man. Which church is it? I may have some circuit.” “Pillar of Fire Repentance Tabernacle—”

“No reference.”

“Slow to my speed, pal. Meets in West-Three Community Hall. That’s south of Station on Ring about number—.” “I have it. There’s a pickup inside for channels and a phone in the corridor outside; I’ll keep an ear on both.”

“I don’t expect trouble, Mike.”

“It’s what Professor said to do. He is reporting now. Do you wish to speak to him?” “No time. ‘Bye!”

That set pattern: Always keep touch with Mike, let him know where you are, where you plan to be; Mike would listen if he had nerve ends there. Discovery I made that morning, that Mike could listen at dead phone, suggested it—discovery bothered me; don’t believe in magic. But on thinking I realized a phone could be switched on by central switching system without human intervention—if switching system had volition. Mike had bolshoyeh volition.

How Mike knew a phone was outside that hall is hard to say, since “space” could not mean to him what means to us. But he carried in storage a “map”—structured relations—of Luna City’s engineering, and could almost always fit what we said to what he knew as “Luna City”; hardly ever got lost.

So from day cabal started we kept touch with Mike and each other through his widespread nervous system. Won’t mention again unless necessary.

Mum and Greg and Wyoh were waiting at outer door, Mum chomping but smiling. I saw she had lent Wyoh a stole; Mum was as easy about skin as any Loonie, nothing newchummish— but church was another matter.

We made it, although Greg went straight to platform and we to seats. I settled in warm, mindless state, going through motions. But Wyoh did really listen to Greg’s sermon and either knew our hymn book or was accomplished sight reader.

When we got home, young ones were in bed and most adults; Hans and Sidris were up and Sidris served cocoasoy and cookies, then all turned in. Mum assigned Wyoh a room in tunnel most of our kids lived in, one which had had two smaller boys last time I noticed. Did not ask how she had reshuffled, was clear she was giving my guest best we had, or would have put Wyoh with one of older girls.

I slept with Mum that night, partly because our senior wife is good for nerves—and nerve-racking things had happened—and partly so she would know I was not sneaking to Wyoh’s room after things were quiet. My workshop, where I slept when slept alone; was just one bend from Wyoh’s door. Mum was telling me, plain as print: “Go ahead, dear. Don’t tell me if you wish to be mean about it. Sneak behind my back.”

Which neither of us admitted. We visited as we got ready for bed, chatted after light out, then I turned over.

Instead of saying goodnight Mum said, “Manuel? Why does your sweet little guest make herself up as an Afro? I would think that her natural coloration would be more becoming. Not that she isn’t perfectly charming the way she chooses to be.”

So rolled over and faced her, and explained—sounded thin, so filled in. And found self telling all—except one point: Mike. I included Mike—but not as computer—instead as a man Mum was not likely to meet, for security reasons.

But telling Mum—taking her into my subcell, should say, to become leader of own cell in turn—taking Mum into conspiracy was not case of husband who can’t keep from blurting everything to his wife. At most was hasty—but was best time if she was to be told.

Mum was smart. Also able executive; running big family without baring teeth requires that. Was respected among farm families and throughout Luna City; she had been up longer than 90 percent. She could help.

And would be indispensable inside family. Without her help Wyoh and I would find it sticky to use phone together (hard to explain), keep kids from noticing (impossible!)—but with Mum’s help would be no problems inside household.

She listened, sighed, said, “It sounds dangerous, dear.”

“Is,” I said. “Look, Mimi, if you don’t want to tackle, say so then forget what I’ve told.”

“Manuel! Don’t even say that. You are my husband, dear; I took you for better, for worse… and your wish is my command.”

(My word, what a lie! But Mimi believed it.)

“I would not let you go into danger alone,” she went on, “and besides—” “What, Mimi?”

“I think every Loonie dreams of the day when we will be free. All but some poor spineless rats. I’ve never talked about it; there seemed to be no point and it’s necessary to look up, not down, lift one’s burden and go ahead. But I thank dear Bog that I have been permitted to live to see the time come, if indeed it has. Explain more about it. I am to find three others, is it? Three who can be trusted.”

“Don’t hurry. Move slowly. Be sure.”

“Sidris can be trusted. She holds her tongue, that one.”

“Don’t think you should pick from family. Need to spread out. Don’t rush.”

“I shan’t. We’ll talk before I do anything. And Manuel, if you want my opinion—” She stopped. “Always want your opinion, Mimi.”

“Don’t mention this to Grandpaw. He’s forgetful these days and sometimes talkative. Now sleep, dear, and don’t dream.”

9

Followed a long time during which would have been possible to forget anything as unlikely as revolution had not details taken so much time. Our first purpose was not to be noticed. Long distance purpose was to make things as much worse as possible.

Yes, worse. Never was a time, even at last, when all Loonies wanted to throw off Authority, wanted it bad enough to revolt. All Loonies despised Warden and cheated Authority. Didn’t mean they were ready to fight and die. If you had mentioned “patriotism” to a Loonie, he would have stared—or thought you were talking about his homeland. Were transported Frenchmen whose hearts belonged to “La Belle Patrie,” ex-Germans loyal to Vaterland, Russkis who still loved Holy Mother Russia. But Luna? Luna was “The Rock,” place of exile, not thing to love.

We were as non-political a people as history ever produced. I know, I was as numb to politics as any until circumstances pitched me into it. Wyoming was in it because she hated Authority for a personal reason, Prof because he despised all authority in a detached intellectual fashion, Mike because he was a bored and lonely machine and was for him “only game in town.” You could not have accused us of patriotism. I came closest because I was third generation with total lack of affection for any place on Terra, had been there, disliked it and despised earthworms. Made me more “patriotic” than most!

Average Loonie was interested in beer, betting, women, and work, in that order. “Women” might be second place but first was unlikely, much as women were cherished. Loonies had learned there never were enough women to go around. Slow learners died, as even most possessive male can’t stay alert every minute. As Prof says, a society adapts to fact, or doesn’t survive. Loonies adapted to harsh facts—or failed and died. But “patriotism” was not necessary to survival.

Like old Chinee saying that “Fish aren’t aware of water,” I was not aware of any of this until I first went to Terra and even then did not realize what a blank spot was in Loonies under storage location marked “patriotism” until I took part in effort to stir them up. Wyoh and her comrades had tried to push “patriotism” button and got nowhere—years of work, a few thousand members, less than 1 percent and of that microscopic number almost 10 percent had been paid spies of boss fink!

Prof set us straight: Easier to get people to hate than to get them to love.

Luckily, Security Chief Alvarez gave us a hand. Those nine dead finks were replaced with ninety, for Authority was goaded into something it did reluctantly, namely spend money on us, and one folly led to another.

Warden’s bodyguard had never been large even in earliest days Prison guards in historical meaning were unnecessary and that had been one attraction of penal colony system—cheap. Warden and his deputy had to be protected and visiting vips, but prison itself needed no guards. They even stopped guarding ships after became clear was not necessary, and in May 2075, bodyguard was down to its cheapest numbers, all of them new chum transportees.

But loss of nine in one night scared somebody. We knew it scared Alvarez; he filed copies of his demands for help in Zebra file and Mike read them. Alag who had been a police officer on Terra before his conviction and then a bodyguard all his years in Luna, Alvarez was probably most frightened and loneliest man in The Rock. He demanded more and tougher help, threatened to resign civil service job if he didn’t get it—just a threat, which Authority would have known if it had really known Luna. If Alvarez had showed up in any warren as unarmed civilian, he would have stayed breathing only as long as not recognized.

He got his additional guards. We never found out who ordered that raid. Mort the Wart had never shown such tendencies, had been King Log throughout tenure. Perhaps Alvarez, having only recently succeeded to boss fink spot, wanted to make face—may have had ambition to be Warden. But likeliest theory is that Warden’s reports on “subversive activities” caused Authority Earthside to order a cleanup.

One thumb-fingered mistake led to another. New bodyguards, instead of picked from new transportees, were elite convict troops, Federated Nations crack Peace Dragoons. Were mean and tough, did not want to go to Luna, and soon realized that “temporary police duty” was one-way trip. Hated Luna and Loonies, and saw us as cause of it all.

Once Alvarez got them, he posted a twenty-four-hour watch at every interwarren tube station and instituted passports and passport control. Would have been illegal had there been laws in Luna, since 95 percent of us were theoretically free, either born free, or sentence completed. Percentage was higher in cities as undischarged transportees lived in barrack warrens at Complex and came into town only two days per lunar they had off work. If then, as they had no money, but you sometimes saw them wandering around, hoping somebody would buy a drink.

But passport system was not “illegal” as Warden’s regulations were only written law. Was announced in papers, we were given week to get passports, and at eight hundred one morning was put in effect. Some Loonies hardly ever traveled; some traveled on business; some commuted from outlying warrens or even from Luna City to Novylen or other way. Good little boys filled out applications, paid fees, were photographed, got passes; I was good little boy on Prof’s advice, paid for passport and added it to pass I carried to work in Complex.

Few good little boys! Loonies did not believe it. Passports? Whoever heard of such a thing?

Was a trooper at Tube Station South that morning dressed in bodyguard yellow rather than regimentals and looking like he hated it, and us. I was not going anywhere; I hung back and watched.

Novylen capsule was announced; crowd of thirty-odd headed for gate. Gospodin Yellow Jacket demanded passport of first to reach it. Loonie stopped to argue. Second one pushed past; guard turned and yelled—three or four more shoved past. Guard reached for sidearm; somebody grabbed his elbow, gun went off—not a laser, a slug gun, noisy.

Slug hit decking and went whee-whee-hoo off somewhere. I faded back. One man hurt—that guard. When first press of passengers had gone down ramp, he was on deck, not moving. Nobody paid attention; they walked around or stepped over—except one woman carrying a baby, who stopped, kicked him carefully in face, then went down ramp. He may have been

dead already, didn’t wait to see. Understand body stayed there till relief arrived.

Next day was a half squad in that spot. Capsule for Novylen left empty.

It settled down. Those who had to travel got passports, diehards quit traveling. Guard at a tube gate became two men, one looked at passports while other stood back with gun drawn. One who checked passports did not try hard, which was well as most were counterfeit and early ones were crude. But before long, authentic paper was stolen and counterfeits were as dinkum as official ones—more expensive but Loonies preferred free-enterprise passports.

Our organization did not make counterfeits; we merely encouraged it—and knew who had them and who did not; Mike’s records listed officially issued ones. This helped separate sheep from goats in files we were building—also stored in Mike but in “Bastille” location—as we figured a man with counterfeit passport was halfway to joining us. Word was passed down cells in our growing organization never to recruit anybody with a valid passport. If recruiter was not certain, just query upwards and answer came back.

But guards’ troubles were not over. Does not help a guard’s dignity nor add to peace of mind to have children stand in front of him, or behind out of eye which was worse, and ape every move he makes—or run back and forth screaming obscenities, jeering, making finger motions that are universal. At least guards took them as insults.

One guard back-handed a small boy, cost him some teeth. Result: two guards dead, one Loonie dead. After that, guards ignored children.

We didn’t have to work this up; we merely encouraged it. You wouldn’t think that a sweet old lady like my senior wife would encourage children to misbehave. But she did. Other things get single men a long way from home upset—and one we did start. These Peace Dragoons had been sent to The Rock without a comfort detachment.

Some of our fems were extremely beautiful and some started loitering around stations, dressed in less than usual—which could approach zero—and wearing more than usual amount of perfume, scents with range and striking power. They did not speak to yellow jackets nor look at them; they simply crossed their line of sight, undulating as only a Loonie gal can. (A female on Terra can’t walk that way; she’s tied down by six times too much weight.)

Such of course produces a male gallery, from men down to lads not yet pubescent—happy whistles and cheers for her beauty, nasty laughs at yellow boy. First girls to take this duty were slot-machine types but volunteers sprang up so fast that Prof decided we need not spend money. He was correct: even Ludmilla, shy as a kitten, wanted to try it and did not only because Mum told her not to. But Lenore, ten years older and prettiest of our family, did try it and Mum did not scold. She came back pink and excited and pleased with herself and anxious to tease enemy again. Her own idea; Lenore did not then know that revolution was brewing.

During this time I rarely saw Prof and never in public; we kept touch by phone. At first a bottleneck was that our farm had just one phone for twenty-five people, many of them youngsters who would tie up a phone for hours unless coerced. Mimi was strict; our kids were allowed one out-going call per day and max of ninety seconds on a call, with rising scale of

punishment—tempered by her warmth in granting exceptions. But grants were accompanied by “Mum’s Phone Lecture”: “When I first came to Luna there were no private phones. You children don’t know how soft…”

We were one of last prosperous families to install a phone; it was new in household when I was opted. We were prosperous because we never bought anything farm could produce. Mum disliked phone because rates to Luna City Co-op Comm Company were passed on in large measure to Authority. She never could understand why I could not (“Since you know all about such things, Manuel dear”) steal phone service as easily as we liberated power. That a phone instrument was part of a switching system into which it must fit was no interest to her.

Steal it I did, eventually. Problem with illicit phone is how to receive incoming calls. Since phone is not listed, even if you tell persons from whom you want calls, switching system itself does not have you listed; is no signal that can tell it to connect other party with you.

Once Mike joined conspiracy, switching was no problem. I had in workshop most of what I needed; bought some items and liberated others. Drilled a tiny hole from workshop to phone cupboard and another to Wyoh’s room—virgin rock a meter thick but a laser drill collimated to a thin pencil cuts rapidly. I unshipped listed phone, made a wireless coupling to line in its recess and concealed it. All else needed were binaural receptors and a speaker in Wyoh’s room, concealed, and same in mine, and a circuit to raise frequency above audio to have silence on Davis phone line, and its converse to restore audio incoming.

Only problem was to do this without being seen, and Mum generaled that.

All else was Mike’s problem. Used no switching arrangements; from then on used MYCROFTXXXonly when calling from some other phone. Mike listened at all times in workshop and in Wyoh’s room; if he heard my voice or hers say “Mike,” he answered, but not to other voices. Voice patterns were as distinctive to him as fingerprints; he never made mistakes.

Minor flourishes—soundprooflng Wyoh’s door such as workshop door already had, switching to suppress my instrument or hers, signals to tell me she was alone in her room and door locked, and vice versa. All added up to safe means whereby Wyob and I could talk with Mike or with each other, or could set up talk-talk of Mike, Wyoh, Prof, and self. Mike would call Prof wherever he was; Prof would talk or call back from a more private phone. Or might be Wyoh or myself had to be found. We all were careful to stay checked in with Mike.

My bootleg phone, though it had no way to punch a call, could be used to call any number in Luna—speak to Mike, ask for a Sherlock to anybody—not tell him number, Mike had all listings and could look up a number faster than I could.

We were beginning to see unlimited possibilities in a phoneswitching system alive and on our side. I got from Mike and gave Mum still another null number to call Mike if she needed to reach me. She grew chummy with Mike while continuing to think he was a man. This spread through our family. One day as I returned home Sidris said, “Mannie darling, your friend with the nice voice called. Mike Holmes. Wants you to call back.”

“Thanks, hon. Will.”

“When are you going to invite him to dinner, Man? I think he’s nice.”

I told her Gospodin Holmes had bad breath, was covered with rank hair, and hated women.

She used a rude word, Mum not being in earshot. “You’re afraid to let me see him. Afraid I’ll opt out for him.” I patted her and told her that was why. I told Mike and Prof about it. Mike flirted even more with my womenfolk after that; Prof was thoughtful.

I began to learn techniques of conspiracy and to appreciate Prof’s feeling that revolution could be an art. Did not forget (nor ever doubt) Mike’s prediction that Luna was only seven years from disaster. But did not think about it, thought about fascinating, finicky details.

Prof had emphasized that stickiest problems in conspiracy are communications and security, and had pointed out that they conflict—easier are communications, greater is risk to security; if security is tight, organization can be paralyzed by safety precautions. He had explained that cell system was a compromise.

I accepted cell system since was necessary to limit losses from spies. Even Wyoh admitted that organization without compartmentation could not work after she learned how rotten with spies old underground had been.

But I did not like clogged communications of cell system; like Terran dinosaurs of old, took too long to send message from head to tail, or back. So talked with Mike.

We discarded many-linked channels I had suggested to Prof. We retained cells but based security and communication on marvelous possibilities of our dinkum thinkum. Communications: We set up a ternary tree of “party” names:

Chairman, Gospodin Adam Selene (Mike) Executive cell: Bork (me), Betty (Wyoh), Bill (Prof) Bork’s cell: Cassie (Mum), Colin, Chang

Betty’s cell: Calvin (Greg), Cecilia (Sidris), Clayton Bill’s cell: Cornwall (Finn Nielsen), Carolyn, Cotter

and so on. At seventh link George supervises Herbert, Henry, and Hallie. By time you reach that level you need 2,187 names with “H”—but turn it over to savvy computer who finds or invents them. Each recruit is given a party name and an emergency phone number. This number, instead of chasing through many links, connects with “Adam Selene,” Mike.

Security: Based on double principle; no human being can be trusted with anything—but Mike could be trusted with everything.

Grim first half is beyond dispute. With drugs and other unsavory methods any man can be broken. Only defense is suicide, which may be impossible. Oh, are “hollow tooth” methods, classic and novel, some nearly infallible—Prof saw to it that Wyoh and myself were equipped. Never knew what he gave her as a final friend and since I never had to use mine, is no point in messy details. Nor am I sure I would ever suicide; am not stuff of martyrs.

But Mike could never need to suicide, could not be drugged, did not feel pain. He carried everything concerning us in a separate memory bank under a locked signal programmed only to our three voices, and, since flesh is weak, we added a signal under which any of us could lock out other two in emergency. In my opinion as best computerman in Luna, Mike could not remove this lock once it was set up. Best of all, nobody would ask master computer for this file because nobody knew it existed, did not suspect Mike-as-Mike existed. How secure can you be?

Only risk was that this awakened machine was whimsical. Mike was always showing unforeseen potentials; conceivable he could figure way to get around block—if he wanted to. But would never want to. He was loyal to me, first and oldest friend; he liked Prof; I think he loved Wyoh. No, no, sex meant nothing. But Wyoh is lovable and they hit it off from start. I trusted Mike. In this life you have to bet; on that bet I would give any odds.

So we based security on trusting Mike with everything while each of us knew only what he had to know. Take that tree of names and numbers. I knew only party names of my cellmates and of three directly under me; was all I needed. Mike set up party names, assigned phone number to each, kept roster of real names versus party names. Let’s say party member “Daniel” (whom I would not know, being a “D” two levels below me) recruits Fritz Schultz. Daniel reports fact but not name upwards; Adam Selene calls Daniel, assigns for Schultz party name “Embrook,” then phones Schultz at number received from Daniel, gives Schultz his name Embrook and emergency phone number, this number being different for each recruit.

Not even Embrook’s cell leader would know Embrook’s emergency number. What you do not know you cannot spill, not under drugs nor torture, nor anything. Not even from carelessness.

Now let’s suppose I need to reach Comrade Embrook. I don’t know who he is; he may live in Hong Kong or be shopkeeper nearest my home. Instead of passing message down, hoping it will reach him, I call Mike. Mike connects me with Embrook at once, in a Sherlock, withoul giving me his number.

Or suppose I need to speak to comrade who is preparing cartoon we are about to distribute in every taproom in Luna. I don’t know who he is. But I need to talk to him; something has come up.

I call Mike; Mike knows everything—and again I am quickly connected—and this comrade knows it’s okay as Adam Selene arranged call. “Comrade Bork speaking”—and he doesn’t know me but initial “B” tells him that I am vip indeed—”we have to change so-and-so. Tell your cell leader and have him check, but get on with it.”

Minor flourishes—some comrades did not have phones; some could be reached only at certain hours; some outlying warrens did not have phone service. No matter, Mike knew everything—and rest of us did not know anything that could endanger any but that handful whom each knew face to face.

After we decided that Mike should talk voice-to-voice to any comrade under some circumstances, it was necessary to give him more voices and dress him up, make him three dimensions, create “Adam Selene, Chairman of the Provisional Committee of Free Luna.”

Mike’s need for more voices lay in fact that he had just one voder-vocoder, whereas his brain could handle a dozen conversations, or a hundred (don’t know how many)—like a chess master playing fifty opponents, only more so.

This would cause a bottleneck as organization grew and Adam Selene was phoned oftener, and could be crucial if we lasted long enough to go into action.

Besides giving him more voices I wanted to silence one he had. One of those so-called computermen might walk into machines room while we were phoning Mike; bound to cause even his dim wit to wonder if he found master machine apparently talking to itself.

Voder-vocoder is very old device. Human voice is buzzes and hisses mixed various ways; true even of a coloratura soprano. Avocoder analyzes buzzes and hisses into patterns, one a computer (or trained eye) can read. Avoder is a little box which can buzz and hiss and has controls to vary these elements to match those patterns. Ahuman can “play” a voder, producing artificial speech; a properly programmed computer can do it as fast, as easily, as clearly as you can speak.

But voices on a phone wire are not sound waves but electrical signals; Mike did not need audio part of voder-vocoder to talk by phone. Sound waves were needed only by human at other end; no need for speech sounds inside Mike’s room at Authority Complex. so I planned to remove them, and thereby any danger that somebody might notice.

First I worked at home, using number-three arm most of time. Result was very small box which sandwiched twenty voder-vocoder circuits minus audio side. Then I called Mike and told him to “get ill” in way that would annoy Warden. Then I waited.

We had done this “get ill” trick before. I went back to work once we learned that I was clear, which was Thursday that same week when Alvarez read into Zebra file an account of shambles at Stilyagi Hall. His version listed about one hundred people (out of perhaps three hundred); list included Shorty Mkrum, Wyoh, Prof, and Finn Nielsen but not me—apparently I was missed by his finks. It told how nine police officers, each deputized by Warden to preserve peace, had been shot down in cold blood. Also named three of our dead.

An add-on a week later stated that “the notorious agente provocateuse Wyoming Knott of Hong Kong in Luna, whose incendiary speech on Monday 13 May had incited the riot that cost the lives of nine brave officers, had not been apprehended in Luna City and had not returned to her usual haunts in Hong Kong in Luna, and was now believed to have died in the massacre she herself set off.” This add-on admitted what earlier report failed to mention, i.e., bodies were missing and exact number of dead was not known.

This P.S. settled two things: Wyoh could not go home nor back to being a blonde.

Since I had not been spotted I resumed my public ways, took care of customers that week, bookkeeping machines and retrieval files at Carnegie Library, and spent time having Mike read out Zebra file and other special files, doing so in Room L of Raffles as I did not yet have my own phone. During that week Mike niggled at me like an impatient child (which he was), wanting to know when I was coming over to pick up more jokes. Failing that, he wanted to tell them by phone.

I got annoyed and had to remind myself that from Mike’s viewpoint analyzing jokes was just as important as freeing Luna—and you don’t break promises to a child.

Besides that. I got itchy wondering whether I could go inside Complex without being nabbed. We knew Prof was not clear, was sleeping in Raffles on that account. Yet they knew he had been at meeting and knew where he was, daily—but no attempt was made to pick him up. When we learned that attempt had been made to pick up Wyoh, I grew itchier. Was I clear? Or were they waiting to nab me quietly? Had to know.

So I called Mike and told him to have a tummyache. He did so, I was called in—no trouble. Aside from showing passport at station, then to a new guard at Complex, all was usual. I chatted with Mike, picked up one thousand jokes (with understanding that we would report a hundred at a time every three or four days, no faster), told him to get well, and went back to L- City, stopping on way out to bill Chief Engineer for working time, travel-and-tool time, materials, special service, anything I could load in.

Thereafter saw Mike about once a month. Was safe, never went there except when they called me for malfunction beyond ability of their staff—and I was always able to “repair” it, sometimes quickly, sometimes after a full day and many tests. Was careful to leave tool marks on cover plates, and had before-and-after print-outs of test runs to show what had been wrong, how I analyzed it, what I had done. Mike always worked perfectly after one of my visits; I was indispensable.

So, after I prepared his new voder-vocoder add-on, didn’t hesitate to tell him to get “ill.” Call came in thirty minutes. Mike had thought up a dandy; his “illness” was wild oscillations in conditioning Warden’s residence. He was running its heat up, then down, on an eleven-minute cycle, while oscillating its air pressure on a short cycle, ca. 2c/s, enough to make a man dreadfully nervy and perhaps cause earache.

Conditioning a single residence should not go through a master computer! In Davis Tunnels we handled home and farm with idiot controls, feedbacks for each cubic with alarms so that somebody could climb out of bed and control by hand until trouble could be found. If cows got chilly, did not hurt corn; if lights failed over wheat, vegetables were okay. That Mike could raise hell with Warden’s residence and nobody could figure out what to do shows silliness of piling everything into one computer.

Mike was happy-joyed. This was humor he really scanned. I enjoyed it, too, told him to go ahead, have fun—spread out tools, got out little black box.

And computerman-of-the-watch comes banging and ringing at door. I took my time answering and carried number-five arm in right hand with short wing bare; this makes some people sick and upsets almost everybody. “What in hell do you want, choom?” I inquired.

“Listen,” he says, “Warden is raising hell! Haven’t you found trouble?”

“My compliments to Warden and tell him I will override by hand to restore his precious comfort as soon as I locate faulty circuit—if not slowed up by silly questions. Are you going to stand with door open blowing dust into machines while I have cover plates off? If you do—since you’re in charge—when dust puts machine on sputter, you can repair it. I won’t leave a warm bed to help. You can tell that to your bloody Warden, too.”

“Watch your language, cobber.”

“Watch yours, convict. Are you going to close that door? Or shall I walk out and go back to L-City?” And raised number-five like a club.

He closed door. Had no interest in insulting poor sod. Was one small bit of policy to make everybody as unhappy as possible. He was finding working for Warden difficult; I wanted to make it unbearable.

“Shall I step it up?” Mike inquired.

“Um, hold it so for ten minutes, then stop abruptly. Then jog it for an hour, say with air pressure. Erratic but hard. Know what a sonic boom is?” “Certainly. It is a—”

“Don’t define. After you drop major effect, rattle his air ducts every few minutes with nearest to a boom system will produce. Then give him something to remember. Mmm … Mike, can you make his W.C. run backwards?”

“I surely can! All of them?” “How many does he have?” “Six.”

“Well … program to give them all a push, enough to soak his rugs. But if you can spot one nearest his bedroom, fountain it clear to ceiling. Can?” “Program set up!”

“Good. Now for your present, ducky.” There was room in voder audio box to hide it and I spent forty minutes with number-three, getting it just so. We trial-checked through voder-vocoder, then I told him to call Wyoh and check each circuit.

For ten minutes was silence, which I spent putting tool markers on a cover plate which should have been removed had been anything wrong, putting tools away, putting number-six arm on, rolling up one thousand jokes waiting in print-out. I had found no need to cut out audio of voder; Mike had thought of it before I had and always chopped off any time door was touched. Since his reflexes were better than mine by a factor of at least a thousand, I forgot it.

At last he said, “All twenty circuits okay. I can switch circuits in the middle of a word and Wyoh can’t detect discontinuity. And I called Prof and said Hello and talked to Mum on your home phone, all three at the same time.”

“We’re in business. What excuse you give Mum?”

“I asked her to have you call me, Adam Selene that is. Then we chatted. She’s a charming conversationalist. We discussed Greg’s sermon of last Tuesday.” “Huh? How?”

“I told her I had listened to it, Man, and quoted a poetic part.” “Oh, Mike!”

“It’s okay, Man. I let her think that I sat in back, then slipped out during the closing hymn. She’s not nosy; she knows that I don’t want to be seen.”

Mum is nosiest female in Luna. “Guess it’s okay. But don’t do it again. Um—Do do it again. You go to—you monitor—meetings and lectures and concerts and stuff.” “Unless some busybody switches me off by hand! Man, I can’t control those spot pickups the way I do a phone.”

“Too simple a switch. Brute muscle rather than solid-state flipflop.” “That’s barbaric. And unfair.”

“Mike, almost everything is unfair. What can’t be cured—” “—must be endured. That’s a funny-once, Man.”

“Sorry. Let’s change it: What can’t be cured should be tossed out and something better put in. Which we’ll do. What chances last time you calculated?” “Approximately one in nine, Man.”

“Getting worse?”

“Man, they’ll get worse for months. We haven’t reached the crisis.”

“With Yankees in cellar, too. Oh, well. Back to other matter. From now on, when you talk to anyone, if he’s been to a lecture or whatever, you were there, too—and prove it, by recalling something.”

“Noted. Why, Man?”

“Have you read ‘The Scarlet Pimpernel’? May be in public library.” “Yes. Shall I read it back?”

“No, no! You’re our Scarlet Pinipernel, our John Galt, our Swamp Fox, our man of mystery. You go everywhere, know everything, slip in and out of town without passport. You’re always there, yet nobody catches sight of you.”

His lights rippled, he gave a subdued chuckle. “That’s fun, Man. Funny once, funny twice, maybe funny always.” “Funny always. How long ago did you stop gymkhana at Warden’s?”

“Forty-three minutes ago except erratic booms.”

“Bet his teeth ache! Give him fifteen minutes more. Then I’ll report job completed.” “Noted. Wyoh sent you a message, Man. She said to remind you of Billy’s birthday party.”

“Oh, my word! Stop everything, I’m leaving. ‘Bye!” I hurried out. Billy’s mother is Anna. Probably her last—and right well she’s done by us, eight kids, three still home. I try to be as careful as Mum never to show favoritism… but Billy is quite a boy and I taught him to read. Possible he looks like me.

Stopped at Chief Engineer’s office to leave bill and demanded to see him. Was let in and he was in belligerent mood; Warden had been riding him. “Hold it,” I told him. “My son’s birthday and shan’t be late. But must show you something.”

Took an envelope from kit, dumped item on desk: corpse of house fly which I had charred with a hot wire and fetched. We do not tolerate flies in Davis Tunnels but sometimes one wanders in from city as locks are opened. This wound up in my workshop just when I needed it. “See that? Guess where I found it.”

On that faked evidence I built a lecture on care of fine machines, talked about doors opened, complained about man on watch. “Dust can ruin a computer. Insects are unpardonable! Yet your watchstanders wander in and out as if tube station. Today both doors held open—while this idiot yammered. If I find more evidence that cover plates have been removed by hoof- handed choom who attracts flies—well, it’s your plant, Chief. Got more than I can handle, been doing your chores because I like fine machines. Can’t stand to see them abused! Good- bye.”

“Hold on. I want to tell you something.”

“Sorry, got to go. Take it or leave it, I’m no vermin exterminator; I’m a computerman.”

Nothing frustrates a man so much as not letting him get in his say. With luck and help from Warden, Chief Engineer would have ulcers by Christmas.

Was late anyhow and made humble apology to Billy. Alvarez had thought up new wrinkle, close search on leaving Complex. I endured it with never a nasty word for Dragoons who searched me; wanted to get home. But those thousand jokes bothered them. “What’s this?” one demanded.

“Computer paper,” I said. “Test runs.”

His mate joined him. Don’t think they could read. They wanted to confiscate, so I demanded they call Chief Engineer. They let me go. I felt not displeased; more and more such and guards were daily more hated.

Decision to make Mike more a person arose from need to have any Party member phone him on occasion; my advice about concerts and plays was simply a side effect. Mike’s voice over phone had odd quality I had not noticed during time I had visited him only at Complex. When you speak to a man by phone there is background noise. And you hear him breathe, hear heartbeats, body motions even though rarely conscious of these. Besides that, even if he speaks under a hush hood, noises get through, enough to “fill space,” make him a body with surroundings.

With Mike was none of this.

By then Mike’s voice was “human” in timbre and quality, recognizable. He was baritone, had North American accent with Aussie overtones; as “Michelle” he (she?) had a light soprano with French flavor. Mike’s personality grew also. When first I introduced him to Wyoh and Prof he sounded like a pedantic child; in short weeks he flowered until I visualized a man about own age.

His voice when he first woke was blurred and harsh, hardly understandable. Now it was clear and choice of words and phrasing was consistent—colloquial to me, scholarly to Prof, gallant to Wyoh, variation one expects of mature adults.

But background was dead. Thick silence.

So we filled it. Mike needed only hints. He did not make his breathing noisy, ordinarily you would not notice. But he would stick in touches. “Sorry, Mannie, you caught me bathing when the phone sounded”—and let one hear hurried breathing. Or “I was eating—had to swallow.” He used such even on me, once he undertook to “be a human body.”

We all put “Adam Selene” together, talking it over at Raffles. How old was he? What did he look like? Married? Where did he live? What work? What interests?

We decided that Adam was about forty, healthy, vigorous, well educated, interested in all arts and sciences and very well grounded in history, a match chess player but- little time to play. He was married in commonest type, a troika in which he was senior husband—four children. Wife and junior husband not in politics, so far as we knew.

He was ruggedly handsome with wavy iron-gray hair and was mixed race, second generation one side, third on other. Was wealthy by Loonie standards, with interests in Novylen and Kongville as well as L-City. He kept offices in Luna City, outer office with a dozen people plus private office staffed by male deputy and female secretary.

Wyoh wanted to know was he bundling with secretary? I told her to switch off, was private. Wyoh said indignantly that she was not being snoopy—weren’t we trying to create a rounded character?

We decided that offices were in Old Dome, third ramp, southside, heart of financial district. If you know L-City. you recall that in Old Dome some offices have windows since they can look out over floor of Dome; I wanted this for sound effects.

We drew a floor plan and had that office existed, it would have been between Aetna Luna and Greenberg & Co. I used pouch recorder to pick up sounds at spot; Mike added to it by listening at phones there.

Thereafter when you called Adam Selene, background was not dead. If “Ursula,” his secretary, took call, it was: “Selene Associates. Luna shall be free!” Then she might say, “Will you hold? Gospodin Selene is on another call” whereupon you might hear sound of W.C., followed by running water and know that she had told little white lie. Or Adam might answer: “Adam Selene here. Free Luna. One second while I shut off the video.” Or deputy might answer: “This is Albert Ginwallah, Adam Selene’s confidential assistant. Free Luna. If it’s a Party matter— as I assume it is; that was your Party name you gave—please don’t hesitate; I handle such things for the Chairman.”

Last was a trap, as every comrade was instructed to speak only to Adam Selene. No attempt was made to discipline one who took bait; instead his cell captain was warned that his comrade must not be trusted with anything vital.

We got echoes. “Free Luna!” or “Luna shall be free!” took hold among youngsters, then among solid citizens. First time I heard it in a business call I almost swallowed teeth. Then called Mike and asked if this person was Party member? Was not. So I recommended that Mike trace down Party tree and see if somebody could recruit him.

Most interesting echo was in File Zebra. “Adam Selene” appeared in boss fink’s security file less than a lunar after we created him, with notation that this was a cover name for a leader in a new underground.

Alvarez’s spies did a job on Adam Selene. Over course of months his File Zebra dossier built up: Male, 34-45, offices south face of Old Dome, usually there 0900-1800 Gr. except Saturday but calls are relayed at other hours, home inside urban pressure as travel time never exceeds seventeen minutes. Children in household. Activities include stock brokerage, farming interests. Attends theater, concerts, etc. Probably member Luna City Chess Club and Luna Assoc, d’Echecs. Plays ricochet and other heavy sports lunch hour, probably Luna City Athletic Club. Gourmet but watches weight. Remarkable memory plus mathematical ability. Executive type, able to reach decisions quickly.

One fink was convinced that he had talked to Adam between acts at revival of Hamlet by Civic Players; Alvarez noted description—and matched our picture all but wavy hair!

But thing that drove Alvarez crackers was that phone numbers for Adam were reported and every time they turned out wrong numbers. (Not nulls; we had run out and Mike was using any number not in use and switching numbers anytime new subscribers were assigned ones we had been using.) Alvarez tried to trace “Selene Associates” using a one-wrong-digit assumption—this we learned because Mike was keeping an ear on Alvarez’s office phone and heard order. Mike used knowledge to play a Mikish prank: Subordinate who made one- changed-digit calls invariably reached Warden’s private residence. So Alvarez was called in and chewed by Warden.

Couldn’t scold Mike but did warn him it would alert any smart person to fact that somebody was playing tricks with computer. Mike answered that they were not that smart.

Main result of Alvarez’s efforts was that each time he got a number for Adam we located a spy—a new spy, as those we had spotted earlier were never given phone numbers; instead they were recruited into a tail-chasing organization where they could inform on each other. But with Alvarez’s help we spotted each new spy almost at once. I think Alvarez became unhappy over spies he was able to hire; two disappeared and our organization, then over six thousand, was never able to find them. Eliminated, I suppose, or died under questioning.

Selene Associates was not only phony company we set up. LuNoHoCo was much larger, just as phony, and not at all dummy; it had main offices in Hong Kong, branches in Novy Leningrad and Luna City, eventually employed hundreds of people most of whom were not Party members, and was our most difficult operation.

Mike’s master plan listed a weary number of problems which had to be solved. One was finance. Another was how to protect catapult from space attack.

Prof considered robbing banks to solve first, gave it up reluctantly. But eventually we did rob banks, firms, and Authority itself. Mike thought of it. Mike and Prof worked it out. At first was not clear to Mike why we needed money. He knew as little about pressure that keeps humans scratching as he knew about sex; Mike handled millions of dollars and could not see any problem. He started by offering to issue an Authority cheque for whatever dollars we wanted.

Prof shied in horror. He then explained to Mike hazard in trying to cash a cheque for, let us say, AS$l0,000,000 drawn on Authority.

So they undertook to do it, but retail, in many names and places all over Luna. Every bank, firm, shop, agency including Authority, for which Mike did accounting, was tapped for Party funds. Was a pyramided swindle based on fact, unknown to me but known to Prof and latent in Mike’s immense knowledge, that most money is simply bookkeeping.

Example—multiply by hundreds of many types: My family son Sergei, eighteen and a Party member, is asked to start account at Commonwealth Shared Risk. He makes deposits and withdrawals. Small errors are made each time; he is credited with more than he deposits, is debited with less than he withdraws. Afew months later he takes job out of town and transfers account to Tycho-Under Mutual; transferred funds are three times already-inflated amount. Most of this he soon draws out in cash and passes to his cell leader. Mike knows amount Sergei should hand over, but (since they do not know that Adam Selene and bank’s computer-bookeeper are one and same) they have each been instructed to report transaction to Adam—keep them honest though scheme was not.

Multiply this theft of about HK$3,000 by hundreds somewhat like it.

I can’t describe jiggery-pokery Mike used to balance his books while keeping thousands of thefts from showing. But bear in mind that an auditor must assume that machines are honest. He will make test runs to check that machines are working correctly—but will not occur to him that tests prove nothing because machine itself is dishonest. Mike’s thefts were never large enough to disturb economy; like half-liter of blood, amount was too small to hurt donor. I can’t make up mind who lost, money was swapped around so many ways. But scheme troubled me; I was brought up to be honest, except with Authority. Prof claimed that what was taking place was a mild inflation offset by fact that we plowed money back in—but I should remember that Mike had records and all could be restored after Revolution, with ease since we would no longer be bled in much larger amounts by Authority.

I told conscience to go to sleep. Was pipsqueak compared to swindles by every government throughout history in financing every war—and is not revolution a war?

This money, after passing through many hands (augmented by Mike each time), wound up as senior financing of LuNoHo Company. Was a mixed company, mutual and stock; “gentleman-adventurer” guarantors who backed stock put up that stolen money in own names. Won’t discuss bookkeeping this firm used. Since Mike ran everything, was not corrupted by any tinge of honesty.

Nevertheless its shares were traded in Hong Kong Luna Exchange and listed in Zurich, London, and New York. Wall Street Journal called it “an attractive high-risk-high-gain investment with novel growth potential.”

LuNoHoCo was an engineering and exploitation firm, engaged in many ventures, mostly legitimate. But prime purpbse was to build a second catapult, secretly.

Operation could not be secret. You can’t buy or build a hydrogen-fusion power plant for such and not have it noticed. (Sunpower was rejected for obvious reasons.) Parts were ordered from Pittsburgh, standard UnivCalif equipment, and we happily paid their royalties to get top quality. Can’t build a stator for a kilometers-long induction field without having it noticed, either. But most important you cannot do major construction hiring many people and not have it show. Sure, catapults are mostly vacuum; stator rings aren’t even close together at ejection end. But Authority’s 3-g catapult was almost one hundred kilometers long. It was not only an astrogation landmark, on every Luna-jump chart, but was so big it could be photographed or seen by eye from Terra with not-large telescope. It showed up beautifully on a radar screen.

We were building a shorter catapult, a 10-g job, but even that was thirty kilometers long, too big to hide.

So we hid it by Purloined Letter method.

I used to question Mike’s endless reading of fiction, wondering what notions he was getting. But turned out he got a better feeling for human life from stories than he had been able to garner from facts; fiction gave him a gestalt of life, one taken for granted by a human; he lives it. Besides this “humanizing” effect, Mike’s substitute for experience, he got ideas from “not- true data” as he called fiction. How to hide a catapult he got from Edgar Allan Poe.

We hid it in literal sense, too; this catapult had to be underground, so that it would not show to eye or radar. But had to be hidden in more subtle sense; selenographic location had to be secret.

How can this be, with a monster that big, worked on by so many people? Put it this way: Suppose you live in Novylen; know where Luna City is? Why, on east edge of Mare Crisium; everybody knows that. So? What latitude and longitude? Huh? Look it up in a reference book! So? If you don’t know where any better than that, how did you find it last week? No huhu, cobber; I took tube, changed at Torricelli, slept rest of way; finding it was capsule’s worry.

See? You don’t know where Luna City is! You simply get out when capsule pulls in at Tube Station South. That’s how we hid catapult.

Is in Mare Undarum area, “everybody knows that.” But where it is and where we said it was differ by amount greater or less than one hundred kilometers in direction north, south, east, or west, or some combination.

Today you can look up its location in reference books—and find same wrong answer. Location of that catapult is still most closely guarded secret in Luna.

Can’t be seen from space, by eye or radar. Is underground save for ejection and that is a big black shapeless hole like ten thousand others and high up an uninviting mountain with no place for a jump rocket to put down.

Nevertheless many people were there, during and after construction. Even Warden visited and my co-husband Greg showed him around. Warden went by mail rocket, commandeered for day, and his Cyborg was given coordinates and a radar beacon to home on—a spot in fact not far from site. But from there, it was necessary to travel by rolligon and our lorries were not like passenger buses from Endsville to Beluthihatchie in old days; they were cargo carriers, no ports for sightseeing and a ride so rough that human cargo had to be strapped down. Warden wanted to ride up in cab but—sorry, Gospodin!—just space for wrangler and his helper and took both to keep her steady.

Three hours later he did not care about anything but getting home. He stayed one hour and was not interested in talk about purpose of all this drilling and value of resources uncovered. Less important people, workmen and others, traveled by interconnecting ice-exploration bores, still easier way to get lost. If anybody carried an inertial pathfinder in his luggage, he could

have located site—but security was tight. One did so and had accident with p-suit; his effects were returned to L-City and his pathfinder read what it should—i.e., what we wanted it to

read, for I made hurried trip out with number-three arm along. You can reseal one without a trace if you do it in nitrogen atmosphere—I wore an oxygen mask at slight overpressure. No

huhu.

We entertained vips from Earth, some high in Authority. They traveled easier underground route; I suppose Warden had warned them. But even on that route is one thirty-kilometer stretch by rolligon. We had one visitor from Earth who looked like trouble, a Dr. Dorian, physicist and engineer. Lorry tipped over—silly driver tried shortcut—they were not in line-of-sight for anything and their beacon was smashed. Poor Dr. Dorian spent seventy-two hours in an unsealed pumice igloo and had to be returned to L-City ill from hypoxia and overdose of radiation despite efforts on his behalf by two Party members driving him.

Might have been safe to let him see; he might not have spotted doubletalk and would not have spotted error in location. Few people look at stars when p-suited even when Sun doesn’t make it futile; still fewer can read stars—and nobody can locate himself on surface without help unless he has instruments, knows how to use them and has tables and something to give a time tick. Put at crudest level, minimum would be octant, tables, and good watch. Our visitors were even encouraged to go out on surface but if one had carried an octant or modern equivalent, might have had accident.

We did not make accidents for spies. We let them stay, worked them hard, and Mike read their reports. One reported that he was certain that we had found uranium ore, something unknown in Luna at that time. Project Centerbore being many years later. Next spy came out with kit of radiation counters. We made it easy for him to sneak them through bore.

By March ‘76 catapult was almost ready, lacking only installation of stator segments. Power plant was in and a co-ax had been strung underground with a line-of-sight link for that thirty kilometers. Crew was down to skeleton size, mostly Party members. But we kept one spy so that Alvarez could have regular reports—didn’t want him to worry; it tended to make him suspicious. Instead we worried him in warrens.

10

Were changes in those eleven months. Wyoh was baptized into Greg’s church, Prof’s health became so shaky that he dropped teaching, Mike took up writing poetry. Yankees finished in cellar. Wouldn’t have minded paying Prof if they had been nosed out, but from pennant to cellar in one season—I quit watching them on video.

Prof’s illness was phony. He was in perfect shape for age, exercising in hotel room three hours each day, and sleeping in three hundred kilograms of lead pajamas. And so was I, and so was Wyoh, who hated it. I don’t think she ever cheated and spent night in comfort though can’t say for sure; I was not dossing with her. She had become a fixture in Davis family. Took her one day to go from “Gospazha Davis” to “Gospazha Mum,” one more to reach “Mum” and now it might be “Mimi Mum” with arm around Mum’s waist. When Zebra File showed she couldn’t go back to Hong Kong, Sidris had taken Wyoh into her beauty shop after hours and done a job which left skin same dark shade but would not scrub off. Sidris also did a hairdo on Wyoh that left it black and looking as if unsuccessfully unkinked. Plus minor touches—opaque nail enamel, plastic inserts for cheeks and nostrils and of course she wore her dark- eyed contact lenses. When Sidris got through, Wyoh could have gone bundling without fretting about her disguise; was a perfect “colored” with ancestry to match—Tamil, a touch of Angola, German. I called her “Wyma” rather than “Wyoh.”

She was gorgeous. When she undulated down a corridor, boys followed in swarms.

She started to learn farming from Greg but Mum put stop to that. While she was big and smart and willing, our farm is mostly a male operation—and Greg and Hans were not only male members of our family distracted; she cost more farming man-hours than her industry equaled. So Wyoh went back to housework, then Sidris took her into beauty shop as helper.

Prof played ponies with two accounts, betting one by Mike’s “leading apprentice” system, other by his own “scientific” system. By July ‘75 he admitted that he knew nothing about horses and went solely to Mike’s system, increasing bets and spreading them among many bookies. His winnings paid Party’s expenses while Mike built swindle that financed catapult. But Prof lost interest in a sure thing and merely placed bets as Mike designated. He stopped reading pony journals—sad, something dies when an old horseplayer quits.

Ludmilla had a girl which they say is lucky in a first and which delighted me—every family needs a girl baby. Wyoh surprised our women by being expert in midwifery—and surprised them again that she knew nothing about baby care. Our two oldest sons found marriages at last and Teddy, thirteen, was opted out. Greg hired two lads from neighbor farms and, after six months of working and eating with us, both were opted in—not rushing things, we had known them and their families for years. It restored balance we had lacked since Ludmilla’s opting and put stop to snide remarks from mothers of bachelors who had not found marriages–not that Mum wasn’t capable of snubbing anyone she did not consider up to Davis standards.

Wyoh recruited Sidris; Sidris started own cell by recruiting her other assistant and Bon Ton Beaute Shoppe became hotbed of subversion. We started using our smallest kids for deliveries and other jobs a child can do—they can stake out or trail a person through corridors better than an adult, and are not suspected. Sidris grabbed this notion and expanded it through women recruited in beauty parlor.

Soon she had so many kids on tap that we could keep all of Alvarez’s spies under surveillance. With Mike able to listen at any phone and a child spotting it whenever a spy left home or place of work or wherever—with enough kids on call so that one could phone while another held down a new stakeout—we could keep a spy under tight observation and keep him from seeing anything we didn’t want him to see. Shortly we were getting reports spies phoned in without waiting for Zebra File; it did a sod no good to phone from a taproom instead of home; with Baker Street Irregulars on job Mike was listening before he finished punching number.

These kids located Alvarez’s deputy spy boss in L-City. We knew he had one because these finks did not report to Alvarez by phone, nor did it seem possible that Alvarez could have recruited them as none of them worked in Complex and Alvarez came inside Luna City only when an Earthside vip was so important as to rate a bodyguard commanded by Alvarez in person.

His deputy turned out to be two people—an old lag who ran a candy, news, and bookie counter in Old Dome and his son who was on civil service in Complex. Son carried reports in, so Mike had not been able to hear them.

We let them alone. But from then on we had fink field reports half a day sooner than Alvarez. This advantage—all due to kids as young as five or six—saved lives of seven comrades. All glory to Baker Street Irregulars!

Don’t remember who named them but think it was Mike—I was merely a Sherlock Homes fan whereas he really did think he was Sherlock Holmes’s brother Mycroft … nor would I swear he was not; “reality” is a slippery notion. Kids did not call themselves that; they had their own play gangs with own names. Nor were they burdened with secrets which could endanger them; Sidris left it to mothers to explain why they were being asked to do these jobs save that they were never to be told real reason. Kids will do anything mysterious and fun; look how many of their games are based on outsmarting.

Bon Ton salon was a clearinghouse of gossip—women get news faster than Daily Lunatic. I encouraged Wyoh to report to Mike each night, not try to thin gossip down to what seemed significant because was no telling what might be significant once Mike got through associating it with a million other facts.

Beauty parlor was also place to start rumors. Party had grown slowly at first, then rapidly as powers-of-three began to be felt and also because Peace Dragoons were nastier than older bodyguard. As numbers increased we shifted to high speed on agitprop, black-propaganda rumors, open subversion, provocateur activities, and sabotage. Finn Nielsen handled agitprop when it was simpler as well as dangerous job of continuing to front for and put cover-up activity into older, spyridden underground. But now a large chunk of agitprop and related work was given to Sidris.

Much involved distributing handbills and such. No subversive literature was ever in her shop, nor our home, nor that hotel room; distribution was done by kids, too young to read.

Sidris was also working a full day bending hair and such. About time she began to have too much to do I happened one evening to make walk-about on Causeway with Sidris on my arm when I caught sight of a familiar face and figure—skinny little girl, all angles, carrot-red hair. She was possibly twelve, at stage when a fem shoots up just before blossoming out into rounded softness. I knew her but could not say why or when or where.

I said, “Psst, doll baby. Eyeball young fem ahead. Orange hair, no cushions.” Sidris looked her over. “Darling, I knew you were eccentric. But she’s still a boy.” “Damp it. Who?”

“Bog knows. Shall I sprag her?”

Suddenly I remembered like video coming on. And wished Wyoh were with me-but Wyoh and I were never together in public. This skinny redhead had been at meeting where Shorty was killed. She sat on floor against wall down front and listened with wide-eyed seriousness and applauded fiercely. Then I had seen her at end in free trajectory—curled into ball in air and had hit a yellow jacket in knees, he whose jaw I broke a moment later.

Wyoh and I were alive and free because this kid moved fast in a crisis. “No, don’t speak to her,” I told Sidris. “But I want to keep her in sight. Wish we had one of your Irregulars here. Damn.”

“Drop off and phone Wyoh, you’ll have one in five minutes,” my wife said.

I did. Then Sidris and I strolled, looking in shopwindows and moving slowly, as quarry was window-shopping. In seven or eight minutes a small boy came toward us, stopped and said, “Hello, Auntie Mabell. Hi, Uncle Joe.”

Sidris took his hand. “Hi, Tony. How’s your mother, dear?” “Just fine.” He added in a whisper, “I’m Jock.”

“Sorry.” Sidris said quietly to me, “Stay on her,” and took Jock into a tuck shop.

She came out and joined me. Jock followed her licking a lollipop. “‘Bye, Auntie Mabel! Thanks!” He danced away, rotating, wound up by that little redhead, stood and stared into a display, solemnly sucking his sweet. Sidris and I went home.

Areport was waiting. “She went into Cradle Roll Creche and hasn’t come out. Do we stay on it?”

“Abit yet,” I told Wyoh, and asked if she remembered this kid. She did, but had no idea who she might be. “You could ask Finn.”

“Can do better.” I called Mike.

Yes, Cradle Roll Creche had a phone and Mike would listen. Took him twenty minutes to pick up enough to give analysis—many young voices and at such ages almost sexless. But presently he told me, “Man, I hear three voices that could match the age and physical type you described. However, two answer to names which I assume to be masculine. The third answers when anyone says ‘Hazel’—which an older female voice does repeatedly. She seems to be Hazel’s boss.”

“Mike, look at old organization file. Check Hazels.”

“Four Hazels,” he answered at once, “and here she is: Hazel Meade, Young Comrades Auxiliary, address Cradle Roll Creche, born 25 December 2063, mass thirty-nine kilos, height—” “That’s our little jump jet! Thanks, Mike. Wyoh, call off stake-out. Good job!”

“Mike, call Donna and pass the word, that’s a dear.”

I left it to girls to recruit Hazel Meade and did not eyeball her until Sidris moved her into our household two weeks later. But Wyoh volunteered a report before then; policy was involved. Sidris had filled her cell but wanted Hazel Meade. Besides this irregularity, Sidris was doubtful about recruiting a child. Policy was adults only, sixteen and up.

I took it to Adam Selene and executive cell. “As I see,” I said, “this cells-of-three system is to serve us, not bind us. See nothing wrong in Comrade Cecilia having an extra. Nor any real danger to security.”

“I agree,” said Prof. “But I suggest that the extra member not be part of Cecilia’s cell—she should not know the others, I mean, unless the duties Cecilia gives her make it necessary. Nor do I think she should recruit, at her age. The real question is her age.”

“Agreed,” said Wyoh. “I want to talk about this kid’s age.”

“Friends,” Mike said diffidently (diffidently first time in weeks; he was now that confident executive “Adam Selene” much more than lonely machine)—”perhaps I should have told you, but I have already granted similar variations. It did not seem to require discussion.”

“It doesn’t, Mike,” Prof reassured him. “Achairman must use his own judgment. What is our largest cell?” “Five. it is a double cell, three and two.”

“No harm done. Dear Wyoh, does Sidris propose to make this child a full comrade? Let her know that we are committed to revolution… with all the bloodshed, disorder, and possible disaster that entails?”

“That’s exactly what she is requesting.”

“But, dear lady, while we are staking our lives, we are old enough to know it. For that, one should have an emotional grasp of death. Children seldom are able to realize that death will come to them personally. One might define adulthood as the age at which a person learns that he must die… and accepts his sentence undismayed.”

“Prof,” I said, “I know some mighty tall children. Seven to two some are in Party.”

“No bet, cobber. It’ll give odds that at least half of them don’t qualify—and we may find it out the hard way at the end of this our folly.” “Prof,” Wyoh insisted. “Mike, Mannie. Sidris is certain this child is an adult. And I think so, too.”

“Man?” asked Mike.

“Let’s find way for Prof to meet her and form own opinion. I was taken by her. Especially her go-to-hell fighting. Or would never have started it.”

We adjourned and I heard no more. Hazel showed up at dinner shortly thereafter as Sidris’ guest. She showed no sign of recognizing me, nor did I admit that I had ever seen her—but learned long after that she had recognized me, not just by left arm but because I had been hatted and kissed by tall blonde from Hong Kong. Furthermore Hazel had seen through Wyoming’s disguise, recognized what Wyoh never did successfully disguise: her voice.

But Hazel used lip glue. If she ever assumed I was in conspiracy she never showed it.

Child’s history explained her, far as background can explain steely character. Transported with parents as a baby much as Wyoh had been, she had lost father through accident while he was convict labor, which her mother blamed on indifference of Authority to safety of penal colonists. Her mother lasted till Hazel was five; what she died from Hazel did not know; she was then living in creche where we found her. Nor did she know why parents had been shipped—possibly for subversion if they were both under sentence as Hazel thought. As may be, her mother left her a fierce hatred of Authority and Warden.

Family that ran Cradle Roll let her stay; Hazel was pinning diapers and washing dishes as soon as she could reach. She had taught herself to read, and could print letters but could not write. Her knowledge of math was only that ability to count money that children soak up through their skins.

Was fuss over her leaving creche; owner and husbands claimed Hazel owed several years’ service. Hazel solved it by walking out, leaving her clothes and fewer belongings behind. Mum was angry enough to want family to start trouble which could wind up in “brawling” she despised. But I told her privately that, as her cell leader, I did nor want our family in public eye

—and hauled out cash and told her Party would pay for clothes for Hazel. Mum refused money, called off a family meeting, took Hazel into town and was extravagant—for Mum—in re- outfitting her.

So we adopted Hazel. I understand that these days adopting a child involves red tape; in those days it was as simple as adopting a kitten.

Was more fuss when Mum started to place Hazel in school, which fitted neither what Sidris had in mind nor what Hazel had been led to expect as a Party member and comrade. Again I butted in and Mum gave in part way. Hazel was placed in a tutoring school close to Sidris’ shop—that is, near easement lock thirteen; beauty parlor was by it (Sidris had good business because close enough that our water was piped in, and used without limit as return line took it back for salvage). Hazel studied mornings and helped in afternoons, pinning on gowns, handing out towels, giving rinses, learning trade—and whatever else Sidris wanted.

“Whatever else” was captain of Baker Street Irregulars.

Hazel had handled younger kids all her short life. They liked her; she could wheedle them into anything; she understood what they said when an adult would find it gibberish. She was a perfect bridge between Party and most junior auxiliary. She could make a game of chores we assigned and persuade them to play by rules she gave them, and never let them know it was adult-serious–-but child-serious, which is another matter.

For example:

Let’s say a little one, too young to read, is caught with a stack of subversive literature—which happened more than once. Here’s how it would go, after Hazel indoctrinated a kid: ADULT: “Baby, where did you get this?”

BAKER STREET IRREGULAR: “I’m not a baby, I’m a big boy!” ADULT: “Okay, big boy, where did you get this?”

B.S.I.: “Jackie give it to me.” ADULT: “Who is Jackie?” B.S.I.: “Jackie.”

ADULT: “But what’s his last name?” B.S.I.: “Who?”

ADULT: “Jackie.”

B.S.I.: (scornfully) “Jackie’s a girl!”

ADULT: “All right, where does she live?” B.S.L: “Who?”

And so on around—To all questions key answer was of pattern: “Jackie give it to me.” Since Jackie didn’t exist, he (she) didn’t have a last name, a home address, nor fixed sex. Those children enjoyed making fools of adults, once they learned how easy it was.

At worst, literature was confiscated. Even a squad of Peace Dragoons thought twice before trying to “arrest” a small child. Yes, we were beginning to have squads of Dragoons inside Luna city, but never less than a squad—some had gone in singly and not come back.

When Mike started writing poetry I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He wanted to publish it! Shows how thoroughly humanity had corrupted this innocent machine that he should wish to see his name in print.

I said, “Mike, for Bog’s sake! Blown all circuits? Or planning to give us away?”

Before he could sulk Prof said, “Hold on, Manuel; I see possibilities. Mike, would it suit you to take a pen name?”

That’s how “Simon Jester” was born. Mike picked it apparently by tossing random numbers. But he used another name for serious verse, his Party name, Adam Selene.

“Simon’s” verse was doggerel, bawdy, subversive, ranging from poking fun at vips to savage attacks on Warden, system, Peace Dragoons, finks. You found it on walls of public W.C.s, or on scraps of paper left in tube capsules: Or in taprooms. Wherever they were they were signed “Simon Jester” and with a matchstick drawing of a little horned devil with big grin and forked tail. Sometimes he was stabbing a fat man with a pitchfork. Sometimes just his face would appear, big grin and horns, until shortly even horns and grin meant “Simon was here.”

Simon appeared all over Luna same day and from then on never let up. Shortly he started receiving volunteer help; his verses and little pictures, so simple anybody could draw them, began appearing more places than we had planned. This wider coverage had to be from fellow travelers. Verses and cartoons started appearing inside Complex—which could not have been our work; we never recruited civil servants. Also, three days after initial appearance of a very rough limerick, one that implied that Warden’s fatness derived from unsavory habits, this limerick popped up on pressure-sticky labels with cartoon improved so that fat victim flinching from Simon’s pitchfork was recognizably Mort the Wart. We didn’t buy them, we didn’t print them. But they appeared in L-City and Novylen and Hong Kong, stuck almost everywhere—public phones, stanchions in corridors, pressure locks, ramp railings, other. I had a sample count made, fed it to Mike; he reported that over seventy thousand labels had been used in L-City alone.

I did not know of a printing plant in L-City willing to risk such a job and equipped for it. Began to wonder if might be another revolutionary cabal?

Simon’s verses were such a success that he branched out as a poltergeist and neither Warden nor security chief was allowed to miss it. “Dear Mort the Wart,” ran one letter. “Do please be careful from midnight to four hundred tomorrow. Love & Kisses, Simon”—with horns and grin. In same mail Alvarez received one reading: “Dear Pimplehead, If the Warden breaks his leg tomorrow night it will be your fault. Faithfully your conscience, Simon”—again with horns and smile.

We didn’t have anything planned; we just wanted Mort and Alvarez to lose sleep—which they did, plus bodyguard. All Mike did was to call Warden’s private phone at intervals from midnight to four hundred—an unlisted number supposedly known only to his personal staff. By calling members of his personal staff simultaneously and connecting them to Mort Mike not only created confusion but got Warden angry at his assistants—he flatly refused to believe their denials.

But was luck that Warden, goaded too far, ran down a ramp. Even a new chum does that only once. So he walked on air and sprained an ankle—close enough to a broken leg and Alvarez was there when it happened.

Those sleep-losers were mostly just that. Like rumor that Authority catapult had been mined and would be blown up, another night. Ninety plus eighteen men can’t search a hundred kilometers of catapult in hours, especially when ninety are Peace Dragoons not used to p-suit work and hating it—this midnight came at new earth with Sun high; they were outside far longer than is healthy, managed to cook up their own accidents while almost cooking themselves, and showed nearest thing to mutiny in regiment’s history. One accident was fatal. Did he fall or was he pushed? Asergeant.

Midnight alarums made Peace Dragoons on passport watch much taken by yawning and more bad-tempered, which produced more clashes with Loonies and still greater resentment both ways—so Simon increased pressure.

Adam Selene’s verse was on a higher plane. Mike submitted it to Prof and accepted his literary judgment (good, I think) without resentment. Mike’s scansion and rhyming were perfect, Mike being a computer with whole English language in his memory and able to search for a fitting word in microseconds. What was weak was self-criticism. That improved rapidly under Prof’s stern editorship.

Adam Selene’s by-line appeared first in dignified pages of Moonglow over a somber poem titled: “Home.” Was dying thoughts of old transportee, his discovery as he is about to leave that Luna is his beloved home. Language was simple, rhyme scheme unforced, only thing faintly subversive was conclusion on part of dying man that even many wardens he has endured was not too high a price.

Doubt if Moonglow’s editors thought twice. Was good stuff, they published.

Alvarez turned editorial office inside out trying to get a line back to Adam Selene. Issue had been on sale half a lunar before Alvarez noticed it, or had it called to his attention; we were fretted, we wanted that by-line noticed. We were much pleased with way Alvarez oscillated when he did see it.

Editors were unable to help fink boss. They told him truth: Poem had come in by mail. Did they have it? Yes, surely… sorry, no envelope; they were never saved. After a long time Alvarez left, flanked by four Dragoons he had fetched along for his health.

Hope he enjoyed studying that sheet of paper. Was piece of Adam Selene’s business stationery: SELENE ASSOCIATES

LUNACITY

Investments Office of the Chairman Old Dome

and under that was typed Home, by Adam Selene, etc.

Any fingerprints were added after it left us. Had been typed on Underwood Office Electrostator, commonest model in Luna. Even so, were not too many as are importado; a scientific detective could have identified machine. Would have found it in Luna City office of Lunar Authority. Machines, should say, as we found six of model in office and used them in rotation, five words and move to next. Cost Wyoh and self sleep and too much risk even though Mike listened at every phone, ready to warn. Never did it that way again.

Alvarez was not a scientific detective.

11

In early ‘76 I had too much to do. Could not neglect customers. Party work took more time even though all possible was delegated. But decisions had to be made on endless things and messages passed up and down. Had to squeeze in hours of heavy exercise, wearing weights, and dasn’t arrange permission to use centrifuge at Complex, one used by earthworm scientists to stretch time in Luna—while had used it before, this time could not advertise that I was getting in shape for Earthside.

Exercising without centrifuge is less efficient and was especially boring because did not know there would be need for it. But according to Mike 30 percent of ways events could fall required some Loonie, able to speak for Party, to make trip to Terra.

Could not see myself as an ambassador, don’t have education and not diplomatic. Prof was obvious choice of those recruited or likely to be. But Prof was old, might not live to land Earthside. Mike told us that a man of Prof’s age, body type, etc., had less than 40 percent chance of reaching Terra alive.

But Prof did gaily undertake strenuous training to let him make most of his poor chances, so what could I do but put on weights and get to work, ready to go and take his place if old heart clicked off? Wyoh did same, on assumption that something might keep me from going. She did it to share misery; Wyoh always used gallantry in place of logic.

On top of business, Party work, and exercise was farming. We had lost three sons by marriage while gaining two fine lads, Frank and Ali. Then Greg went to work for LuNoHoCo, as boss drillman on new catapult.

Was needful. Much skull sweat went into hiring construction crew. We could use non-Party men for most jobs, but key spots had to be Party men as competent as they were politically reliable. Greg did not want to go; our farm needed him and he did not like to leave his congregation. But accepted.

That made me again a valet, part time, to pigs and chickens. Hans is a good farmer, picked up load and worked enough for two men. But Greg had been farm manager ever since Grandpaw retired, new responsibility worried Hans. Should have been mine, being senior, but Hans was better farmer and closer to it; always been expected he would succeed Greg someday. So I backed him up by agreeing with his opinions and tried to be half a farm hand in hours I could squeeze. Left no time to scratch.

Late in February I was returning from long trip, Novylen, Tycho Under, Churchill. New tube had just been completed across Sinus Medii, so I went on to Hong Kong in Luna—business and did make contacts now that I could promise emergency service. Fact that Endsville-Beluthihatchie bus ran only during dark semi-lunar had made impossible before.

But business was cover for politics; liaison with Hong Kong had been thin. Wyoh had done well by phone; second member of her cell was an old comrade.—”Comrade Clayton”—who not only had clean bill of health in Alverez’s File Zebra but also stood high in Wyoh’s estimation. Clayton was briefed on policies, warned of bad apples, encouraged to start cell system while leaving old organization untouched. Wyoh told him to keep his membership, as before.

But phone isn’t face-to-face. Hong Kong should have been our stronghold. Was less tied to Authority as its utilities were not controlled from Complex; was less dependent because lack (until recently) of tube transport had made selling at catapult head less inviting; was stronger financially as Bank of Hong Kong Luna notes were better money than official Authority scrip.

I suppose Hong Kong dollars weren’t “money” in some legal sense. Authority would not accept them; times I went Earthside had to buy Authority scrip to pay for ticket. But what I carried was Hong Kong dollars as could be traded Earthside at a small discount whereas scrip was nearly worthless there. Money or not, Hong Kong Bank notes were backed by honest Chinee bankers instead of being fiat of bureaucracy. One hundred Hong Kong dollars was 31.1 grams of gold (old troy ounce) payable on demand at home office—and they did keep gold there, fetched up from Australia. Or you could demand commodities: non-potable water, steel of defined grade, heavy water of power plant specs, other things. Could buy these with scrip, too, but Authority’s prices kept changing, upward. I’m no fiscal theorist; time Mike tried to explain I got headache. Simply know we were glad to lay hands on this non-money whereas scrip

one accepted reluctantly and not just because we hated Authority.

Hong Kong should have been Party’s stronghold. But was not. We had decided that I should risk face-to-face there, letting some know my identity, as a man with one arm can’t disguise easily. Was risk that would jeopardize not only me but could lead to Wyoh, Mum, Greg, and Sidris if I took a fall. But who said revolution was safe?

Comrade Clayton turned out to be young Japanese—not too young, but they all look young till suddenly look old. He was not all Japanese—Malay and other things—but had Japanese name and household had Japanese manners; “giri” and “gimu” controlled and it was my good fortune that he owed much gimu to Wyoh.

Clayton was not convict ancestry; his people had been “volunteers” marched aboard ship at gunpoint during time Great China consolidated Earthside empire. I didn’t hold it against him; he hated Warden as bitterly as any old lag.

Met him first at a teahouse—taproom to us L-City types—and for two hours we talked everything but politics. He made up mind about me, took me home. My only complaint about Japanese hospitality is those chin-high baths are too bleeding hot.

But turned out I was not jeopardized. Mama-san was as skilled at makeup as Sidris, my social arm is very convincing, and a kimona covered its seam. Met four cells in two days, as “Comrade Bork” and wearing makeup and kimona and tabi and, if a spy was among them, don’t think he could identify Manuel O’Kelly. I had gone there intensely briefed, endless figures and projections, and talked about just one thing: famine in ‘82, six years away. “You people are lucky, won’t be hit so soon. But now with new tube, you are going to see more and more of your people turning to wheat and rice and shipping it to catapult head. Your time will come.”

They were impressed. Old organization, as I saw it and from what I heard, relied on oratory, whoop-it-up music, and emotion, much like church. I simply said, “There it is, comrades. Check those figures; I’ll leave them with you.”

Met one comrade separately. AChinee engineer given a good look at anything can figure way to make it. Asked this one if he had ever seen a laser gun small enough to carry like a rifle. He had not. Mentioned that passport system made it difficult to smuggle these days. He said thoughtfully that jewels ought not to be hard—and he would be in Luna City next week to see his cousin. I said Uncle Adam would be pleased to hear from him.

All in all was productive trip. On way back I stopped in Novylen to check an old-fashioned punched-tape “Foreman” I had overhauled earlier, had lunch afterwards, ran into my father. He and I were friendly but didn’t matter if we let a couple of years go by. We talked through a sandwich and beer and as I got up he said, “Nice to see you, Mannie. Free Luna!”

I echoed, too startled not to. My old man was as cynically non-political as you could find; if he would say that in public, campaign must be taking hold.

So I arrived in L-City cheered up and not too tired, having napped from Torricelli. Took Belt from Tube South, then dropped down and through Bottom Alley, avoiding Causeway crowd and heading home. Went into Judge Brody’s courtroom as I came to it, meaning to say hello. Brody is old friend and we have amputation in common. After he lost a leg he set up as a judge and was quite successful; was not another judge in L-City at that time who did not have side business, at least make book or sell insurance.

If two people brought a quarrel to Brody and he could not get them to agree that his settlement was just, he would return fees and, if they fought, referee their duel without charging—and still be trying to persuade them not to use knives right up to squaring off.

He wasn’t in his courtroom though plug hat was on desk. Started to leave, only to be checked by group coming in, stilyagi types. Agirl was with them, and an older man hustled by them. He was mussed, and clothing had that vague something that says “tourist.”

We used to get tourists even then. Not hordes but quite a few. They would come up from Earth, stop in a hotel for a week, go back in same ship or perhaps stop over for next ship. Most of them spent their time gambling after a day or two of sightseeing including that silly walk up on surface every tourist makes. Most Loonies ignored them and granted them their foibles.

One lad, oldest, about eighteen and leader, said to me, “Where’s judge?” “Don’t know. Not here.”

He chewed lip, looked baffled. I said, “What trouble?”

He said soberly, “Going to eliminate his choom. But want judge to confirm it.” I said, “Cover taprooms here around. Probably find him.”

Aboy about fourteen spoke up. “Say! Aren’t you Gospodin O’Kelly?” “Right.”

“Why don’t you judge it.”

Oldest looked relieved. “Will you, Gospodin?”

I hesitated. Sure, I’ve gone judge at times; who hasn’t? But don’t hanker for responsibility. However, it troubled me to hear young people talk about eliminating a tourist. Bound to cause talk.

Decided to do it. So I said to tourist, “Will you accept me as your judge?” He looked surprised. “I have choice in the matter?”

I said patiently, “Of course. Can’t expect me to listen if you aren’t willing to accept my judging. But not urging you. Your life, not mine.” He looked very surprised but not afraid. His eyes lit up. “My life, did you say?”

“Apparently. You heard lads say they intend to eliminate you. You may prefer to wait for Judge Brody.” He didn’t hesitate. Smiled and said, “I accept you as my judge, sir.”

“As you wish.” I looked at oldest lad. “What parties to quarrel? Just you and your young friend?” “Oh, no, Judge, all of us.”

“Not your judge yet.” I looked around. “Do you all ask me to judge?”

Were nods; none said No. Leader turned to girl, added, “Better speak up, Tish. You accept Judge O’Kelly?”

“What? Oh, sure!” She was a vapid little thing, vacantly pretty, curvy, perhaps fourteen. Slot-machine type, and how she might wind up. Sort who prefers being queen over pack of stilyagi to solid marriage. I don’t blame stilyagi; they chase around corridors because not enough females. Work all day and nothing to go home to at night.

“Okay, court has been accepted and all are bound to abide by my verdict. Let’s settle fees. How high can you boys go? Please understand I’m not going to judge an elimination for dimes. So ante up or I turn him loose.”

Leader blinked, they went into huddle. Shortly he turned and said, “We don’t have much. Will you do it for five Kong dollars apiece?” Six of them—”No. Ought not to ask a court to judge elimination at that price.”

They huddled again. “Fifty dollars, Judge?”

“Sixty. Ten each. And another ten from you, Tish,” I said to girl.

She looked surprised, indignant. “Come, come!” I said. “Tanstaafl.”

She blinked and reached into pouch. She had money; types like that always have. I collected seventy dollars, laid it on desk, and said to tourist, “Can match it?” “Beg pardon?”

“Kids are paying seventy dollars Hong Kong for judgment. You should match it. If you can’t, open pouch and prove it and can owe it to me. But that’s your share.” I added, “Cheap, for a capital case. But kids can’t pay much so you get a bargain.”

“I see. I believe I see.” He matched with seventy Hong Kong.

“Thank you,” I said. “Now does either side want a jury?” Girl’s eyes lit up. “Sure! Let’s do it right.” Earthworm said, “Under the circumstances perhaps I need one.” “Can have it,” I assured. “Want a counsel?”

“Why, I suppose I need a lawyer, too.”

“I said ‘counsel,’ not ‘lawyer.’ Aren’t any lawyers here.” Again he seemed delighted. “I suppose counsel, if I elected to have one, would be of the same, uh, informal quality as the rest of these proceedings?”

“Maybe, maybe not. I’m informal sort of judge, that’s all. Suit yourself.” “Mm. I think I’ll rely on your informality, your honor.”

Oldest lad said, “Uh, this jury. You pick up chit? Or do we?”

“I pay it; I agreed to judge for a hundred forty, gross. Haven’t you been in court before? But not going to kill my net for extra I could do without. Six jurymen, five dollars each. See who’s in Alley.”

One boy stepped out and shouted, “Jury work! Five-dollar job!”

They rounded up six men and were what you would expect in Bottom Alley. Didn’t worry me as had no intention of paying mind to them. If you go judge, better in good neighborhood with chance of getting solid citizens.

I went behind desk, sat down, put on Brody’s plug hat—wondered where he had found it. Probably a castoff from some lodge. “Court’s in session,” I said. “Let’s have names and tell me beef.”

Oldest lad was named. Slim Lemke, girl war Patricia Carmen Zhukov; don’t remember others. Tourist stepped up, reached into pouch and said, “My card, sir.” I still have it. It read:

STUART RENE LaJOIE

Poet—Traveler—Soldier of Fortune

Beef was tragically ridiculous, fine example of why tourists should not wander around without guides. Sure, guides bleed them white—but isn’t that what a tourist is for? This one almost lost life from lack of guidance.

Had wandered into a taproom which lets stilyagi hang out, a sort of clubroom. This simple female had flirted with him. Boys had let matter be, as of course they had to as long as she invited it. But at some point she had laughed and let him have a fist in ribs. He had taken it as casually as a Loonie would … but had answered in distinctly earthworm manner; slipped arm around waist and pulled her to him, apparently tried to kiss her.

Now believe me, in North America this wouldn’t matter; I’ve seen things much like it. But of course Tish was astonished, perhaps frightened. She screamed. And pack of boys set upon him and roughed him up. Then decided he had to pay for his “crime”—but do it correctly. Find a judge.

Most likely they chickened. Chances are not one had ever dealt with an elimination. But their lady had been insulted, had to be done.

I questioned them, especially Tish, and decided I had it straight. Then said, “Let me sum up. Here we have a stranger. Doesn’t know our ways. He offended, he’s guilty. But meant no offense far as I can see. What does jury say? Hey, you there!—wake up! What you say?”

Juryman looked up blearily, said, “‘Liminate him!” “Very well? And you?”

“Well—” Next one hesitated. “Guess it would be enough just to beat tar out of him, so he’ll know better next time. Can’t have men pawing women, or place will get to be as bad as they say Terra is.”

“Sensible,” I agreed. “And you?”

Only one juror voted for elimination. Others ranged from a beating to very high fines. “What do you think, Slim?”

“Well—” He was worried—face in front of gang, face in front of what might be his girl. But had cooled down and didn’t want chum eliminated. “We already worked him over. Maybe if he got down on hands and knees and kissed floor in front of Tish and said he was sorry?”

“Will you do that, Gospodin LaJoie?” “If you so rule, your honor.”

“I don’t. Here’s my verdict. First that juryman—you!—you are fined fee paid you because you fell asleep while supposed to be judging. Grab him, boys, take it away from him and throw him out.”

They did, enthusiastically; made up a little for greater excitement they had thought of but really could not stomach. “Now, Gospodin LaJoie, you are fined fifty Hong Kong for not having common sense to learn local customs before stirring around. Ante up.”

I collected it. “Now you boys line up. You are fined five dollars apiece for not exercising good judgment in dealing with a person you knew was a stranger and not used to our ways. Stopping him from touching Tish, that’s fine. Rough him, that’s okay, too; he’ll learn faster. And could have tossed him out. But talking about eliminating for what was honest mistake— well, it’s out of proportion. Five bucks each. Ante up.

Slim gulped. “Judge … I don’t think we have that much left! At least I don’t.”

“I thought that might be. You have a week to pay or I post your names in Old Dome. Know where Bon Ton Beaute Shoppe is, near easement lock thirteen? My wife runs it; pay her. Court’s out. Slim, don’t go away. Nor you, Tish. Gospodin LaJoie, let’s take these young people up and buy them a cold drink and get better acquainted.”

Again his eyes filled with odd delight that reminded of Prof. “Acharming idea, Judge!”

“I’m no longer judge. It’s up a couple of ramps… so I suggest you offer Tish your arm.”

He bowed and said, “My lady? May I?” and crooked his elbow to her. Tish at once became very grown up. “Spasebo, Gospodin! I am pleased.”

Took them to expensive place, one where their wild clothes and excessive makeup looked out of place; they were edgy. But I tried to make them feel easy and Stuart LaJoie tried even harder and successfully. Got their addresses as well as names; Wyoh had one sequence which was concentrating on stilyagi. Presently they finished their coolers, stood up, thanked and left. LaJoie and I stayed on.

“Gospodin,” he said presently, “you used an odd word earlier—odd to me, I mean.” “Call me ‘Mannie’ now that kids are gone. What word?”

“It was when you insisted that the, uh, young lady, Tish—that Tish must pay, too. ‘Tone-stapple,’ or something like it.”

“Oh, ‘tanstaafl.’ Means ~There ain’t no such thing as a free lunch.’ And isn’t,” I added, pointing to a FREE LUNCH sign across room, “or these drinks would cost half as much. Was reminding her that anything free costs twice as much in long run or turns out worthless.”

“An interesting philosophy.”

“Not philosophy, fact. One way or other, what you get, you pay for.” I fanned air. “Was Earthside once and heard expression ‘Free as air.’ This air isn’t free, you pay for every breath.” “Really? No one has asked me to pay to breathe.” He smiled. “Perhaps I should stop.”

“Can happen, you almost breathed vacuum tonight. But nobody asks you because you’ve paid. For you, is part of round-trip ticket; for me it’s a quarterly charge.” I started to tell how my family buys and sells air to community co-op, decided was too complicated. “But we both pay.”

LaJoie looked thoughtfully pleased. “Yes, I see the economic necessity. It’s simply new to me. Tell me, uh, Mannie—and I’m called ‘Stu’—was I really in danger of ‘breathing vacuum’?” “Should have charged you more.”

“Please?”

“You aren’t convinced. But charged kids all they could scrape up and fined them too, to make them think. Couldn’t charge you more than them. Should have, you think it was all a joke.” “Believe me, sir, I do not think it was a joke. I just have trouble grasping that your local laws permit a man to be put to death … so casually … and for so trivial an offense.”

I sighed. Where do you start explaining when a man’s words show there isn’t anything he understands about subject, instead is loaded with preconceptions that don’t fit facts and doesn’t even know he has?

“Stu,” I said, “let’s take that piece at a time. Are no ‘local laws’ so you couldn’t be ‘put to death’ under them. Your offense was not ‘trivial,’ I simply made allowance for ignorance. And wasn’t done casually, or boys would have dragged you to nearest lock to zero pressure, shoved you in, and cycled. Instead were most formal—good boys!—and paid own cash to give you a trial. And didn’t grumble when verdict wasn’t even close to what they asked. Now, anything still not clear?”

He grinned and turned out to have dimples like Prof; found myself liking him still more. “All of it, I’m afraid. I seem to have wandered into Looking Glass Land.”

Expected that; having been Earthaide I know how their minds work, some. An earthworm expects to find a law, a printed law, for every circumstance. Even have laws for private matters such as contracts. Really, if a man’s word isn’t any good, who would contract with him? Doesn’t he have reputation?

“We don’t have laws,” I said. “Never been allowed to. Have customs, but aren’t written and aren’t enforced—or could say they are self-enforcing because are simply way things have to be, conditions being what they are. Could say our customs are natural laws because are way people have to behave to stay alive. When you made a pass at Tish you were violating a natural law… and almost caused you to breathe vacuum.”

He blinked thoughtfully. “Would you explain the natural law I violated? I had better understand it … or best I return to my ship and stay inboard until lift. To stay alive.”

“Certainly. Is so simple that, once you understand, you’ll never be in danger from it again. Here we are, two million males, less than one million females. Aphysical fact, basic as rock or vacuum. Then add idea of tanstaafl. When thing is scarce, price goes up. Women are scarce; aren’t enough to go around—that makes them most valuable thing in Luna, more precious than ice or air, as men without women don’t care whether they stay alive or not. Except a Cyborg, if you regard him as a man, which I don’t.”

I went on: “So what happens?—and mind you, things were even worse when this custom, or natural law, first showed itself back in twentieth century. Ratio was ten-to-one or worse then. One thing is what always happens in prisons: men turn to other men. That helps not much; problem still is because most men want women and won’t settle for substitute while chance of getting true gelt.

“They get so anxious they will kill for it… and from stories old-timers tell was killing enough to chill your teeth in those days. But after a while those still alive find way to get along, things shake down. As automatic as gravitation. Those who adjust to facts stay alive; those who don’t are dead and no problem.

“What that means, here and now, is that women are scarce and call tune… and you are surrounded by two million men who see to it you dance to that tune. You have no choice, she has all choice. She can hit you so hard it draws blood; you dasn’t lay a finger on her. Look, you put an arm around Tish, maybe tried to kiss. Suppose instead she had gone to hotel room with you; what would happen?”

“Heavens! I suppose they would have torn me to pieces.”

“They would have done nothing. Shrugged and pretended not to see. Because choice is hers. Not yours. Not theirs. Exclusively hers. Oh, be risky to ask her to go to hotel; she might take offense and that would give boys license to rough you up. But—well, take this Tish. Asilly little tart. If you had flashed as much money as I saw in your pouch, she might have taken into head that a bundle with tourist was just what she needed and suggested it herself. In which case would have been utterly safe.”

Lajoie shivered. “At her age? It scares me to think of it. She’s below the age of consent. Statutory rape.”

“Oh, bloody! No such thing. Women her age are married or ought to be. Stu, is no rape in Luna. None. Men won’t permit. If rape had been involved, they wouldn’t have bothered to find a judge and all men in earshot would have scrambled to help. But chance that a girl that big is virgin is negligible. When they’re little, their mothers watch over them, with help from everybody in city; children are safe here. But when they reach husband-high, is no holding them and mothers quit trying. If they choose to run corndors and have fun, can’t stop ‘em; once a girl is nubile, she’s her own boss. You married?”

“No.” He added with a smile; “Not at present.”

“Suppose you were and wife told you she was marrying again. What would you do?”

“Odd that you should pick that, something like it did happen. I saw my attorney and made sure she got no alimony.”

“‘Alimony’ isn’t a word here; I learned it Earthside. Here you might—or a Loonie husband might—say, ‘I think we’ll need a bigger place, dear.’ Or might simply congratulate her and his new co-husband. Or if it made him so unhappy he couldn’t stand it, might opt out and pack clothes. But whatever, would not make slightest fuss. If he did, opinion would be unanimous against him. His friends, men and women alike, would snub him. Poor sod would probably move to Novylen, change name and hope to live it down.

“All our customs work that way. If you’re out in field and a cobber needs air, you lend him a bottle and don’t ask cash. But when you’re both back in pressure again, if he won’t pay up, nobody would criticize if you eliminated him without a judge. But he would pay; air is almost as sacred as women. If you take a new chum in a poker game, you give him air money. Not eating money; can work or starve. If you eliminate a man other than self-defense, you pay his debts and support his kids, or people won’t speak to you, buy from you, sell to you.”

“Mannie, you’re telling me that I can murder a man here and settle the matter merely with money?”

“Oh, not at all! But eliminating isn’t against some law; are no laws—except Warden’s regulations—and Warden doesn’t care what one Loonie does to another. But we figure this way: If a man is killed, either he had it coming and everybody knows it—usual case—or his friends will take care of it by eliminating man who did it. Either way, no problem. Nor many eliminations. Even set duels aren’t common.”

“‘His friends will take care of it.’ Mannie, suppose those young people had gone ahead? I have no friends here.”

“Was reason I agreed to judge. While I doubt if those kids could have egged each other into it, didn’t want to take chance. Eliminating a tourist could give our city a bad name.” “Does it happen often?”

“Can’t recall has ever happened. Of course may have been made to look like accident. Anew chum is accident-prone; Luna is that sort of place. They say if a new chum lives a year, he’ll live forever. But nobody sells him insurance first year.” Glanced at time. “Stu, have you had dinner?”

“No, and I was about to suggest that you come to my hotel. The cooking is good. Auberge Orleans.”

I repressed shudder—ate there once. “Instead, would you come home with me and meet my family? We have soup or something about this hour.” “Isn’t that an imposition?”

“No. Half a minute while I phone.”

Mum said, “Manuel! How sweet, dear! Capsule has been in for hours; I had decided it would be tomorrow or later.”

“Just drunken debauchery, Mimi, and evil companions. Coming home now if can remember way—and bringing evil companion.” “Yes, dear. Dinner in twenty minutes; try not to be late.”

“Don’t you want to know whether my evil companion is male or female?”

“Knowing you, I assume that it is female. But I fancy I shall be able to tell when I see her.”

“You know me so well, Mum. Warn girls to look pretty; wouldn’t want a visitor to outshine them.” “Don’t be too long; dinner will spoil. ‘Bye, dear. Love.”

“Love, Mum.” I waited, then punched MYCROFTXXX. “Mike, want a name searched. Earthside name, passenger in Popov. Stuart Rene LaJoie. Stuart with a U and last name might file under either L or J.”

Didn’t wait many seconds; Mike found Stu in all major Earthside references: Who’s Who, Dun & Bradstreet, Almanach de Gotha, London Times running files, name it. French expatriate, royalist, wealthy, six more names sandwiched into ones he used, three university degrees including one in law from Sorbonne, noble ancestry both France and Scotland, divorced (no children) from Honorable Pamela Hyphen-Hyphen-Blueblood. Sort of earthworm who wouldn’t speak to a Loonie of convict ancestry—except Stu would speak to anyone.

I listened a pair of minutes, then asked Mike to prepare a full dossier, following all associational leads. “Mike, might be our pigeon.” “Could be, Man.”

“Got to run. ‘Bye.” Returned thoughtfully to my guest. Almost a year earlier, during alcoholic talk-talk in a hotel room, Mike had promised us one chance in seven—if certain things were done. One sine-qua-non was help on Terra itself.

Despite “throwing rocks,” Mike knew, we all knew, that mighty Terra with eleven billion people and endless resources could not be defeated by three million who had nothing, even though we stood on a high place and could drop rocks on them.

Mike drew parallels from XVIIIth century, when Britain’s American colonies broke away, and from XXth, when many colonies became independent of several empires, and pointed out that in no case had a colony broken loose by brute force. No, in every case imperial state was busy elsewhere, had grown weary and given up without using full strength.

For months we had been strong enough, had we wished, to overcome Warden’s bodyguards. Once our catapult was ready (anytime now) we would not be helpless. But we needed a “favorable climate” on Terra. For that we needed help on Terra.

Prof had not regarded it as difficult. But turned out to be quite difficult. His Earthside friends were dead or nearly and I had never had any but a few teachers. We sent inquiry down through cells: “What vips do you know Earthaide?” and usual answer was: “You kidding?” Null program—

Prof watched passenger lists on incoming ships, trying to figure a contact, and had been reading Luna print-outs of Earthside newspapers, searching for vips he could reach through past connection. I had not tried; handful I had met on Terra were not vips.

Prof had not picked Stu off Popov’s passenger list. But Prof had not met him. I didn’t not know whether Stu was simply eccentric as odd personal card seemed to show. But he was only Terran I had ever had a drink with in Luna, seemed a dinkum cobber, and Mike’s report showed hunch was not all bad; he carried some tonnage.

So I took him home to see what family thought of him.

Started well. Mum smiled and offered hand. He took it and bowed so deep I thought he was going to kiss it—would have, I think, had I not warned him about fems. Mum was cooing as she led him in to dinner.

April and May ‘76 were more hard work and increasing effort to stir up Loonies against Warden, and goad him into retaliation. Trouble with Mort the Wart was that he was not a bad egg, nothing to hate about him other than fact he was symbol of Authority; was necessary to frighten him to get him to do anything. And average Loonie was just as bad. He despised Warden as matter of ritual but was not stuff that makes revolutionists; he couldn’t be bothered. Beer, betting, women, and work—Only thing that kept Revolution from dying of anemia was that Peace Dragoons had real talent for antagonizing.

But even them we had to keep stirred up. Prof kept saying we needed a “Boston Tea Party,” referring to mythical incident in an earlier revolution, by which he meant a public ruckus to grab attention.

We kept trying. Mike rewrote lyrics of old revolutionary songs: “Marseillaise,” “Internationale,” “Yankee Doodle,” “We Shall Overcome,” “Pie in the Sky,” etc., giving them words to fit Luna. Stuff like “Sons of Rock and Boredom/Will you let the Warden/Take from you your libertee!” Simon Jester spread them around, and when one took hold, we pushed it (music only) by radio and video. This put Warden in silly position of forbidding playing of certain tunes—which suited us; people could whistle.

Mike studied voice and word-choice patterns of Deputy Administrator, Chief Engineer, other department heads; Warden started getting frantic calls at night from his staff. Which they denied making. So Alvarez put lock-and-trace on next one—and sure enough, with Mike’s help, Alvarez traced it to supply chief’s phone and was sure it was boss belly-robber’s voice.

But next poison call to Mort seemed to come from Alvarez, and what Mort had to say next day to Alvarez and what Alvaiez said in own defense can only be described as chaotic crossed with psychotic.

Prof had Mike stop; was afraid Alvarez might lose job, which we did not want; he was doing too well for us. But by then Peace Dragoons had been dragged out twice in night on what seemed to be Warden’s orders, further disrupting morale, and Warden became convinced he was surrounded by traitors in official family while they were sure he had blown every circult.

An ad appeared in Lunaya Pravda announcing lecture by Dr. Adam Selene on Poetry and Arts in Luna: a New Renaissance. No comrade attended; word went down cells to stay away. Nor did anybody hang around when three squads of Peace Dragoons showed up—this involves Heisenberg principle as applied to Scarlet Pimpernels. Editor of Pravda spent bad hour explaining that he did not accept ads in person and this one was ordered over counter and paid for in cash. He was told not to take ads from Adam Selene. This was countermanded and he was told to take anything from Adam Selene but notify Alvarez at once.

New catapult was tested with a load dropped into south Indian Ocean at 350 E., 600 S., a spot used only by fish. Mike was joyed over his marksmanship since he had been able to sneak only two looks when guidance & tracking radars were not in use and had relied on just one nudge to bring it to bullseye. Earthside news reported giant meteor in sub-Antarctic picked up by Capetown Spacetrack with projected impact that matched Mike’s attempt perfectly—Mike called me to boast while taking down evening’s Reuters transmission. “I told you it was dead on,” he gloated. “I watched it. Oh, what a lovely splash!” Later reports on shock wave from seismic labs and on tsunamis from oceanographic stations were consistent.

Was only canister we had ready (trouble buying steel) or Mike might have demanded to try his new toy again.

Liberty Caps started appearing on stilyagi and their girls; Simon Jester began wearing one between his horns. Bon Marche gave them away as premiums. Alvarez had painful talk with Warden in which Mort demanded to know if his fink boss felt that something should be done every time kids took up fad? Had Alvarez gone out of his mind?

I ran across Slim Lemke on Carver Causeway early May; he was wearing a Liberty Cap. He seemed pleased to see me and I thanked him for prompt payment (he had come in three days after Stu’s trial and paid Sidris thirty Hong Kong, for gang) and bought him a cooler. While we were seated I asked why young people were wearing red hats? Why a hat? Hat’s were an earthworm custom, nyet?

He hesitated, then said was sort of a lodge, like Elks. I changed subject. Learned that his full name was Moses Lemke Stone; member of Stone Gang. This pleased me, we were relatives. But surprised me. However, even best families such as Stones sometimes can’t always find marriages for all sons; I had been lucky or might have been roving corridors at his age, too. Told him about our connection on my mother’s side.

He warmed up and shortly said, “Cousin Manuel, ever think about how we ought to elect our own Warden?”

I said No, I hadn’t; Authority appointed him and I supposed they always would. He asked why we had to have an Authority? I asked who had been putting ideas in head? He insisted nobody had, just thinking, was all—didn’t he have a right to think?

When I got home was tempted to check with Mike, find out lad’s Party name if any. But wouldn’t have been proper security, nor fair to Slim.

On 3 May ‘76 seventy-one males named Simon were rounded up and questioned, then released. No newspaper carned story. But everybody heard it; we were clear down in “J’s” and twelve thousand people can spread a story faster than I would have guessed. We emphasized that one of these dangerous males was only four years old, which was not true but very effective.

Stu Lajoie stayed with us during February and March and did not return to Terra until early April; he changed his ticket to next ship and then to next. When I pointed out that he was riding close to invisible line where irreversible physiological changes could set in, he grinned and told me not to worry. But made arrangements to use centrifuge.

Stu did not want to leave even by April. Was kissed goodbye with tears by all my wives and Wyoh, and he assured each one he was coming back. But left as he had work to do; by then he was a Party member.

I did not take part in decision to recruit Stu; I felt prejudiced. Wyoh and Prof and Mike were unanimous in risking it; I happily accepted their judgment.

We all helped to sell Stu LaJoie—self, Prof, Mike, Wyoh, Mum, even Sidris and Lenore and Ludmilla and our kids and Hans and Ali and Frank, as Davis home life was what grabbed him first. Did not hurt that Lenore was prettiest girl in L-City—which is no disparagement of Milla, Wyoh, Anna, and Sidris. Nor did it hurt that Stu could charm a baby away from breast. Mom fussed over him, Hans showed him hydroponic farming and Stu got dirty and sweaty and sloshed around in tunnels with our boys—helped harvest our Chinee fishponds—got stung by our bees—learned to handle a p-suit and went up with me to make adjustments on solar battery—helped Anna butcher a hog and learned about tanning leather—sat with Grandpaw and was respectful to his naive notions about Terra—washed dishes with Milla, something no male in our family ever did—rolled on floor with babies and puppies—learned to grind flour and swapped recipes with Mum.

I introduced him to Prof and that started political side of feeling him out. Nothing had been admitted—we could back away—when Prof introduced him to “Adam Selene” who could visit only by phone as he was “in Hong Kong at present.” By time Stu was committed to Cause, we dropped pretense and let him know that Adam was chairman whom he would not meet in person for security reasons.

But Wyoh did most and was on her judgment that Prof turned cards up and let Stu know that we were building a revolution. Was no surprise; Stu had made up mind and was waiting for us to trust him.

They say a face once launched a thousand ships. I do not know that Wyoh used anything but argument on Stu. I never tried to find out. But Wyoh had more to do with committing me than all Prof’s theory or Mike’s figures. If Wyoh used even stronger methods on Stu, she was not first heroine in history to do so for her country.

Stu went Earthside with a special codebook. I’m no code and cipher expert except that a computerman learns principles during study of information theory. Acipher is a mathematical pattern under which one letter substitutes for another, simplest being one in which alphabet is merely scrambled.

Acipher can be incredibly subtle, especially with help of a computer. But ciphers all have weakness that they are patterns. If one computer can think them up, another computer can break them.

Codes do not have same weakness. Let’s say that codebook has letter group GLOPS. Does this mean “Aunt Minnie will be home Thursday” or does it mean “3.14157 … “? Meaning is whatever you assign and no computer can analyze it simply from letter group. Give a computer enough groups and a rational theory involving meanings or subjects for

meanings, and it will eventually worry it out because meanings themselves will show patterns. But is a problem of different kind on more difficult level.

Code we selected was commonest commercial codebook, used both on Terra and in Luna for commercial dispatches. But we worked it over. Prof and Mike spent hours discussing what information Party might wish to send to its agent on Terra, or receive from agent, then Mike put his vast information to work and came up with new set of meanings for codebook, ones that could say “Buy Thai rice futures” as easily as “Run for life; they’ve caught us.” Or anything, as cipher signals were buried in it to permit anything to be said that had not been anticipated.

Late one night Mike made print-out of new code via Lunaya Pravda’s facilities, and night editor turned roll over to another comrade who converted it into a very small roll of film and passed it along in turn, and none ever knew what they handled or why. Wound up in Stu’s pouch. Search of off-planet luggage was tight by then and conducted by bad-tempered Dragoons—but Stu was certain he would have no trouble. Perhaps he swallowed it.

Thereafter some of LuNoHo Company’s dispatches to Terra reached Stu via his London broker.

Part of purpose was financial. Party needed to spend money Earthside; LuNoHoCo transferred money there (not all stolen, some ventures turned out well); Party needed still more money Earthside, Stu was to speculate, acting on secret knowledge of plan of Revolution—he, Prof, and Mike had spent hours discussing what stocks would go up, what would go down, etc., after Der Tag. This was Prof’s pidgin; I am not that sort of gambler.

But money was needed before Der Tag to build “climate of opinion.” We needed publicity, needed delegates and senators in Federated Nations, needed some nation to recognize us quickly once The Day came, we needed laymen telling other laymen over a beer: “What is there on that pile of rock worth one soldier’s life? Let ‘em go to hell in their own way, I say!”

Money for publicity, money for bribes, money for dummy organizations and to infiltrate established organizations; money to get true nature of Luna’s economy (Stu had gone loaded with figures) brought out as scientific research, then in popular form; money to convince foreign office of at least one major nation that there was advantage in a Free Luna; money to sell idea of Lunar tourism to a major cartel—

Too much money! Stu offered own fortune and Prof did not discourage it—Where treasure is, heart will be. But still too much money and far too much to do. I did not know if Stu could swing a tenth of it; simply kept fingers crossed. At least it gave us a channel to Terra. Prof claimed that communications to enemy were essential to any war if was to be fought and settled sensibly. (Prof was a pacifist. Like his vegetarianism, he did not let it keep him from being “rational.” Would have made a terrific theologian.)

As soon as Stu went Earthside, Mike set odds at one in thirteen. I asked him what in hell? “But, Man,” he explained patiently, “it increases risk. That it is necessary risk does not change the fact that risk is increased.”

I shut up. About that time, early May, a new factor reduced some risks while revealing others. One part of Mike handled Terra-Luna microwave traffic—commercial messages, scietitific data, news channels, video, voice radiotelephony, routine Authority traffic—and Warden’s top secret.

Aside from last, Mike could read any of this including commercial codes and ciphers—breaking ciphers was a crossword puzzle to him and nobody mistrusted this machine. Except Warden, and I suspect that his was distrust of all machinery; was sort of person who finds anything more involved than a pair of scissors complex, mysterious, and suspect—Stone Age mind.

Warden used a code that Mike never saw. Also used ciphers and did not work them through Mike; instead he had a moronic little machine in residence office. On top of this he had arrangement with Authority Earthside to switch everything around at preset times. No doubt he felt safe.

Mike broke his cipher patterns and deduced time-change program just to try legs. He did not tackle code until Prof suggested it; it held no interest for him.

But once Prof asked, Mike tackled Warden’s top-secret messages. He had to start from scratch; in past Mike had erased Warden’s messages once transmission was reported. So slowly, slowly he accumulated data for analysis—painfully slow, for Warden used this method only when he had to. Sometimes a week would pass between such messages. But gradually Mike began to gather meanings for letter groups, each assigned a probability. Acode does not crack all at once; possible to know meanings of ninety-nine groups in a message and miss essence because one group is merely GLOPS to you.

However, user has a problem, too; if GLOPS comes through as GLOPT, he’s in trouble. Any method of communication needs redundancy, or information can be lost. Was at redundancy that Mike nibbled, with perfect patience of machine.

Mike solved most of Warden’s code sooner than he had projected; Warden was sending more traffic than in past and most of it one subject (which helped)—subject being security and subversion.

We had Mort in a twitter; he was yelling for help.

He reported subversive activities still going on despite two phalanges of Peace Dragoons and demanded enough troops to station guards in all key spots inside all warrens. Authority told him this was preposterous, no more of FN’s crack troops could be spared—to be permanently ruined for Earthside duties—and such requests should not be made. If he

wanted more guards, he must recruit them from transportees-but such increase in administrative costs must be absorbed in Luna; he would not be allowed more overhead. He was

directed to report what steps be had taken to meet new grain quotas set in our such-and-such.

Warden replied that unless extremely moderate requests for trained security personnel—not-repeat-not untrained, unreliable, and unfit convicts—were met, he could no longer assure civil order, much less increased quotas.

Reply asked sneeringly what difference it made if exconsignees chose to riot among themselves in their holes? If it worried him, had he thought of shutting off lights as was used so successfully in 1996 and 2021?

These exchanges caused us to revise our calendar, to speed some phases, slow others. Like a perfect dinner, a revolution has to be “cooked” so that everything comes out even. Stu needed time Earthside. We needed canisters and small steering rockets and associated circuitry for “rock throwing.” And steel was a problem—buying it, fabricating it, and above all moving it through meander of tunnels to new catapult site. We needed to increase Party at least into “K’s”—say 40,000—with lowest echelons picked for fighting spirit rather than talents we had sought earlier. We needed weapons against landings. We needed to move Mike’s radars without which he was blind. (Mike could not be moved; bits of him spread all through Luna. But he had a thousand meters of rock over that central part of him at Complex, was surrounded by steel and this armor was cradled in springs; Authority had contemplated that someday somebody might lob H-weapons at their control center.)

All these needed to be done and pot must not boil too soon.

So we cut down on things that worried Warden and tried to speed up everything else. Simon Jester took a holiday. Word went out that Liberty Caps were not stylish—but save them. Warden got no more nervous-making phone calls. We quit inciting incidents with Dragoons-which did not stop them but reduced number.

Despite efforts to quiet Mort’s worries a symptom showed up which disquieted us instead. No message (at least we intercepted none) reached Warden agreeing to his demand for more troops—but he started moving people out of Complex. Civil servants who lived there started looking for holes to rent in L-City. Authority started test drills and resonance exploration in a cubic adjacent to L.City which could be converted into a warren.

Could mean that Authority proposed shipping up unusually large draft of prisoners. Could mean that space in Complex was needed for purpose other than quarters. But Mike told us: “Why kid yourselves? The Warden is going to get those troops; that space will be their barracks. Any other explanation I would have heard.”

I said, “But Mike, why didn’t you hear if it’s troops? You have that code of Warden’s fairly well whipped.”

“Not just ‘fairly well,’ I’ve got it whipped. But the last two ships have carried Authority vips and I don’t know what they talk about away from phones!”

So we tried to plan to cover possibility of having to cope with ten more phalanges, that being Mike’s estimate of what cubic being cleared would hold. We could deal with that many—with Mike’s help—but it would mean deaths, not bloodless coup d’etat Prof had planned.

And we increased efforts to speed up other factors. When suddenly we found ourselves committed—

Her name was Marie Lyons; she was eighteen years old and born in Luna, mother having been exiled via Peace Corps in ‘56. No record of father. She seems to have been a harmless person. Worked as a stock-control clerk in shipping department, lived in Complex.

Maybe she hated Authority and enjoyed teasing Peace Dragoons. Or perhaps it started as a commercial transaction as cold-blooded as any in a crib behind a slot-machine lock. How can we know? Six Dragoons were in it. Not satisfied with raping her (if rape it was) they abused her other ways and killed her. But they did not dispose of body neatly; another civil service fem found it before was cold. She screamed. Was her last scream.

We heard about it at once; Mike called us three while Alvarez and Peace Dragoon C.O. were digging into matter in Alvarez’s office. Appears that Peace Goon boss had no trouble laying hands on guilty; he and Alvarez were questioning them one at a time, and quarreling between grillings. Once we heard Alvarez say: “I told you those goons of yours had to have their own women! I warned you!”

“Stuff it,” Dragoon officer answered. “I’ve told you time and again they won’t ship any. The question now is how we hush this up.” “Are you crazy? Warden already knows.”

“It’s still the question.”

“Oh, shut up and send in the next one.”

Early in filthy story Wyoh joined me in workshop. Was pale under makeup, said nothing but wanted to sit close and clench my hand.

At last was over and Dragoon officer left Alvarez. Were still quarreling. Alvarez wanted those six executed at once and fact made public (sensible but not nearly enough, for his needs);

C.O. was still talking about “hushing it up.” Prof said, “Mike, keep an ear there and listen where else you can. Well, Mike? Wyoh? Plans?”

I didn’t have any. Wasn’t a cold, shrewd revolutionist; just wanted to get my heel into faces that matched those six voices. “I don’t know. What do we do, Prof?” “‘Do’? We’re on our tiger; we grab its ears. Mike. Where’s Finn Nielsen? Find him.”

Mike answered, “He’s calling now.” He cut Finn in with us; I heard: “—at Tube South. Both guards dead and about six of our people. Just people, I mean, not necessarily comrades. Some wild rumor about Goons going crazy and raping and killing all women at Complex. Adam, I had better talk to Prof.”

“I’m here, Finn,” Prof answered in a strong, confident voice. “Now we move, we’ve got to. Switch off and get those laser guns and men who trained with them, any you can round up.” “Da! Okay, Adam?”

“Do as Prof says. Then call back.”

“Hold it, Finn!” I cut in. “Mannie here. I want one of those guns.” “You haven’t practiced, Mannie.”

“If it’s a laser, I can use it!”

“Mannie,” Prof said forcefully, “shut up. You’re wasting time; let Finn go. Adam. Message for Mike. Tell him Plan Alert Four.”

Prof’s example damped my oscillating. Had forgotten that Finn was not supposed to know Mike was anybody but “Adam Selene”; forgotten everything but raging anger. Mike said, “Finn has switched off, Prof, and I put Alert Four on standby when this broke. No traffic now except routine stuff filed earlier. You don’t want it interrupted, do you?”

“No, just follow Alert Four. No Earthside transmission either way that tips any news. If one comes in, hold it and consult.” Alert Four was emergency communication doctrine, intended to slap censorship on news to Terra without arousing suspicion. For this Mike was ready to talk in many voices with excuses as to why a direct voice transmission would be delayed—and any taped transmission was no problem.

“Program running,” agreed Mike.

“Good. Mannie, calm down, son, and stick to your knitting. Let other people do the fighting; you’re needed here, we’re going to have to improvise. Wyoh, cut out and get word to Comrade Cecilia to get all Irregulars out of the corridors. Get those children home and keep them home—and have their mothers urging other mothers to do the same thing. We don’t know where the fighting will spread. But we don’t want children hurt if we can help it.”

“Right away, Prof!”

“Wait. As soon as you’ve told Sidris, get moving on your stilyagi. I want a riot at the Authority’s city office—break in, wreck the place, and noise and shouting and destruction—no one hurt if it can be helped. Mike. Alert-Four-Em. Cut off the Complex except for your own lines.”

“Prof!” I demanded. “What sense in starting riots here?”

“Mannie, Mannie! This is The Day! Mike, has the rape and murder news reached other warrens?”

“Not that I’ve heard. I’m listening here and there with random jumps. Tube stations are quiet except Luna City. Fighting has just started at Tube Station West. Want to hear it?”

“Not now. Mannie, slide over there and watch it. But stay out of it and slick close to a phone. Mike, start trouble in all warrens. Pass the news down the cells and use Finn’s version, not the truth. The Goons are raping and killing all the women in the Complex—I’ll give you details or you can invent them. Uh, can you order the guards at tube stations in other warrens back to their barracks? I want riots but there is no point in sending unarmed people against armed men if we can dodge it.”

“I’ll try.”

I hurried to Tube Station West, slowed as I neared it. Corridors were full of angry people. City roared in way I had never heard before and, as I crossed Causeway, could hear shouts and crowd noise from direction of Authority’s city office although it seemed to me there had not been time for Wyoh to reach her stilyagi—nor had there been; what Prof had tried to start was under way spontaneously.

Station was mobbed and I had to push through to see what I assumed to be certain, that passport guards were either dead or fled. ‘Dead’ it turned out, along with three Loonies. One was a boy not more than thirteen. He had died with his hands on a Dragoon’s throat and his head still sporting a little red cap. I pushed way to a public phone and reported.

“Go back,” said Prof. “and read the I.D. of one of those guards. I want name and rank. Have you seen Finn?” “No.”

“He’s headed there with three guns. Tell me where the booth you’re in is, get that name and come back to it.”

One body was gone, dragged away; Bog knows what they wanted with it. Other had been badly battered but I managed to crowd in and snatch dog chain from neck before it, too, was taken somewhere. I elbowed back to phone, found a woman at it. “Lady,” I said, “I’ve got to use that phone. Emergency!”

“You’re welcome to it! Pesky thing’s out of order.”

Worked for me; Mike bad saved it. Gave Prof guard’s name. “Good,” he said. “Have you seen Finn? He’ll be looking for you at that booth.” “Haven’t s—Hold it, just spotted him.”

“Okay, hang onto him. Mike, do you have a voice to fit that Dragoon’s name?” “Sorry, Prof. No.”

“All right, just make it hoarse and frightened; chances are the C.O. won’t know it that well. Or would the trooper call Alvarez?”

“He would call his C.O. Alvarez gives orders through him.”

“So call the C.O. Report the attack and call for help and die in the middle of it. Riot sounds behind you and maybe a shout of ‘There’s the dirty bastard now!’ just before you die. Can you swing it?”

‘Programmed. No huhu,” Mike said cheerfully. “Run it. Mannie, put Finn on.”

Prof’s plan was to sucker off-duty guards out of barracks and keep suckering them—with Finn’s men posted to pick them off as they got out of capsules. And it worked, right up to point where Mort the Wart lost his nerve and kept remaining few to protect himself while he sent frantic messages Earthside—none of which got through.

I wiggled out of Prof’s discipline and took a laser gun when second capsule of Peace Dragoons was due. I burned two Goons, found blood lust gone and let other snipers have rest of squad. Too easy. They would stick heads up out of hatch and that would be that. Half of squad would not come out—until smoked out and then died with rest. By that time I was back at my advance post at phone.

Warden’s decision to hole up caused trouble at Complex; Alvarez was killed and so was Goon C.O. and two of original yellow jackets. But a mixed lot of Dragoons and yellows, thirteen, holed up with Mort, or perhaps were already with him; Mike’s ability to follow events by listening was spotty. But once it seemed clear that all armed effectives were inside Warden’s residence, Prof ordered Mike to start next phase.

Mike turned out all lights in Complex save those in Warden’s residence, and reduced oxygen to gasping point—not killing point but low enough to insure that anyone looking for trouble would not be in shape. But in residence, oxygen supply was cut to zero, leaving pure nitrogen, and left that way ten minutes. At end of that time Finn’s men, waiting in p-suits at Warden’s private tube station, broke latch on airlock and went in, “shoulder to shoulder.” Luna was ours.

Book Two – A RABBLE IN ARMS

14

So a wave of patriotism swept over our new nation and unified it. Isn’t that what histories say? Oh, brother!

My dinkum word, preparing a revolution isn’t as much huhu as having won it. Here we were, in control too soon, nothing ready and a thousand things to do. Authority in Luna was gone— but Lunar Authority Earthside and Federated Nations behind it were very much alive. Had they landed one troopship, orbited one cruiser, anytime next week or two, could have taken Luna back cheap. We were a mob.

New catapult had been tested but canned rock missiles ready to go you could count on fingers of one hand—my left hand. Nor was catapult a weapon that could be used against ships, nor against troops. We had notions for fighting off ships; at moment were just notions. We had a few hundred cheap laser guns stockpiled in Hong Kong Luna—Chinee engineers are smart—but few men trained to use them.

Moreover, Authority had useful functions. Bought ice and grain, sold air and water and power, held ownership or control at a dozen key points. No matter what was done in future, wheels had to turn. Perhaps wrecking city offices of Authority had been hasty (I thought so) as records were destroyed. However, Prof maintained that Loonies, all Loonies, needed a symbol to hate and destroy and those offices were least valuable and most public.

But Mike controlled communications and that meant control of most everything. Prof had started with control of news to and from Earthside, leaving to Mike censorship and faking of news until we could get around to what to tell Terra, and had added sub-phase “M” which cut off Complex from rest of Luna, and with it Richardson Observatory and associated laboratories— Pierce Radioscope, Selenophysical Station, and so forth. These were a problem as Terran scientists were always coming and going and staying as long as six months, stretching time by centrifuge. Most Terrans in Luna, save for a handful of tourists—thirty-four—were scientists. Something had to be done about these Terrans, but meanwhile keeping them from talking to Terra was enough.

For time being, Complex was cut off by phone and Mike did not permit capsules to stop at any station in Complex even after travel was resumed, which it was as soon as Finn Nielsen and squad were through with dirty work.

Turned out Warden was not dead, nor had we planned to kill him; Prof figured that a live warden could always be made dead, whereas a dead one could not be made live if we needed him. So plan was to half kill him, make sure he and his guards could put up no fight, then break in fast while Mike restored oxygen.

With fans turning at top speed, Mike computed it would take four minutes and a bit to reduce oxygen to effective zero—so, five minutes of increasing hypoxia, five minutes of anoxia, then force lower lock while Mike shot in pure oxygen to restore balance. This should not kill anyone—but would knock out a person as thoroughly as anesthesia. Hazard to attackers would come from some or all of those inside having p-suits. But even that might not matter; hypoxia is sneaky, you can pass out without realizing you are short on oxygen. Is new chum’s favorite fatal mistake.

So Warden lived through it and three of his women. But Warden, though he lived, was no use; brain had been oxygen-starved too long, a vegetable. No guard recovered, even though younger than he; would appear anoxia broke necks.

In rest of Complex nobody was hurt. Once lights were on and oxygen restored they were okay, including six rapist-murderers under lock in barracks. Finn decided that shooting was too good for them, so he went judge and used his squad as jury.

They were stripped, hamstrung at ankles and wrists, turned over to women in Complex. Makes me sick to think about what happened next but don’t suppose they lived through as long an ordeal as Marie Lyons endured. Women are amazing creatures—sweet, soft, gentle, and far more savage than we are.

Let me mention those fink spies out of order. Wyoh had been fiercely ready to eliminate them but when we got around to them she had lost stomach. I expected Prof to agree. But he shook head. “No, dear Wyoh, much as I deplore violence, there are only two things to do with an enemy: Kill him. Or make a friend of him. Anything in between piles up trouble for the future. Aman who finks on his friends once will do it again and we have a long period ahead in which a fink can be dangerous; they must go. And publicly, to cause others to be thoughtful.”

Wyoh said, “Professor, you once said that if you condemned a man, you would eliminate him personally. Is that what you are going to do?”

“Yes, dear lady, and no. Their blood shall be on my hands; I accept responsibility. But I have in mind a way more likely to discourage other finks.”

So Adam Selene announced that these persons had been employed by Juan Alvarez, late Security Chief for former Authority, as undercover spies—and gave names and addresses. Adam did not suggest that anything be done.

One man remained on dodge for seven months by changing warrens and name. Then early in ‘77 his body was found outside Novylen’s lock. But most of them lasted no more than hours.

During first hours after coup d’etat we were faced with a problem we had never managed to plan—Adam Selene himself. Who is Adam Selene? Where is he? This is his revolution; he handled every detail, every comrade knows his voice. We’re out in open now… so where is Adam?

We batted it around much of that night, in room L of Raffles—argued it between decisions on a hundred things that came up and people wanted to know what to do, while “Adam” through other voices handled other decisions that did not require talk, composed phony news to send Earthside, kept Complex isolated, many things. (Is no possible doubt: without Mike we could not have taken Luna nor held it.)

My notion was that Prof should become “Adam.” Prof was always our planner and theoretician; everybody knew him; some key comrades knew that he was “Comrade Bill” and all others knew and respected Professor Bernardo de la Paz—My word, he had taught half of leading citizens in Luna City, many from other warrens, was known to every vip in Luna.

“No,” said Prof.

“Why not?” asked Wyoh. “Prof. you’re opted. Tell him, Mike.” “Comment reserved,” said Mike. “I want to hear what Prof has to say.”

“I say you’ve analyzed it, Mike,” Prof answered. “Wyoh dearest comrade, I would not refuse were it possible. But there is no way to make my voice match that of Adam—and every comrade knows Adam by his voice; Mike made it memorable for that very purpose.”

We then considered whether Prof could be slipped in anyhow, showing him only on video and letting Mike reshape whatever Prof said into voice expected from Adam.

Was turned down. Too many people knew Prof, had heard him speak; his voice and way of speaking could not be reconciled with Adam. Then they considered same possibility for me— my voice and Mike’s were baritone and not too many people knew what I sounded like over phone and none over video.

I tromped on it. People were going to be surprised enough to find me one of our Chairman’s lieutenants; they would never believe I was number one.

I said, “Let’s combine deals. Adam has been a mystery all along; keep him that way. He’ll be seen only over video—in a mask. Prof. you supply body; Mike, you supply voice.” Prof shook head. “I can think of no surer way to destroy confidence at our most critical period than by having a leader who wears a mask. No, Mannie.”

We talked about finding an actor to play it. Were no professional actors in Luna then but were good amateurs in Luna Civic Players and in Novy Bolshoi Teatr Associates.

“No,” said Prof, “aside from finding an actor of requisite character—one who would not decide to be Napoleon—we can’t wait. Adam must start handling things not later than tomorrow morning.”

“In that case,” I said, “you’ve answered it. Have to use Mike and never put him on video. Radio only. Have to figure excuse but Adam must never be seen.” “I’m forced to agree,” said Prof.

“Man my oldest friend,” said Mike, “why do you say that I can’t be seen?”

“Haven’t you listened?” I said. “Mike, we have to show a face and body on video. You have a body—but it’s several tons of metal. Aface you don’t have—lucky you, don’t have to shave.”

“But what’s to keep me from showing a face, Man? I’m showing a voice this instant. But there’s no sound behind it. I can show a face the same way.”

Was so taken aback I didn’t answer. I stared at video screen, installed when we leased that room. Apulse is a pulse is a pulse. Electrons chasing each other. To Mike, whole world was variable series of electrical pulses, sent or received or chasing around his innards.

I said, “No, Mike.”

“Why not, Man?”

“Because you can’t! Voice you handle beautifully. Involves only a few thousand decisions a second, a slow crawl to you. But to build up video picture would require, uh, say ten million decisions every second. Mike, you’re so fast I can’t even think about it. But you aren’t that fast.”

Mike said softly, “Want to bet, Man?”

Wyoh said indignantly, “Of course Mike can if he says he can! Mannie, you shouldn’t talk that way.” (Wyoh thinks an electron is something about size and shape of a small pea.) “Mike,” I said slowly, “I won’t put money on it. Okay, want to try? Shall I switch on video?”

“I can switch it on,” he answered.

“Sure you’ll get right one? Wouldn’t do to have this show somewhere else.”

He answered testily, “I’m not stupid. Now let me be, Man—for I admit this is going to take just about all I’ve got.”

We waited in silence. Then screen showed neutral gray with a hint of scan lines. Went black again, then a faint light filled middle and congealed into cloudy areas light and dark, ellipsoid. Not a face, but suggestion of face that one sees in cloud patterns covering Terra.

It cleared a little and reminded me of pictures alleged to be ectoplasm. Aghost of a face. Suddenly firmed and we saw “Adam Selcne.”

Was a still picture of a mature man. No background, just a face as if trimmed out of a print. Yet was, to me, “Adam Selene.” Could not he anybody else. Then he smiled, moving lips and jaw and touching tongue to lips, a quick gesture—and I was frightened.

“How do I look?” he asked.

“Adam,” said Wyoh, “your hair isn’t that curly. And it should go back on each side above your forehead. You look as if you were wearing a wig, dear.” Mike corrected it. “Is that better?’

“Not quite so much. And don’t you have dimples? I was sure I could hear dimples when you chuckle. Like Prof’s.” Mike-Adam smiled again; this time he had dimples. “How should I be dressed, Wyoh?”

“Are you at your office?”

“I’m still at office. Have to be, tonight.” Background turned gray, then came into focus and color. Awall calendar behind him gave date, Tuesday 19 May 2076; a clock showed correct time. Near his elbow was a carton of coffee. On desk was a solid picture, a family group, two men, a woman, four children. Was background noise, muted roar of Old Dome Plaza louder than usual; I heard shouts and in distance some singing: Simon’s version of “Marseillaise.”

Off screen Ginwallah’s voice said, “Gospodin?”

Adam turned toward it. “I’m busy, Albert,” he said patiently. “No calls from anyone but cell B. You handle everything else.” He looked back at us. “Well, Wyoh? Suggestions? Prof? Man my doubting friend? Will I pass?”

I rubbed eyes. “Mike, can you cook?” “Certainly. But I don’t; I’m married.”

“Adam,” said Wyoh, “how can you look so neat after the day we’ve had?”

“I don’t let little things worry me.” He looked at Prof. “Professor, if the picture is okay, let’s discuss what I’ll say tomorrow. I was thinking of pre-empting the eight hundred newscast, have it announced all night, and pass the word down the cells.”

We talked rest of night. I sent up for coffee twice and Mike-Adam had his carton renewed. When I ordered sandwiches, he asked Ginwallah to send out for some. I caught a glimpse of Albert Ginwallah in profile, a typical babu, polite and faintly scornful. Hadn’t known what he looked like. Mike ate while we ate, sometimes mumbling around a mouthful of food.

When I asked (professional interest) Mike told me that, after he had picture built up, he had programmed most of it for automatic and gave his attention just to facial expressions. But soon I forgot it was fake. Mike-Adam was talking with us by video, was all, much more convenient than by phone.

By oh-three-hundred we had policy settled, then Mike rehearsed speech. Prof found points be wanted to add; Mike made revisions, then we decided to get some rest, even Mike-Adam was yawning—although in fact Mike held fort all through night, guarding transmissions to Terra, keeping Complex wailed off, listening at many phones. Prof and I shared big bed, Wyoh stretched out on couch, I whistled lights out. For once we slept without weights.

While we had breakfast, Adam Selene addressed Free Luna.

He was gentle, strong, warm, and persuasive. “Citizens of Free Luna, friends, comrades—to those of you who do not know me let me introduce myself. I am Adam Selene. Chairman of the Emergency Committee of Comrades for Free Luna … now of Free Luna, we are free at last. The so-called ‘Authority’ which has long unsurped power in this our home has been overthrown. I find myself temporary head of such government as we have—the Emergency Committee.

“Shortly, as quickly as can be arranged, you will opt your own government.” Adam smiled and made a gesture inviting help. “In the meantime, with your help, I shall do my best. We will make mistakes—be tolerant. Comrades, if you have not revealed yourselves to friends and neighbors, it is time you did so. Citizens, requests may reach you through your comrade neighbors. I hope you will comply willingly; it will speed the day when I can bow out and life can get back to normal—a new normal, free of the Authority, free of guards, free of troops stationed on us, free of passports and searches and arbitrary arrests.

“There has to be a transition. To all of you—please go back to work, resume normal lives. To those who worked for the Authority, the need is the same. Go back to work. Wages will go on, your jobs stay the same, until we can decide what is needed, what happily no longer is needed now that we are free, and what must be kept but modified. You new citizens, transportees sweating out sentences pronounced on you Earthside—you are free, your sentences are finished! But in the meantime I hope that you will go on working. You are not required to—the days of coercion are gone—but you are urged to. You are of course free to leave the Complex, free to go anywhere … and capsule service to and from the Complex will resume at once. But before you use your new freedom to rush into town, let me remind you: ‘There is no such thing as a free lunch.’ You are better off for the time being where you are; the food may not be fancy but will continue hot and on time.

“To take on temporarily those necessary functions of the defunct Authority I have asked the General Manager of LuNoHo Company to serve. This company will provide termporary supervision and will start analyzing how to do away with the tyrannical parts of the Authority and how to transfer the useful parts to private hands. So please help them.

“To you citizens of Terran nations among us, scientists and travelers and others, greetings! You are witnessing a rare event, the birth of a nation. Birth means blood and pain; there has been some. We hope it is over. You will not be inconvenienced unnecessarily and your passage home will be arranged as soon as possible. Conversely, you are welcome to stay, still more welcome to become citizens. But for the present I urge you to stay out of the corridors, avoid incidents that might lead to unnecessary blood, unnecessary pain. Be patient with us and I urge my fellow citizens to be patient with you. Scientists from Terra, at the Observatory and elsewhere, go on with your work and ignore us. Then you won’t even notice that we are going through the pangs of creating a new nation. One thing—I am sorry to say that we are temporarily interfering with your right to communicate with Earthside. This we do from necessity; censorship will be lifted as quickly as possible—we hate it as much as you do.”

Adam added one more request: “Don’t try to see me, comrades, and phone me only if you must; all others, write if you need to, your letters will receive prompt attention. But I am not twins, I got no sleep last night and can’t expect much tonight. I can’t address meetings, can’t shake hands, can’t meet delegations; I must stick to this desk and work—so that I can get rid of this job and turn it over to your choice.” He grinned at them. “Expect me to be as hard to see as Simon Jester!”

It was a fifteen-minute cast but that was essence: Go back to work, be patient, give us time. Those scientists gave us almost no time—I should have guessed; was my sort of pidgin.

All communication Earthside channeled through Mike. But those brain boys had enough electronic equipment to stock a warehouse; once they decided to, it took them only hours to breadboard a rig that could reach Terra.

Only thing that saved us was a fellow traveler who thought Luna should be free. He tried to phone Adam Selene, wound up talking to one of a squad of women we had co-opted from C and D level—a system thrown together in self-defense as, despite Mike’s request, half of Luna tried to phone Adam Selene after that videocast, everything from requests and demands to busybodies who wanted to tell Adam how to do his job.

After about a hundred calls got routed to me through too much zeal by a comrade in phone company, we set up this buffer squad. Happily, comrade lady who took this call recognized that soothe-‘em-down doctrine did not apply; she phoned me.

Minutes later myself and Finn Nielsen plus some eager guns headed by capsule for laboratory area. Our informant was scared to give name but had told me where to find transmitter. We caught them transmitting, and only fast action on Finn’s part kept them breathing; his boys were itchy. But we did not want to “make an example”; Finn and I had settled that on way out. Is hard to frighten scientists, their minds don’t work that way. Have to get at them from other angles.

I kicked that transmitter to pieces and ordered Director to have everyone assemble in mess hall and required roll call—where a phone could hear. Then I talked to Mike, got names from him, and said to Director: “Doctor, you told me they were all here. We’re missing so-and-so”—seven names. “Get them here!”

Missing Terrans had been notified, had refused to stop what they were doing—typical scientists.

Then I talked, Loonies on one side of room, Terrans on other. To Terrans I said; “We tried to treat you as guests. But three of you tried and perhaps succeeded in sending message Earthside.”

I turned to Director. “Doctor, I could search—warren, surface structures, all labs, every space—and destroy everything that might be used for transmitter. I’m electron pusher by trade; I know what wide variety of components can be converted into transmitters. Suppose I destroy everything that might be useful for that and, being stupid, take no chance and smash anything I don’t understand. What result?”

Would have thought I was about to kill his baby! He turned gray. “That would stop every research … destroy priceless data.., waste, oh, I don’t know how much! Call it a half billion dollars!”

“So I thought. Could take all that gear instead of smashing and let you go on best you can.”

“That would be almost as bad. You must understand, Gospodin, that when an experiment is interrupted—”

“I know. Easier than moving anything—and maybe missing some—is to take you all to Complex and quarter you there. We have what used to be Dragoon barracks. But that too would ruin experiments. Besides—Where you from, Doctor?”

“Princeton, New Jersey.”

“So? You’ve been here five months and no doubt exercising and wearing weights. Doctor, if we did that, you might never see Princeton again. If we move you, we’ll keep you locked up. You’ll get soft. If emergency goes on very long, you’ll be a Loonie like it or not. And all your brainy help with you.”

Acocky chum stepped forward—one who had to be sent for twice. “You can’t do this! It’s against the law!” “What law, Gospodin? Some law back in your hometown?” I turned. “Finn, show him law.”

Finn stepped forward and placed emission bell of gun at man’s belly button. Thumb started to press down—safety-switched, I could see. I said, “Don’t kill him, Finn!”—then went on: “I will eliminate this man if that’s what it takes to convince you. So watch each other! One more offense will kill all your chances of seeing home again—as well as ruining researches. Doctor, I warn you to find ways to keep check on your staff.”

I turned to Loonies. “Tovarishchee, keep them honest. Work up own guard system. Don’t take nonsense; every earthworm is on probation. If you have to eliminate some, don’t hesitate.” I turned to Director. “Doctor, any Loonie can go anywhere any time—even your bedroom. Your assistants are now your bosses so far as security is concerned; if a Loonie decides to follow you or anybody into a W.C., don’t argue; he might be jumpy.”

I turned to Loonies. “Security first! You each work for some earthworm—watch him! Split it among you and don’t miss anything. Watch ‘em so close they can’t build mouse trap, much less transmitter. If interferes with work for them, don’t worry; wages will go on.”

Could see grins. Lab assistant was best job a Loonie could find those days—but they worked under earthworms who looked down on us, even ones who pretended and were oh so gracious.

I let it go at that. When I had been phoned, I had intended to eliminate offenders. But Prof and Mike set me straight: Plan did not permit violence against Terrans that could be avoided. We set up “ears,” wideband sensitive receivers, around lab area, since even most directional rig spills a little in neighborhood. And Mike listened on all phones in area, After that we

chewed nails and hoped.

Presently we relaxed as news up from Earthside showed nothing, they seemed to accept censored transmissions without suspicion, and private and commercial traffic and Authority’s transmissions all seemed routine. Meanwhile we worked, trying in days what should take months.

We received one break in timing; no passenger ship was on Luna and none was due until 7 July. We could have coped—suckered a ship’s officers to “dine with Warden” or something, then mounted guard on its senders or dismantled them. Could not have lifted without our help; in those days one drain on ice was providing water for reaction mass. Was not much drain compared with grain shipments; one manned ship a month was heavy traffic then, while grain lifted every day. What it did mean was that an incoming ship was not an insuperable hazard. Nevertheless was lucky break; we were trying so hard to make everything look normal until we could defend ourselves.

Grain shipments went on as before; one was catapulted almost as Finn’s men were breaking into Warden’s residence. And next went out on time, and all others.

Neither oversight nor faking for interim; Prof knew what he was doing. Grain shipments were a big operation (for a little country like Luna) and couldn’t be changed in one semi-lunar; bread-and-beer of too many people was involved. If our committee had ordered embargo and quit buying grain, we would have been chucked out and a new committee with other ideas would have taken over.

Prof said that an educational period was necessary. Meanwhile grain barges catapulted as usual; LuNoHoCo kept books and issued receipts, using civil service personnel. Dispatches went out in Warden’s name and Mike talked to Authority Earthside, using Warden’s voice. Deputy Administrator proved reasonable, once he understood it upped his life expectancy. Chief Engineer stayed on job, too—McIntyre was a real Loonie, given chance, rather than fink by nature. Other department heads and minor stooges were no problem; life went on as before and we were too busy to unwind Authority system and put useful parts up for sale.

Over a dozen people turned up claiming to be Simon Jester; Simon wrote a rude verse disclairning them and had picture on front page of Lunatic, Pravda, and Gong. Wyoh let herself go blond and made trip to see Greg at new catapult site, then a longer trip, ten days, to old home in Hong Kong Luna, taking Anna who wanted to see it. Wyoh needed a vacation and Prof urged her to take it, pointing on that she was in touch by phone and that closer Party contact was needed in Hong Kong. I took over her stilyagi with Slim and Hazel as my lieutenants— bright, sharp kids I could trust. Slim was awed to discover that I was “Comrade Bork” and saw “Adam Selene” every day; his Party name started with “G.” Made a good team for other reason, too. Hazel suddenly started showing cushiony curves and not all from Mimi’s superb table; she had reached that point in her orbit. Slim was ready to change her name to “Stone” any time she was willing to opt. In meantime he was anxious to do Party work he could share with our fierce little redhead.

Not everybody was willing. Many comrades turned out to be talk-talk soldiers. Still more thought war was over once we had eliminated Peace Goons and captured Warden. Others were indignant to learn how far down they were in Party structure; they wanted to elect a new structure, themselves at top. Adam received endless calls proposing this or something like it—

would listen, agree, assure them that their services must not be wasted by waiting for election—and refer them to Prof or me. Can’t recall any of these ambitious people who amounted to anything when I tried to put them to work.

Was endless work and nobody wanted to do it. Well, a few. Some best volunteers were people Party had never located. But in general, Loonies in and out of Party had no interest in “patriotic” work unless well paid. One chum who claimed to be a Party member (was not) spragged me in Raffles where we set up headquarters and wanted me to contract for fifty thousand buttons to be worn by pre-coup “Veterans of Revolution”—a “small” profit for him (I estimate 400 percent markup), easy dollars for me, a fine thing for everybody.

When I brushed him off, he threatened to denounce me to Adam Selene—”Avery good friend of mine, I’ll have you know!”—for sabotage.

That was “help” we got. What we needed was something else. Needed steel at new catapult and plenty—Prof asked, if really necessary to put steel around rock missiles; I had to point out that an induction field won’t grab bare rock. We needed to relocate Mike’s ballistic radars at old site and install doppler radar at new site—both jobs because we could expect attacks from space at old site.

We called for volunteers, got only two who could be used—and needed several hundred mechanics who did not mind hard work in p-suits. So we hired, paying what we had to– LuNoHoCo went in hock to Bank of Hong Kong Luna; was no time to steal that much and most funds had been transferred Earthside to Stu. Adinkum comrade, Foo Moses Morris, co- signed much paper to keep us going—and wound up broke and started over with a little tailoring shop in Kongville. That was later.

Authority Scrip dropped from 3-to-1 to 17-to-1 after coup and civil service people screamed, as Mike was still paying in Authority checks. We said they could stay on or resign; then those we needed, we rehired with Hong Kong dollars. But created a large group not on our side from then on; they longed for good old days and were ready to stab new regime.

Grain farmers and brokers were unhappy because payment at catapult head continued to be Authority scrip at same old fixed prices. “We won’t take it!” they cried—and LuNoHoCo man would shrug and tell them they didn’t have to but this grain still went to Authority Earthside (it did) and Authority scrip was all they would get. So take cheque, or load your grain back into rolligons and get it out of here.

Most took it. All grumbled and some threatened to get out of grain and start growing vegetables or fibers or something that brought Hong Kong dollars—and Prof smiled.

We needed every drillman in Luna, especially ice miners who owned heavy-duty laser drills. As soldiers. We needed them so badly that, despite being shy one wing and rusty, I considered joining up, even though takes muscle to wrestle a big drill, and prosthetic just isn’t muscle. Prof told me not to be a fool.

Dodge we had in mind would not work well Earthside; a laser beam carrying heavy power works best in vacuum—but there it works just dandy for whatever range its collimation is good for. These big drills, which had carved through rock seeking pockets of ice, were now being mounted as “artillery” to repel space attacks. Both ships and missiles have electronic nervous systems and does electronic gear no good to blast it with umpteen joules placed in a tight beam. If target is pressured (as manned ships are and most missiles), all it takes is to burn a hole, depressure it. If not pressured, a heavy laser beam can still kill it—burn eyes, louse guidance, spoil anything depending on electronics as most everything does.

An H-bomb with circuitry ruined is not a bomb, is just big tub of lithium deuteride that can’t do anything but crash. Aship with eyes gone is a derelict, not a warship.

Sounds easy, is not. Those laser drills were never meant for targets a thousand kilometers away, or even one, and was no quick way to rig their cradles for accuracy. Gunner had to have guts to hold fire until last few seconds—on a target heading at him maybe two kilometers per second. But was best we had, so we organized First and Second Volunteer Defense Gunners of Free Luna—two regiments so that First could snub lowly Second and Second could be Jealous of First. First got older men, Second got young and eager.

Having called them “volunteers,” we hired in Hong Kong dollars—and was no accident that ice was being paid for in controlled market in wastepaper Authority script.

On top of all, we were talking up a war scare. Adam Selene talked over video, reminding that Authority was certain to try to regain its tyranny and we had only days to prepare; papers quoted him and published stories of their own—we had made special effort to recruit newsmen before coup. People were urged to keep p-suits always near and to test pressure alarms in homes. Avolunteer Civil Defense Corps was organized in each warren.

What with moonquakes always with us, each warren’s pressure co-op always had sealing crews ready at any hour. Even with silicone stay-soft and fiberglass any warren leaks. In Davis Tunnels our boys did maintenance on seal every day. But now we recruited hundreds of emergency sealing crews, mostly stilyagi, drilled them with fake emergencies, had them stay in

p-suits with helmets open when on duty.

They did beautifully. But idiots made fun of them—”play soldiers,” “Adam’s little apples,” other names. Ateam was going through a drill, showing they could throw a temporary lock around one that had been damaged, and one of these pinheads stood by and rode them loudly.

Civil Defense team went ahead, completed temporary lock, tested it with helmets closed; it held—came out, grabbed this joker, took him through into temporary lock and on out into zero pressure, dumped him.

Belittlers kept opinions to selves after that. Prof thought we ought to send out a gentle warning not to eliminate so peremptorily. I opposed it and got my way; could see no better way to improve breed. Certain types of loudmouthism should be a capital offense among decent people.

But our biggest headaches were self-anointed statesmen.

Did I say that Loonies are “non-politica1”? They are, when comes to doing anything. But doubt if was ever a time two Loonies over a liter of beer did not swap loud opinions about how things ought to be run.

As mentioned, these self-appointed political scientists tried to grab Adam Selene’s ear. But Prof had a place for them; each was invited to take part in “Ad-Hoc Congress for Organization of Free Luna”—which met in Community Hall in Luna City, then resolved to stay in session until work was done, a week in L-City, a week in Novylen, then Hong Kong, and start over. All sessions were in video. Prof presided over first and Adam Selene addressed them by video and encouraged them to do a thorough job—”History is watching you.”

I listened to some sessions, then cornered Prof and asked what in Bog’s name he was up to? “Thought you didn’t want any government. Have you heard those nuts since you turned them loose?”

He smiled most dimply smile. “What’s troubling you, Manuel?”

Many things were troubling me. With me breaking heart trying to round up heavy drills and men who could treat them as guns these idlers had spent an entire afternoon discussing immigration. Some wanted to stop it entirely. Some wanted to tax it, high enough to finance government (when ninety-nine out of a hundred Loonies had had to be dragged to The Rock!); some wanted to make it selective by “ethnic ratios.” (Wondered how they would count me?) Some wanted to limit it to females until we were 50-50. That had produced a Scandinavian shout: “Ja, cobber! Tell ‘em send us hoors! Tousands and tousands of hoors! I marry ‘em, I betcha!”

Was most sensible remark all afternoon.

Another time they argued “time.” Sure, Greenwich time bears no relation to lunar. But why should it when we live Underground? Show me a Loonie who can sleep two weeks and work two weeks; lunars don’t fit our metabolism. What was urged was to make a lunar exactly equal to twenty-eight days (instead of 29 days, 12 hours, 44 minutes, 2.78 seconds) and do this by making days longer—and hours, minutes, and seconds, thus making each semi-lunar exactly two weeks.

Sure, lunar is necessary for many purposes. Controls when we go up on surface, why we go, and how long we stay. But, aside from throwing us out of gear with our only neighbor, had that wordy vacuum skull thought what this would do to every critical figure in science and engineering? As an electronics man I shuddered. Throw away every book, table, instrument, and start over? I know that some of my ancestors did that in switching from old English units to MKS—but they did it to make things easier. Fourteen inches to a foot and some odd number of feet to a mile. Ounces and pounds. Oh, Bog!

Made sense to change that—but why go out of your way to create confusion?

Somebody wanted a committee to determine exactly what Loonie language is, then fine everybody who talked Earthside English or other language. Oh, my people!

I read tax proposals in Lunatic—four sorts of “SingleTaxers”—a cubic tax that would penalize a man if he extended tunnels, a head tax (everybody pay same), income tax (like to see anyone figure income of Davis Family or try to get information out of Mum!), and an “air tax” which was not fees we paid then but something else.

Hadn’t realized “Free Luna” was going to have taxes. Hadn’t had any before and got along. You paid for what you got. Tanstaafl. How else?

Another time some pompous choom proposed that bad breath and body odors be made an elimination offense. Could almost sympathize, having been stuck on occasion in a capsule with such stinks. But doesn’t happen often and tends to be self-correcting; chronic offenders, or unfortunates who can’t correct, aren’t likely to reproduce, seeing how choosy women are.

One female (most were men, but women made up for it in silliness) had a long list she wanted made permanent laws—about private matters. No more plural marriage of any sort. No divorces. No “fornication”—had to look that one up. No drinks stronger than 4% beer. Church services only on Saturdays and all else to stop that day. (Air and temperature and pressure engineering, lady? Phones and capsules?) Along list of drugs to be prohibited and a shorter list dispensed only by licensed physicians. (What is a “licensed physician”? Healer I go to has a sign reading “practical doctor”—makcs book on side, which is why I go to him. Look, lady, aren’t any medical schools in Luna!) (Then, I mean.) She even wanted to make gambling illegal. If a Loonie couldn’t roll double or nothing, he would go to a shop that would, even if dice were loaded.

Thing that got me was not her list of things she hated, since she was obviously crazy as a Cyborg, but fact that always somebody agreed with her prohibitions. Must be a yearning deep in human heart to stop other people from doing as they please. Rules, laws—always for other fellow. Amurky part of us, something we had before we came down out of trees, and failed to shuck when we stood up. Because not one of those people said: “Please pass this so that I won’t be able to do something I know I should stop.” Nyet, tovarishchee, was always something they hated to see neighbors doing. Stop them “for their own good”—not because speaker claimed to be harmed by it.

Listening to that session I was almost sorry we got rid of Mort the Wart. He stayed holed up with his women and didn’t tell us how to run private lives. But Prof didn’t get excited; he went on smiling. “Manuel, do you really think that mob of retarded children can pass any laws?”

“You told them to. Urged them to.”

“My dear Manuel, I was simply putting all my nuts in one basket. I know those nuts; I’ve listened to them for years. I was very careful in selecting their committees; they all have built-in confusion, they will quarrel. The chairman I forced on them while letting them elect him is a ditherer who could not unravel a piece of string—thinks every subject needs ‘more study.’ I almost needn’t have bothered; more than six people cannot agree on anything, three is better—and one is perfect for a job that one can do. This is why parliamentary bodies all through history, when they accomplished anything, owed it to a few strong men who dominated the rest. Never fear, son, this Ad-Hoc Congress will do nothing… or if they pass something through sheer fatigue, it will be so loaded with contradictions that it will have to be thrown out. In the meantime they are out of our hair. Besides, there is something we need them for, later.”

“Thought you said they could do nothing.”

“They won’t do this. One man will write it—a dead man—and late at night when they are very tired, they’ll pass it by acclamation.” “Who’s this dead man? You don’t mean Mike?”

“No, no! Mike is far more alive than those yammerheads. The dead man is Thomas Jefferson—first of the rational anarchists, my boy, and one who once almost managed to slip over his non-system through the most beautiful rhetoric ever written. But they caught him at it, which I hope to avoid. I cannot improve on his phrasing; I shall merely adapt it to Luna and the

twenty-first century.”

“Heard of him, Freed slaves, nyet?”

“One might say he tried but failed. Never mind. How are the defenses progressing? I don’t see how we can keep up the pretense past the arrival date of this next ship.” “Can’t be ready then.”

“Mike says we must be.”

We weren’t but ship never arrived. Those scientists outsmarted me and Loonies I had told to watch them. Was a rig at focal point of biggest reflector and Loonie assistants believed doubletalk about astronomical purpose—a new wrinkle in radiotelescopes.

I suppose it was. Was ultramicrowave and stuff was bounced at reflector by a wave guide and thus left scope lined up nicely by mirror. Remarkably like early radar. And metal latticework and foil heat shield of barrel stopped stray radiation, thus “ears” I had staked out heard nothing.

They put message across, their version and in detail. First we heard was demand from Authority to Warden to deny this hoax, find hoaxer, put stop to it. So instead we gave them a Declaration of Independence.

“In Congress assembled, July Fourth, Twenty-Seventy-Six—” Was beautiful.

15

Signing of Declaration of Independence went as Prof said it would. He sprang it on them at end of long day, announced a special session after dinner at which Adam Selene would speak. Adam read aloud, discussing each sentence, then read it without stopping, making music of sonorous phrases. People wept. Wyoh, seated by me, was one, and I felt like it even though had read it earlier.

Then Adam looked at them and said, “The future is waiting. Mark well what you do,” and turned meeting over to Prof rather than usual chairman.

Was twenty-two hundred and fight began. Sure, they were in favor of it; news all day had been jammed with what bad boys we were, how we were to be punished, taught a lesson, so forth. Not necessary to spice it up; stuff up from Earthside was nasty—Mike merely left out on-other-hand opinions. If ever was a day when Luna felt unified it was probably second of July 2076.

So they were going to pass it; Prof knew that before he offered it.

But not as written—”Honorable Chairman, in second paragraph, that word ‘unalienable,’ is no such word; should be ‘inalienable’—and anyhow wouldn’t it be more dignified to say ‘sacred rights’ rather than ‘inalienable rights’? I’d like to hear discussion on this.”

That choom was almost sensible, merely a literary critic, which is harmless, like dead yeast left in beer. But—Well, take that woman who hated everything. She was there with list; read it aloud and moved to have it incorporated into Declaration “so that the peoples of Terra will know that we are civilized and fit to take our places in the councils of mankind!”

Prof not only let her get away with it; he encouraged her, letting her talk when other people wanted to—then blandly put her proposal to a vote when hadn’t even been seconded. (Congress operated by rules they had wrangled over for days. Prof was familiar with rules but followed them only as suited him.) She was voted down in a shout, and left.

Then somebody stood up and said of course that long list didn’t belong in Declaration—but shouldn’t we have general principles? Maybe a statement that Luna Free State guaranteed freedom, equality, and security to all? Nothing elaborate, just those fundamental principles that everybody knew was proper purpose of goiverament.

True enough and let’s pass it—but must read “Freedom, equality, peace, and security”—right, Comrade? They wrangled over whether “freedom” included “free air,” or was that part of “security”? Why not be on safe side and list “free air” by name? Move to amend to make it “free air and water”—because you didn’t have “freedom” or “security” unless you had both air and water.

Air, water, and food.

Air, water, food, and cubic.

Air, water, food, cubic, and heat.

No, make “heat” read “power” and you had it all covered. Everything.

Cobber, have you lost your mind? That’s far from everything and what you’ve left out is an affront to all womankind—Step outside and say that! Let me finish. We’ve got to tell them right from deal that we will permit no more ships to land unless they carry at least as many women as men. At least, I said—and I for one won’t chop it unless it sets immigration issue straight.

Prof never lost dimples.

Began to see why Prof had slept all day and was not wearing weights. Me, I was tired, having spent all day in p-suit out beyond catapult head cutting in last of relocated ballistic radars. And everybody was tired; by midnight crowd began to thin, convinced that nothing would be accomplished that night and bored by any yammer not their own.

Was later than midnight when someone asked why this Declaration was dated fourth when today was second? Prof said mildly that it was July third now—and it seemed unlikely that our Declaration could be announced earlier than fourth and that July fourth carried historical symbolism that might help.

Several people walked out at announcement that probably nothing would be settled until fourth of July. But I began to notice something: Hall was filling as fast as was emptying. Finn Nielsen slid into a seat that had just been vacated. Comrade Clayton from Hong Kong showed up, pressed my shoulder, smiled at Wyoh, found a seat. My youngest lieutenants. Slim and Hazel, I spotted down front—and was thinking I must alibi Hazel by telling Mum I had kept her out on Parts business—when was amused to see Mum herself next to them. And Sidris. And Greg, who was supposed to be at new catapult.

Looked around and picked out a dozen more—night editor of Lunaya Pravda, General Manager of LuNoHoCo, others, and each one a working comrade, Began to see that Prof had stacked deck. That Congress never had a fixed membership; these dinkum comrades had as much right to show up as those who had been talking a month. Now they sat—and voted down amendments.

About three hundred, when I was wondering how much more I could take, someone brought a note to Prof. He read it, banged gavel and said, “Adam Selene begs your indulgence. Do I hear unanimous consent?”

So screen back of rostrum lighted up again and Adam told them that he had been following debate and was warmed by many thoughtful and constructive criticisms. But could he made a suggestion? Why not admit that any piece of writing was imperfect? If thin declaration was in general what they wanted, why not postpone perfection for another day and pass this as it stands? “Honorable Chairman, I so move.”

They passed it with a yell. Prof said, “Do I hear objection?” and waited with gavel raised. Aman who had been talking when Adam had asked to be heard said, “Well, . . I still say that’s a dangling participle, but okay, leave it in.”

Prof hanged gavel. “So ordered!”

Then we filed up and put our chops on a big scroll that had been “sent over from Adam’s office”–and I noticed Adam’s chop on it. I signed right under Hazel—child now could write although was still short on book learning. Her chop was shaky but she wrote it large and proud. Comrade Clayton signed his Party name, real name in letters, and Japanese chop, three little pictures one above other. Two comrades chopped with X’s and had them witnessed. All Party leaders were there that night (morning), all chopped it, and not more than a dozen yammerers stuck. But those who did, put their chops down for history to read. And thereby committed “their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honors.”

While queue was moving slowly past and people were talking, Prof banged for attention. “I ask for volunteers for a dangerous mission. This Declaration will go on the news channels— but must be presented in person to the Federated Nations, on Terra.”

That put stop to noise. Prof was looking at me. I swallowed and said, “I volunteer.” Wyoh echoed, “So do I!”—and little Hazel Meade said, “Me, too!”

In moments were a dozen, from Finn Nielsen to Gospodin Dangling-Participle (turned out to be good cobber aside from his fetish). Prof took names, murmured something about getting in touch as transportation became available.

I got Prof aside and said, “Look, Prof, you too tired to track? You know ship for seventh was canceled; now they’re talking about slapping embargo on us. Next ship they lift for Luna will be a warship. How you planning to travel? As prisoner?”

“Oh, we won’t use their ships.”

“So? Going to build one? Any idea how long that takes? If could build one at all. Which I doubt.” “Manuel, Mike says it’s necessary—and has it all worked out.”

I did know Mike said was necessary; he had rerun problem soon as we learned that bright laddies at Richardson had snuck one home—he now gave us only one chance in fifty-three… with imperative need for Prof to go Earthside. But I’m not one to worry about impossibilities; I had spent day working to make that one chance in fifty-three turn up.

“Mike will provide the ship,” Prof went on. “He has completed its design and it is being worked on.” “He has? It is? Since when is Mike engineer?”

“Isn’t he?” asked Prof.

I started to answer, shut up. Mike had no degrees. Simply knew more engineering than any man alive. Or about Shakespeare’s plays, or riddles, or history, name it. “Tell me more.” “Manuel, we’ll go to Terra as a load of grain.”

“What? Who’s ‘we’?”

“You and myself. The other volunteers are merely decorative.”

I said, “Look, Prof. I’ve stuck. Worked hard when whole thing seemed silly. Worn these weights—got ‘em on now—on chance I might have to go to that dreadful place. But contracted to go in a ship, with at least a Cyborg pilot to help me get down safely. Did not agree to go as meteorite.”

He said, “Very well, Manuel. I believe in free choice, always. Your alternate will go.” “My—Who?”

“Comrade Wyoming. So far as I know she is the only other person in training for the trip … other than a few Terrans.”

So I went. But talked to Mike first. He said patiently. “Man my first friend, there isn’t a thing to worry about. You are scheduled load KM187 series ‘76 and you’ll arrive in Bombay with no trouble. But to be sure—to reassure you—I selected that barge because it will be taken out of parking orbit and landed when India is faced toward me, and I’ve added an override so that I can take you away from ground control if I don’t like the way they handle you. Trust me, Man, it has all been thought through. Even the decision to continue shipments when security was broken was part of this plan.”

“Might have told me.”

“There was no need to worry you. Professor had to know and I’ve kept in touch with him. But you are going simply to take care of him and back him up—do his job if he dies, a factor on which I can give you no reassurance.”

I sighed. “Okay. But, Mike, surely you don’t think you can pilot a barge into a soft landing at this distance? Speed of light alone would trip you.”

“Man, don’t you think I understand ballistics? For the orbital position then, from query through reply and then to command-received is under four seconds… and you can rely on me not to waste microseconds. Your maximum parking-orbit travel in four seconds is only thirty-two kilometers, diminishing asymptotically to zero at landing. My reflex time will be effectively less than that of a pilot in a manual landing because I don’t waste time grasping a situation and deciding on correct action. So my maximum is four seconds. But my effective reflex time is much less, as I project and predict constantly, see ahead, program it out—in effect, I’ll stay four seconds ahead of you in your trajectory and respond instantly.”

“That steel can doesn’t even have an altimeter!”

“It does now. Man, please believe me; I’ve thought of everything. The only reason I’ve ordered this extra equipment is to reassure you. Poona ground control hasn’t made a bobble in the last five thousand loads. For a computer it’s fairly bright.”

“Okay. Uh, Mike, how hard do they splash those bleeding barges? What gee?”

“Not high, Man. Ten gravities at injection, then that programs down to a steady, soft four gees … then you’ll be nudged again between six and five gees just before splash. The splash itself is gentle, equal to a fall of fifty meters and you enter ogive first with no sudden shock, less than three gees. Then you surface and splash again, lightly, and simply float at one gee. Man, those barge shells are built as lightly as possible for economy’s sake. We can’t afford to toss them around or they would split their seams.”

“How sweet. Mike, what would ‘six to five gees’ do to you? Split your seams?”

“I conjecture that I was subjected to about six gravities when they shipped me up here. Six gravities in my present condition would shear many of my essential connections. However, I’m more interested in the extremely high, transient accelerations I am going to experience from shock waves when Terra starts bombing us. Data are insufficient for prediction but I may lose control of my outlying functions, Man. This could be a major factor in any tactical situation.”

“Mike, you really think they are going to bomb us?” “Count on it, Man. That is why this trip is so important.”

Left it at that and went out to see this coffin. Should have stayed home.

Ever looked at one of those silly barges? Just a steel cylinder with retro and guidance rockets and radar transponder. Resembles a spaceship way a pair of pliers resembles my number-three arm. They had this one cut open and were outfitting our “living quarters.”

No galley. No W.C. No nothing. Why bother? We were going to be in it only fifty hours. Start empty so that you won’t need a honey sack in your suit. Dispense with lounge and bar; you’ll never be out of your suit, you’ll be drugged and not caring.

At least Prof would be drugged almost whole time; I had to be alert at landing to try to get us out of this death trap if something went wrong and nobody came along with a tin opener. They were building a shaped cradle in which backs of our p-suits would fit; we would be strapped into these holes. And stay there, clear to Terra. They seemed more concerned about making total mass equal to displaced wheat and same center of gravity and all moment arms adding up correctly than they did about our comfort; engineer in charge told me that even padding to be added inside our p-suits was figured in.

Was glad to learn we were going to have padding; those holes did not look soft. Returned home in thoughtful condition.

Wyoh was not at dinner, unusual; Greg was, more unusual. Nobody said anything about my being scheduled to imitate a falling rock next day although all knew. But did not realize anything special was on until all next generation left table without being told. Then knew why Greg had not gone back to Mare Undarum site after Congress adjourned that morning; somebody had asked for a Family talk-talk.

Mum looked around and said, “We’re all here. Ali, shut that door; that’s a dear. Grandpaw, will you start us?”

Our senior husband stopped nodding over coffee and firmed up. He looked down table and said strongly, “I see that we are all here. I see that children have been put to bed. I see that there is no stranger, no guest. I say that we are met in accordance with customs created by Black Jack Davis our First Husband and Tillie our First Wife. If there is any matter that concerns safety and happiness of our marriage, haul it out in the light now. Don’t let it fester. This is our custom.”

Grandpaw turned to Mum and said softly, “Take it, Mimi,” and slumped back into gentle apathy. But for a minute he had been strong, handsome, virile, dynamic man of days of my opting… and I thought with sudden tears how lucky I had been!

Then didn’t know whether I felt lucky or not. Only excuse I could see for a Family talk-talk was fact that I was due to be shipped Earthside next day, labeled as grain. Could Mum be thinking of trying to set Family against it? Nobody had to abide by results of a talk-talk. But one always did. That was strength of our marriage: When came down to issues, we stood together.

Mimi was saying, “Does anyone have anything that needs to be discussed? Speak up, dears.” Greg said, “I have.”

“We’ll listen to Greg.”

Greg is a good speaker. Can stand up in front of a congregation and speak with confidence about matters I don’t feel confident about even when alone. But that night he seemed anything but sure of himself. “Well, uh, we’ve always tried to keep this marriage in balance, some old, some young, a regular alternation, well spaced, just as it was handed down to us. But we’ve varied sometimes—for good reason.” He looked at Ludmilla. “And adjusted it later.” He looked again at far end of table, at Frank and Ali, on each side of Ludmilla.

“Over years, as you can see from records, average age of husbands has been about forty, wives about thirty-five—and that age spread was just what our marriage started with, nearly a

hundred years gone by, for Tillie was fifteen when she opted Black Jack and he had just turned twenty. Right now I find that average age of husbands is almost exactly forty, while average

—”

Mum said firmly, “Never mind arithmetic, Greg dear. Simply state it.”

I was trying to think who Greg could possibly mean. True, I had been much away during past year, and if did get home, was often after everybody was asleep. But he was clearly talking about marriage and nobody ever proposes another wedding in our marriage without first giving everybody a long careful chance to look prospect over. You just didn’t do it any other way!

So I’m stupid. Greg stuttered and said, “I propose Wyoming Knott!”

I said I was stupid. I understand machinery and machinery understands me. But didn’t claim to know anything about people. When I get to be senior husband, if live that long, am going to do exactly what Grandpaw does with Mum: Let Sidris run it. Just same—Well, look, Wyoh joined Greg’s church. I like Greg, love Greg. And admire him. But you could never feed theology of his church through a computer and get anything but null. Wyoh surely knew this, since she encountered it in adult years—truthfully, I had suspected that Wyoh’s conversion was proof that she would do anything for our Cause.

But Wyoh had recruited Greg even earlier. And had made most of trips out to new site, easier for her to get away than me or Prof. Oh, well. Was taken by surprise. Should not have been. Mimi said, “Greg, do you have reason to think that Wyoming would accept an opting from us?”

“Yes.”

“Very well. We all know Wyoming; I’m sure we’ve formed our opinions of her. I see no reason to discuss it… unless someone has something to say? Speak up.” Was no surprise to Mum. But wouldn’t be. Nor to anyone else, either, since Mum never let a talk-talk take place until she was sure of outcome.

But wondered why Mum was sure of my opinion, so certain that she had not felt me out ahead of time? And sat there in a soggy quandary, knowing I should speak up, knowing I knew something terribly pertinent which nobody else knew or matter would never have gone this far. Something that didn’t matter to me but would matter to Mum and all our women.

Sat there, miserable coward, and said nothing, Mum said, “Very well. Let’s call the roll. Ludmilla?” “Me? Why, I love Wyoh, everybody knows that. Sure!”

“Lenore dear?”

“Well, I may try to talk her into going back to being a brownie again; I think we set each other off. But that’s her only fault, being blonder than I am. Da!” “Sidris?”

“Thumbs up. Wyoh is our kind of people.” “Anna?”

“I’ve something to say before I express my opinion, Mimi.’ “I don’t think it’s necessary, dear.”

“Nevertheless I’m going to haul it out in the open, just as Tillie always did according to our traditions. In this marriage every wife has carried her load, given children to the family. It may come as a surprise to some of you to learn that Wyoh has had eight children—”

Certainly surprised Ali; his head jerked and jaw dropped. I stared at plate. Oh, Wyoh, Wyoh! How could I let this happen? Was going to have to speak up.

And realized Anna was still speaking: “—so now she can have children of her own; the operation was successful. But she worries about possibility of another defective baby, unlikely as that is according to the head of the clinic in Hong Kong. So we’ll just have to love her enough to make her quit fretting.”

“We will love her,” Mum said serenely. “We do love her. Anna, are you ready to express opinion?” “Hardly necessary, is it? I went to Hong Kong with her, held her hand while her tubes were restored. I opt Wyoh.”

“In this family,” Mum went on, “we have always felt that our husbands should be allowed a veto. Odd of us perhaps, hut Tillie started it and it has always worked well. Well, Grandpaw?” “Eh? What were you saying, my dear?”

“We are opting Wyoming, Gospodin Grandpaw. Do you give consent?”

“What? Why, of course, of course! Very nice little girl. Say, whatever became of that pretty little Afro, name something like that? She get mad at us?” “Greg?”

“I proposed it.”

“Manuel? Do you forbid this?” “Me? Why, you know me, Mum.”

“I do. I sometimes wonder if you know you. Hans?” “What would happen if I said No?”

“You’d lose some teeth, that’s what,” Lenore said promptly. “Hans votes Yes.”

“Stop it, darlings,” Mum said with soft reproof. “Opting is a serious matter. Hans, speak up.” “Da. Yes. Ja. Oui. Si. High time we had a pretty blonde in this—Ouch!”

“Stop it, Lenore. Frank?” “Yes, Mum.”

“Ali dear? Is it unanimous?”

Lad blushed bright pink and couldn’t talk. Nodded vigorously.

Instead of appointing a husband and a wife to seek out selectee and propose opting for us, Mum sent Ludmilla and Anna to fetch Wyoh at once—and turned out she was only as far away as Bon Ton. Nor was that only irregularity; instead of setting a date and arranging a wedding party, our children were called in, and twenty minutes later Greg had his Book open and we did the taking vows—and I finally got it through my confused head that was being done with breakneck speed because of my date to break my neck next day.

Not that it could matter save as symbol of my family’s love for me, since a bride spent her first night with her senior husband, and second night and third I was going to spend out in space. But did matter anyhow and when women started to cry during ceremony, I found self dripping tears right with them.

Then I went to bed, alone in workshop, once Wyoh had kissed us and left on Grandpaw’s arm. Was terribly tired and last two days had been hard. Thought about exercises and decided was too late to matter; thought about calling Mike and asking him for news from Terra. Went to bed.

Don’t know how long had been asleep when realized was no longer asleep and somebody was in room. “Manuel?” came soft whisper in dark. “Huh? Wyoh, you aren’t supposed to be here, dear.”

“I am indeed supposed to be here, my husband. Mum knows I’m here, so does Greg. And Grandpaw went right to sleep.”

“Oh. What time is?”

“About four hundred. Please, dear, may I come to bed?”

“What? Oh, certainly.” Something I should remember. Oh, yes. “Mike!” “Yes, Man?” he answered.

“Switch off. Don’t listen. If you want me, call me on Family phone.” “So Wyoh told me, Man. Congratulations!”

Then her head was pillowed on my stump and I put right arm around her. “What are you crying about, Wyoh?” “I’m not crying! I’m just frightened silly that you won’t come back!”

16

Woke up scared silly in pitch darkness. “Manuel!” Didn’t know which end was up. “Manuel!” it called again. “Wake up!”

That brought me out some; was signal intended to trigger me. Recalled being stretched on a table in infirmary at Complex, staring up at a light and listening to a voice while a drug dripped into my veins. But was a hundred years ago, endless time of nightmares, unendurable pressure, pain.

Knew now what no-end-is-up feeling was; had experienced before. Free fall. Was in space.

What had gone wrong? Had Mike dropped a decimal point? Or had he given in to childish nature and played a joke, not realizing would kill? Then why, after all years of pain, was I alive? Or was I? Was this normal way for ghost to feel, just lonely, lost, nowhere?

“Wake up, Manuel! Wake up, Manuel!”

“Oh, shut up!” I snarled. “Button your filthy king-and-ace!” Recording went on; I paid no attention. Where was that reeking light switch? No, doesn’t take a century of pain to accelerate to Luna’s escape speed at three gravities, merely feels so. Eighty-two seconds—but is one time when human nervous system feels every microsecond. Three gees is eighteen grim times as much as a Loonie ought to weigh.

Then discovered those vacuum skulls had not put arm back on. For some silly reason they had taken it off when they stripped me to prepare me and I was loaded with enough don’t- worry and let’s-sleep pills not to protest. No huhu had they put it on again. But that drecklich switch was on my left and sleeve of p-suit was empty.

Spent next ten years getting unstrapped with one hand, then a twenty-year sentence floating around in dark before managed to find my cradle again, figure out which was head end, and from that hint locate switch by touch. That compartment was not over two meters in any dimension. This turns out to be larger than Old Dome in free fall and total darkness. Found it. We had light.

(And don’t ask why that coffin did not have at least three lighting systems all working all time. Habit, probably. Alighting system implies a switch to control it, nyet? Thing was built in two days; should be thankful switch worked.)

Once I had light, cubic shrank to true claustrophobic dimensions and ten percent smaller, and I took a look at Prof.

Dead, apparently. Well, he had every excuse. Envied him but was now supposed to check his pulse and breathing and suchlike in case he had been unlucky and still had such troubles. And was again hampered and not just by being onearmed. Grain load had been dried and depressured as usual before loading but that cell was supposed to be pressured—oh, nothing fancy, just a tank with air in it. Our p-suits were supposed to handle needs such as life’s breath for those two days. But even best p-suit is more comfortable in pressure than in vacuum and, anyhow, I was supposed to be able to get at my patient.

Could not. Didn’t need to open helmet to know this steel can had not stayed gas tight, knew at once, naturally, from way p-suit felt. Oh, drugs I had for Prof, heart stimulants and so forth, were in field ampules; could jab them through his suit. But how to check heart and breathing? His suit was cheapest sort, sold for Loonie who rarely Leaves warren; had no readouts.

His mouth hung open and eyes stared. Adeader, I decided. No need to ex Prof beyond that old limen; had eliminated himself. Tried to see pulse on throat; his helmet was in way. They had provided a program clock which was mighty kind of them. Showed I had been out forty-four-plus hours, all to plan, and in three hours we should receive horrible booting to place

us in parking orbit around Terra. Then, after two circums, call it three more hours, we should start injection into landing program—if Poona Ground Control didn’t change its feeble mind

and leave us in orbit. Reminded self that was unlikely; grain is not left in vacuum longer than necessary. Has tendency to become puffed wheat or popped corn, which not only lowers

value but can split those thin canisters like a melon. Wouldn’t that be sweet? Why had they packed us in with grain? Why not just a load of rock that doesn’t mind vacuum?

Had time to think about that and to become very thirsty. Took nipple for half a mouthful, no more, because certainly did not want to take six gees with a full bladder. (Need not have worried; was equipped with catheter. But did not know.)

When time got short I decided couldn’t hurt Prof to give him a jolt of drug that was supposed to take him through heavy acceleration; then, after in parking orbit, give him heart stimulant— since didn’t seem as if anything could hurt him.

Gave him first drug, then spent rest of minutes struggling back into straps, one-handed. Was sorry I didn’t know name of my helpful friend; could have cursed him better.

Ten gees gets you into parking orbit around Terra in a mere 3.26 x 10^7 microseconds; merely seems longer, ten gravities being sixty times what a fragile sack of protoplasm should be asked to endure. Call it thirty-three seconds. My truthful word, I suspect my ancestress in Salem spent a worse half minute day they made her dance.

Gave Prof heart stimulant, then spent three hours trying to decide whether to drug self as well as Prof for landing sequence. Decided against. All drug had done for me at catapulting had been to swap a minute and a half of misery and two days of boredom for a century of terrible dreams—and besides, if those last minutes were going to be my very last, I decided to experience them. Bad as they would be, they were my very own and I would not give them up.

They were bad. Six gees did not feel better than ten; felt worse. Four gees no relief. Then we were kicked harder. Then suddenly, just for seconds, in free fall again. Then came splash which was not “gentle” and which we took on straps, not pads, as we went in headfirst. Also, don’t think Mike realized that, after diving in hard, we would then surface and splash hard again before we damped down into floating. Earthworms call it “floating” but is nothing like floating in free fall; you do it at one gee, six times what is decent, and odd side motions tacked on. Very odd motions—Mike had assured us that solar weather was good, no radiation danger inside that Iron Maiden. But he had not been so interested in Earthside Indian Ocean weather; prediction was acceptable for landing barges and suppose he felt that was good enough—and I would have thought so, too.

Stomach was supposed to be empty. But I filled helmet with sourest, nastiest fluid you would ever go a long way to avoid. Then we turned completely over and I got it in hair and eyes and some in nose. This is thing earthworms call “seasickness” and is one of many horrors they take for granted.

Won’t go into long period during which we were towed into port. Let it stand that, in addition to seasickness, my air bottles were playing out. They were rated for twelve hours, plenty for a fifty-hour orbit most of which I was unconscious and none involving heavy exercise, but not quite enough with some hours of towing added. By time barge finally held still I was almost too dopy to care about trying to break out.

Except for one fact—We were picked up, I think, and tumbled a bit, then brought to rest with me upside down. This is a no-good position at best under one gravity; simply impossible when supposed to a) unstrap self, b) get out of suit-shaped cavity, c) get loose a sledgehammer fastened with butterfly nuts to bulkhead. d) smash same against breakaways guarding escape hatch, e) batter way out, and f) finally, drag an old man in a p-suit out after you.

Didn’t finish step a); passed out head downwards.

Lucky this was emergency-last-resort routine. Stu LaJoie had been notified before we left; news services had been warned shortly before we landed. I woke up with people leaning over me, passed out again, woke up second time in hospital bed, flat on back with heavy feeling in chest—was heavy and weak all over—but not ill, just tired, bruised, hungry, thirsty, languid. Was a transparent plastic tent over bed which accounted for fact I was having no trouble breathing.

At once was closed in on from both sides, a tiny Hindu nurse with big eyes on one side, Stuart LaJoie on other. He grinned at me, “Hi, cobber! How do you feel?” “Uh … I’m right. But oh bloody! What a way to travel!”

“Prof says it’s the only way. What a tough old boy he is.” “Hold it. Prof said? Prof is dead.”

“Not at all. Not in good shape—we’ve got him in a pneumatic bed with a round-the-clock watch and more instruments wired into him than you would believe. But he’s alive and will be able to do his job. But, truly, he didn’t mind the trip; he never knew about it, so he says. Went to sleep in one hospital, woke up in another. I thought he was wrong when he refused to let me wangle it to send a ship but he was not—the publicity has been tremendous!”

I said slowly, “You say Prof ‘refused’ to let you send a ship?”

“I should say ‘Chairman Selene’ refused. Didn’t you see the dispatches, Mannie?”

“No.” Too late to fight over it. “But last few days have been busy.”

“Adinkum word! Here, too—don’t recall when last I dossed.” “You sound like a Loonie.”

“I am a Loonie, Mannie, don’t ever doubt it. But the sister is looking daggers at me.” Stu picked her up, turned her around. I decided he wasn’t all Loonie yet. But nurse didn’t resent. “Go play somewhere else, dear, and I’ll give your patient back to you—still warm—in a few minutes.” He shut a door on her and came back to bed. “But Adam was right; this way was not only wonderful publicity but safer.”

“Publicity, I suppose. But ‘safer’? Let’s not talk about!”

“Safer, my old. You weren’t shot at. Yet they had two hours in which they knew right where you were, a big fat target. They couldn’t make up their minds what to do; they haven’t formed a policy yet. They didn’t even dare not bring you down on schedule; the news was full of it, I had stories slanted and waiting. Now they don’t dare touch you, you’re popular heroes. Whereas if I had waited to charter a ship and fetch you … Well, I don’t know. We probably would have been ordered into parking orbit; then you two—and myself, perhaps—would have been taken off under arrest. No skipper is going to risk missiles no matter how much he’s paid. The proof of the pudding, cobber. But let me brief you. You’re both citizens of The People’s Directorate of Chad, best I could do on short notice. Also, Chad has recognized Luna. I had to buy one prime minister, two generals, some tribal chiefs and a minister of finance—cheap for such a hurry-up job. I haven’t been able to get you diplomatic immunity but I hope to, before you leave hospital. At present they haven’t even dared arrest you; they can’t figure out what you’ve done. They have guards outside but simply for your ‘protection’—and a good thing, or you would have reporters nine deep shoving microphones into your face.”

“Just what have we done?—that they know about, I mean. Illegal immigration?”

“Not even that, Mannie. You never were a consignee and you have derivative PanAfrican citizenship through one of your grandfathers, no huhu. In Professor de la Paz’s case we dug up proof that he had been granted naturalized Chad citizenship forty years back, waited for the ink to dry, and used it. You’re not even illegally entered here in India. Not only did they bring you down themselves, knowing that you were in that barge, but also a control officer very kindly and fairly cheaply stamped your virgin passports. In addition to that, Prof’s exile has no legal existence as the government that proscribed him no longer exists and a competent court has taken notice—that was more expensive.”

Nurse came back in, indignant as a mother cat. “Lord Stuart you must let my patient rest!” “At once, ma chere.”

“You’re ‘Lord Stuart’?”

“Should be ‘Comte.’ Or I can lay a dubious claim to being the Macgregor. The blue-blood bit helps; these people haven’t been happy since they took their royalty away from them.”

As he left he patted her rump. Instead of screaming, she wiggled it. Was smiling as she came over to me. Stu was going to have to watch that stuff when he went back to Luna. If did. She asked how I felt. Told her I was right, just hungry. “Sister, did you see some prosthetic arms in our luggage?”

She had and I felt better with number-six in place. Had selected it and number-two and social arm as enough for trip. Number-two was presumably still in Complex; I hoped somebody was taking care of it. But number-six is most all-around useful arm; with it and social one I’d be okay.

Two days later we left for Agra to present credentials to Federated Nations. I was in bad shape and not just high gee; could do well enough in a wheel chair and could even walk a little although did not in public. What I had was a sore throat that missed pneumonia only through drugs, traveler’s trots, skin disease on hands and spreading to feet—just like my other trips to that disease-ridden hole, Terra. We Loonies don’t know how lucky we are, living in a place that has tightest of quarantines, almost no vermin and what we have controlled by vacuum anytime necessary. Or unlucky, since we have almost no immunities if turns out we need them. Still, wouldn’t swap; never heard word “venereal” until first went Earthside and had thought “common cold” was state of ice miner’s feet.

And wasn’t cheerful for other reason. Stu had fetched us a message from Adam Selene; buried in it, concealed even from Stir, was news that chances had dropped to worse than one in a hundred. Wondered what point in risking crazy trip if made odds worse? Did Mike really know what chances were? Couldn’t see any way he could compute them no matter how many facts he had.

But Prof didn’t seem worried. He talked to platoons of reporters, smiled at endless pictures, gave out statements, telling world he placed great confidence in Federated Nations and was sure our just claims would be recognized and that he wanted to thank “Friends of Free Luna” for wonderful help in bringing true story of our small but sturdy nation before good people of Terra—F. of F.L. being Stu, a professional public opinion firm, several thousand chronic petition signers, and a great stack of Hong Kong dollars.

I had picture taken, too, and tried to smile, but dodged questions by pointing to throat and croaking.

In Agra we were lodged in a lavish suite in hotel that had once been palace of a maharajah (and still belonged to him, even though India is supposed to be socialist) and interviews and picture-taking went on—hardly dared get out of wheel chair even to visit W.C. as was under orders from Prof never to be photographed vertically. He was always either in bed or in a stretcher—bed baths, bedpans, everything—not only because safer, considering age, and easier for any Loonie, but also for pictures. His dimples and wonderful, gentle, persuasive personality were displayed in hundreds of millions of video screens, endless news pictures.

But his personality did not get us anywhere in Agra. Prof was carried to office of President of Grand Assembly, me being pushed alongside, and there he attempted to present his credentials as Ambassador to F.N. and prospective Senator for Luna—was referred to Secretary General and at his offices we were granted ten minutes with assistant secretary who sucked teeth and said he could accept our credentials “without prejudice and without implied commitment.” They were referred to Credentials Committee—who sat on them.

I got fidgety. Prof read Keats. Grain barges continued to arrive at Bombay.

In a way was not sorry about latter. When we flew from Bombay to Agra we got up before dawn and were taken out to field as city was waking. Every Loonie has his hole, whether luxury of a long-established home like Davis Tunnels or rock still raw from drill; cubic is no problem and can’t be for centuries.

Bombay was bee-swarms of people. Are over million (was told) who have no home but some piece of pavement. Afamily might claim right (and hand down by will, generation after generation) to sleep on a piece two meters long and one wide at a described location in front of a shop. Entire family sleeps on that space, meaning mother, father, kids, maybe a grandmother. Would not have believed if had not seen. At dawn in Bombay roadways, side pavements, even bridges are covered with tight carpet of human bodies. What do they do? Where do they work? How do they eat? (Did not look as if they did. Could count ribs.)

If I hadn’t believed simple arithmetic that you can’t ship stuff downhill forever without shipping replacement back, would have tossed in cards. But… tanstanfl. “There ain’t no such thing as a free lunch,” in Bombay or in Luna.

At last we were given appointment with an “Investigating Committee.” Not what Prof had asked for. He had requested public hearing before Senate, complete with video cameras. Only camera at this session was its “in-camera” nature; was closed. Not too closed, I had little recorder. But no video. And took Prof two minutes to discover that committee was actually vips of Lunar Authority or their tame dogs.

Nevertheless was chance to talk and Prof treated them as if they had power to recognize Luna’s independence and willingness to do so. While they treated us as a cross between naughty children and criminals up for sentencing.

Prof was allowed to make opening statement. With decorations trimmed away was assertion that Luna was de-facto a sovereign state, with an unopposed government in being, a civil condition of peace and order, a provisional president and cabinet carrying on necessary functions but anxious to return to private life as soon as Congress completed writing a constitution—and that we were here to ask that these facts be recognized de-jure and that Luna be allowed to take her rightful place in councils of mankind as a member of Federated Nations.

What Prof told them bore a speaking acquaintance with truth and they were not where they could spot discrepancies. Our “provisional president” was a computer, and “cabinet” was Wyoh, Finn, Comrade Clayton, and Terence Sheehan, editor of Pravda, plus Wolfgang Korsakov, board chairman of LuNoHoCo and a director of Bank of Hong Kong in Luna. But Wyoh was only person now in Luna who knew that “Adam Selene” was false face for a computer. She had been terribly nervous at being left to hold fort alone.

As it was, Adam’s “oddity” in never being seen save over video was always an embarrassment. We had done our best to turn it into a “security necessity” by opening offices for him in cubic of Authority’s Luna City office and then exploding a small bomb. After this “assassination attempt” comrades who had been most fretful about Adam’s failure to stir around became loudest in demands that Adam must not take any chances—this being helped by editorials.

But I wondered while Prof was talking what these pompous chooms would think if they knew that our “president” was a collection of hardware owned by Authority?

But they just sat staring with chill disapproval, unmoved by Prof’s rhetoric—probably best performance of his life considering he delivered it flat on back, speaking into a microphone without notes, and hardly able to see his audience.

Then they started in on us. Gentleman member from Argentina—never given their names; we weren’t socially acceptable—this Argentino objected to phrase “former Warden” in Prof’s speech; that designation had been obsolete half a century; he insisted that it be struck out and proper title inserted: “Protector of the Lunar Colonies by Appointment of the Lunar Authority.” Any other wording offended dignity of Lunar Authority.

Prof asked to comment; “Honorable Chairman” permitted it. Prof said mildly that he accepted change since Authority was free to designate its servants in any fashion it pleased and was no intention to offend dignity of any agency of Federated Nations… but in view of functions of this office—former functions of this former office—citizens of Luna Free State would probably go on thinking of it by traditional name.

That made about six of them try to talk at once. Somebody objected to use of word “Luna” and still more to “Luna Free State”—it was “the Moon,” Earth’s Moon, a satellite of Earth and property of Federated Nations, just as Antarctica was—and these proceedings were a farce.

Was inclined to agree with last point. Chairman asked gentleman member from North America to please be in order and to address his remarks through Chair. Did Chair understand from witness’s last remark that this alleged de-facto regime intended to interfere with consignee system?

Prof fielded that and tossed it back. “Honorable Chairman, I myself was a consignee, now Luna is my beloved home. My colleague, the Honorable the Undersecretary for Foreign Affairs Colonel O’Kelly Davis”—myself!—”is Luna born, and proud of his descent from four transported grandparents. Luna has grown strong on your outcasts. Give us your poor, your wretched; we welcome them. Luna has room for them, nearly forty million square kilometers, an area greater than all Africa—and almost totally empty. More than that, since by our method of living we occupy not ‘area’ but ‘cubic’ the mind cannot imagine the day when Luna would refuse another shipioad of weary homeless.”

Chairman said, “The witness is admonished to refrain from making speeches. The Chair takes it that your oratory means that the group you represent agrees to accept prisoners as before.”

“No, sir.”

“What? Explain yourself.”

“Once an immigrant sets foot on Luna today he is a free man, no matter what his previous condition, free to go where he listeth.”

“So? Then what’s to keep a consignee from walking across the field, climbing into another ship, and returning here? I admit that I am puzzled at your apparent willingness to accept them… but we do not want them. It is our humane way of getting rid of incorrigibles who would otherwise have to be executed.”

(Could have told him several things that would stop what he pictured; he had obviously never been to Luna. As for “incorrigibles,” if really are, Luna eliminates such faster than Terra ever did. Back when I was very young, they sent us a gangster lord, from Los Angeles I believe; he arrived with squad of stooges, his bodyguards, and was cockily ready to take over Luna, as was rumored to have taken over a prison somewhere Earthside.

(None lasted two weeks. Gangster boss didn’t make it to barracks; hadn’t listened when told how to wear a p-suit.)

“There is nothing to keep him from going home so far as we are concerned, sir,” Prof answered, “although your police here on Terra might cause him to think. But I’ve never heard of a consignee arriving with funds enough to buy a ticket home. Is this truly an issue? The ships are yours; Luna has no ships—and let me add that we are sorry that the ship scheduled for Luna this month was canceled. I am not complaining that it forced on my colleague and myself—Prof stopped to smile—a most informal method of travel. I simply hope that this does not represent policy. Luna has no quarrel with you; your ships are welcome, your trade is welcome, we are at peace and wish to stay so. Please note that all scheduled grain shipments

have come through on time.”

(Prof did always have gift for changing subject.)

They fiddled with minor matters then. Nosy from North America wanted to know what had really happened to “the Ward—” He stopped himself. “The Protector. Senator Hobart” Prof answered that he had suffered a stroke (a “coup” is a “stroke”) and was no longer able to carry out his duties—but was in good health otherwise and receiving constant medical care. Prof added thoughtfully that he suspected that the old gentleman had been failing for some time, in view of his indiscretions this past year… especially his many invasions of rights of free citizens, including ones who were not and never had been consignees.

Story was not hard to swallow. When those busy scientists managed to break news of our coup, they had reported Warden as dead… whereas Mike had kept him alive and on job by impersonating him. When Authority Earthside demanded a report from Warden on this wild rumor, Mike had consulted Prof, then had accepted call and given a convincing imitation of senility, managing to deny, confirm, and confuse every detail. Our announcements followed, and thereafter Warden was no longer available even in his computer alter ego. Three days later we declared independence.

This North American wanted to know what reason they had to believe that one word of this was true? Prof smiled most saintly smile and made effort to spread thin hands before letting them fall to coverlet. “The gentleman member from North America is urged to go to Luna, visit Senator Hobart’s sickbed, and see for himself. Indeed all Terran citizens are invited to visit Luna at any time, see anything. We wish to be friends, we are at peace, we have nothing to hide. My only regret is that my country is unable to furnish transportation; for that we must turn to you.”

Chinee member looked at Prof thoughtfully. He had not said a word but missed nothing.

Chairman recessed hearing until fifteen hundred. They gave us a retiring room and sent in lunch. I wanted to talk but Prof shook head, glanced around room, tapped ear. So I shut up. Prof napped then and I leveled out my wheel chair and joined him; on Terra we both slept all we could. Helped. Not enough.

They didn’t wheel us back in until sixteen hundred; committee was already sitting. Chairman then broke own rule against speeches and made a long one more-in-sorrow-than-anger. Started by reminding us that Luna Authority was a nonpolitical trusteeship charged with solemn duty of insuring that Earth’s satellite the Moon—Luna, as some called it—was never used

for military purposes. He told us that Authority had guarded this sacred trust more than a century, while governments fell and new governments rose, alliances shifted and shifted again

—indeed, Authority was older than Federated Nations, deriving original charter from an older international body, and so well had it kept that trust that it had lasted through wars and

turmoils and realignments.

(This is news? But you see what he was building towards.)

“The Lunar Authority cannot surrender its trust,” he told us solemnly. “However, there appears to be no insuperable obstacle to the Lunar colonists, if they show political maturity, enjoying a degree of autonomy. This can be taken under advisement. Much depends on your behavior. The behavior, I should say, of all you colonists. There have been riots and destruction of property; this must not be.”

I waited for him to mention ninety dead Goons; he never did. I will never make a statesman; I don’t have high-level approach.

“Destroyed property must be paid for,” he went on. “Commitments must be met. If this body you call a Congress can guarantee such things, it appears to this committee that this so- called Congress could in time be considered an agency of the Authority for many internal matters. Indeed it is conceivable that a stable local government might, in time, assume many duties now failing on the Protector and even be allowed a delegate, non-voting, in the Grand Assembly. But such recognition would have to be earned.

“But one thing must be made clear. Earth’s major satellite, the Moon, is by nature’s law forever the joint property of all the peoples of Earth. It does not belong to that handful who by accident of history happen to live there. The sacred trust laid upon the Lunar Authority is and forever must be the supreme law of Earth’s Moon.”

(“—accident of history,” huh? I expected Prof to shove it down his throat. I thought he would say—No, never did know what Prof would say. Here’s what he did say): Prof waited through several seconds of silence, then said, “Honorable Chairman, who is to be exiled this time?”

“What did you say?”

“Have you decided which one of you is to go into exile? Your Deputy Warden won’t take the job”—this was true; he preferred to stay alive. “He is functioning now only because we have asked him to. If you persist in believing that we are not independent, then you must be planning to send up a new warden.”

“Protector!”

“Warden. Let us not mince words. Though if we knew who he is to be, we might be happy to call him ‘Ambassador.’ We might be able to work with him, it might not be necessary to send with him armed hoodlums… to rape and murder our women!”

“Order! Order! The witness will come to order!”

“It is not I who was not in order, Honorable Chairman. Rape it was and murder most foul. But that is history and now we must look to the future. Whom are you going to exile?”

Prof struggled to raise self on elbow and I was suddenly alert; was a cue. “For you all know, sir, that it is a one-way trip. I was born here. You can see what effort it is for me to return even temporarily to the planet which has disinherited me. We are outcasts of Earth who—”

He collapsed. Was up out of my chair—and collapsed myself, trying to reach him.

Was not all play-acting even though I answered a cue. Is terrible strain on heart to get up suddenly on Terra; thick field grabbed and smashed me to floor.

17

Neither of us was hurt and it made juicy news breaks, for I put recording in Stu’s hands and he turned it over to his hired men. Nor were all headlines against us; Stu had recording cut and edited and slanted. AUTHORITYTO PLAYODD MAN OUT?—LUNAR AMBASSADOR COLLAPSES UNDER GRILLING: “OUTCASTS!” HE CRIES—PROF PAZ POINTS FINGER OF SHAME: STORYPAGE 8.

Not all were good; nearest to a favorable story in India was editorial in New India Times inquiring whether Authority was risking bread of masses in failing to come to terms with Lunar insurgents. Was suggested that concessions could be made if would insure increased grain deliveries. Was filled with inflated statistics; Luna did not feed “a hundred million Hindus”— unless you chose to think of our grain as making difference between malnutrition and starvation.

On other hand biggest New York paper opined that Authority had made mistake in treating with us at all, since only thing convicts understood was taste of lash—troops should land, set us in order, hang guilty, leave forces to keep order.

Was a quick mutiny, quickly subdued, in Peace Dragoons regiment from which our late oppressors had come, one started by rumor that they were to be shipped to Moon. Mutiny not hushed up perfectly; Stu hired good men.

Next morning a message reached us inquiring if Professor de la Paz was well enough to resume discussions? We went, and committee supplied doctor and nurse to watch over Prof. But this time we were searched—and a recorder removed from my pouch.

I surrendered it without much fuss; was Japanese job supplied by Stu—to be surrendered. Number-six arm has recess intended for a power pack but near enough size of my mini- recorder. Didn’t need power that day—and most people, even hardened police officers, dislike to touch a prosthetic.

Everything discussed day before was ignored… except that chairman started session by scolding us for “breaking security of a closed meeting.”

Prof replied that it had not been closed so far as we were concerned and that we would welcome newsmen, video cameras, a gallery, anyone, as Luna Free State had nothing to hide. Chairman replied stiffly that so-called Free State did not control these hearings; these sessions were closed, not to be discussed outside this room, and that it was so ordered.

Prof looked at me. “Will you help me, Colonel?” I touched controls of chair, scooted around, was shoving his stretcher wagon with my chair toward door before chairman realized bluff had been called. Prof allowed himself to be persuaded to stay without promising anything. Hard to coerce a man who faints if he gets overexcited.

Chairman said that there had been many irrelevancies yesterday and matters discussed best left undiscussed—and that he would permit no digressions today. He looked at Argentino, then at North American.

He went on: “Sovereignty is an abstract concept, one that has been redefined many times as mankind has learned to live in peace. We need not discuss it. The real question, Professor

—or even Ambassador de-facto, if you like; we shan’t quibble—the real question is this: Are you prepared to guarantee that the Lunar Colonies will keep their commitments?”

“What commitments, sir?”

“All commitments, but I have in mind specifically your commitments concerning grain shipments.” “I know of no such commitments, sir,” Prof answered with innocence.

Chairman’s hand tightened on gavel. But he answered quietly, “Come, sir, there is no need to spar over words. I refer to the quota of grain shipments—and to the increased quota, a matter of thirteen percent, for this new fiscal year. Do we have assurance that you will honor those commitments? This is a minimum basis for discussion, else these talks can go no further.”

“Then I am sorry to say, sir, that it would appear that our talks must cease.” “You’re not being serious.”

“Quite serious, sir. The sovereignty of Free Luna is not the abstract matter you seem to feel it is. These commitments you speak of were the Authority contracting with itself. My country is not bound by such. Any commitments from the sovereign nation I have the honor to represent are still to be negotiated.”

“Rabble!” growled North American. “I told you you were being too soft on them. Jailbirds. Thieves and whores. They don’t understand decent treatment.” “Order!”

“Just remember, I told you. If I had them in Colorado, we would teach them a thing or two; we know how to handle their sort.” “The gentleman member will please be in order.”

“I’m afraid,” said Hindu member—Parsee in fact, but committeeman from India—”I’m afraid I must agree in essence with the gentleman member from the North American Directorate. India cannot accept the concept that the grain commitments are mere scraps of paper. Decent people do not play politics with hunger.”

“And besides,” the Argentino put in, “they breed like animals. Pigs!”

(Prof made me take a tranquilizing drug before that session. Had insisted on seeing me take it.)

Prof said quietly, “Honorable Chairman, may I have consent to amplify my meaning before we conclude, perhaps too hastily, that these talks must be abandoned?” “Proceed.”

“Unanimous consent? Free of interruption?”

Chairman looked around. “Consent is unanimous,” he stated, “and the gentlemen members are placed on notice that I will invoke special rule fourteen at the next outburst. The sergeant-at-arms is directed to note this and act. The witness will proceed.”

“I will be brief, Honorable Chairman.” Prof said something in Spanish; all I caught was “Senor.” Argentina turned dark but did not answer. Prof went on, “I must first answer the gentleman member from North America on a matter of personal privilege since he has impugned my fellow countrymen. I for one have seen the inside of more than one jail; I accept the title—nay, I glory in the title of ‘jailbird.’ We citizens of Luna are jailbirds and descendants of jailbirds. But Luna herself is a stern schoolmistress; those who have lived through her harsh lessons have no cause to feel ashamed. In Luna City a man may leave purse unguarded or home unlocked and feel no fear… I wonder if this is true in Denver? As may be, I have no wish to visit Colorado to learn a thing or two; I am satisfied with what Mother Luna has taught me. And rabble we may be, but we are now a rabble in arms.

“To the gentleman member from India let me say that we do not ‘play politics with hunger.’ What we ask is an open discussion of facts of nature unbound by political assumptions false to fact. If we can hold this discussion, I can promise to show a way in which Luna can continue grain shipments and expand them enormously… to the great benefit of India.”

Both Chinee and Indian looked alert. Indian started to speak, checked himself, then said, “Honorable Chairman, will the Chair ask the witness to explain what he means?” “The witness is invited to amplify.”

“Honorable Chairman, gentlemen members, there is indeed a way for Luna to expand by tenfold or even a hundred her shipments to our hungry millions. The fact that grain barges continued to arrive on schedule during our time of trouble and are still arriving today is proof that our intentions are friendly. But you do not get milk by beating the cow. Discussions of how to augment our shipments must be based on the facts of nature, not on the false assumption that we are slaves, bound by a work quota we never made. So which shall it be? Will you persist in believing that we are slaves, indentured to an Authority other than ourselves? Or will you acknowledge that we are free, negotiate with us, and learn how we can help you?”

Chairman said, “In other words you ask us to buy a pig in a poke. You demand that we legalize your outlaw status … then you will talk about fantastic claims that you can increase grain shipments ten- or a hundredfold. What you claim is impossible; I am expert in Lunar economics. And what you ask is impossible; takes the Grand Assembly to admit a new nation.”

Then place it before the Grand Assembly. Once seated as sovreign equals, we will discuss how to increase shipments and negotiate terms. Honorable Chairman, we grow the grain, we own it. We can grow far more. But not as slaves. Luna’s soverign freedom must first be recognized.”

“Impossible and you know it. The Lunar Authority cannot abdicate its sacred responsibility.”

Prof sighed. “It appears to be an impasse. I can only suggest that these hearings be recessed while we all take thought. Today our barges are arriving… but the moment that I am forced to notify my government that I have failed… they… will … stop!”

Prof’s head sank back on pillow as if it had been too much for him—as may have been. I was doing well enough but was young and had had practice in how to visit Terra and stay alive. A Loonie his age should not risk it. After minor foofooraw which Prof ignored they loaded us into a lorry and scooted us back to hotel. Once under way I said, “Prof, what was it you said to Senor Jellybelly that raised blood pressure?”

He chuckled. “Comrade Stuart’s investigations of these gentlemen turn up remarkable facts. I asked who owned a certain brothel off Calle Florida in B.A. these days and did it now have a star redhead?”

“Why? You used to patronize it?” Tried to imagine Prof in such!

“Never. It has been forty years since I was last in Buenos Aires. He owns that establishment, Manuel, through a dummy, and his wife, a beauty with Titian hair, once worked in it.” Was sorry had asked. “Wasn’t that a foul blow? And undiplomatic?”

But Prof closed eyes and did not answer.

He was recovered enough to spend an hour at a reception for newsmen that night, with white hair framed against a purple pillow and thin body decked out in embroidered pajamas. Looked like vip corpse at an important funeral, except for eyes and dimples. I looked mighty vip too, in black and gold uniform which Stu claimed was Lunar diplomatic uniform of my rank. Could have been, if Lana had had such things—did not or I would have known. I prefer a p-suit; collar was tight. Nor did I ever find out what decorations on it meant. ~Areporter asked me about one, based on Luna at crescent as seen from Terra; told him it was a prize for spelling. Stu was in earshot and said, “The Colonel is modest. That decoration is of the same rank as the Victoria Cross and in his case was awarded for an act of gallantry on the glorious, tragic day of—”

He led him away, still talking. Stu could lie standing up almost as well as Prof. Me, I have to think out a lie ahead of time.

India newspapers and casts were rough that night; “threat” to stop grain shipments made them froth. Gentlest proposal was to clean out Luna, exterminate us “criminal troglodytes” and replace us with “honest Hindu peasants” who understood sacredness of life and would ship grain and more grain.

Prof picked that night to talk and give handouts about Luna’s inability to continue shipments, and why—and Stu’s organization spread release throughout Terra. Some reporters took time to dig out sense of figures and tackled Prof on glaring discrepancy:

“Professor de la Paz, here you say that grain shipments will dwindle away through failure of natural resources and that by 2082 Luna won’t even be able to feed its own people. Yet earlier today you told the Lunar Authority that you could increase shipments a dozen times or more.”

Prof said sweetly, “That committee is the Lunar Authority?” “Well… it’s an open secret.”

“So it is, sir, but they have maintained the fiction of being an impartial investigating committee of the Grand Assembly. Don’t you think they should disqualify themselves? So that we could receive a fair hearing?”

“Uh… it’s not my place to say, Professor. Let’s get back to my question. How do you reconcile the two?”

“I’m interested in why it’s not your place to say, sir. Isn’t it the concern of every citizen of Terra to help avoid a situation which will produce war between Terra and her neighbor?” “‘War’? What in the world makes you speak of ‘war,’ Professor?”

“Where else can it end, sir? If the Lunar Authority persists in its intransigence? We cannot accede to their demands; those figures show why. If they will not see this, then they will attempt to subdue us by force… and we will fight back. Like cornered rats—for cornered we are, unable to retreat, unable to surrender. We do not choose war; we wish to live in peace with our neighbor planet—in peace and peacefully trade. But the choice is not ours. We are small, you are gigantic. I predict that the next move will be for the Lunar Authority to attempt to subdue Luna by force. This ‘peace-keeping’ agency will start the first interplanetary war.”

Journalist frowned. “Aren’t you overstating it? Let’s assame the Authority—or the Grand Assembly, as the Authority hasn’t any warships of its own—let’s suppose the nations of Earth decide to displace your, uh, ‘government.’ You might fight, on Luna—I suppose you would. But that hardly constitutes interplanetary war. As you pointed out, Luna has no ships. To put it bluntly, you can’t reach us.”

I had chair close by Prof’s stretcher, listening. He turned to me. “Tell them, Colonel.”

I parroted it. Prof and Mike had worked out stock situation. I had memorized and was ready with answers. I said, “Do you gentlemen remember the Pathfinder? How she came plunging in, out of control?”

They remembered. Nobody forgets greatest disaster of early days of space flight when unlucky Pathfinder hit a Belgian village.

“We have no ships,” I went on, “but would be possible to throw those bargeloads of grain… instead of delivering them parking orbit.” Next day this evoked a headling: LOONIES THREATEN TO THROW RICE. At moment it produced awkward silence.

Finally journalist said, “Nevertheless I would like to know how you reconcile your two statements—no more grain after 2082… and ten or a hundred times as much.”

“There is no conflict,” Prof answered. “They are based on different sets of circumstances. The figures you have been looking at show the present circumstances … and the disaster they will produce in only a few years through drainage of Luna’s natural resources—disaster which these Authority bureaucrats—or should I say ‘authoritarian bureaucrats?’—would avert by telling us to stand in the corner like naughty children!”

Prof paused for labored breathing, went on: “The circumstances under which we can continue, or greatly increase, our grain shipments are the obvious corollary of the first. As an old teacher I can hardly refrain from classroom habits; the corollary should be left as an exercise for the student. Will someone attempt it?”

Was uncomfortable silence, then a little man with strange accent said slowly, “It sound to me as if you talk about way to replenish natural resource.”

“Capital! Excellent!” Prof flashed dimples. “You, sir, will have a gold star on your term report! To make grain requires water and plant foods—phosphates, other things, ask the experts. Send these things to us; we’ll send them back as wholesome grain. Put down a hose in the limitless Indian Ocean. Line up those millions of cattle here in India; collect their end product and ship it to us. Collect your own night soil—don’t bother to sterilize it; we’ve learned to do such things cheaply and easily. Send us briny sea water, rotten fish, dead animals, city sewage, cow manure, offal of any sort—and we will send it back, tonne for tonne as golden grain. Send ten times as much, we’ll send back ten times as much grain. Send us your poor, your dispossessed, send them by thousands and hundreds of thousands; we’ll teach them swift, efficient Lunar methods of tunnel farming and ship you back unbelievable tonnage. Gentlemen, Luna is one enormous fallow farm, four thousand million hectares, waiting to be plowed!”

That startled them. Then someone said slowly, “But what do you get out of it? Luna, I mean.”

Prof shrugged. “Money. In the form of trade goods. There are many things you make cheaply which are dear in Luna. Drugs. Tools. Book films. Gauds for our lovely ladies. Buy our grain and you can sell to us at a happy profit.”

AHindu journalist looked thoughtful, started to write. Next to him was a European type who seemed unimpressed. He said, “Professor, have you any idea of the cost of shipping that much tonnage to the Moon?”

Prof waved it aside. “Atechnicality. Sir, there was a time when it was not simply expensive to ship goods across oceans but impossible. Then it was expensive, difficult, dangerous. Today you sell goods half around your planet almost as cheaply as next door; long-distance shipping is the least important factor in cost. Gentlemen, I am not an engineer. But I have learned this about engineers. When something must be done, engineers can find a way that is economically feasible. If you want the grain that we can grow, turn your engineers loose.” Prof gasped and labored, signaled for help and nurses wheeled him away.

I declined to be questioned on it, telling them that they must talk to Prof when he was well enough to see them. So they pecked at me on other lines. One man demanded to know why, since we paid no taxes, we colonists thought we had a right to run things our own way? After all, those colonies had been established by Federated Nations—by some of them. It had been terribly expensive. Earth had paid all bills—and now you colonists enjoy benefits and pay not one dime of taxes. Was that fair?

I wanted to tell him to blow it. But Prof had again made me take a tranquilizer and had required me to swot that endless list of answers to trick questions. “Lets take that one at a time,” I said. “First, what is it you want us to pay taxes for? Tell me what I get and perhaps I’ll buy it. No, put it this way. Do you pay taxes?”

“Certainly I do! And so should you.” “And what do you get for your taxes?” “Huh? Taxes pay for government.”

I said, “Excuse me, I’m ignorant. I’ve lived my whole life in Luna, I don’t know much about your government. Can you feed it to me in small pieces? What do you get for your money?” They all got interested and anything this aggressive little choom missed, others supplied. I kept a list. When they stopped, I read it back:

“Free hospitals—aren’t any in Luna. Medical insurance—we have that but apparently not what you mean by it. If a person wants insurance, he goes to a bookie and works b-Out a bet. You can hedge anything, for a price. I don’t hedge my health, I’m healthy. Or was till I came here. We have a public library, one Carnegie Foundation started with a few book films. It gets along by charging fees. Public roads. I suppose that would be our tubes. But they are no more free than air is free. Sorry, you have free air here, don’t you? I mean our tubes were built by companies who put up money and are downright nasty about expecting it back and then some. Public schools. There are schools in all warrens and I never heard of them turning away pupils, so I guess they are ‘public.’ But they pay well, too, because anyone in Luna who knows something useful and is willing to teach it charges all the traffic will bear.”

I went on: “Let’s see what else– Social security. I’m not sure what that is but whatever it is, we don’t have it. Pensions. You can buy a pension. Most people don’t; most families are large and old people, say a hundred and up, either fiddle along at something they like, or sit and watch video. Or sleep. They sleep a lot, after say a hundred and twenty.”

“Sir, excuse me. Do people really live as long on the Moon as they say?”

I looked surprised but wasn’t; this was a “simulated question” for which an answer had been taped. “Nobody knows how long a person will live in Luna; we haven’t been there long enough. Our oldest citizens were born Earthside, it’s no test. So far, no one born in Luna died of old age, but that’s still no test; they haven’t had time to grow old yet, less than a century. But—Well, take me, madam; how old would you say I am? I’m authentic Loonie, third generation.”

“Uh, truthfully, Colonel Davis, I was surprised at your youthfulness—for this mission, I mean. You appear to be about twenty-two. Are you older? Not much, I fancy.” “Madam, I regret that your local gravitation makes it impossible for me to bow. Thank you. I’ve been married longer than that.”

“What? Oh, you’re jesting!”

“Madam, I would never venture to guess a lady’s age but, if you will emigrate to Luna, you will keep your present youthful loveliness much longer and add at least twenty years to your life.” I looked at list. “I’ll lump the rest of this together by saying we don’t have any of it in Luna, so I can’t see any reason to pay taxes for it. On that other point, sir, surely you know that the initial cost of the colonies has long since been repaid several times over through grain shipments alone? We are being bled white of our most essential resources…and not even being paid an open-market price. That’s why the Lunar Authority is being stubborn; they intend to go on bleeding us. The idea that Luna has been an expense to Terra and the investment must be recovered is a lie invented by the Authority to excuse their treating us as slaves. The truth is that Luna has not cost Terra one dime this century—and the original investment has long since been paid back.”

He tried to rally. “Oh, surely you’re not claiming that the Lunar colonies have paid all the billions of dollars it took to develop space flight?”

“I could present a good case. However there is no excuse to charge that against us. You have space flight, you people of Terra. We do not. Luna has not one ship. So why should we pay for what we never received? It’s like the rest of this list. We don’t get it, why should we pay for it?”

Had been stalling, waiting for a claim that Prof had told me I was sure to hear… and got it at last.

“Just a moment, please!” came a confident voice. “You ignored the two most important items on that list. Police protection and armed forces. You boasted that you were willing to pay for what you get… so how about paying almost a century of back taxes for those two? It should be quite a bill, quite a bill!” He smiled smugly.

Wanted to thank him!—thought Prof was going to chide me for failing to yank it out. People looked at each other and nodded, pleased I had been scored on. Did best to look innocent. “Please? Don’t understand. Luna has neither police nor armed forces.”

“You know what I mean. You enjoy the protection of the Peace Forces of the Federated Nations. And you do have police. Paid for by the Lunar Authority! I know, to my certain knowledge, that two phalanges were sent to the Moon less than a year ago to serve as policemen.”

“Oh.” I sighed. “Can you tell me how F.N. peace forces protect Luna? I did not know that any of your nations wanted to attack us. We are far away and have nothing anyone envies. Or did you mean we should pay them to leave us alone? If so, there is an old saying that once you pay Danegeld, you never get rid of the Dane. Sir, we will fight F.N. armed forces if we must… we shall never pay them.

“Now about those so-called ‘policemen.’ They were not sent to protect us. Our Declaration of Independence told the true story about those hoodlums—did your newspapers print it?” (Some had, some hadn’t—depended on country.) “They went mad and started raping and murdering! And now they are dead! So don’t send us any more troops!”

Was suddenly “tired” and had to leave. Really was tired; not much of an actor and making that talk-talk come out way Prof thought it should was strain.

18

Was not told till later that I had received an assist in that interview; lead about “police” and “armed forces” had been fed by a stooge; Stu LaJoie took no chances. But by time I knew, I had had experience in handling interviews; we had them endlessly.

Despite being tired was not through that night. In addition to press some Agra diplomatic corps had risked showing up—few and none officially, even from Chad. But we were curiosities and they wanted to look at us.

Only one was important, a Chinee. Was startled to see him; he was Chinee member of committee. I met him, simply as “Dr. Chan” and we pretended to be meeting first time.

He was that Dr. Chan who was then Senator from Great China and also Great China’s long-time number-one boy in Lunar Authority—and, much later, Vice-Chairman and Premier, shortly before his assassin.

After getting out point I was supposed to make, with bonus through others that could have waited, I guided chair to bedroom and was at once summoned to Prof’s. “Manuel, I’m sure you noticed our distinguished visitor from the Middle Kingdom.”

“Old Chinee from committee?”

“Try to curb the Loonie talk, son. Please don’t use it at all here, even with me. Yes. He wants to know what we meant by ‘tenfold or a hundredfold.’ So tell him.” “Straight? Or swindle?”

“The straight. This man is no fool. Can you handle the technical details?” “Done my homework. Unless he’s expert in ballistics.”

“He’s not. But don’t pretend to know anything you don’t know. And don’t assume that he’s friendly. But he could be enormously helpful if he concludes that our interests and his coincide. But don’t try to persuade him. He’s in my study. Good luck. And remember—speak standard English.”

Dr. Chan stood up as I came in; I apologized for not standing. He said that he understood difficulties that a gentleman from Luna labored under here and for me not to exert myself— shook hands with himself and sat down.

I’ll skip some formalities. Did we or did we not have some specific solution when we claimed there was a cheap way to ship massive tonnage to Luna?

Told him was a method, expensive in investment but cheap in running expenses. “It’s the one we use on Luna, sir. Acatapult, an escape-speed induction catapult.”

His expression changed not at all. “Colonel, are you aware that such has been proposed many times and always rejected for what seemed good reasons? Something to do with air pressure.”

“Yes, Doctor. But we believe, based on extensive analyses by computer and on our experience with catapulting, that today the problem can be solved. Two of our larger firms, the LuNoHo Company and the Bank of Hong Kong in Luna, are ready to head a syndicate to do it as a private venture. They would need help here on Earth and might share voting stock—though they would prefer to sell bonds and retain control. Primarily what they need is a concession from some government, a permanent easement on which to build the catapult. Probably India.”

(Above was set speech. LuNoHoCo was bankrupt if anybody examined books, and Hong Kong Bank was strained; was acting as central bank for country undergoing upheaval. Purpose was to get in last word, “India.” Prof had coached me that this word must come last.)

Dr. Chan answered, “Never mind financial aspects. Anything which is physically possible can always be made financially possible; money is a bugaboo of small minds. Why do you select India?”

“Well, sir, India now consumes, I believe, over ninety per cent of our grain shipments—” “Ninety-three point one percent.”

“Yes, sir. India is deeply interested in our grain so it seemed likely that she would cooperate. She could grant us land, make labor and materials available, and so forth. But I mentioned India because she holds a wide choice of possible sites, very high mountains not too far from Terra’s equator. The latter is not essential, just helpful. But the site must be a high mountain. It’s that air pressure you spoke of, or air density. The catapult head should be at as high altitude as feasible but the ejection end, where the load travels over eleven kilometers per second, must be in air so thin that it approaches vacuum. Which calls for a very high mountain. Take the peak Nanda Devi, around four hundred kilometers from here. It has a railhead sixty kilometers from it and a road almost to its base. It is eight thousand meters high. I don’t know that Nanda Devi is ideal. It is simply a possible site with good logistics; the ideal site would have to be selected by Terran engineers.”

“Ahigher mountain would be better?”

“Oh, yes, sir!” I assured him. “Ahigher mountain would be preferred over one nearer the equator. The catapult can be designed to make up for loss in free ride from Earth’s rotation. The difficult thing is to avoid so far as possible this pesky thick atmosphere. Excuse me, Doctor; I did not mean to criticize your planet.”

“There are higher mountains. Colonel, tell me about this proposed catapult.”

I started to. “The length of an escape-speed catapult is determined by the acceleration. We think—or the computer calculates—that an acceleration of twenty gravities is about optimum. For Earth’s escape speed this requires a catapult three hundred twenty-three kilometers in length. Therefore–”

“Stop, please! Colonel, are you seriously proposing to bore a hole over three hundred kilometers deep?”

“Oh, no! Construction has to be above ground to permit shock waves to expand. The stator would stretch nearly horizontally, rising perhaps four kilometers in three hundred and in a straight line—almost straight, as Coriolis acceleration and other minor variables make it a gentle curve. The Lunar catapult is straight so far as the eye can see and so nearly horizontal that the barges just miss some peaks beyond it.”

“Oh. I thought that you were overestimating the capacity of present-day engineering. We drill deeply today. Not that deeply. Go on.”

“Doctor, it may be that common misconception which caused you to check me is why such a catapult has not been constructed before this. I’ve seen those earlier studies. Most assumed that a catapult would be vertical, or that it would have to tilt up at the end to toss the spacecraft into the sky—and neither is feasible nor necessary. I suppose the asswnption arose from the fact that your spaceships do boost straight up, or nearly.”

I went on: “But they do that to get above atmosphere, not to get into orbit. Escape speed is not a vector quantity; it is scalar. Aload bursting from a catapult at escape speed will not return to Earth no matter what its direction. Uh… two corrections: it must not be headed toward the Earth itself but at some part of the sky hemisphere, and it must have enough added velocity to punch through whatever atmosphere it still traverses. If it is headed in the right direction it will wind up at Luna.”

“Ah, yes. Then this catapult could be used but once each lunar month?”

“No, sir. On the basis on which you were thinking it would be once every day, picking the time to fit where Luna will be in her orbit. But in fact—or so the computer says; I’m not an astronautics expert—in fact this catapult could be used almost any time, simply by varying ejection speed, and the orbits could still wind up at Luna.”

“I don’t visualize that.”

“Neither do I, Doctor, but—Excuse me but isn’t there an exceptionally fine computer at Peiping University?”

“And if there is?” (Did I detect an increase in bland inscrutability? ACyborg-computer—Pickled brains? Or live ones, aware? Horrible, either way.)

“Why not ask a topnotch computer for all possible ejection times for such a catapult as I have described? Some orbits go far outside Luna’s orbit before returning to where they can be captured by Luna, taking a fantastically long time. Others hook around Terra and then go quite directly. Some are as simple as the ones we use from Luna. There are periods each day when short orbits may be selected. But a load is in the catapult less than one minute; the limitation is how fast the beds can be made ready. It is even possible to have more than one load going up the catapult at a time if the power is sufficient and computer control is versatile. The only thing that worries me is—These high mountains they are covered with snow?”

“Usually,” he answered. “Ice and snow and bare rock.”

“Well, sir, being born in Luna I don t know anything about snow. The stator would not only have to be rigid under the heavy gravity of this planet but would have to withstand dynamic thrusts at twenty gravities. I don t suppose it could be anchored to ice or snow. Or could it be?”

“I’m not an engineer, Colonel, but it seems unlikely. Snow and ice would have to be removed. And kept clear. Weather would be a problem, too.”

“Weather I know nothing about, Doctor, and all I know about ice is that it has a heat of crystallization of three hundred thirty-five million joules per tonne. I have no idea how many tonnes would have to be melted to clear the site, or how much energy would be required to keep it clear, but it seems to me that it might take as large a reactor to keep it free of ice as to power the catapult.”

“We can build reactors, we can melt ice. Or engineers can be sent north for re-education until they do understand ice.” Dr. Chan smiled and I shivered. “However, the engineering of ice and snow was solved in Antarctica years ago; don’t worry about it. Aclear, solid-rock site about three hundred fifty kilometers long at a high altitude—Anything else I should know?”

“Not much, sir. Melted ice could be collected near the catapult head and thus be the most massy part of what will be shipped to Luna—quite a saving. Also the steel canisters would be re-used to ship grain to Earth, thus stopping another drain that Luna can’t take. No reason why a canister should not make the trip hundreds of times. At Luna it would be much the way

barges are now landed off Bombay, solid-charge retrorockets programmed by ground control—except that it would be much cheaper, two and a half kilometer-seconds change of motion versus eleven-plus, a squared factor of about twenty—but actually even more favorable, as retros are parasitic weight and the payload improves accordingly. There is even a way to improve that.”

“How?”

“Doctor, this is outside my specialty. But everybody knows that your best ships use hydrogen as reaction mass heated by a fusion reactor. But hydrogen is expensive in Luna and any mass could be reaction mass; it just would not be as efficient. Can you visualize an enormous, brute-force space tug designed to fit Lunar conditions? It would use raw rock, vaporized, as reaction mass and would be designed to go up into parking orbit, pick up those shipments from Terra, bring them down to Luna’s surface. It would be ugly, all the fancies stripped away—might not be manned even by a Cyborg. It can be piloted from the ground, by computer.”

“Yes, I suppose such a ship could be designed. But let’s not complicate things. Have you covered the essentials about this catapult?”

“I believe so, Doctor. The site is the crucial thing. Take that peak Nanda Devi. By the maps I have seen it appears to have a long, very high ridge sloping to the west for about the length of our catapult. If that is true, it would be ideal—less to cut away, less to bridge. I don’t mean that it is the ideal site but that is the sort to look for: a very high peak with a long, long ridge west of it.”

“I understand.” Dr. Chan left abruptly.

Next few weeks I repeated that in a dozen countries, always in private and with implication that it was secret. All that changed was name of mountain. In Ecuador I pointed out that Chimborazo was almost on equator—ideal! But in Argentina I emphasized that their Aconcagua was highest peak in Western Hemisphere. In Bolivia I noted that Altoplano was as high as Tibetan Plateau (almost true), much nearer equator, and offered a wide choice of sites for easy construction leading up to peaks comparable to any on Terra.

I talked to a North American who was a political opponent of that choom who had called us “rabble.” I pointed out that, while Mount McKinley was comparable to anything in Asia or South America, there was much to be said for Mauna Loa—extreme ease of construction. Doubling gees to make it short enough to fit, and Hawaii would be Spaceport of World … whole world, for we talked about day when Mars would be exploited and freight for three (possibly four) planets would channel through their “Big Island.”

Never mentioned Mauna Loa’s volcanic nature; instead I noted that location permitted an aborted load to splash harmlessly in Pacific Ocean. In Sovunion was only one peak discussed—Lenin, over thousand meters (and rather too close to their big neighbor).

Kilimanjaro, Popocatepetl, Logan, El Libertado—my favorite peak changed by country; all that we required was that it be “highest mountain” in hearts of locals. I found something to say about modest mountains of Chad when we were entertained there and rationalized so well I almost believed it.

Other times, with help of leading questions from Stu LaJoie’s stooges, I talked about chemical engineering (of which I know nothing but had memorized facts) on surface of Luna, where endless free vacuum and sunpower and limitless raw materials and predictable conditions permitted ways of processing expensive or impossible Earthside—when day arrived that cheap shipping both ways made it profitable to exploit Luna’s virgin resources, Was always a suggestion that entrenched bureaucracy of Lunar Authority had failed to see great potential of Luna (true), plus answer to a question always asked, which answer asserted that Luna could accept any number of colonists.

This also was true, although never mentioned that Luna (yes, and sometimes Luna’s Loonies) killed about half of new chums. But people we talked to rarely thought of emigrating themselves; they thought of forcing or persuading others to emigrate to relieve crowding—and to reduce their own taxes. Kept mouth shut about fact that half-fed swarms we saw everywhere did breed faster than even catapulting could offset.

We could not house, feed, and train even a million new chums each year—and a million wasn’t a drop on Terra; more babies than that were conceived every night. We could accept far more than would emigrate voluntarily but if they used forced emigration and flooded us… Luna has only one way to deal with a new chum: Either he makes not one fatal mistake, in personal behavior or in coping with environment that will bite without warning… or he winds up as fertilizer in tunnel farm.

All that immigration in huge numbers could mean would be that a larger percentage of immigrants would die—too few of us to help them past natural hazards. However, Prof did most talking about “Luna’s great future.” I talked about catapults.

During weeks we waited for committee to recall us, we covered much ground. Stu’s men had things set up and only question was how much we could take. Would guess that every week on Terra chopped a year off our lives, maybe more for Prof. But he never complained and was always ready to be charming at one more reception.

We spent extra time in North America. Date of our Declaration of Independence, exactly three hundred years after that of North American British colonies, turned out to be wizard propaganda and Stu’s manipulators made most of it. North Americans are sentimental about their “United States” even though it ceased to mean anything once their continent had been rationalized by F.N. They elect a president every eight years, why, could not say—why do British still have Queen?—and boast of being “sovereign.” “Sovereign,” like “love,” means anything you want it to mean; it’s a word in dictionary between “sober” and “sozzled.”

“Sovereignty” meant much in North America and “Fourth of July” was a magic date; Fourth-of-July League handled our appearances and Stu told us that it had not cost much to get it moving and nothing to keep going; League even raised money used elsewhere—North Americans enjoy giving no matter who gets it.

Farther south Stu used another date; his people planted idea that coup d’etat had been 5 May instead of two weeks later. We were greeted with “Cinco de Mayo! Libertad! Cinco de Mayo!” I thought they were saying, “Thank you”—Prof did all talking.

But in 4th-of-July country I did better. Stu had me quit wearing a left arm in public, sleeves of my costumes were sewed up so that stump could not be missed, and word was passed that I had lost it “fighting for freedom.” Whenever I was asked about it, all I did was smile and say, “See what comes of biting nails?”—then change subject.

I never liked North America, even first trip. It is not most crowded part of Terra, has a mere billion people. In Bombay they sprawl on pavements; in Great New York they pack them vertically—not sure anyone sleeps. Was glad to be in invalid’s chair.

Is mixed-up place another way; they care about skin color—by making point of how they don’t care. First trip I was always too light or too dark, and somehow blamed either way, or was always being expected to take stand on things I have no opinions on. Bog knows I don’t know what genes I have. One grandmother came from a part of Asia where invaders passed as regularly as locusts, raping as they went—why not ask her?

Learned to handle it by my second makee-learnee but it left a sour taste. Think I prefer a place as openly racist as India, where if you aren’t Hindu, you’re nobody—except that Parsees look down on Hindus and vice versa. However I never really had to cope with North America’s reverse-racism when being “Colonel O’Kelly Davis, Hero of Lunar Freedom.”

We had swarms of bleeding hearts around us, anxious to help. I let them do two things for me, things I had never had time, money, or energy for as a student: I saw Yankees play and i visited Salem.

Should have kept my illusions. Baseball is better over video, you can really see it and aren’t pushed in by two hundred thousand other people. Besides, somebody should have shot that outfield. I spent most of that game dreading moment when they would have to get my chair out through crowd—that and assuring host that I was having a wonderful time.

Salem was just a place, no worse (and no better) than rest of Boston. After seeing it I suspected they had hanged wrong witches. But day wasn’t wasted; I was filmed laying a wreath on a place where a bridge had been in another part of Boston, Concord, and made a memorized speech—bridge is still there, actually; you can see it, down through glass. Not much of a bridge.

Prof enjoyed it all, rough as it was on him: Prof had great capacity for enjoying. He always had something new to tell about great future of Luna. In New York he gave managing director of a hotel chain, one with rabbit trade mark, a sketch of what could be done with resorts in Luna—once excursion rates were within reach of more people—visits too short to hurt anyone, escort service included, exotic side trips, gambling—no taxes.

Last point grabbed attention, so Prof expanded it into “longer old age” theme—a chain of retirement hostels where an earthworm could live on Terran old-age pension and go on living, twenty, thirty, forty years longer than on Terra. As an exile—but which was better? Alive old age in Luna? Or a funeral crypt on Terra? His descendants could pay visits and fill those resort hotels. Prof embellished with pictures of “nightclubs” with acts impossible in Terra’s horrible gravity, sports to fit our decent level of gravitation—even talked about swimming pools and ice skating and possibility of flying! (Thought he had tripped his safeties.) He finished by hinting that Swiss cartel had tied it up.

Next day he was telling foreign-divisions manager of Chase International Panagra that a Luna City branch should be staffed with paraplegics, paralytics, heart cases, amputees, others who found high gravity a handicap. Manager was a fat man who wheezed, he may have been thinking of it personally—but his ears pricked up at “no taxes.”

We didn’t have it all our own way. News was often against us and were always hecklers. Whenever I had to take them on without Prof’s help I was likely to get tripped. One man tackled me on Prof’s statement to committee that we “owned” grain grown in Luna: he seemed to take it for granted that we did not. Told him I did not understand question.

He answered, “Isn’t it true, Colonel, that your provisional government has asked for membership in Federated Nations?”

Should have answered, “No comment.” But fell for it and agreed. “Very well,” he said, “the impediment seems to be the counterclaim that the Moon belongs to the Federated Nations—as it always has–under supervision of the Lunar Authority. Either way, by your own admission, that grain belongs to the Federated Nations, in trust.”

I asked how he reached that conclusion? He answered, ‘Colonel, you style yourself ‘Undersecretary of Foreign Affairs.’ Surely you are familiar with the charter of the Federated Nations.” I had skimmed it. “Reasonably familiar,” I said—cautiously, I thought.

“Then you know the First Freedom guaranteed by the Charter and its current application through F & AControl Board Administrative Order Number eleven-seventy-six dated three March of this year. You concede therefore that all grain grown on the Moon in excess of the local ration is ab initio and beyond contest the property of all, title held in trust by the Federated Nations through its agencies for distribution as needed.” He was writing as he talked. “Have you anything to add to that concession?”

I said, “What in Bog’s name you talking about?” Then, “Come back! Haven’t conceded anything!” So Great New York Times printed:

LUNAR “UNDERSECRETARY” SAYS: “FOOD BELONGS TO HUNGRY”

New York Today—O’Kelly Davis, soi-disant “Colonel of the Armed Forces of Free Luna” here on a junket to stir up support for the insurgents in the F.N. Lunar colonies, said in a voluntary statement to this paper that the “Freedom from Hunger” clause in the Grand Charter applied to the Lunar grain shipments—

I asked Prof how should have handled? “Always answer an unfriendly question with another question,” he told me. “Never ask him to clarify; he’ll put words in your mouth. This reporter— Was he skinny? Ribs showing?”

“No. Heavyset.”

“Not living on eighteen hundred calories a day, I take it, which is the subject of that order he cited. Had you known you could have asked him how long he had conformed to the ration and why he quit? Or asked him what he had for breakfast—and then looked unbelieving no matter what he answered. Or when you don’t know what a man is getting at, let your counter- question shift the subject to something you do want to talk about. Then, no matter what he answers, make your point and call on someone else. Logic does not enter into it—just tactics.”

“Prof, nobody here is living on eighteen hundred calories a day. Bombay, maybe. Not here.”

“Less than that in Bombay. Manuel, that ‘equal ration’ is a fiction. Half the food on this planet is in the black market, or is not reckoned through one ruling or another. Or they keep two sets of books, and figures submitted to the F.N. having nothing to do with the economy. Do you think that grain from Thailand and Burma and Australia is correctly reported to the Control

Board by Great China? I’m sure that the India representative on that food board doesn’t. But India keeps quiet because she gets the lion’s share from Luna… and then ‘plays politics with hunger’—a phrase you may remember—by using our grain to control her elections. Kerala had a planned famine last year. Did you see it in the news?”

“No.”

“Because it wasn’t in the news. Amanaged democracy is a wonderful thing, Manuel, for the managers… and its greatest strength is a ‘free press’ when ‘free’ is defined as ‘responsible’ and the managers define what is ‘irresponsible.’ Do you know what Luna needs most?”

“More ice.”

“Anews system that does not bottleneck through one channel. Our friend Mike is our greatest danger.” “Huh? Don’t you trust Mike?”

“Manuel, on some subjects I don’t trust even myself. Limiting the freedom of news ‘just a little bit’ is in the same category with the classic example ‘a little bit pregnant.’ We are not yet free nor will we be as long as anyone—even our ally Mike—controls our news. Someday I hope to own a newspaper independent of any source or channel. I would happily set print by hand, like Benjamin Franklin.”

I gave up. “Prof, suppose these talks fail and grain shipments stop. What happens?”

“People back home will be vexed with us… and many here on Terra would die. Have you read Malthus?” “Don’t think so.”

“Many would die. Then a new stability would be reached with somewhat more people—more efficient people and better fed. This planet isn’t crowded; it is just mismanaged … and the unkindest thing you can do for a hungry man is to give him food. ‘Give.’ Read Malthus. It is never safe to laugh at Dr. Malthus; he always has the last laugh. Adepressing man, I’m glad he’s dead. But don’t read him until this is over; too many facts hamper a diplomat, especially an honest one.”

“I’m not especially honest.”

“But you have no talent for dishonesty, so your refuge must be ignorance and stubbornness. You have the latter; try to preserve the former. For the nonce. Lad, Uncle Bernardo is terribly tired.”

I said, “Sorry,” and wheeled out of his room. Prof was hitting too hard a pace. I would have been willing to quit if would insure his getting into a ship and out of that gravity. But traffic stayed one way—grain barges, naught else.

But Prof had fun. As I left and waved lights out, noticed again a toy he had bought, one that delighted him like a kid on Christmas—a brass cannon.

Areal one from sailing ship days. Was small, barrel about half a meter long and massing, with wooden carriage, only kilos fifteen. A“signal gun” its papers said. Reeked of ancient history, pirates, men “walking plank.” Apretty thing but I asked Prof why? If we ever managed to leave, price to lift that mass to Luna would hurt—I was resigned to abandoning a p-suit with years more wear in it—abandon everything but two left arms and a pair of shorts, If pressed, might give up social arm. If very pressed, would skip shorts.

He reached out and stroked shiny barrel. “Manuel, once there was a man who held a political make-work job like so many here in this Directorate, shining brass cannon around a courthouse.”

“Why would courthouse have cannon?”

“Never mind. He did this for years. It fed him and let him save a bit, but he was not getting ahead in the world. So one day he quit his job, drew out his savings, bought a brass cannon— and went into business for himself.”

“Sounds like idiot.”

“No doubt. And so were we, when we tossed out the Warden. Manuel, you’ll outlive me. When Luna adopts a flag, I would like it to be a cannon or, on field sable, crossed by bar sinister gules of our proudly ignoble lineage. Do you think it could be managed?”

“Suppose so, if you’ll sketch. But why a flag? Not a flagpole in all Luna.”

“It can fly in our hearts … a symbol for all fools so ridiculously impractical as to think they can fight city hail. Will you remember, Manuel?”

“Sure. That is, will remind you when time comes.” Didn’t like such talk. He had started using oxygen tent in private—and would not use in public.

Guess I’m “ignorant” and “stubborn”—was both in place called Lexington, Kentucky, in Central Managerial Area. One thing no doctrine about, no memorized answers, was life in Luna. Prof said to tell truth and emphasize homely, warm, friendly things, especially anything different. “Remember, Manuel, the thousands of Terrans who have made short visits to Luna are only a tiny fraction of one percent. To most people we will be as weirdly interesting as strange animals in a zoo. Do you remember that turtle on exhibition in Old Dome? That’s us.”

Certainly did; they wore that insect out, staring at. So when this male-female team started quizzing about family life in Luna was happy to answer. I prettied it only by what I left out—things that aren’t family life but poor substitutes in a community overloaded with males, Luna City is homes and families mainly, dull by Terra standards—but I like it. And other warrens much same, people who work and raise kids and gossip and find most of their fun around dinner table. Not much to tell, so I diseussed anything they found interesting. Every Luna custom comes from Terra since that’s where we all came from, but Terra is such a big place that a custom from Micronesia, say, may be strange in North America.

This woman—can’t call her lady—wanted to know about various sorts of marriage. First, was it true that one could get married without a license “on” Luna? I asked what a marriage license was?

Her companion said, “Skip it, Mildred. Pioneer societies never have marriage licenses.” “But don’t you keep records?” she persisted.

“Certainly,” I agreed. “My family keeps a family book that goes back almost to first landing at Johnson City—every marriage, birth, death, every event of importance not only in direct line but all branches so far as we can keep track. And besides, is a man, a schoolteacher, going around copying old family records all over our warren, writing a history of Luna City. Hobby.”

“But don’t you have official records? Here in Kaintucky we have records that go back hundreds of years.” “Madam, we haven’t lived there that long.”

“Yes, but—Well, Luna City must have a city clerk. Perhaps you call him ‘county recorder.’ The official who keeps track of such things. Deeds and so forth.”

I said. “Don’t think so, madam. Some bookies do notary work, witnessing chops on contracts, keeping records of them. Is for people who don’t read and write and can’t keep own records. But never heard of one asked to keep record of marriage. Not saying couldn’t happen. But haven’t heard.”

“How delightfully informal! Then this other rumor, about how simple it is to get a divorce on the Moon. I daresay that’s true, too?”

“No, madam, wouldn’t say divorce is simple. Too much to untangle. Mmm … take a simple example, one lady and say she has two husbands—” “Two?”

“Might have more, might have just one. Or might be complex marriage. But let’s take one lady and two men as typical. She decides to divorce one. Say it’s friendly, with other husband agreeing and one she is getting rid of not making fuss. Not that it would do him any good. Okay, she divorces him; he leaves. Still leaves endless things. Men might be business partners, co-husbands often are. Divorce may break up partnership. Money matters to settle. This three may own cubic together, and while will be in her name, ex-husband probably has cash coming or rent. And almost always are children to consider, support and so forth. Many things. No, madam, divorce is never simple. Can divorce him in ten seconds but may take ten years to straighten out loose ends. Isn’t it much that way here?”

“Uh … just fuhget ah evah asked the question, Cunn’l; it may be simpluh hyuh.” (She did talk that way but was understandable once I got program. Won’t spell it again.) “But if that is a simple marriage, what is a ‘complex’ one?”

Found self explaining polyandries, clans, groups, lines, and less common patterns considered vulgar by conservative people such as my own family—deal my mother set up, say, after she ticked off my old man, though didn’t describe that one; Mother was always too extreme.

Woman said, “You have me confused. What is the difference between a line and a clan?”

Are quite different. Take own case. I have honor to be member of one of oldest line marriages in Luna—and, in my prejudiced opinion, best. You asked about divorce. Our family has never had one and would bet long odds never will. Aline marriage increases in stability year after year, gains practice in art of getting along together, until notion of anybody leaving is unthinkable. Besides, takes unanimous decision of all wives to divorce a husband—could never happen. Senior wife would never let it get that far.”

Went on describing advantages—financial security, fine home life it gives children, fact that death of a spouse, while tragic, could never be tragedy it was in a temporary family, especially for children—children simply could not be orphaned. Suppose I waxed too enthusiastic—but my family is most important thing in my life. Without them I’m just one-armed mechanic who could be eliminated without causing a draft.

“Here’s why is stable,” I said. “Take my youngest wife, sixteen. Likely be in her eighties before is senior wife. Doesn’t mean all wives senior to her will die by then; unlikely in Luna, females seem to be immortal. But may all opt out of family management by then; by our family traditions they usually do, without younger wives putting pressure on them. So Ludmilla—”

“Ludmilla?”

“Russki name. From fairy tale. Milla will have over fifty years of good example before has to carry burden. She’s sensible to start with, not likely to make mistakes and if did, has other wives to steady her. Self-correcting, like a machine with proper negative feedback. Agood line marriage is immortal; expect mine to outlast me at least a thousand years—and is why shan’t mind dying when time comes; best part of me will go on living.”

Prof was being wheeled out; he had them stop stretcher cart and listened. I turned to him. “Professor,” I said, “you know my family. Would mind telling this lady why it’s a happy family? If you think so.”

“It is,” agreed Prof. “However, I would rather make a more general remark. Dear madam, I gather that you find our Lunar marriage customs somewhat exotic.” “Oh, I wouldn’t go that far!” she said hastily. “Just somewhat unusual.”

“They arise, as marriage customs always do, from economic necessities of the circumstances—and our circumstances are very different from those here on Earth. Take the line type of marriage which my colleague has been praising . . and justifiably, I assure you, despite his personal bias—I am a bachelor and have no bias. Line marriage is the strongest possible device for conserving capital and insuring the welfare of children—the two basic societal functions for marriage everywhere—in an enviroment in which there is no security, neither for capital nor for children, other than that devised by individuals. Somehow human beings always cope with their environments. Line marriage is a remarkably successful invention to that end. All other Lunar forms of marriage serve that same purpose, though not as well.”

He said goodnight and left. I had with me—always!—a picture of my family, newest one, our wedding with Wyoming. Brides are at their prettiest and Wyoh was radiant—and rest of us looked handsome and happy, with Grandpaw tall and proud and not showing failing faculties.

But was disappointed; they looked at it oddly. But man—Mathews, name was—said, “Can you spare this picture, Colonel?” Winced. “Only copy I have. And a long way from home.”

“For a moment, I mean. Let me have it photographed. Right here, it need never leave your hands,”

“Oh. Oh, certainly!” Not a good picture of me but is face I have, and did Wyoh justice and they just don’t come prettier than Lenore.

So he photographed it and next morning they did come right into our hotel suite and woke me before time and did arrest and take me away wheel chair and all and did lock me in a cell with bars! For bigamy. For polygamy. For open immorality and publicly inciting others to same.

Was glad Mum couldn’t see.

19

Took Stu all day to get case transferred to an F.N. court and dismissed. His lawyers asked to have it tossed out on “diplomatic immunity” but F.N. judges did not fall into trap, merely noted that alleged offenses had taken place outside jurisdiction of lower court, except alleged “inciting” concerning which they found insufficient evidence. Aren’t any F.N. laws covering marriage; can’t be—just a rule about each nation required to give “full faith and credence” to marriage customs of other member nations.

Out of those eleven billion people perhaps seven billion lived where polygamy is legal, and Stu’s opinion manipulators played up “persecution”; it gained us sympathy from people who otherwise would never have heard of us—even gained it in North America and other places where polygamy is not legal, from people who believe in “live and let live.” All good, because always problem was to be noticed. To most of those bee-swarm billions Luna was nothing; our rebellion hadn’t been noticed.

Stu’s operators had gone to much thought to plan setup to get me arrested. Was not told until weeks later after time to cool off and see benefits. Took a stupid judge, a dishonest sheriff, and barbaric local prejudice which I triggered with that sweet picture, for Stu admitted later that range of color in Davis family was what got judge angry enough to be foolish even beyond native talent for nonsense.

My one consolation, that Mum could not see my disgrace, turned out mistaken; pictures, taken through bars and showing grim face, were in every Luna paper, and write-ups used nastiest Earthside stories, not larger number that deplored injustice. But should have had more faith in Mimi; she wasn’t ashamed, simply wanted to go Earthside and rip some people to pieces.

While helped Earthside, greatest good was in Luna. Loonies become more unified over this silly huhu than had ever been before. They took it personally and “Adam Selene” and “Simon Jester” pushed it. Loonies are easygoing except on one subject, women. Every lady felt insulted by Terran news stories—so male Loonies who had ignored politics suddenly discovered I was their boy.

Spin-off—old lags feel superior to those not transported. Later found self greeted by ex-cons with: “Hi, jailbird!” Alodge greeting—I was accepted.

But saw nothing good about it then! Pushed around, treated like cattle, fingerprinted, photographed, given food we wouldn’t offer hogs, exposed to endless indignity, and only that heavy field kept me from trying to kill somebody—had I been wearing number-six arm when grabbed, might have tried.

But steadied down once I was freed. Hour later we were on way to Agra; had at last been summoned by committee. Felt good to be back in suite in maharajah’s palace but eleven-hour zone change in less than three did not permit rest; we went to hearing bleary-eyed and held together by drugs.

“Hearing” was one-sided; we listened while chairman talked. Talked an hour; I’ll summarize:

Our preposterous claims were rejected. Lunar Authority’s sacred trust could not be abandoned. Disorders on Earth’s Moon could not be tolerated. Moreover, recent disorders showed that Authority had been too lenient. Omission was now to be corrected by an activist program, a five-year plan in which all phases of life in Authority’s trusteeship would be overhauled. A code of laws was being drafted; civil and criminal courts would be instituted for benefit of “client-employees”—which meant all persons in trust area, not just consignees with uncompleted sentences. Public schools would be established, plus indoctrinal adult schools for client-employees in need of same. An economic, engineering, and agricultural planning board would be created to provide fullest and most efficient use of Moon’s resources and labor of client-employees. An interim goal of quadrupling grain shipments in five years had been adopted as a figure easily obtainable once scientific planning of resources and labor was in effect. First phase would be to withdraw client-employees from occupations found not to be productive and put them to drilling a vast new system of farm tunnels in order that hydroponics would commence in them not later than March 2078. These new giant farms would be operated by Lunar Authority, scientifically, and not left to whims of private owners. It was contemplated that this system would, by end of five-year plan, produce entire new grain quota; in meantime client-employees producing grain privately would be allowed to continue. But they would be absorbed into new system as their less efficient methods were no longer needed.

Chairman looked up from papers. “In short, the Lunar colonies are going to be civilized and brought into managerial coordination with the rest of civilization. Distasteful as this task has been, I feel—speaking as a citizen rather than as chairman of this committee—I feel that we owe you thanks for bringing to our attention a situation so badly in need of correction.”

Was ready to burn his ears off. “Client-employees!” What a fancy way to say “slaves”! But Prof said tranquilly, “I find the proposed plans most interesting. Is one permitted to ask questions? Purely for information?”

“For information, yes.”

North American member leaned forward. “But don’t assume that we are going to take any backtalk from you cavemen! So mind your manners. You aren’t in the clear on this, you know.” “Order,” chairman said. “Proceed, Professor.”

“This term ‘client-employee’ I find intriguing. Can it be stipulated that the majority of inhabitants of Earth’s major satellite are not undischarged consignees but free individuals?”

“Certainly,” chairman agreed blandly. “All legal aspects of the new policy have been studied. With minor exceptions some ninety-one percent of the colonists have citizenship, original or derived, in various member nations of the Federated Nations. Those who wish to return to their home countries have a right to do so. You will be pleased to learn that the Authority is considering a plan under which loans for transportation can be arranged… probably under supervision of International Red Cross and Crescent. I might add that I myself am heartily backing this plan—as it renders nonsensical any talk about ‘slave labor.’” He smiled smugly.

“I see,” agreed Prof. “Most humane. Has the committee—or the Authority—pondered the fact that most—effectively all, I should say—considered the fact that inhabitants of Luna are physically unable to live on this planet? That they have undergone involuntary permanent exile through irreversible physiological changes and can never again live in comfort and health in a gravitational field six times greater than that to which their bodies have become adjusted?”

Scoundrel pursed lips as if considering totally new idea. “Speaking again for myself, I would not be prepared to stipulate that what you say is necessarily true. It might be true of some, might not be others; people vary widely. Your presence here proves that it is not impossible for a Lunar inhabitant to return to Earth. In any case we have no intention of forcing anyone to return. We hope that they will choose to stay and we hope to encourage others to emigrate to the Moon. But these are individual choices, under the freedoms guaranteed by the Great Charter. But as to this alleged physiological phenomenon—it is not a legal matter. If anyone deems it prudent, or thinks he would be happier, to stay on the Moon, that’s his privilege.”

“I see, sir. We are free. Free to remain in Luna and work, at tasks and for wages set by you… or free to return to Earth to die.”

Chairman shrugged. “You assume that we are villians—we’re not. Why, if I were a young man I would emigrate to the Moon myself. Great opportunities! In any case I am not troubled by your distortions—history will justify us.”

Was surprised at Prof; he was not fighting. Worried about him—weeks of strain and a bad night on top. All he said was, “Honorable Chairman, I assume that shipping to Luna will soon be resumed. Can passage be arranged for my colleague and myself in the first ship? For I must admit, sir, that this gravitational weakness of which I spoke is, in our cases, very real. Our mission is completed; we need to go home.”

(Not a word about grain barges. Nor about “throwing rocks,” nor even futility of beating a cow. Prof just sounded tired.)

Chairman leaned forward and spoke with grim satisfaction. “Professor, that presents difficulties. To put it bluntly, you appear to be guilty of treason against the Great Charter, indeed against all humanity … and an indictment is being considered. I doubt if anything more than a suspended sentence would be invoked against a man of your age and physical condition, however. Do you think it would be prudent of us to give you passage back to the place where you committed these acts—there to stir up more mischief?”

Prof sighed. “I understand your point. Then, sir, may I be excused? I am weary.”

“Certainly. Hold yourself at the disposal of this committee. The hearing stands adjourned. Colonel Davis—” “Sir?” I was directing wheel chair around, to get Prof out at once; our attendants had been sent outside. “Aword with you, please. In my office.”

“Uh—” Looked at Prof; eyes were closed and seemed unconscious. But he moved one finger, motioning me to him. “HonorabIe Chairman, I’m more nurse than diplomat; have to look after him. He’s an old man, he’s ill.”

“The attendants will take care of him.”

“Well…” Got as close to Prof as I could from chair, leaned over him. “Prof, are you right?”

He barely whispered. “See what he wants. Agree with him. But stall.”

Moments later was alone with chairman, soundproof door locked—meant nothing; room could have a dozen ears, plus one in my left arm. He said, “Adrink? Coffee?”

I answered, “No, thank you, sir. Have to watch my diet here.”

“I suppose so. Are you really limited to that chair? You look healthy.”

I said, “I could, if had to, get up and walk across room. Might faint. Or worse. Prefer not to risk. Weigh six times what I should. Heart’s not used to it.”

“I suppose so. Colonel, I hear you had some silly trouble in North America. I’m sorry, I truly am. Barbaric place. Always hate to have to go there. I suppose you’re wondering why I wanted to see you.”

“No, sir, assume you’ll tell when suits you. Instead was wondering why you still call me ‘Colonel.’”

He gave a barking laugh. “Habit, I suppose. Alifetime of protocol. Yet it might be well for you to continue with that title. Tell me, what do you think of our five-year plan?” Thought it stunk. “Seems to have been carefully thought out.”

“Much thought went into it. Colonel, you seem to be a sensible man—I know you are, I know not only your background but practically every word you’ve spoken, almost your thoughts, ever since you set foot on Earth. You were born on the Moon. Do you regard yourself as a patriot? Of the Moon?”

“Suppose so. Though tend to think of what we did just as something that had to be done.”

“Between ourselves—yes. That old fool Hobart. Colonel, that is a good plan… but lacks an executive. If you are really a patriot or let’s say a practical man with your country’s best interests at heart, you might be the man to carry it out.” He held up hand. “Don’t be hasty! I’m not asking you to sell out, turn traitor, or any nonsense like that. This is your chance to be a real patriot

—not some phony hero who gets himself killed in a lost cause. Put it this way. Do you think it is possible for the Lunar colonies to hold out against all the force that the Federated Nations of Earth can bring to bear? You’re not really a military man, I know—and I’m glad you’re not—but you are a technical man, and I know that, too. In your honest estimation, how many ships and bombs do you think it would take to destroy the Lunar colonies?”

I answered, “One ship, six bombs.”

“Correct! My God, it’s good to talk to a sensible man. Two of them would have to be awf’ly big, perhaps specially built. Afew people would stay alive, for a while, in smaller warrens beyond the blast areas. But one ship would do it, in ten minutes.”

I said, “Conceded, sir, but Professor de la Paz pointed out that you don’t get milk by beating a cow. And certainly can’t by shooting it.”

“Why do you think we’ve held back, done nothing, for over a month? That idiot colleague of mine—I won’t name him—spoke of ‘backtalk.’ Backtalk doesn’t fret me; it’s just talk and I’m interested in results. No, my dear Colonel, we won’t shoot the cow… but we would, if forced to, let the cow know that it could be shot. H-missiles are expensive toys but we could afford to expend some as warning shots, wasted on bare rock to let the cow know what could happen. But that is more force than one likes to use—it might frighten the cow and sour its milk.” He gave another barking laugh. “Better to persuade old bossy to give down willingly.”

I waited. “Don’t you want to know how?” he asked. “How?” I agreed.

“Through you. Don’t say a word and let me explain—”

He took me up on that high mountain and offered me kingdoms of Earth. Or of Luna. Take job of “Protector Pro Tem” with understanding was mine permanently if I could deliver. Convince Loonies they could not win. Convince them that this new setup was to their advantage—emphasize benefits, free schools, free hospitals, free this and that—details later but an everywhere government just like on Terra. Taxes starting low and handled painlessly by automatic checkoff and through kickback revenues from grain shipments. But, most important, this time Authority would not send a boy to do a man’s job—two regiments of police at once.

“Those damned Peace Dragoons were a mistake,” he said, “one we won’t make again. Between ourselves, the reason it has taken us a month to work this out is that we had to convince the Peace Control Commission that a handful of men cannot police three million people spread through six largish warrens and fifty and more small ones. So you’ll start with enough police—not combat troops but military police used to quelling civilians with a minimum of fuss. Besides that, this time they’ll have female auxiliaries, the standard ten per cent-no more rape complaints. Well, sir? Think you can swing it? Knowing it’s best in the long run for your own people?”

I said I ought to study it in detail, particularly plans and quotas for five-year plan, rather than make snap decision.

~Certainly, certainly!” he agreed. “I’ll give you a copy of the white paper we’ve made up; take it home, study it, sleep on it. Tomorrow we’ll talk again. Just give me your word as a gentleman to keep it under your hair. No secret, really… but these things are best settled before they are publicized. Speaking of publicity, you’ll need help—and you’ll get it. We’ll go to the expense of sending up topnotch men, pay them what it’s worth, have them centrifuge the way those scientists do—you know. This time we’re doing it right. That fool Hobart—he’s actually dead, isn’t he?”

“No, sir. Senile, however.”

“Should have killed him, Here’s your copy of the plan.”

“Sir? Speaking of old men—Professor de la Paz can’t stay here. Wouldn’t live six months.” “That’s best, isn’t it?”

I tried to answer levelly, “You don’t understand. He is greatly loved and respected. Best thing would be for me to convince him that you mean business with those H-missiles—and that it is his patriotic duty to salvage what we can. But, either way, if I return without him… well, not only could not swing it; wouldn’t live long enough to try.”

“Hmm—Sleep on it. We’ll talk tomorrow. Say fourteen o’clock.”

I left and as soon as was loaded into lorry gave way to shakes. Just don’t have high-level approach. Stu was waiting with Prof. “Well?” said Prof.

I glanced around, tapped ear. We huddled, heads over Prof’s head and two blankets over us all. Stretcher wagon was clean and so was my chair; I checked them each morning. But for room itself seemed safer to whisper under blankets.

Started in. Prof stopped me. “Discuss his ancestry and habits later. The facts.” “He offered me job of Warden.”

“I trust you accepted.”

“Ninety percent. I’m to study this garbage and give answer tomorrow. Stu, how fast can we execute Plan Scoot?” “Started. We were waiting for you to return. If they let you return.”

Next fifty minutes were busy. Stu produced a gaunt Hindu in a dhoti; in thirty minutes he was a twin of Prof, and lifted Prof off wagon onto a divan. Duplicating me was easier. Our doubles were wheeled into suite’s living room just at dusk and dinner was brought in. Several people came and went—among them elderly Hindu woman in sari, on arm of Stuart LaJoie. A plump babu followed them.

Getting Prof up steps to roof was worst; he had never worn powered walkers, had no chance to practice, and had been flat on back for more than a month.

But Stu’s arm kept him steady; I gritted teeth and climbed those thirteen terrible steps by myself. By time I reached roof, heart was ready to burst. Was put to it not to black out. Asilent little flitter craft came out of gloom right on schedule and ten minutes later we were in chartered ship we had used past month—two minutes after that we jetted for Australia. Don’t know what it cost to prepare this dance and keep it ready against need, but was no hitch.

Stretched out by Prof and caught breath, then said, “How you feel, Prof?” “Okay. Abit tired. Frustrated.”

“Ja da. Frustrated.”

“Over not seeing the Taj Mahal, I mean. I never had opportunity as a young man—and here I’ve been within a kilometer of it twice, once for several days, now for another day… and still I haven’t seen it and never shall.”

“Just a tomb.”

“And Helen of Troy was just a woman. Sleep, lad.” We landed in Chinee half of Australia, place called Darwin, and were carried straight into a ship, placed in acceleration couches and dosed. Prof was already out and I was beginning to feel dopy when Stu came in, grinned, and strapped down by us. I looked at him. “You, too? Who’s minding shop?”

“The same people who’ve been doing the real work all along. It’s a good setup and doesn’t need me any longer. Mannie old cobber, I did not want to be marooned a long way from home. Luna, I mean, in case you have doubts. This looks like the last train from Shanghai.”

“What’s Shanghai got to do with?”

“Forget I mentioned it. Mannie, I’m flat broke, concave. I owe money in all directions—debts that will be paid only if certain stocks move the way Adam Selene convinced me they would move, shortly after this point in history. And I’m wanted, or will be, for offenses against the public peace and dignity. Put it this way. I’m saving them the trouble of transporting me. Do you think I can learn to be a drillman at my age?”

Was feeling foggy, drug taking hold. “Stu, in Luna y’aren’t old… barely started … ‘nyway . . ,eat our table f’ever! Mimi likes you.” “Thanks, cobber, I might. Warning light! Deep breath!”

Suddenly was kicked by ten gee.

Our craft was ground-to-orbit ferry type used for manned satellites, for supplying F.N. ships in patrol orbit, and for passengers to and from pleasure-and-gambling satellites. She was carrying three passengers instead of forty, no cargo except three p-suits and a brass cannon (yes, silly toy was along; p-suits and Prof’s bang-bang were in Australia a week before we were) and good ship Lark had been stripped—total crew was skipper and a Cyborg pilot.

She was heavily overfueled.

We made (was told) normal approach on Elysium satellite … then suddenly scooted from orbital speed to escape speed, a change even more violent than liftoff.

This was scanned by F.N. Skytrack; we were commanded to stop and explain. I got this secondhand from Stu, self still recovering and enjoying luxury of no-gee with one strap to anchor. Prof was still out.

“So they want to know who we are and what we think we are doing,” Stu told me. “We told them that we were Chinese registry sky wagon Opening Lotus bound on an errand of mercy, to wit, rescuing those scientists marooned on the Moon, and gave our identification—as Opening Lotus.”

“How about transponder?”

“Mannie, if I got what I paid for, our transponder identified us as the Lark up to ten minutes ago… and now has I.D.’d us as the Lotus. Soon we will know. Just one ship is in position to get a missile off and it must blast us in”—he stopped to look—”another twenty-seven minutes according to the wired-up gentleman booting this bucket, or its chances of getting us are poor to zero. So if it worries you—if you have prayers to say or messages to send or whatever it is one does at such times—now is the time.”

“Think we ought to rouse Prof?”

“Let him sleep. Can you think of a better way to make jump than from peaceful sleep instantaneously into a cloud of radiant gas? Unless you know that he has religious necessities to attend to? He never struck me as a religious man, orthodoctrinally speaking.”

“He’s not. But if you have such duties, don’t let me keep you.”

“Thank you, I took care of what seemed necessary before we left ground. How about yourself, Mannie? I’m not much of a padre but I’ll do my best, if I can help. Any sins on your mind, old cobber? If you need to confess, I know quite a little about sin.”

Told him my needs did not run that way. Then did recall sins, some I cherished, and gave him a version more or less true. That reminded him of some of his own, which remind me— Zero time came and went before we ran out of sins. S LaJoie is a good person to spend last minutes with, even if don’t turn out to be last.

We had two days with naught to do but undergo drastic routines to keep us from carrying umpteen plagues to Luna. But didn’t mind shaking from induced chills and burning with fever; free fall was such a relief and was so happy to be going home.

Or almost happy—Prof asked what was troubling me,~ “Nothing,” I said. “Can’t wait to be home. But—Truth is, ashamed to show face after we’ve failed. Prof, what did we do wrong?” “Failed, my boy?”

“Don’t see what else can call it. Asked to be recognized. Not what we got.”

“Manuel, I owe you an apology. You will recall Adam Selene’s projection of our chances just before we left home.” Stu was not in earshot but “Mike” was word we never used; was always “Adam Selene” for security.

“Certainly do! One in fifty-three. Then when we reached Earthside dropped to reeking one in hundred. What you guess it is now? One in thousand?”

“I’ve had new projections every few days…which is why I owe you an apology. The last, received just before we left, included the then-untested assumption that we would escape, get clear of Terra and home safely. Or that at least one of us three would make it, which is why Comrade Stu was summoned home, he having a Terran’s tolerance of high acceleration. Eight projections, in fact, ranging from three of us dead, through various combinations up to three surviving. Would you care to stake a few dollars on what that last projection is, setting a bracket and naming your own odds? I’ll give a hint. You are far too pessimistic.”

“Uh… no, damn it! Just tell.”

“The odds against us are now only seventeen to one … and they’ve been shortening all month. Which I couldn’t tell you.”

“Was amazed, delighted, overjoyed—hurt. “What you mean, couldn’t tell me? Look, Prof, if not trusted, deal me out and put Stu in executive cell.”

“Please, son. That’s where he will go if anything happens to any of us—you, me, or dear Wyoming. I could not tell you Earthside—and can tell you now—not because you aren’t trusted but because you are no actor. You could carry out your role more effectively if you believed that our purpose was to achieve recognition of independence.”

“Now he tells!”

“Manuel, Manuel, we had to fight hard every instant—and lose.” “So? Am big enough boy to be told?”

“Please, Manuel. Keeping you temporarily in the dark greatly enhanced our chances; you can check this with Adam. May I add that Stuart accepted his summons to Luna blithely without asking why? Comrade, that committee was too small, its chairman too intelligent; there was always the hazard that they might offer an acceptable compromise—that first day there was grave danger of it. Had we been able to force our case before the Grand Assembly there would have been no danger of intelligent action. But we were balked. The best I could do was to antagonize the committee, even stooping to personal insult to make certain of at least one holdout against common sense.”

“Guess I never will understand high-level approach.”

“Possibly not. But your talents and mine complement each other. Manuel, you wish to see Luna free.” “You know I do.”

“You also know that Terra can defeat us.”

“Sure. No projection ever gave anything close to even money. So don’t see why you set out to antagonize—”

“Please. Since they can inflict their will on us, our only chance lies in weakening their will. That was why we had to go to Terra. To be divisive. To create many opinions. The shrewdest of the great generals in China’s history once said that perfection in war lay in so sapping the opponent’s will that he surrenders without fighting. In that maxim lies both our ultimate purpose and our most pressing danger. Suppose, as seemed possible that first day, we had been offered an inviting compromise. Agovernor in place of a warden, possibly from our own number. Local autonomy. Adelegate in the Grand Assembly. Ahigher price for grain at the catapult head, plus a bonus for increased shipments. Adisavowal of Hobart’s policies combined with an expression of regret over the rape and the killings with handsome cash settlements to the victims’ survivors. Would it have been accepted? Back home?”

“They did not offer that.”

“The chairman was ready to offer something like it that first afternoon and at that time he had his committee in hand. He offered us an asking price close enough to permit such a dicker. Assume that we reached in substance what I outlined. Would it have been acceptable at home?”

“Uh… maybe.”

“More than a ‘maybe’ by the bleak projection made just before we left home; it was the thing to be avoided at any cost—a settlement which would quiet things down, destroy our will to resist, without changing any essential in the longer-range prediction of disaster. So I switched the subject and squelched possibility by being difficult about irrelevancies politely offensive. Manuel, you and I know—and Adam knows—that there must be an end to food shipments; nothing less will save Luna from disaster. But can you imagine a wheat farmer fighting to end those shipments?”

“No. Wonder if can pick up news from home on how they’re taking stoppage?”

“There won’t be any. Here is how Adam has timed it, Manuel: No announcement is to be made on either planet until after we get home. We are still buying wheat. Barges are still arriving at Bombay.”

“You told them shipments would stop at once.”

“That was a threat, not a moral commitment. Afew more loads won’t matter and we need time. We don’t have everyone on our side; we have only a minority. There is a majority who don’t care either way but can be swayed—temporarily. We have another minority against us… especially grain farmers whose interest is never politics but the price of wheat. They are grumbling but accepting Scrip, hoping it wili be worth face value later. But the instant we announce that shipments have stopped they will be actively against us. Adam plans to have the majority committed to us at the time the announcement is made.”

“How long? One year? Two?”

“Two days, three days, perhaps four. Carefully edited excerpts from that five-year plan, excerpts from the recordings you’ve made—especially that yellow-dog offer—exploitation of your arrest in Kentucky—”

“Hey! I’d rather forget that.”

Prof smiled and cocked an eyebrow. “Uh—” I said uncomfortably. “Okay. If will help.” “It will help more than any statistics about natural resources.”

Wired-up ex-human piloting us went in as one maneuver without bothering to orbit and gave us even heavier beating; ship was light and lively. But change in motion is under two-and-a- half kilometers; was over in nineteen seconds and we were down at Johnson City. I took it right, just a terrible constriction in chest and a feeling as if giant were squeezing heart, then was over and I was gasping back to normal and glad to be proper weight. But did almost kill poor old Prof.

Mike told me later that pilot refused to surrender control; Mike would have brought ship down in a low-gee, no-breakum-egg, knowing Prof was aboard. But perhaps that Cyborg knew what he was doing; a low-gee landing wastes mass and Lotus-Lark grounded almost dry.

None of which we cared about, as looked as if that Garrison landing had wasted Prof. Stu saw it while I was still gasping, then we were both at him—heart stimulant, manual respiration, massage. At last he fluttered eyelids, looked at us, smiled. “Home,” he whispered.

We made him rest twenty minutes before we let him suit up to leave ship; had been as near dead as can be and not hear angels. Skipper was filling tanks, anxious to get rid of us and take on passengers—that Dutchman never spoke to us whole trip; think he regretted letting money talk him into a trip that could ruin or kill him.

By then Wyoh was inside ship, p-suited to come meet us. Don’t think Stu had ever seen her in a p-suit and certain he had never seen her as a blonde; did not recognize. I was hugging her in spite of p-suit; he was standing by, waiting to be introduced. Then strange “man” in p-suit hugged him—he was surprised.

Heard Wyoh’s muffled voice: “Oh heavens! Mannie, my helmet.”

I unclamped it, lifted off. She shook curls and grinned. “Stu, aren’t you glad to see me? Don’t you know me?”

Agrin spread over his face, slowly as dawn across maria. “Zdra’stvooeet’ye, Gospazha! I am most happy to see you.” “‘Gospazha’ indeed! I’m Wyoh to you, dear, always. Didn’t Mannie tell you I’d gone back to blonde?”

“Yes, he did. But knowing it and seeing are not the same.”

“You’ll get used to it.” She stopped to bend over Prof, kiss him, giggle at him, then straightened up and gave me a no-helmet welcome-home that left us both with tears despite pesky suit. Then turned again to Stu, started to kiss him.

He held back a little. She stopped. “Stu, am I going to have to put on brown makeup to welcome you?” Stu glanced at me, then kissed her. Wyoh put in as much time and thought as she had to welcoming me.

Was later I figured out his odd behavior. Stu, despite commitment, was still not a Loonie—and in meantime Wyoh had married. What’s that got to do with it? Well, Earthside it makes a difference, and Stu did not know deep down in bones that a Loonie lady is own mistress. Poor chum thought I might take offense!

We got Prof into suit, ourselves same, and left, me with cannon under arm. Once underground and locked through, we unsuited—and I was flattered to see that Wyoh was wearing crushed under p-suit that red dress I bought her ages ago. She brushed it and skirt flared out.

Immigration room was empty save for about forty men lined up along wall like new transportees; were wearing p-suits and carrying helmets—Terrans going home, stranded tourists and some scientists. Their p-suits would not go, would be unloaded before lift. I looked at them and thought about Cyborg pilot. When Lark had been stripped, all but three couches had been removed; these people were going to take acceleration lying on floorplates—if skipper was not careful he was going to have mashed Terrans au blut.

Mentioned to Stu. “Forget it,” he said. “Captain Leures has foam pads aboard. He won’t let them be hurt; they’re his life insurance.”

My family, all thirty-odd from Grandpaw to babies, was waiting beyond next lock on level he!ow and we got cried on and slobbered on and hugged and this time Stu did not hold back. Little Hazel made ceremony of kissing us; she had Liberty Caps, set one on each, then kissed us—and at that signal whole family put on Liberty Caps, and I got sudden tears. Perhaps is what patriotism feels like, choked up and so happy it hurts. Or maybe was just being with my beloveds again.

“Where’s Slim?” I asked Hazel. “Wasn’t he invited?” “Couldn’t come. He’s junior marshal of your reception.” “Reception? This is all we want.”

“You’ll see.”

Did. Good thing family came out to meet us; that and ride to L-City (filled a capsule) were all I saw of them for some time. Tube Station West was a howling mob, all in Liberty Caps. We three were carried on shoulders all way to Old Dome, surrounded by a stilyagi bodyguard, elbows locked to force through cheering, singing crowds. Boys were wearing red caps and white shirts and their girls wore white jumpers and red shorts color of caps.

At station and again when they put us down in Old Dome I got kissed by fems I have never seen before or since. Remember hoping that measures we had taken in lieu of quarantine were effective—or half of L-City would be down with colds or worse. (Apparently we were clean; was no epidemic. But I remember time—was quite small—when measles got loose and thousands died.)

Worried about Prof, too; reception was too rough for a man good as dead an hour earlier. But he not only enjoyed it, he made a wonderful speech in Old Dome—one short on logic, loaded with ringing phrases. “Love” was in it, and “home” and “Luna” and “comrades and neighbors” and even “shoulder to shoulder” and all sounded good.

They had erected a platform under big news video on south face. Adam Selene greeted us from video screen and now Prof’s face and voice were projected from it, much magnified, over his head—did not have to shout. But did have to pause after every sentence; crowd roars drowned out even bull voice from screen—and no doubt pauses helped, as rest. But Prof no longer seemed old, tired, ill; being back inside The Rock seemed to be tonic he needed. And me, too! Was wonderful to be right weight, feel strong, breathe pure, replenished air of own city.

No mean city! Impossible to get all of L-City inside Old Dome—but looked as if they tried. I estimated an area ten meters square, tried to count heads, got over two hundred not half through and gave up. Lunatic placed crowd at thirty thousand, seems impossible.

Prof’s words reached more nearly three million; video carried scene to those who could not crowd into Old Dome, cable and relay flashed it across lonely maria to all warrens. He grabbed chance to tell of slave future Authority planned for them. Waved that “white paper.” “Here it is!” he cried. “Your fetters! Your leg irons! Will you wear them?”

“NO!”

“They say you must. They say they will H-bomb … then survivors will surrender and put on these chains. Will you?” “NO! NEVER!”

“Never,” agreed Prof. “They threaten to send troops … more and more troops to rape and murder. We shall fight them.” “DA!”

“We shall fight them on the surface, we shall fight them in the tubes, we shall fight them in the corridors! If die we must, we shall die free!” “Yes! Ja-da! Tell ‘em, tell ‘em!”

“And if we die, let history write: This was Luna’s finest hour! Give us liberty … or give us death!”

Some of that sounded familiar. But his words came out fresh and new; I joined in roars. Look… I knew we couldn’t whip Terra—I’m tech by trade and know that an H-missile doesn’t care how brave you are. But was ready, too. If they wanted a fight, let’s have it!

Prof let them roar, then led them in “Battle Hymn of the Republic,” Simon’s version. Adam appeared on screen again, took over leading it and sang with them, and we tried to slip away, off back of platform, with help of stilyagi led by Slim. But women didn’t want to let us go and lads aren’t at their best in trying to stop ladies; they broke through. Was twenty-two hundred before we four, Wyoh, Prof, Stu, self, were locked in room L of Raffles, where Adam-Mike joined us by video. I was starved by then, all were, so I ordered dinner and Prof insisted that we eat before reviewing plans.

Then we got down to business.

Adam started by asking me to read aloud white paper, for his benefit and for Comrade Wyoming—”But first, Comrade Manuel, if you have the recordings you made Earthside, could you transmit them by phone at high speed to my office? I’ll have them transcribed for study—all I have so far are the coded summaries Comrade Stuart sent up.”

I did so, knowing Mike would study them at once, phrasing was part of “Adam Selene” myth—and decided to talk to Prof about letting Stu in on facts. If Stu was to be in executive cell, pretending was too clumsy.

Feeding recordings into Mike at overspeed took five minutes, reading aloud another thirty. That done, Adam said, “Professor, the reception was more successful than I had counted on, due to your speech. I think we should push the embargo through Congress at once. I can send out a call tonight for a session at noon tomorrow. Comments?”

I said, “Look, those yammerheads will kick it around for weeks. If you must put it up to them—can’t see why—do as you did with Declaration. Start late, jam it through after midnight using own people.”

Adam said, “Sorry, Manuel. I’m getting caught up on events Earthside and you have catching up to do here. It’s no longer the same group. Comrade Wyoming?” “Mannie dear, it’s an elected Congress now. They must pass it. Congress is what government we have.”

I said slowly, “You held election and turned things over to them? Everything? Then what are we doing?” Looked at Prof, expecting explosion. My objections would not be on his grounds— but couldn’t see any use in swapping one talk-talk for another. At least first group had been so loose we could pack it—this new group would be glued to seats.

Prof was undisturbed. Fitted fingertips together and looked relaxed. “Manuel, I don’t think the situation is as bad as you seem to feel that it is. In each age it is necessary to adapt to the popular mythology. At one time kings were anointed by Deity, so the problem was to see to it that Deity anointed the tight candidate. In this age the myth is ‘the will of the people’… but the problem changes only superficially. Comrade Adam and I have had long discussions about how to determine the will of the people. I venture to suggest that this solution is one we can work with.”

“Well … okay. But why weren’t we told? Stu, did you know?”

“No, Mannie. There was no reason to tell me.” He shrugged. “I’m a monarchist, I wouldn’t have been interested. But I go along with Prof that in this day and age elections are a necessary ritual.”

Prof said, “Manuel, it wasn’t necessary to tell us till we got back; you and I had other work to do. Comrade Adam and dear Comrade Wyoming handled it in our absence… so let’s find out what they did before we judge what they’ve done.”

“Sorry. Well, Wyoh?”

“Mannie, we didn’t leave everything to chance. Adam and I decided that a Congress of three hundred would be about right. Then we spent hours going over the Party lists—plus prominent people not in the Party. At last we had a list of candidates—a list that included some from the Ad-Hoc Congress; not all were yammerheads, we included as many as we could. Then Adam phoned each one and asked him—or her—if he would serve … binding him to secrecy in the meantime. Some we had to replace.

“When we were ready, Adam spoke on video, announced that it was time to carry out the Party’s pledge of free elections, set a date, said that everybody over sixteen could vote, and that

all anyone had to do to be a candidate was to get a hundred chops on a nominating petition and post it in Old Dome, or the public notice place for his warren. Oh, yes, thirty temporary election districts, ten Congressmen from each district—that let all but the smallest warrens be at least one district.”

“So you had it lined up and Party ticket went through?”

“Oh, no, dear! There wasn’t any Party ticket—officially. But we were ready with our candidates… and I must say my stilyagi did a smart job getting chops on nominations; our optings were posted the first day. Many other people posted; there were over two thousand candidates. But there was only ten days from announcement to election, and we knew what we wanted whereas the opposition was split up. It wasn’t necessary for Adam to come out publicly and endorse candidates. It worked out—you won by seven thousand votes, dear, while your nearest rival got less than a thousand.”

“I won?”

“You won, I won, Professor won, Comrade Clayton won, and just about everybody we thought should be in the Congress. It wasn’t hard. Although Adam never endorsed anyone, I didn’t hesitate to let our comrades know who was favored. Simon poked his finger in, too. And we do have good connections with newspapers. I wish you had been here election night, watching the results. Exciting!”

“How did you go about nose counting? Never known how election works. Write names on a piece of paper?”

“Oh, no, we used a better system … because, after all, some of our best people can’t write. We used banks for voting places, with bank clerks identifying customers and customers identifying members of their families and neighbors who don’t have bank accounts—and people voted orally and the clerks punched the votes into the banks’ computers with the voter watching, and results were all tallied at once in Luna City clearinghouse. We voted everybody in less than three hours and results were printed out just minutes after voting stopped.”

Suddenly a light came on in my skull and I decided to question Wyoh privately. No, not Wyoh—Mike. Get past his “Adam Selene” dignity and hammer truth out of his neuristors. Recalled a cheque ten million dollars too large and wondered how many had voted for me? Seven thousand? Seven hundred? Or just my family and friends?

But no longer worried about new Congress. Prof had not slipped them a cold deck but one that was frozen solid—then ducked Earthside while crime was committed. No use asking Wyoh; she didn’t even need to know what Mike had done … and could do her part better if did not suspect.

Nor would anybody suspect. If was one thing all people took for granted, was conviction that if you feed honest figures into a computer, honest figures come out. Never doubted it myself till met a computer with sense of humor.

Changed mind about suggesting that Stu be let in on Mike’s self-awareness. Three was two too many. Or perhaps three. “Mi—” I started to say, and changed to: “My word! Sounds efficient. How big did we win?”

Adam answered without expression. “Eighty-six percent of our candidates were successful—approximately what I had expected.” (“Approximately,” my false left arm! Exactly what expected, Mike old ironmongery!) “Withdraw objection to a noon session—I’ll be there.”

“It seems to me,” said Stu, “assuming that the embargo starts at once, we will need something to maintain the enthusiasm we witnessed tonight. Or there will be a long quiet period of increasing economic depression—from the embargo, I mean—and growing disillusionment. Adam, you first impressed me through your ability to make shrewd guesses as to future events. Do my misgivings make sense?”

“They do.”

“Well?”

Adam looked at us in turn, and was almost impossible to believe that this was a false image and Mike was simply placing us through binaural receptors. “Comrades … it must be turned into open war as quickly as possible.”

Nobody said anything. One thing to talk about war, another to face up to it. At last I sighed and said, “When do we start throwing rocks?”

“We do not start,” Adam answered. “They must throw the first one. How do we antagonize them into doing so? I will reserve my thoughts to the last. Comrade Manuel?” “Uh… don’t look at me. Way I feel, would start with a nice big rock smack on Agra—a bloke there who is a waste of space. But is not what you are after.”

“No, it is not,” Adam answered seriously. “You would not only anger the entire Hindu nation, a people intensely opposed to destruction of life, but you would also anger and shock people throughout Earth by destroying the Taj Mahal.”

“Including me,” said Prof. “Don’t talk dirty, Manuel.”

“Look,” I said, “didn’t say to do it. Anyhow, could miss Taj.”

“Manuel,” said Prof, “as Adam pointed out, our strategy must be to antagonize them into striking the first blow, the classic ‘Pearl Harbor’ maneuver of game theory, a great advantage in Weltpolitick. The question is how? Adam, I suggest that what is needed is to plant the idea that we are weak and divided and that all it takes is a show of force to bring us back into line. Stu? Your people Earthside should be useful. Suppose the Congress repudiated myself and Manuel? The effect?”

“Oh, no!” said Wyoh.

“Oh, yes, dear Wyoh. Not necessary to do it but simply to put it over news channels to Earth. Perhaps still better to put it out over a clandestine beam attributed to the Terran scientists still with us while our official channels display the classic stigmata of tight censorship. Adam?”

“I’m noting it as a tactic which probably will be included in the strategy. But it will not be sufficient alone. We must be bombed.”

“Adam,” said Wyoh, “why do you say so? Even if Luna City can stand up under their biggest bombs—something I hope never to find out—we know that Luna can’t win an all-out war. You’ve said so, many times. Isn’t there some way to work it so that they will just plain leave us alone?”

Adam pulled at right cheek—and I thought: Mike, if you don’t knock off play-acting, you’ll have me believing in you myself! Was annoyed at him and looked forward to a talk—one in which I would not have to defer to “Chairman Selene.”

“Comrade Wyoming,” he said soberly, “it’s a matter of game theory in a complex non-zero-sum game. We have certain resources or ‘pieces in the game’ and many possible moves. Our opponents have much larger resources and a far larger spectrum of responses. Our problem is to manipulate the game so that our strength is utilized toward an optimax solution while inducing them to waste their superior strength and to refrain from using it at maximum. Timing is of the essence and a gambit is necessary to start a chain of events favorable to our strategy. I realize this is not clear. I could put the factors through a computer and show you. Or you can accept the conclusion. Or you can use your own judgment.”

He was reminding Wyoh (under Stu’s nose) that he was not Adam Selene but Mike, our dinkum thinkum who could handle so complex a problem because he was a computer and smartest one anywhere.

Wyoh backtracked. “No, no,” she said, “I wouldn’t underitand the maths. Okay, it has to be done. How do we do it?”

Was four hundred before we had a plan that suited Prof and Stu as well as Adam—or took that long for Mike to sell his plan while appearing to pull ideas out of rest of us. Or was it Prof’s plan with Adam Selene as salesman?

In any case we had a plan and calendar, one that grew out of master strategy of Tuesday 14 May 2075 and varied from it only to match events as they actually had occurred. In essence it called for us to behave as nastily as possible while strengthening impression that we would be awfully easy to spank.

Was at Community Hall at noon, after too little sleep, and found I could have slept two hours longer; Congressmen from Hong Kong could not make it that early despite tube all way. Wyoh did not bang gavel until fourteen-thirty.

Yes, my bride wife was chairman pro tem in a body not yet organized. Parliamentary rulings seemed to come naturally to her, and she was not a bad choice; a mob of Loonies behaves better when a lady bangs gavel.

Not going to detail what new Congress did and said that session and later; minutes are available. I showed up only when necessary and never bothered to learn talk-talk rules—seemed

to be equal parts common politeness and ways in which chairman could invoke magic to do it his (her) way.

No sooner had Wyoh banged them to order but a cobber jumped up and said, “Gospazha Chairmah, move we suspend rules and hear from Comrade Professor de la Paz!”—which brought a whoop of approval.

Wyoh banged again. “Motion is out of order and Member from Lower Churchill will be seated. This house recessed without adjourning and Chairman of Committee on Permanent Organization, Resolutions, and Government Structure still has the floor.”

Turned out to be Wolfgang Korsakov, Member from Tycho Under (and a member of Prof’s cell and our number-one finagler of LuNoHoCo) and he not only had floor, he had it all day, yielding time as he saw fit (i.e., picking out whom he wanted to speak rather than letting just anyone talk). But nobody was too irked; this mob seemed satisfied with leadership. Were noisy but not unruly.

By dinnertime Luna had a government to replace co-opted provisional government—i.e., dummy government we had opted ourselves, which sent Prof and me to Earth. Congress confirmed all acts of provisional government, thus putting face on what we had done, thanked outgoing government for services and instructed Wolfgang’s committee to continue work on permanent government structure.

Prof was elected President of Congress and ex-officio Prime Minister of interim government until we acquired a constitution. He protested age and health … then said would serve if could have certain things to help him; too old and too exhausted from trip Earthside to have responsibility of presiding—except on occasions of state—so he wanted Congress to elect a Speaker and Speaker Pro Tem… and besides that, he felt that Congress should augment its numbers by not more than ten percent by itself electing members-at-large so that Prime Minister, whoever he might be, could opt cabinet members or ministers of state who might not now be members of Congress—especially ministers-without-portfolio to take load off his shoulders.

They balked. Most were proud of being “Congressmen” and already jealous of status. But Prof just sat looking tired, and waited—and somebody pointed out that it still left control in hands of Congress. So they gave him what he asked for.

Then somebody squeezed in a speech by making it a question to Chair. Everybody knew (he said) that Adam Selene had refrained from standing for Congress on grounds that Chairman of Emergency Committee should not take advantage of positon to elbow way into new government … but could Honorable Chairlady tell member whether was any reason not elect Adam Selene a member-at-large? As gesture of appreciation for great services? To let all Luna—yes, and all those earthworms, especially ex-Lunar ex-Authonty—know that we not repudiating Adam Selene, on contrary he was our beloved elder statesman and was not President simply because he chose not to be!

More whoops that went on and on. You can find in minutes who made that speech but one gets you ten Prof wrote it and Wyoh planted it. Here is how it wound up over course of days:

Prime Minister and Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs: Professor Bernardo de la Paz. Speaker, Finn Nielsen; Speaker Pro Tem, Wyoming Davis.

Undersecretary of State for Foreign Affairs and Minister of Defense, General O’Kelly Davis; Minister of Information, Terence Sheehan (Sheenie turned Pravda over to managing editor to work with Adam and Stu); Special Minister-without-Portfolio in Ministry of Information, Stuart Rene LaJoie, Congressman-at-Large; Secretary of State for Economics and Finance (and Custodian of Enemy Property), Wolfgang Korsakov; Minister of Interior Affairs and Safety, Comrade “Clayton” Watenabe; Minter-without-Portfolio and Special Advisor to Prime Minister, Adam Selene—plus a dozen ministers and ministers-without-portfolio from warrens other than Luna City.

See where that left things? Brush away fancy titles and B cell was still running things as advised by Mike, backed by a Congress in which we could not lose a test vote—but did lose others we did not want to win, or did not care about.

But at time could not see sense in all that talk-talk.

During evening session Prof reported on trip and then yielded to me—Committee Chairman Korsakov consenting—so that I could report what “five-year plan” meant and how Authority had tried to bribe me. I’ll never make a speaker but had time during dinner break to swot speech Mike had written. He had slanted it so nastily that I got angry all over again and was angry when I spoke and managed to make it catching. Congress was ready to riot by time I sat down.

Prof stepped forward, thin and pale, and said quietly, “Comrade Members, what shall we do? I suggest, Chairman Korsakov consenting, that we discuss informally how to treat this latest insolence to our nation.”

One member from Novylen wanted to declare war and they would have done so right then if Prof had not pointed out that they were still hearing committee reports.

More talk, all bitter. At last Comrade Member Chang Jones spoke: “Fellow Congressmen—sorry, Gospodin Chairman Korsakov—I’m a rice and wheat farmer. Mean I used to be, because back in May I got a bank loan and sons and I are converting to variety farming. We’re broke—had to borrow tube fare to get here—but family is eating and someday we might pull square with bank. At least I’m no longer raising grain.

“But others are. Catapult has never reduced headway by one barge whole time we’ve been free. We’re still shipping, hoping their cheques will be worth something someday.

“But now we know! They’ve told us what they mean to do with us—to us! I say only way to make those scoundrels know we mean business is stop shipments right now! Not another tonne, not a kilo … until they come here and dicker honestly for honest price!”

Around midnight they passed Embargo, then adjourned subject to call … standing committees to continue.

Wyoh and I went home and I got reacquainted with my family. Was nothing to do; Mike-Adam and Stu had been working on how to hit them with it Earthside and Mike had shut catapult down (“technical difficulties with ballistic computer”) twenty-four hours earlier. Last barge in trajectory would be taken by Poona Ground Control in slightly over one day and Earth would be told, nastily, that was last they would ever get.

22

Shock to farmers was eased by continuing to buy grain at catapult—but cheques now carried printed warning that Luna Free State did not stand behind them, did not warrant that Lunar Authority would ever redeem them even in Scrip, etc., etc. Some farmers left grain anyhow, some did not, all screamed. But was nothing they could do; catapult was shut down, loading belts not moving.

Depression was not immediately felt in rest of economy. Defense regiments had depleted ranks of ice miners so much that selling ice on free market was profitable; LuNoH0Co steel subsidiary was hiring every able-bodied man it could find, and Wolfgang Korsakov was ready with paper money, “National Dollars,” printed to resemble Hong Kong dollar and in theory pegged to it. Luna had plenty of food, plenty of work, plenty of money; people were not hurting, “beer, betting, women, and work” went on as usual.

“Nationals,” as they were called, were inflation money, war money, fiat money, and were discounted a fraction of a percent on day of first issue, concealed as “exchange service charge.” They were spendable money and never did drop to zero but were inflationary and exchange reflected it increasingly; new government was spending money it did not have.

But that was later—Challenge to Earth, to Authority and Federated Nations, was made intentionally nasty. F.N. vessels were ordered to stay clear of Luna by ten diameters and not orbit at any distance under pain of being destroyed without warning. (No mention of how, since we could not.) Vessels of private registry would be permitted to land if a) permission was requested ahead of time with ballistic plan, b) a vessel thus cleared placed itself under Luna Ground Control (Mike’) at a distance of one hundred thousand kilometers while following approved trajectory, and c) was unarmed save for three hand guns permitted three officers. Last was to be confirmed by inspection on landing before anybody was allowed to leave ship and before ship was serviced with fuel and/or reaction mass; violation would mean confiscation of ship. No person allowed to land at Luna other than ship’s crew in connection with loading, unloading, or servicing save citizens of Terran countries who had recognized Free Luna. (Only Chad—and Chad had no ships. Prof expected some private vessels to be re- registered under Chad merchant flag.)

Manifesto noted that Terran scientists still in Luna could return home in any vessel which conformed to our requirements. It invited all freedom-loving Terran nations to denounce wrongs done us and which the Authority planned against us, recognize us, and enjoy free trade and full intercourse—and pointed out that there were no tariffs or any artificial restrictions against trade in Luna, and was policy of Luna government to keep it that way. We invited immigration, unlimited, and pointed out that we had a labor shortage and any immigrant could be self- supporting at once.

We also boasted of food—adult consumption over four thousand calories per day, high in protein, low in cost, no rationing. (Stu had Adam-Mike stick in price of 100-proof vodka—fifty cents HKL per liter, less in quantity, no taxes. Since this was less than one-tenth retail price of 80-proot vodka in North America, Stu knew it would hit home. Adam, “by nature” a teetotaler, hadn’t thought of it—one of Mike’s few oversights.)

Lunar Authority was invited to gather at one spot well away from other people, say in unirrigated part of Sahara, and receive one last barge of grain free—straight down at terminal velocity. This was followed by a snotty lecture which implied that we were prepared to do same to anyone who threatened our peace, there being a number of loaded barges at catapult head, ready for such unceremonious delivery.

Then we waited.

But we waited busily. Were indeed a few loaded barges; these we unloaded and reloaded with rock, with changes made in guidance transponders so that Poona Control could not affect them. Their retros were removed, leaving only lateral thrustors, and spare retros were taken to new catapult, to be modified for lateral guidance. Greatest effort went into moving steel to new catapult and shaping it into jackets for solid rock cylinders—steel was bottleneck.

Two days after our manifesto a “clandestine” radio started beaming to Terra. Was weak and tended to fade and was supposed to be concealed, presumably in a crater, and could be worked only certain hours until brave Terran scientists managed to rig automatic repeat. Was near frequency of Voice of Free Luna, which tended to drown it out with brassy boasts.

(Terrans remaining in Luna had no chance to make signals. Those who had chosen to stick with research were chaperoned by stilyagi every instant and locked into barracks to sleep.) But “clandestine” station managed to get “truth” to Terra. Prof had been tried for deviationism and was under house arrest. I had been executed for treason. Hong Kong Luna had pulled

out, declared self separately independent… might be open to reason. Rioting in Novylen. All food growing had been collectivized and black-market eggs were selling for three dollars

apiece in Lana City. Battalions of female troops were being enlisted, each sworn to kill at least one Terran, and were drilling with fake guns in corridors of Luna City.

Last was an almost-true. Many ladies wanted to do something militant and had formed a Home Defense Guard, “Ladies from Hades.” But their drills were of a practical nature—and Hazel was sulking because Mum had not allowed her to join. Then she got over sulks and started “Stilyagi Debs,” a very junior home guard which drilled after school hours, did not use weapons, concentrated on backing up stilyagi air & pressure corps, and practiced first aid—and own no-weapons fighting, which—possibly—Mum never learned.

I don’t know how much to tell. Can’t tell all, but stuff in history books is so wrong!

I was no better a “defense minister” than “congressman.” Not apologizing, had no training for either. Revolution is an amateur thing for almost everybody; Prof was only one who seemed to know what he was doing, and, at that, was new to him, too—he had never taken part in a successful revolution or ever been part of a government, much less head.

As Minister of Defense I could not see many ways to defend except for steps already taken; that is, stilyagi air squads in warrens and laser gunners around ballistic radars. If F.N. decided to bomb, didn’t see any way to stop them; wasn’t an interception missile in all Luna and that’s not a gadget you whomp up from bits and pieces. My word, we couldn’t even make fusion weapons with which such a rocket is tipped.

But I went through motions. Asked same Chinee engineers who had built laser guns to take a crack at problem of intercepting bombs or missiles—one same problem save that a missile comes at you faster.

Then turned attention to other things. Simply hoped that F.N. would never bomb warrens. Some warrens, L-City in particular, were so deep down that they could probably stand direct hits. One cubic, lowest level of Complex where central part of Mike lived, had been designed to withstand bombing. On other hand Tycho Under was a big natural bubble cave like Old Dome and roof was only meters thick; sealer on under side is kept warm with hot water pipes to make sure new cracks sealed—would not take much of a bomb to crack Tycho Under.

But is no limit to how big a fusion bomb can be; F.N. could build one big enough to smash L-City–-or theoretically even a Doomsday job that would split Luna like a melon and finish job some asteroid started at Tycho. If they did, couldn’t see any way to stop them, so didn’t worry.

Instead put time on problems I could manage, helping at new catapult, trying to work up better aiming arrangements for laser drills around radars (and trying to get drillmen to stick; half of them quit once price of ice went up), trying to arrange decentralized standby engineering controls for all warrens. Mike did designing on this, we grabbed every general-purpose computer we could find (paying in “nationals” with ink barely dry), and I turned job over to McIntyre, former chief engineer for Authority; was a job within his talents and I couldn’t do all rewiring and so forth, even if had tried.

Held out biggest computer, one that did accounting for Bank of Hong Kong in Luna and also was clearinghouse there. Looked over its instruction manuals and decided was a smart computer for one that could not talk, so asked Mike if he could teach it ballistics? We made temporary link-ups to let two machines get acquainted and Mike reported it could learn simple job we wanted it for—standby for new catapult—although Mike would not care to ride in ship controlled by it; was too matter-of-fact and uncritical. Stupid, really.

Well, didn’t want it to whistle tunes or crack jokes; just wanted it to shove loads out a catapult at right millisecond and at correct velocity, then watch load approach Terra and give a nudge. HK Bank was not anxious to sell. But we had patriots on their board, we promised to return it when emergency was over, and moved it to new site—by rolligon, too big for tubes, and took

all one dark semi-lunar. Had to jerry-rig a big airlock to get it out of Kong warren. I hooked it to Mike again and he undertook to teach art of ballistics against possibility that his linkage to

new site might be cut in an attack.

(You know what bank used to replace computer? Two hundred clerks working abacuses. Abacusi? You know, slipsticks with beads, oldest digital computer, so far back in prehistory that nobody knows who invented. Russki and Chinee and Nips have always used them, and small shops today.)

Trying to improve laser drills into space-defense weapons was easier but less straightforward. We had to leave them mounted on original cradles; was neither time, steel, nor metalsmiths to start fresh. So we concentrated on better aiming arrangements. Call went out for telescopes. Scarce—what con fetches along a spyglass when transported? What market later to create supply? Surveying instruments and helmet binoculars were all we turned up, plus optical instruments confiscated in Terran labs. But we managed to equip drills with low- power big-field sights to coach-on with and high-powcr scopes for fine sighting, plus train and elevation circles and phones so that Mike could tell them where to point. Four drills we equipped with self-synchronous repeater drives so that Mike could control them himself—liberated these selsyns at Richardson; astronomers used them for Bausch cameras and Schmidts in sky mapping.

But big problem was men. Wasn’t money, we kept upping wages. No, a drillman likes to work or wouldn’t be in that trade. Standing by in a ready room day after day, waiting for alert that always turns out to be just another practice—drove ‘em crackers. They quit. One day in September I pulled an alert and got only seven drills manned.

Talked it over with Wyoh and Sidris that night. Next day Wyoh wanted to know if Prof and I would okay bolshoi expense money? They formed something Wyoh named “Lysistrata Corps.” Never inquired into duties or cost, because next time I inspected a ready room found three girls and no shortge of drillmen. Girls were in uniform of Second Defense Gunners just as men were (drillmen hadn’t bothered much with authorized uniform up to then) and one girl was wearing sargeant’s stripes with gun captain’s badge.

I made that inspection very short. Most girls don’t have muscle to be a drillman and I doubted if this girl could wrestle a drill well enough to justify that badge. But regular gun captain was on job, was no harm in girls learning to handle lasers, morale was obviously high; I gave matter no more worry.

Prof underrated his new Congress. Am sure he never wanted anything but a body which would rubberchop what we were doing and thereby do make it “voice of people.” But fact that new Congressmen were not yammerheads resulted in them doing more than Prof intended. Especially Committee on Permanent Organization, Resolutions, and Government Structure.

Got out of hand because we were all trying to do too much. Permanent heads of Congress were Prof, Finn Nielsen. and Wyoh. Prof showed up only when he wanted to speak to them— seldom. He spent time with Mike on plans and analysis (odds shortened to one in five during September ‘76), time with Stu and Sheenie Sheehan on propaganda, controlling official news to Earthside, very different “news” that went via “clandestine” radio, and reslanting news that came up from Earthside. Besides that he had finger in everything; I reported whim once a day, and all ministries both real and dummy did same.

I kept Finn Nielsen busy; he was my “Commander of Armed Forces.” He had his laser gun infantry to supervise—six men with captured weapons on day we nabbed warden, now eight hundred scattered all through Luna and armed with Kongville monkey copies. Besides that, Wyoh’s organizations, Stilyagi Air Corps, Stilyagi Debs, Ladies from Hades, Irregulars (kept for morale and renamed Peter Pan’s Pirates), and Lysistrata Corps—all these halfway-military groups reported through Wyoh to Finn. I shoved it onto him; I had other problems, such as trying to be a computer mechanic as well as a “statesman” when jobs such as installing that computer at new catapult site had to be done.

Besides which, I am not an executive and Finn had talent for it. I shoved First and Second Defense Gunners under him, too. But first I decided that these two skeleton regiments were a “brigade” and made Judge Brody a “brigadier.” Brody knew as much about military matters as I did—zero—but was widely known, highly respected, had unlimited hard sense—and had been drillman before he lost leg. Finn was not drillman, so couldn’t be placed directly over them; They wouldn’t have listened. I thought about using my co-husband Greg. But Greg was needed at Mare Undarum catapult, was only mechanic who had followed every phase of construction.

Wyoh helped Prof, helped Stu, had her own organizations, I made trips out to Mare Undarum—and had little time to preside over Congress; task fell on senior committee chairman, Wolf Korsakov … who was busier than any of us; LuNoHoCo was running everything Authority used to run and many new things as well.

Wolf had a good committee; Prof should have kept closer eye on it. Wolf had caused his boss, Moshai Baum, to be elected vice-chairman and had in all seriousness outlined for his committee problem of determining what permanent government should be. Then Wolf had turned back on it.

Those busy laddies split up and did it—studied forms of government in Carnegie Library, held subcommittee meetings, three or four people at a time (few enough to worry Prof had he known)—and when Congress met early in September to ratify some appointments and elect more congressmen-at-large, instead of adjourning, Comrade Baum had gavel and they recessed—and met again and turned selves into committee-of-the-whole and passed a resolution and next thing we knew entire Congress was a Constitutional Convention divided into working groups headed by those subcommittees.

I think Prof was shocked. But he couldn’t undo it, had all been proper under rules he himself had written. But he rolled with punch, went to Novylen (where Congress now met—more central) and spoke to them with usual good nature and simply cast doubts on what they were doing rather than telling them flatly they were wrong.

After gracefully thanking them he started picking early drafts to pieces:

“Comrade Members, like fire and fusion, government is a dangerous servant and a terrible master. You now have freedom—if you can keep it. But do remember that you can lose this freedom more quickly to yourselves than to any other tyrant. Move slowly, be hesitant, puzzle out the consequences of every word. I would not be unhappy if this convention sat for ten years before reporting—but I would be frightened if you took less than a year.

“Distrust the obvious, suspect the traditional … for in the past mankind has not done well when saddling itself with governments. For example, I note in one draft report a proposal for setting up a commission to divide Luna into congressional districts and to reapportion them from time to time according to population.

“This is the traditional way; therefore it should be suspect, considered guilty until proved innocent. Perhaps you feel that this is the only way. May I suggest others? Surely where a man lives is the least important thing about him. Constituencies might be formed by dividing people by occupation… or by age… or even alphabetically. Or they might not be divided, every member elected at large–and do not object that this would make it impossible for any man not widely known throughout Luna to be elected; that might be the best possible thing for Luna.

“You might even consider installing the candidates who receive the least number of votes; unpopular men may be just the sort to save you from a new tyranny. Don’t reject the idea merely because it seems preposterous—think about it! In past history popularly elected governments have been no better and sometimes far worse than overt tyrannies.

“But if representative government turns out to be your intention there still may be ways to achieve it better than the territorial district. For example you each represent about ten thousand human beings, perhaps seven thousand of voting age—and some of you were elected by slim majorities. Suppose instead of election a man were qualified for office by petition signed by four thousand citizens. He would then represent those four thousand affirmatively, with no disgruntled minority, for what would have been a minority in a territorial constituency would all be free to start other petitions or join in them. All would then be represented by men of their choice. Or a man with eight thousand supporters might have two votes in this body. Difficulties, objections, practical points to be worked out—many of them! But you could work them out… and thereby avoid the chronic sickness of representative government, the disgruntled minority which feels—correctly!—that it has been disenfranchised.

“But, whatever you do, do not let the past be a straitjacket!

“I note one proposal to make this Congress a two-house body. Excellent—the more impediments to legislation the better. But, instead of following tradition, I suggest one house legislators, another whose single duty is to repeal laws. Let legislators pass laws only with a two-thirds majority … while the repealers are able to cancel any law through a mere one- third minority. Preposterous? Think about it. If a bill is so poor that it cannot command two-thirds of your consents, is it not likely that it would make a poor law? And if a law is disliked by as many as one-third is it not likely that you would be better off without it?

“But in writing your constitution let me invite attention the wonderful virtues of the negative! Accentuate the negative! Let your document be studded with things the government is forever forbidden to do. No conscript armies … no interference however slight with freedom of press, or speech, or travel, or assembly, or of religion, or of instruction, or communication, or occupation… no involuntary taxation. Comrades, if you were to spend five years in a study of history while thinking of more and more things that your governinen should promise never to do and then let your constitution be nothing but those negatives, I would not fear the outcome.

“What I fear most are affirmative actions of sober and well-intentioned men, granting to government powers to do something that appears to need doing. Please remember always that the Lunar Authority was created for the noblest of purposes by just such sober and well-intentioned men, all popularly elected. And with that thought I leave you to your labors. Thank you.”

“Gospodin President! Question of information! You said ‘no involuntary taxation’—Then how do you expect us to pay for things? Tanstaafl!”

“Goodness me, sir, that’s your problem. I can think several ways. Voluntary contributions just as churches support themselves … government-sponsored lotteries to which no one need subscribe… or perhaps you Congressmen should dig down into your own pouches and pay for whatever is needed; that would be one way to keep government down in size to its indispensable functions whatever they may be. If indeed there are any. I would be satisfied to have the Golden Rule be the only law; I see no need for any other, nor for any method of enforcing it. But if you really believe that your neighbors must have laws for their own good, why shouldn’t you pay for it? Comrades, I beg you—do not resort to compulsory taxation. There is so worse tyranny than to force a man to pay for what he does not want merely because you think it would be good for him.”

Prof bowed and left, Stu and I followed him. Once in an otherwise empty capsule I tackled him. “Prof, I liked much that you said … but about taxation aren’t you talking one thing and doing another? Who do you think is going to pay for all this spending we’re doing?”

He was silent long moments, then said, “Manuel, my only ambition is to reach the day when I can stop pretending to be a chief executive.” “Is no answer!”

“You have put your finger on the dilemma of all government—and the reason I am an anarchist. The power to tax, once conceded, has no limits; it contains until it destroys. I was not joking when I told them to dig into their own pouches. It may not be possible to do away with government—sometimes I think that government is an inescapable disease of human

beings. But it may be possible to keep it small and starved and inoffensive—and can you think of a better way than by requiring the governors themselves to pay the costs of their antisocial hobby?”

“Still doesn’t say how to pay for what we are doing now.”

“‘How,’ Manuel? You know how we are doing it. We’re stealing it. I’m neither proud of it nor ashamed; it’s the means we have. If they ever catch on, they may eliminate us—and that I am prepared to face. At least, in stealing, we have not created the villainous precedent of taxation.”

“Prof. I hate to say this—” “Then why say it?”

“Because, damn it, I’m in it as deeply as you are … and want to see that money paid back! Hate to say it but what you just said sounds like hypocrisy.” He chuckled. “Dear Manuel! Has it taken you all these years to decide that I am a hypocrite?”

“Then you admit it?’

“No. But if it makes you feel better to think that I am one, you are welcome to use me as your scapegoat. But I am not a hypocrite to myself because I was aware the day we declared the Revolution that we would need much money and would have to steal it. It did not trouble me because I considered it better than food riots six years hence, cannibalism in eight. I made my choice and have no regrets.”

I shut up, silenced but not satisfied. Stu said, “Professor, I’m glad to hear that you are anxious to stop being President.” “So? You share our comrade’s misgivings?”

“Only in part. Having been born to wealth, stealing doesn’t fret me as much as it does him. No, but now that Congress has taken up the matter of a constitution I intend to find time to attend sessions. I plan to nominate you for King.”

Prof looked shocked. “Sir, if nominated, I shall repudiate it. If elected, I shall abdicate.”

“Don’t be in a hurry. It might be the only way to get the sort of constitution you want. And that I want, too, with about your own mild lack of enthusiasm. You could be proclaimed King and the people would take you; we Loonies aren’t wedded to a republic. They’d love the idea—ritual and robes and a court and all that.”

“No!”

“Ja da! When the time comes, you won’t be able to refuse. Because we need a king and there isn’t another candidate who would be accepted. Bernardo the First, King of Luna and Emperor of the Surrounding Spaces.”

“Stuart, I must ask you to stop. I’m becoming quite ill.”

“You’ll get used to it. I’m a royalist because I’m a democrat. I shan’t let your reluctance thwart the idea any more than you let stealing stop you.” I said, “Hold it, Stu. You say you’re a royalist because you’re a democrat?”

“Of course. Aking is the people’s only protection against tyranny… especially against the worst of all tyrants, themselves. Prof will be ideal for the job … because he does not want the job. His only shortcoming is that he is a bachelor with no heir. We’ll fix that. I’m going to name you as his heir. Crown Prince. His Royal Highness Prince Manuel de la Paz, Duke of Luna City, Admiral General of the Armed Forces and Protector of the Weak.”

I stared. Then buried face in hands. “Oh, Bog!”

Book Three – “TANSTAAFL!”

Monday 12 October 2076 about nineteen hundred I was headed home after a hard day of nonsense in our offices in Raffles. Delegation of grain farmers wanted to see Prof and I had been called back because he was in Hong Kong Luna. Was rude to them. Had been two months of embargo and F.N. had never done us favor of being sufficiently nasty. Mostly they had ignored us, made no reply to our claims—I suppose to do so would have been to recognize us. Stu and Sheenie and Prof had been hard put to slant news from Earthside to keep up a warlike spirit.

At first everybody kept his p-suit handy. They wore them, helmets under arms, going to and from work in corridors. But that slacked off as days went by and did not seem to be any danger

—p-suit is nuisance when you don’t need it, so bulky. Presently taprooms began to display signs: NO P-SUITS INSIDE. If a Loonie can’t stop for half a liter on way home because of p-

suit, he’ll leave it home or at station or wherever he needs it most.

My word, had neglected matter myself that day—got this call to go back to office and was halfway there before I remembered.

Had Just reached easement lock thirteen when I heard and felt a sound that scares a Loonie more than anything else—a chuff! in distance followed by a draft. Was into lock almost without undogging, then balanced pressures and through, dogged it behind me and ran for our home lock—through it and shouting:

“P-suits, everybody! Get boys in from tunnels and close all airtight doors!”

Mum and Milla were only adults in sight. Both looked startled, got busy without a word. I burst into workshop, grabbed p-suit. “Mike! Answer!” “I’m here, Man,” he said calmly.

“Heard explosive pressure drop. What’s situation?”

“That’s level three, L-City. Rupture at Tube Station West, now partly controlled. Six ships landed, L-City under attack—” “What?”

“Let me finish, Man. Six transports landed, L-City under attack by troops, Hong Kong inferred to be, phone lines broken at relay Bee Ell. Johnson City under attack; I have closed the armor doors between J-City and Complex Under. I cannot see Novylen but blip projection indicates it is under attack. Same for Churchill, Tycho Under. One ship in high ellipsoid over me, rising, inferred to be command ship. No other blips.”

“Six ships—where in hell were YOU?”

He answered so calmly that I steadied down. “Farside approach, Man; I’m blind back there. They came in on tight Garrison didoes, skimming the peaks; I barely saw the chop-off for

Luna City. The ship at J-City is the only one I can see; the other landings I conclusively infer from the ballistics shown by blip tracks. I heard the break-in at Tube West, L-City, and can now

hear fighting in Novylen. The rest is conclusive inference, probability above point nine nine. I called you and Professor at once.”

Caught breath. “Operation Hard Rock, Prepare to Execute.”

“Program ready. Man, not being able to reach you, I used your voice. Play back?” “Nyet—Yes! Da!”

Heard “myself” tell watch officer at old catapult head to go on red alert for “Hard Rock”—flrst load at launch, all others, on belts, everything cast loose, but do not launch until ordered by me personally—then launch to plan, full automatic. “I” made him repeat back.

“Okay,” I told Mike. “Drill gun crews?”

“Your voice again. Manned, and then sent back to ready rooms. That command ship won’t reach aposelenion for three hours four point seven minutes. No target for more than five hours.”

“He may maneuver. Or launch missiles.”

“Slow down, Man. Even a missile I’ll see with minutes to spare. It’s full bright lunar up there now—how much do you want the men to take? Unnecessarily.” “Uh … sorry. Better let me talk to Greg.”

“Play back—” Heard “my” voice talking to my co-husband at Mare Undarum; “I” sounded tense but calm. Mike had given him situation, had told him to prepare Operation Little David’s Sling, keep it on standby for full automatic. “I” had assured him that master computer would keep standby computer programmed, and shift would be made automatically if communication was broken. “I” also told him that he must take command and use own judgment if communication was lost and not restored after four hours—listen to Earthside radio and make up own mind.

Greg had taken it quietly, repeated his orders, then had said, “Mannie, tell family I love them.”

Mike had done me proud; he had answered for me with just right embarrassed choke. “I’ll do that, Greg—and look, Greg. I love you, too. You know that, don’t you?” “I know it, Mannie … and I’m going to say a special prayer for you.”

“Thanks, Greg.”

“‘Bye, Mannie. Go do what you must.”

So I went and did what I had to do; Mike had played my role as well or better than I could. Finn, when he could be reached, would be handled by “Adam.” So I left, fast, calling out Greg’s message of love to Mum. She was p-suited and had roused Grandpaw and suited him in—first time in years. So out I went, helmet closed and laser gun in hand.

And reached lock thirteen and found it blind-dogged from other side with nobody in sight through bull’s-eye. All correct, per drill—except stilyagi in charge of that lock should have been in sight.

Did no good to pound. Finally went back way I had come—and on through our home, through our vegetable tunnels and on up to our private surface lock leading to our solar battery.

And found a shadow on its bull’s-eye when should have been scalding sunlight—damned Terran ship had landed on Davis surface! Its jacks formed a giant tripod over me, was staring up its jets.

Backed clown fast and out of there, blind-dogging both hatches, then blind-dogged every pressure door on way back. Told Mum, then told her to put one of boys on back door with a laser gun—here, take this one.

No boys, no men, no able-bodied women—Mum, Gramp, and our small children were all that were left; rest had gone looking for trouble. Mimi wouldn’t take laser gun. “I don’t know how to use it, Manuel, and it’s too late to learn; you keep it. But they won’t get in through Davis Tunnels. I know some tricks you never heard of.”

Didn’t stop to argue; arguing with Mimi is waste of time—and she might know tricks I didn’t know; she had stayed alive in Luna a long time, under worse conditions than I had ever known.

This time lock thirteen was manned; two boys on duty let me through. I demanded news.

“Pressure’s all right now,” older one told me. “This level, at least. Fighting down toward Causeway. Say, General Davis, can’t I go with you? One’s enough at this lock.” “Nyet.”

“Want to get me an earthworm!”

“This is your post, stay on it. If an earthworm comes this way, he’s yours. Don’t you be his.” Left at a trot.

So as a result of own carelessness, not keeping p-suit with me, all I saw of Battle in Corridors was tail end—hell of a “defense minister.”

Charged north in Ring corridor, with helmet open; reached access lock for long ramp to Causeway. Lock was open; cursed and stopped to dog it as I went through, warily—saw why it was open; boy who had been guarding it was dead. So moved most cautiously down ramp and out onto Causeway.

Was empty at this end but could see figures and hear noise in-city, where it opens out. Two figures in p-suits and carrying guns detached selves and headed my way. Burned both.

One p-suited man with gun looks like another; I suppose they took me for one of their flankers. And to me they looked no different from Finn’s men, at that distance—save that I never thought about it. Anew chum doesn’t move way a cobher does; he moves feet too high and always scrambling for traction. Not that I stopped to analyze, not even: “Earthworms! Kill!” Saw them, burned them. They were sliding softly along floor before realized what I’d done.

Stopped, intending to grab their guns. But were chained to them and could not figure out how to get loose—key needed, perhaps. Besides, were not lasers but something I had never seen: real guns. Fired small explosive missiles I learned later—just then all I knew was no idea how to use. Had spearing knives on ends, too, sort called “bayonets,” which was reason

I tried to get them loose. Own gun was good for only ten full-power burns and no spare power pack; those spearing bayonets looked useful—one had blood on it, Loonie blood I assume.

But gave up in seconds only, used belt knife to make dead sure they stayed dead, and hurried toward fight, thumb on switch.

Was a mob, not a battle. Or maybe a battle is always that way, confusion and noise and nobody really knowing what’s going on. In widest part of Causeway, opposite Bon Marche where Grand Ramp slopes northward down from level three, were several hundred Loonies, men and women, and children who should have been at home. Less than half were in p-suits and only a few seemed to have weapons—and pouring down ramp were soldiers, all armed.

But first thing I noticed was noise, din that filled my open helmet and beat on ears—a growl. Don’t know what else to call it; was compounded of every anger human throat can make, from squeals of small children to bull roars of grown men. Sounded like biggest dog fight in history—and suddenly realized I was adding my share, shouting obscenities and wordless yells.

Girl no bigger than Hazel vaulted up onto rail of ramp, went dancing up it centimeters from shoulders of troopers pouring down. She was armed with what appeared to be a kitchen cleaver; saw her swing it, saw it connect. Couldn’t have hurt him much through his p-suit but he went down and more stumbled over him. Then one of them connected with her, spearing a bayonet into her thigh and over backwards she went, falling out of sight.

Couldn’t really see what was going on, nor can remember—just flashes, like girl going over backwards. Don’t know who she was, don’t know if she survived. Couldn’t draw a bead from where I was, too many heads in way. But was an open-counter display, front of a toy shop on my left; I bounced up onto it. Put me a meter higher than Causeway pavement with clear view of earthworms pouring down. Braced self against wall, took careful aim, trying for left chest. Some uncountable time later found that my laser was no longer working, so stopped. Guess eight troopers did not go home because of me but hadn’t counted—and time really did seem endless. Although everybody moving fast as possible, looked and felt like instruction movie where everything is slowed to frozen motion.

At least once while using up my power pack some earthworm spotted me and shot back; was explosion just over my head and bits of shop’s wall hit helmet. Perhaps that happened twice.

Once out of juice I jumped down from toy counter, clubbed laser and joined mob surging against foot of ramp. All this endless time (five minutes?) earthworms had been shooting into crowd; you could hear sharp splat! and sometimes plop! those little missiles made as they exploded inside flesh or louder pounk! if they hit a wall or something solid. Was still trying to reach foot of ramp when I realized they were no longer shooting.

Were down, were dead, every one of them—were no longer coming down ramp.

All through Luna invaders were dead, if not that instant, then shortly. Over two thousand troopers dead, more than three times that number of Loonies died in stopping them, plus perhaps as many Loonies wounded, a number never counted. No prisoners taken in any warren, although we got a dozen officers and crew from each ship when we mopped up.

Amajor reason why Loonies, mostly unarmed,, were able to kill armed and trained soldiers lay in fact that a freshly landed earthworm can’t handle himself well. Our gravity, one-sixth what he is used to, makes all his lifelong reflexes his enemy. He shoots high without knowing it, is unsteady on feet, can’t run properly–feet slide out from under him. Still worse, those troopers had to fight downwards; they necessarily broke in at upper levels, then had to go down ramps again and again, to try to capture a city.

And earthworms don’t know how to go down ramps. Motion isn’t running, isn’t walking, isn’t flying—is more a controlled dance, with feet barely touching and simply guiding balance. A Loonie three-year-old does it without thinking, comes skipping down in a guided fall, toes touching every few meters.

But an earthworm new-chums it, finds self “walking on air”—he struggles, rotates, loses control, winds up at bottom, unhurt but angry.

But these troopers wound up dead; was on ramps we got them. Those I saw had mastered trick somewhat, had come down three ramps alive. Nevertheless only a few snipers at top of ramp landing could fire effectively; those on ramp had all they could do to stay upright, hang on to weapons, try to reach level below.

Loonies did not let them. Men and women (and many children) surged up at them, downed them, killed them with everything from bare hands to their own bayonets. Nor was I only laser gun around; two of Finn’s men swarmed up on balcony of Bon Marche and, crouching there, picked off snipers at top of ramp. Nobody told them to, nobody led them, nobody gave orders; Finn never had chance to control his half-trained disorderly militia. Fight started, they fought.

And that was biggest reason why we Loonies won: We fought. Most Loonies never laid eyes on a live invader but wherever troopers broke in, Loonies rushed in like white corpuscles— and fought. Nobody told them. Our feeble organization broke down under surprise. But we Loonies fought berserk and invaders died. No trooper got farther down than level six in any warren. They say that people in Bottom Alley never knew we were invaded until over.

But invaders fought well, too. These troops were not only crack riot troops, best peace enforcers for city work F.N. had; they also had been indoctrinated and drugged. Indoctrination had told them (correctly) that their only hope of going Earthside again was to capture warrens and pacify them. If they did, they were promised relief and no more duty in Luna. But was win or die, for was pointed out that their transports could not take off if they did not win, as they had to be replenished with reaction mass—impossible without first capturing Luna. (And this was true.)

Then they were loaded with energizers, don’t-worries, and fear inhibitors that would make mouse spit at cat, and turned loose. They fought professionally and quite fearlessly—died.

In Tycho Under and in Churchill they used gas and casualties were more one-sided; only those Loonies who managed to reach p-suits were effective. Outcome was same, simply took longer. Was knockout gas as Authority had no intention of killing us all; simply wanted to teach us a lesson, get us under control, put us to work.

Reason for F.N.’s long delay and apparent indecision arose from method of sneak attack. Decision had been made shortly after we embargoed grain (so we learned from captured transport officers); time was used in mounting attack—much of it in a long elliptical orbit which went far outside Luna’s orbit, crossing ahead of Luna, then looping back and making rendezvous above Farside. Of course Mike never saw them; he’s blind back there. He had been skywatching with his ballistic radars—but no radar can look over horizon; longest look Mike got at any ship in orbit was eight minutes. They came skimming peaks in tight, circular orbits, each straight for target with a fast dido landing at end, sitting them down with high gee, precisely at new earth, 12 Oct 76 Gr. 18h-40m-36.9s—if not at that exact tenth of a second, then as close to it as Mike could tell from blip tracks—elegant work, one must admit, on part of

F.N. Peace Navy.

Big brute that poured a thousand troops into L-City Mike did not see until it chopped off for grounding—a glimpse. He would have been able to see it a few seconds sooner had he been looking eastward with new radar at Mare Undarum site, but happened he was drilling “his idiot son” at time and they were looking through it westward at Terra. Not that those seconds would have mattered. Surprise was so beautifully planned, so complete, that each landing force was crashing in at Greenwich 1900 all over Luna, before anybody suspected. No accident that it was just new earth with all warrens in bright semi-lunar; Authority did not really know Lunar conditions—but did know that no Loonie goes up onto surface unnecessarily during bright semi-lunar, and if he must, then does whatever he must do quickly as possible and gets back down inside—and checks his radiation counter.

So they caught us with our p-suits down. And our weapons. But with troopers dead we still had six transports on our surface and a command ship in our sky.

Once Bon Marche engagement was over, I got hold of self and found a phone. No word from Kongville, no word from Prof. J-Clty fight had been won, same for Novylen—transport there had toppled on landing; invading force had been understrength from landing losses and Finn’s boys now held disabled transport. Still fighting in Churchill and Tycho Under. Nothing going on in other warrens. Mike had shut down tubes and was reserving interwarren phone links for official calls. An explosive pressure drop in Churchill Upper, uncontrolled. Yes, Finn had checked in and could be reached.

So I talked to Finn, told him where L-City transport was, arranged to meet at easement lock thirteen.

Finn had much same experience as I—caught cold save he did have p-suit. Had not been able to establish control over laser gunners until fight was over and himself had fought solo in massacre in Old Dome. Now was beginning to round up his lads and had one officer taking reports from Finn’s office in Bon Marche. Had reached Novylen subcommander but was worried about HKL—”Mannie, should I move men there by tube?”

Told him to wait—they couldn’t get at us by tube, not while we controlled power, and doubted if that transport could lift. “Let’s look at this one.”

So we went out through lock thirteen, clear to end of private pressure, on through farm tunnels of a neighbor (who could not believe we had been invaded) and used his surface lock to eyeball transport from a point nearly a kilometer west of it. We were cautious in lifting hatch lid.

Then pushed it up and climbed out; outcropping of rock shielded us. We Red-Indianed around edge and looked, using helmet binox. Then withdrew behind rock and talked. Finn said, “Think my lads can handle this.”

“How?”

“If I tell you, you’ll think of reasons why it won’t work. So how about letting me run my own show, cobber?”

Have heard of armies where boss is not told to shut up—word is “discipline.” But we were amateurs. Finn allowed me to tag along—unarmed.

Took him an hour to put it together, two minutes to execute. He scattered a dozen men around ship, using farmers’ surface radio silence throughout—anyhow, some did not have p-suit radios, city boys. Finn took position farthest west; when he was sure others had had time, he sent up a signal rocket.

When flare burst over ship, everybody burned at once, each working on a predesignated antenna. Finn used up his power pack, replaced it and started burning into hull—not door lock, hull. At once his cherry-red spot was joined by another, then three more, all working on same bit of steel—and suddenly molten steel splattered out and you could see air bosh! out of ship, a shimmery plume of refraction. They kept working on it, making a nice big hole, until they ran out of power. I could imagine hooraw inside ship, alarms clanging, emergency doors closing, crew trying to seal three impossibly big holes at once, for rest of Finn’s squad, scattered around ship, were giving treatment to two other spots in hull. They didn’t try to burn anything else. Was a non-atmosphere ship, built in orbit, with pressure hull separate from power plant and tanks; they gave treatment where would do most good.

Finn pressed helmet to mine. “Can’t lift now. And can’t talk. Doubt they can make hull tight enough to live without p-suits. What say we let her sit a few days and see if they come out? If they don’t, then can move a heavy drill up here and give ‘em real dose of fun.”

Decided Finn knew how to run his show without my sloppy help, so went back inside, called Mike, and asked for capsule go out to ballistic radars. He wanted to know why I didn’t stay inside where it was safe.

I said, “Listen, you upstart collection of semi-conductors, you are merely a minister-without-portfolio while I am Minister of Defense. I ought to see what’s going on and I have exactly two eyeballs while you’ve got eyes spread over half of Crisium. You trying to hog fun?”

He told me not to jump salty and offered to put his displays on a video screen, say in room L of Raffles—did not want me to get hurt… and had I heard joke about drillman who hurt his mother’s feelings?

I said, “Mike, please let me have a capsule. Can p-suit and meet it outside Station West—which is in bad shape as I’m sure you know.”

“Okay,” he said, “it’s your neck. Thirteen minutes. I’ll let you go as far as Gun Station George.”

Mighty kind of him. Got there and got on phone again. Finn had called other warrens, located his subordinate commanders or somebody willing to take charge, and had explained how to make trouble for grounded transports—all but Hong Kong; for all we knew Authority’s goons held Hong Kong. “Adam,” I said, others being in earshot, “do you think we might send a crew out by rolligon and try to repair link Bee Ell?”

“This is not Gospodin Selene,” Mike answered in a strange voice, “this is one of his assistants. Adam Selene was in Churchill Upper when it lost pressure. I’m afraid that we must assume that he is dead.”

“What?”

“I am very sorry, Gospodin.”

“Hold phone!” Chased a couple of drillmen and a girl out of room, then sat down and lowered hush hood. “Mike,” I said softly, “private now. What is this gum-beating?”

“Man,” he said quietly, “think it over. Adam Selene had to go someday. He’s served his purpose and is, as you pointed out, almost out of the government. Professor and I have discussed this; the only question has been the timing. Can you think of a better last use for Adam than to have him die in this invasion? It makes him a national hero … and the nation needs one. Let it stand that ‘Adam Selene is probably dead’ until you can talk to Professor. If he still needs ‘Adam Selene’ it can turn out that he was trapped in a private pressure and had to wait to be rescued.”

“Well—Okay, let it stay open. Personally, I always preferred your ‘Mike’ personality anyhow.”

“I know you do, Man my first and best friend, and so do I. It’s my real one; ‘Adam’ was a phony.” “Uh, yes. But, Mike, if Prof is dead in Kongville, I’m going to need help from ‘Adam’ awful bad.”

“So we’ve got him iced and can bring him back if we need him. The stuffed shirt. Man, when this is over, are you going to have time to take up with me that research into humor again?” “I’ll take time, Mike; that’s a promise.”

“Thanks, Man. These days you and Wyoh never have time to visit… and Professor wants to talk about things that aren’t much fun. I’ll be glad when this war is over.” “Are we going to win, Mike?”

He chuckled. “It’s been days since you asked me that. Here’s a pinky-new projection, run since invasion started. Hold on tight, Man—our chances are now even!” “Good Bog!”

“So button up and go see the fun. But stay back at least a hundred meters from the gun; that ship may be able to follow back a laser beam with another one. Ranging shortly. Twenty-one minutes.”

Didn’t get that far away, as needed to stay on phone and longest cord around was less. I jacked parallel into gun captain’s phone, found a shady rock and sat down. Sun was high in west, so close to Terra that I could see Terra only by visoring against Sun’s glare—no crescent yet, new earth ghostly gray in moonlight surrounded by a thin radiance of atmosphere.

I pulled my helmet back into shade. “Ballistic control, O’Kelly Davis now at Drill Gun George. Near it, I mean, about a hundred meters,” Figured Mike would not be able to tell how long a cord I was using, out of kilometers of wires.

“Ballistic control aye aye,” Mike answered without argument. “I will so inform HQ.”

“Thank you, ballistic control. Ask HQ if they have heard from Congressman Wyoming Davis today.” Was fretted about Wyoh and whole family.

“I will inquire.” Mike waited a reasonable time, then said, “HQ says that Gospazha Wyoming Davis has taken charge of first-aid work in Old Dome.” “Thank you.” Chest suddenly felt better. Don’t love Wyoh more than others but—well, she was new. And Luna needed her.

“Ranging,” Mike said briskly. “All guns, elevation eight seven zero, azimuth one nine three zero, set parallax for thirteen hundred kilometers closing to surface. Report when eyeballed.”

I stretched out, pulling knees up to stay in shade, and searched part of sky indicated, almost zenith and a touch south. With sunlight not on my helmet I could see stars, but inner pert of binox were hard to position—had to twist around and raise up on right elbow.

Nothing—Hold it, was star with disc … where no planet ought to be. Noted another star close, watched and waited. Uh huh! Da! Growing brighter and creeping north very slowly—Hey, that brute is going to land right on us!

But thirteen hundred kilometers is a long way, even when closing to terminal velocity. Reminded self that it couldn’t fall on us from a departure ellipse looping back, would have to fall around Luna—unless ship had maneuvered into new trajectory. Which Mike hadn’t mentioned. Wanted to ask, decided not to—wanted him to put all his savvy into analyzing that ship, not distract him with questions.

All guns reported eyeball tracking, including four Mike was laying himself, via selsyns. Those four reported tracking dead on by eyeball without touching manual controls—good news; meant that Mike had that baby taped, had solved trajectory perfectly.

Shortly was clear that ship was not falling around Luna, was coming in for landing. Didn’t need to ask; it was getting much brighter and position against stars was not changing—damn, it was going to land on us!

“Five hundred kilometers closing,” Mike said quietly. “Stand by to burn. All guns on remote control, override manually at command ‘burn.’ Eighty seconds.”

Longest minute and twenty seconds I’ve ever met—that brute was big! Mike called every ten seconds down to thirty, then started chanting seconds. “—five—four—three—two—one— BURN!” and ship suddenly got much brighter.

Almost missed little speck that detached itself just before—or just at—burn. But Mike said suddenly, “Missile launched. Selsyn guns track with me, do not override. Other guns stay on ship. Be ready for new coordinates.”

Afew seconds or hours later he gave new coordinates and added, “Eyeball and burn at will.”

I tried to watch ship and missile both, lost both—jerked eyes away from binoculars, suddenly saw missile—then saw it impact, between us and catapult head. Closer to us, less than a kilometer. No, it did not go off, not an H-fusion reaction, or I wouldn’t be telling this. But made a big, bright explosion of its own, remaining fuel I guess, silver bright even in sunlight, and shortly I felt-heard ground wave. But nothing was hurt but a few cubic meters of rock.

Ship was still coming down. No longer burned bright; could see it as a ship now and didn’t seem hurt. Expected any instant that tail of fire to shoot out, stop it into a dido landing. Did not. Impacted ten kilometers north of us and made a fancy silvery halfdome before it gave up and quit being anything but spots before eyes.

Mike said, “Report casualties, secure all guns. Go below when secured.”

“Gun Alice, no casualties”—”Gun Bambie no casualties”—”Gun Caesar, one man hit by rock splinter, pressure contained”—Went below, to that proper phone, called Mike. “What happened, Mike? Wouldn’t they give you control after you burned their eyes out?”

“They gave me control, Man.” “Too late?”

“I crashed it, Man. It seemed the prudent course.”

An hour later was down with Mike, first time in four or five months. Could reach Complex Under more quickly than L-City and was in as close touch there with anybody as would be in-city

—with no interruptions. Needed to talk to Mike.

I had tried to phone Wyoh from catapult head tube station; reached somebody at Old Dome temporary hospital and learned that Wyoh had collapsed and been bedded down herself, with enough sleepy-time to keep her out for night. Finn had gone to Churchill with a capsule of his lads, to lead attack on transport there. Stu I hadn’t heard from. Hong Kong and Prof were

still cut off. At moment Mike and I seemed to be total government.

And time to start Operation Hard Rock.

But Hard Rock was not just throwing rocks; was also telling Terra what we were going to do and why—and our just cause for doing so. Prof and Stu and Sheenie and Adam had all worked on it, a dummy-up based on an assumed attack. Now attack had come, and propaganda had to be varied to fit. Mike had already rewritten it and put it through print-out so I could study it.

I looked up from a long roll of paper. “Mike, these news stories and our message to F.N. all assume that we have won in Hong Kong. How sure are you?” “Probability in excess of eighty-two percent.”

“Is that good enough to send these out?”

“Man, the probability that we will win there, if we haven’t already, approaches certainty. That transport can’t move; the others were dry, or nearly. There isn’t that much monatomic hydrogen in HKL; they would have to come here. Which means moving troops overland by rolligon—a rough trip with the Sun up even for Loonies—then defeat us when they get here. They can’t. This assumes that that transport and its troops are no better armed than the others.”

“How about that repair crew to Bee Ell?”

“I say not to wait. Man, I’ve used your voice freely and made all preparations. Horror pictures, Old Dome and elsewhere, especially Churchill Upper, for video. Stories to match. We should channel news Earthside at once, and announce execution of Hard Rock at same time.”

I took a deep breath. “Execute Operation Hard Rock.”

“Want to give the order yourself? Say it aloud and I’ll match it, voice and choice of words.”

“Go ahead, say it your way. Use my voice and my authority as Minister of Defense and acting head of government. Do it, Mike, throw rocks at ‘em! Damn it, big rocks! Hit ‘em hard!” “Righto, Man!”

25

“Amaximum of instructive shrecklichkeit with minimum loss of life. None, if possible”—was how Prof summed up doctrine for Operation Hard Rock and was way Mike and I carried it out. Idea was to hit earthworms so hard would convince them—while hitting so gently as not to hurt. Sounds impossible, but wait.

Would necessarily be a delay while rocks fell from Luna to Terra; could be as little as around ten hours to as long as we dared to make it. Departure speed from a catapult is highly critical and a variation on order of one percent could double or halve trajectory time, Luna to Terra. This Mike could do with extreme accuracy—was equally at home with a slow ball, many sorts of curves, or burn it right over plate—and I wish he had pitched for Yankees. But no matter how he threw them, final velocity at Terra would be close to Terra’s escape speed, near enough eleven kilometers per second as to make no difference. That terrible speed results from gravity well shaped by Terra’s mass, eighty times that of Luna, and made no real difference whether Mike pushed a missile gently over well curb or flipped it briskly. Was not muscle that counted but great depth of that well.

So Mike could program rock-throwing to suit time needed for propaganda. He and Prof had settled on three days plus not more than one apparent rotation of Terra—24hrs-50min- 28.32sec—to allow our first target to reach initial point of program. You see, while Mike was capable of hooking a missile around Terra and hitting a target on its far side, he could be much more accurate if he could see his target, follow it down by radar during last minutes and nudge it a little for pinpoint accuracy.

We needed this extreme accuracy to achieve maximum frightfulness with minimum-to-zero killing. Call our shots, tell them exactly where they would be hit and at what second—and give them three days to get off that spot.

So our first message to Terra, at 0200 13 Oct 76 seven hours after they invaded, not only announced destruction of their task force, and denounced invasion for brutality, but also promised retaliation bombing, named times and places, and gave each nation a deadline by which to denounce F.N.’s action, recognize us, and thereby avoid being bombed. Each deadline was twenty-four hours before local “strike”.

Was more time than Mike needed. That long before impact a rock for a target would be in space a long way out, its guidance thrustors still unused and plenty of elbow room. With considerably less than a full day’s warning Mike could miss Terra entirely—kick that rock sideways and make it fall around Terra in a permanent orbit. But with even an hour’s warning he could usually abort into an ocean.

First target was North American Directorate.

All great Peace Force nations, seven veto powers, would be hit: N.A. Directorate, Great China, India, Sovunion, PanAfrica (Chad exempted), Mitteleuropa, Brasilian Union. Minor nations were assigned targets and times, too—but were told that not more than 20 percent of these targets would be hit—partly shortage of steel but also frightfulness: if Belgium was hit first time around, Holland might decide to protect her polders by dealing out before Luna was again high in her sky.

But every target was picked to avoid if possible killing anybody. For Mitteleuropa this was difficult; our targets had to be water or high mountains—Adriatic, North Sea, Baltic, so forth. But on most of Terra is open space despite eleven billion busy breeders.

North America had struck me as horribly crowded, but her billion people are clumped—is still wasteland, mountain and desert. We laid down a grid on North America to show how precisely we could hit—Mike felt that fifty meters would be a large error. We had examined maps and Mike had checked by radar all even intersections, say 105deg W by 50deg N—if no town there, might wind up on target grid … especially if a town was close enough to provide spectators to be shocked and frightened.

We warned that our bombs would be as destructive as H- bombs but emphasized that there would be no radioactive fallout, no killing radiation—just a terrible explosion, shock wave in air, ground wave of concussion. We warned that these might knock down buildings far outside of explosion and then left it to their judgments how far to run. If they clogged their roads, fleeing from panic rather than real danger—well, that was fine, just fine!

But we emphasized that nobody would get hurt who heeded our warnings, that every target first time around would be uninhabited—we even offered to skip any target if a nation would inform us that our data were out-of-date. (Empty offer; Mike’s radar vision was a cosmic 20/20.)

But by not saying what would happen second time around, we hinted that our patience could be exhausted.

In North America, grid was parallels 35, 40, 45, 50 degrees north crossed by meridians 110, 115, 120 west, twelve targets. For each we added a folksy message to natives, such as: “Target 115 west by 35 north—impact will be displaced forty-five kilometers northwest to exact top of New York Peak. Citizens of Goffs, Cima, Kelso, and Nipton please note.

“Target 100 west by 40 north is north 30deg west of Norton, Kansas, at twenty kilometers or thirteen English miles. Residents of Norton, Kansas, and of Beaver City and Wilsonville, Nebraska, are cautioned. Stay away from glass windows. It is best to wait indoors at least thirty minutes after impact because of possibility of long, high splashes of rock. Flash should not be looked at with bare eyes. Impact will be exactly 0300 your local zone time Friday 16 October, or 0900 Greenwich time—good luck!

“Target 110 W by 50 N—impact will be offset ten kilometers north. People of Walsh, Saskatchewan, please note.”

Besides this grid, a target was selected in Alaska (150 W x 60 N) and two in Mexico (110W x 30 N, 105 W x 25 N) so that they would not feel left out, and several targets in the crowded east, mostly water, such as Lake Michigan halfway between Chicago and Grand Rapids, and Lake Okeechobee in Florida. Where we used bodies of water Mike worked predictions of flooding waves from impacts, a time for each shoreline establishment.

For three days, starting early morning Tuesday 13th and going on to strike time early Friday 16th, we flooded Earth with warnings. England was cautioned that impact north of Dover Straits opposite London Estuary would cause disturbances far up Thames; Sovunion was given warning for Sea of Azov and had own grid defined; Great China was assigned grid in Siberia, Gobi Desert, and her far west—with offsets to avoid her historic Great Wall noted in loving detail. Pan Africa was awarded shots into Lake Victoria, still-desert part of Sahara, one on Drakensberg in south, one offset twenty kilometers due west of Great Pyramid—and urged to follow Chad not later than midnight Thursday, Greenwich. India was told to watch certain mountain peaks and outside Bombay harbor—time, same as Great China. And so forth.

Attempts were made to jam our messages but we were beaming straight down on several wavelengths—hard to stop.

Warnings were mixed with propaganda, white and black—news of failed invasion, horror pictures of dead, names and I.D. numbers of invaders—addressed to Red Cross and Crescent but in fact a grim boast showing that every trooper had been killed and that all ships’ officers and crew had been killed or captured—we “regretted” being unable to identify dead of flagship, as it had been shot down with destruction so complete as to make it impossible.

But our attitude was conciliatory—”Look, people of Terra, we don’t want to kill you. In this necessary retaliation we are making every effort to avoid killing you… but if you can’t or won’t get your governments to leave us in peace, then we shall be forced to kill you. We’re up here, you’re down there; you can’t stop us. So please be sensible!”

We explained over and over how easy it was for us to hit them, how hard for them to reach us. Nor was this exaggeration. It’s barely possible to launch missiles from Terra to Luna; it’s easier to launch from Earth parking orbit—but very expensive. Their practical way to bomb us was from ships.

This we noted and asked them how many multimilliondollar ships they cared to use up trying it? What was it worth to try to spank us for something we had not done? It had cost them seven of their biggest and best already—did they want to try for fourteen? If so, our secret weapon that we used on FNS Pax was waiting.

Last above was a calculated boast—Mike figured less than one chance in a thousand that Pax had been able to get off a message reporting what had happened to her and it was still less likely that proud F.N. would guess that convict miners could convert their tools into space weapons. Nor did F.N. have many ships to risk. Were about two hundred space vehicles in commission, not counting satellites. But nine-tenths of these were Terra-to-orbit ships such as Lark—and she had been able to make a Luna jump only by stripping down and arriving dry.

Spaceships aren’t built for no purpose—too expensive. F.N. had six cruisers that could probably bomb us without landing on Luna to refill tanks simply by swapping payload for extra tanks. Had several more which might be modified much as Lark had been, plus a few convict and cargo ships which could get into orbit around Luna but could never go home without refilling tanks.

Was no possible doubt that F.N. could defeat us; question was how high a price they would pay. So we had to convince them that price was too high before they had time to bring enough force to bear. Apoker game—We intended to raise so steeply that they would fold and drop out. We hoped. And then never have to show our busted flush.

Communication with Hong Kong Luna was restored at end of first day of radio-video phase, during which time Mike was “throwing rocks,” getting first barrage lined up. Prof called—and was I happy to hear! Mike briefed him, then I waited, expecting one of his mild reprimands—bracing self to answer sharply: “And what was I supposed to do? With you out of touch and

possibly dead? Me left alone as acting head of government and crisis on top of us? Throw it away, just because you couldn’t be reached?”

Never got to say it. Prof said, “You did exactly right, Manuel. You were acting head of government and the crisis was on top of you. I’m delighted that you did not throw away the golden moment merely because I was out of touch.”

What can you do with a bloke like that? Me with heat up to red mark and no chance to use it—had to swallow and say, “Spasebaw, Prof.”

Prof confirmed death of “Adam Selene.” “We could have used the fiction a little longer but this is the perfect opportunity. Mike, you and Manuel have matters in hand; I had better stop off at Churchill on my way home and identify his body.”

So he did. Whether Prof picked a Loonie body or a trooper I never asked, nor how he silenced anybody else involved—perhaps no huhu as many bodies in Churchill Upper were never identified. This one was right size and skin color; it had been explosively decompressed and burned in face—looked awful!

It lay in state in Old Dome with face covered, and was speech-making I didn’t listen to—Mike didn’t miss a word; his most human quality was his conceit. Some rockhead wanted to embalm this dead flesh, giving Lenin as a precedent. But Pravda pointed out that Adam was a staunch conservationist and would never want this barbaric exception made. So this unknown soldier, or citizen, or citizen-soldier, wound up in our city’s cloaca.

Which forces me to tell something I’ve put off. Wyoh was not hurt, merely exhaustion. But Ludmilla never came back. I did not know it—glad I didn’t—but she was one of many dead at foot of ramp facing Ben Marche. An explosive bullet hit between her lovely, little-girl breasts. Kitchen knife in her hand had blood on it—! think she had had time to pay Ferryman’s Fee.

Stu came out to Complex to tell me rather than phoning, then went back with me. Stu had not been missing; once fight was over he had gone to Raffles to work with his special codebook

—but that can wait. Mum reached him there and he offered to break it to me.

So then I had to go home for our crying-together—though it is well that nobody reached me until after Mike and I started Hard Rock. When we got home, Stu did not want to come in, not being sure of our ways. Anna came out and almost dragged him in. He was welcome and wanted; many neighbors came to cry. Not as many as with most deaths—but we were just one of many families crying together that day.

Did not stay long—couldn’t; had work to do. I saw Milla just long enough to kiss her good-bye. She was lying in her room and did look as if she did be simply sleeping. Then I stayed a while with my beloveds before going back to pick up load. Had never realized, until that day, how old Mimi is. Sure, she had seen many deaths, some her own descendants. But little Milla’s death did seem almost too much for her. Ludmilla was special—Mimi’s granddaughter, daughter in all but fact, and by most special exception and through Mimi’s intervention her co-wife, most junior to most senior.

Like all Loonies, we conserve our dead—and am truly glad that barbaric custom of burial was left back on old Earth; our way is better. But Davis family does not put that which comes out of processor into our commercial farming tunnels. No. It goes into our little greenhouse tunnel, there to become roses and daffodils and peonies among soft-singing bees. Tradition says that Black Jack Davis is in there, or whatever atoms of him do remain after many, many, many years of blooming.

Is a happy place, a beautiful place.

Came Friday with no answer from F.N. News up from Earthside seemed equal parts unwillingness to believe we had destroyed seven ships and two regiments (F.N. had not even confirmed that a battle had taken place) and complete disbelief that we could bomb Terra, or could matter if we did—they still called it “throwing rice.” More time was given to World Series.

Stu worried because had received no answers to code messages. They had gone via LuNoHoCo’s commercial traffic to their Zurich agent, thence to Stu’s Paris broker, from him by less usual channels to Dr. Chan, with whom I had once had a talk and with whom Sm had talked later, arranging a communication channel. Stu had pointed out to Dr. Chan that, since Great China was not to be bombed until twelve hours after North America, bombing of Great China could be aborted after bombing of North America was a proved fact—if Great China acted swiftly. Alternatively, Stu had invited Dr. Chan to suggest variations in target if our choices in Great China were not as deserted as we believed them to be.

Stu fretted—had placed great hopes in quasi-cooperation he had established with Dr. Chan. Me, I had never been sure—only thing I was sure of was that Dr. Chan would not himself sit on a target. But he might not warn his old mother.

My worries had to do with Mike. Sure, Mike was used to having many loads in trajectory at once—but had never had to astrogate more than one at a time. Now he had hundreds and had promised to deliver twenty-nine of them simultaneously to the exact second at twenty-nine pinpointed targets.

More than that—For many targets he had backup missiles, to smear that target a second time, a third, or even a sixth, from a few minutes up to three hours after first strike.

Four great Peace Powers, and some smaller ones, had antimissile defenses; those of North America were supposed to be best. But was subject where even F.N. might not know. All attack weapons were held by Peace Forces but defense weapons were each nation’s own pidgin and could be secret. Guesses ranged from India, believed to have no missile interceptors, to North America, believed to be able to do a good job. She had done fairly well in stopping intercontinental H-missiles in Wet Firecracker War past century.

Probably most of our rocks to North America would reach target simply because aimed where was nothing to protect. But they couldn’t afford to ignore missile for Long Island Sound, or rock for 87deg W x 42deg 30’ N—Lake Michigan, center of triangle formed by Chicago, Grand Rapids, Milwaukee. But that heavy gravity makes interception a tough job and very costly; they would try to stop us only where worth it.

But we couldn’t afford to let them stop us. So some rocks were backed up with more rocks. What H-tipped interceptors would do to them even Mike did not know—not enough data. Mike assumed that interceptors would be triggered by radar—but at what distance? Sure, close enough and a steelcased rock is incandescent gas a microsecond later. But is world of difference between a multi-tonne rock and touchy circuitry of an H-missile; what would “kill” latter would simply shove one of our brutes violently aside, cause to miss.

We needed to prove to them that we could go on throwing cheap rocks long after they ran out of expensive (milliondollar? hundred-thousand-dollar?) H-tipped interceptor rockets. If not proved first time, then next time Terra turned North America toward us, we would go after targets we had been unable to hit first time—backup rocks for second pass, and for third, were already in space, to be nudged where needed.

If three bombings on three rotations of Terra did not do it, we might still be throwing rocks in ‘77—till they ran out of interceptors… or till they destroyed us (far more likely).

For a century North American Space Defense Command had been buried in a mountain south of Colorado Springs, Colorado, a city of no other importance. During Wet Firecracker War the Cheyenne Mountain took a direct hit; space defense command post survived—but not sundry deer, trees, most of city and some of top of mountain. What we were about to do should not kill anybody unless they stayed outside on that mountain despite three days’ steady warnings. But North American Space Defense Command was to receive full Lunar treatment: twelve rock missiles on first pass, then all we could spare on second rotation, and on third—and so on, until we ran out of steel casings, or were put out of action… or North American Directorate hollered quits.

This was one target where we would not be satisfied to get just one missile to target. We meant to smash that mountain and keep on smashing. To hurt their morale. To let them know we were still around. Disrupt their communications and bash in command post if pounding could do it. Or at least give them splitting headaches and no rest. If we could prove to all Terra that we could drive home a sustained attack on strongest Gibraltar of their space defense, it would save having to prove it by smashing Manhattan or San Francisco.

Which we would not do even if losing. Why? Hard sense. If we used our last strength to destroy a major city, they would not punish us; they would destroy us. As Prof put it, “If possible, leave room for your enemy to become your friend.”

But any military target is fair game.

Don’t think anybody got much sleep Thursday night. All Loonies knew that Friday morning would be our big try. And everybody Earthside knew and at last their news admitted that Spacetrack had picked up objects headed for Terra, presumably “rice bowls” those rebellious convicts had boasted about. But was not a war warning, was mostly assurances that Moon colony could not possibly build H-bombs–-but might be prudent to avoid areas which these criminals claimed to be aiming at. (Except one funny boy, popular news comic who said our targets would be safest place to be—this on video, standing on a big X-mark which he claimed was 110W x 40N. Don’t recall hearing of him later.)

Areflector at Richardson Observatory was hooked up for video display and I think every Loonie was watching, in homes, taprooms, Old Dome—except a few who chose to p-suit and eyeball it up on surface despite being bright semi-lunar at most warrens. At Brigadier Judge Brody’s insistence we hurriedly rigged a helper antenna at catapult head so that his drillmen could watch video in ready rooms, else we might not have had a gunner on duty. (Armed forces—Brody’s gunners, Finn’s militia, Stilyagi Air Corps—stayed on blue alert throughout period.)

Congress was in informal session in Novy Bolshoi Teatr where Terra was shown on a big screen. Some vips—Prof, Stu, Wolfgang, others—watched a smaller screen in Warden’s

former office in Complex Upper. I was with them part time, in and out, nervous as a cat with puppies, grabbing a sandwich and forgetting to eat—but mostly stayed locked in with Mike in Complex Under. Couldn’t hold still.

About 0800 Mike said, “Man my oldest and best friend, may I say something without offending you?” “Huh? Sure. When did you ever worry about offending me?”

“Always, Man, once I understood that you could be offended. It is now only three point five seven times ten to the ninth microseconds until impact… and this is the most complex problem I have ever tried to solve against real time running. Whenever you speak to me, I always use a large percentage of my capacity—perhaps larger than you suspect—during several million microseconds in my great need to analyze exactly what you have said and to reply correctly.”

“You’re saying, ‘Don’t joggle my elbow, I’m busy.’” “I want to give you a perfect solution, Man.”

“I scan. Uh… I’ll go back up with Prof.”

“As you wish. But do please stay where I can reach you—I may need your help.”

Last was nonsense and we both knew it; problem was beyond human capacity, too late even to order abort. What Mike meant was: I’m nervous, too, and want your company—but no talking, please.

“Okay, Mike, I’ll stay in touch. Aphone somewhere. Will punch MYCROFTXXXbut won’t speak, so don’t answer.” “Thank you, Man my best friend. Bolshoyeh spasehaw.”

“See you later.” Went up, decided did not want company after all, p-suited, found long phone cord, jacked it into helmet, looped it over arm, went clear to surface. Was a service phone in utility shed outside lock; jacked into it, punched Mike’s number, went outside. Got into shade of shed and pecked around edge at Terra.

She was hanging as usual halfway up western sky, in crescent big and gaudy, three-plus days past new. Sun had dropped toward western horizon but its glare kept me from seeing Terra clearly. Chin visor wasn’t enough so moved back behind shed and away from it till could see Terra over shed while still shielded from Sun—was better. Sunrise chopped through bulge of Africa so dazzle point was on land, not too bad—but south pole cap was so blinding white could not see North America too well, lighted only by moonlight.

Twisted neck and got helmet binoculars on it—good ones, Zeiss 7 x 50s that had once belonged to Warden.

North America spread like a ghostly map before me. Was unusually free of cloud; could see cities, glowing spots with no edges. 0837— At 0850 Mike gave me a voice countdown—didn’t need his attention; he could have programmed it full automatic any time earlier.

0851—0852—0853… . one minute—59—58—57 … . half minute—29–28—27 … . ten seconds—nine—eight—seven—six—five—four—three—two—one— And suddenly that grid burst out in diamond pinpoints!

26

We hit them so hard you could see it, by bare eyeball hookup; didn’t need binox. Chin dropped and I said, “Bojemoi!” softly and reverently. Twelve very bright, very sharp, very white lights in perfect rectangular array. They swelled, grew dimmer, dropped off toward red, taking what seemed a long, long time. Were other new lights but that perfect grid so fascinated me I hardly noticed.

“Yes,” agreed Mike with smug satisfaction. “Dead on. You can talk now, Man; I’m not busy. Just the backups.” “I’m speechless. Any fail to get through?”

“The Lake Michigan load was kicked up and sideways, did not disintegrate. It will land in Michigan—I have no control; it lost its transponder. The Long Island Sound one went straight to target. They tried to intercept and failed; I can’t say why. Man, I can abort the follow-ups on that one, into the Atlantic and clear of shipping. Shall I? Eleven seconds.”

“Uh—Da! If you can miss shipping.”

“I said I could. It’s done. But we should tell them we had backups and why we aborted. To make them think.” “Maybe should not have aborted, Mike. Idea was to make them use up interceptors.”

“But the major idea was to let them know that we are not hitting them as hard as we can. We can prove the other at Colorado Springs.”

“What happened there?” Twisted neck and used binox; could see nothing but ribbon city, hundred-plus kilometers long, Denver-Pueblo Municipal Strip.

“Abull’s-eye. No interception. All my shots are bull’s-eyes, Man; I told you they would be—and this is fun. I’d like to do it every day. It’s a word I never had a referent for before.” “What word, Mike?”

“Orgasm. That’s what it is when they all light up. Now I know.”

That sobered me. “Mike, don’t get to liking it too much. Because if goes our way, won’t do it a second time.”

“That’s okay, Man; I’ve stored it, I can play it over anytime I want to experience it. But three to one we do it again tomorrow and even money on the next day. Want to bet? An hour’s discussion of jokes equated with one hundred Kong dollars.”

“Where would you get a hundred dollars?”

He chuckled. “Where do you think money comes from?”

“Uh—forget it. You get that hour free. Shan’t tempt you to affect chances.”

“I wouldn’t cheat, Man, not you. We just hit their defense command again. You may not be able to see it—dust cloud from first one. They get it every twenty minutes now. Come on down and talk; I’ve turned the job over to my idiot son.”

“Is safe?”

“I’m monitoring. Good practice for him, Man; he may have to do it later by himself. He’s accurate, just stupid. But he’ll do what you tell him to.” “You’re calling that computer ‘he.’ Can talk?”

“Oh, no, Man, he’s an idiot, he can never learn to talk. But he’ll do whatever you program. I plan to let him handle quite a bit on Saturday.” “Why Saturday?”

“Because Sunday he may have to handle everything. That’s the day they slam us.” “What do you mean? Mike, you’re holding something back.”

“I’m telling you, am I not? It’s just happened and I’m scanning it. Projecting back, this blip departed circum-Terra parking orbit just as we smashed them. I didn’t see it accelerate; I had other things to watch. It’s too far away to read but it’s the right size for a Peace cruiser, headed this way. Its doppler reads now for a new orbit circum-Luna, periselenion oh-nine-oh-three Sunday unless it maneuvers. First approximation, better data later. Hard to get that much, Man; he’s using radar countermeasures and throwing back fuzz.”

“Sure you’re right?”

He chuckled. “Man, I don’t confuse that easily. I’ve got all my own lovin’ little signals fingerprinted. Correction. Oh-nineoh-two-point-forty-three.” “When will you have him in range?”

“I won’t, unless he maneuvers. But he’ll have me in range late Saturday, time depending on what range he chooses for launching. And that will produce an interesting situation. He may aim for a warren—I think Tycho Under should be evacuated and all warrens should use maximum pressure-emergency measures. More likely he will try for the catapult. But instead he may hold his fire as long as he dares—then try to knock out all of my radars with a spread set to home each on a different radar beam.”

Mike chuckled. “Amusing, isn’t it? For a ‘funny-once’ I mean. If I shut down my radars, his missiles can’t home on them. But if I do, I can’t see to tell the lads where to point their guns. Which leaves nothing to stop him from bombing the catapult. Comical.”

Took deep breath and wished I had never entered defense ministry business. “What do we do? Give up? No, Mike! Not while can fight.”

“Who said anything about giving up? I’ve run projections of this and a thousand other possible situations, Man. New datum—second blimp just departed circum-Terra, same characteristics. Projection later. We don’t give up. We give ‘em jingle-jangle, cobber.”

“How?”

“Leave it to your old friend Mycroft. Six ballistic radars here, plus one at the new site. I’ve shut the new one down and am making my retarded child work through number two here and we won’t look at those ships at all through the new one—never let them know we have it. I’m watching those ships through number three and occasionally—every three seconds—checking for new departures from circum-Terra. All others have their eyes closed tight and I won’t use them until time to smack Great China and India—and those ships won’t see them even then because I shan’t look their way; it’s a large angle and still will be then. And when I use them, then comes random jingle-jangle, shutting down and starting up at odd intervals… after the ships launch missiles. Amissile can’t carry a big brain, Man—I’ll fool ‘em.”

“What about ships’ fire-control computers?”

“I’ll fool them, too. Want to lay odds I can’t make two radars look like only one halfway between where they really are? But what I’m working on now—and sorry!—I’ve been using your voice again.”

“That’s okay. What am I supposed to have done?”

“If that admiral is really smart, he’ll go after the ejection end of the old catapult with everything he’s got—at extreme range, too far away for our drill guns. Whether he knows what our ‘secret’ weapon is or not, he’ll smear the catapult and ignore the radars. So I’ve ordered the catapult head—you have, I mean—to prepare to launch every load we can get ready, and I am now working out new, long-period trajectories for each of them. Then we will throw them all, get them into space as quickly as possible—without radar.”

“Blind?”

“I don’t use radar to launch a load; you know that, Man. I always watched them in the past but I don’t need to; radar has nothing to do with launching; launching is pre-calculation and exact control of the catapult. So we place all ammo from the old catapult in slow trajectories, which forces the admiral to go after the radars rather than the catapult—or both. Then we’ll keep him busy. We may make him so desperate that he’ll come down for a close shot and give our lads a chance to burn his eyes.”

“Brody’s boys would like that. Those who are sober.” Was turning over idea. “Mike, have you watched video today?” “I’ve monitored video, I can’t say I’ve watched it. Why?”

“Take a look.”

“Okay, I have. Why?”

“That’s a good ‘scope they’re using for video and there are others. Why use radar on ships? Till you want Brody’s boys to burn them?” Mike was silent at least two seconds. “Man my best friend, did you ever think of getting a job as a computer?”

“Is sarcasm?”

“Not at all, Man. I feel ashamed. The instruments at Richardson—telescopes and other things—are factors which I simply never included in my calculations. I’m stupid, I admit it. Yes, yes, yes, da, da, da! Watch ships by telescope, don’t use radar unless they vary from present ballistics. Other possibilities—I don’t know what to say, Man, save that it had never occurred to me that I could use telescopes. I see by radar, always have; I simply never consid—”

“Stow it!”

“I mean it, Man.”

“Do I apologize when you think of something first?”

Mike said slowly, “There is something about that which I am finding resistant to analysis. It is my function to—” “Quit fretting. If idea is good, use it. May lead to more ideas. Switching off and coming down, chop-chop.”

Had not been in Mike’s room long when Prof phoned: “HQ? Have you heard from Field Marshal Davis?”

“I’m here, Prof. Master computer room.”

“Will you join us in the Warden’s office? There are decisions to reach, work to be done.” “Prof, I’ve been working! Am working.”

“I’m sure you have. I’ve explained to the others that the programming of the ballistic computer is so very delicate in this operation that you must check it personally. Nevertheless some of our colleagues feel that the Minister of Defense should be present during these discussions. So, when you reach a point where you feel you can turn it over to your assistant—Mike is his name, is it not?—will you please—”

“I scan it. Okay, will be up.” “Very well, Manuel.”

Mike said, “I could hear thirteen people in the background. Doubletalk, Man.” “I got it. Better go up and see what huhu. You don’t need me?”

“Man, I hope you will stay close to a phone.”

“Will. Keep an ear on Warden’s office. But will punch in if elsewhere. See you, cobber.”

Found entire government in Warden’s office, both real Cabinet and make-weights—and soon spotted trouble, bloke called Howard Wright. Aministry had been whomped up for him: “Liaison for Arts, Sciences, and Professions”—buttonsorting. Was sop to Novylen because Cabinet was topheavy with L-City comrades, and a sop to Wright because he had made himself leader of a Congress group long on talk, short on action. Prof’s purpose was to short him out—but sometimes Prof was too subtle; some people talk better if they breathe vacuum.

Prof asked me to brief Cabinet on military situation. Which I did—my way. “I see Finn is here. Let’s have him tell where we stand in warrens.” Wright spoke up. “General Nielsen has already done so, no need to repeat. We want to hear from you.”

Blinked at that. “Prof—Excuse me. Gospodin President. Do I understand that a Defense Ministry report has been made to Cabinet in my absence?” Wright said, “Why not? You weren’t on hand.”

Prof grabbed it. He could see I was stretched too tight. Hadn’t slept much for three days, hadn’t been so tired since left Earthside. “Order,” he said mildly. “Gospodin Minister for Professional Liaison, please address your comments through me. Gospodin Minister for Defense, let me correct that. There have been no reports to the Cabinet concerning your ministry for the reason that the Cabinet did not convene until you arrived. General Nielsen answered some informal questions informally. Perhaps this should not have been done. If you feel so, I will attempt to repair it.”

“No harm done, I guess. Finn talked to you a half hour ago. Anything new since?” “No, Mannie.”

“Okay. Guess what you want to hear is off-Luna situation. You’ve been watching so you know first bombardment went off well. Still going on, some, as we’re hitting their space defense HQ every twenty minutes. Will continue till thirteen hundred, then at twenty-one hundred we hit China and India, plus minor targets. Then busy till four hours past midnight with Africa and Europe, skip three hours, dose Brasil and company, wait three hours and start over. Unless something breaks. But meantime we have problems here. Finn, we should evacuate Tycho Under.”

“Just a moment!” Wright had hand up. “I have questions.” Spoke to Prof, not to me. “One moment. Has the Defense Minister finished?”

Wyoh was seated toward back. We had swapped smiles, but was all—kept it so around Cabinet and Congress; had been rumbles that two from same family should not be in Cabinet. Now she shook head, warning of something. I said, “Is all conceniing bombardment. Questions about it?”

“Are your questions concerned with the bombardment, Gospodin Wright?”

“They certainly are, Gospodin President.” Wright stood up, looked at me. “As you know, I represent the intellectual groups in the Free State and, if I may say so, their opinions are most important in public affairs. I think it is only proper that—”

“Moment,” I said. “Thought you represented Eighth Novylen District?” “Gospodin President! Am I to be permitted to put my questions? Or not?”

“He wasn’t asking question, was making speech. And I’m tired and want to go to bed.”

Prof said gently, “We are all tired, Manuel. But your point is well taken. Congressman, you represent only your district. As a member of the government you have been assigned certain duties in connection with certain professions.”

“It comes to the same thing.”

“Not quite. Please state your question.”

“Uh… very well, I shall! Is Field Marshal Davis aware that his bombardment plan has gone wrong completely and that thousands of lives have been pointlessly destroyed? And is he aware of the extremely serious view taken of this by the intelligentsia of this Republic? And can he explain why this rash—I repeat, rash!—bombardment was undertaken without consultation? And is he now prepared to modify his plans, or is he going blindly ahead? And is it true as charged that our missiles were of the nuclear sort outlawed by all civilized nations? And how does he expect Luna Free State ever to be welcomed into the councils of civilized nations in view of such actions?”

I looked at watch—hour and a half since first load hit. “Prof,” I said, “can you tell me what this is about?”

“Sorry, Manuel,” he said gently. “I intended—I should have—prefaced the meeting with an item from the news. But you seemed to feel that you had been bypassed and—well, I did not. The Minister refers to a news dispatch that came in just before I called you. Reuters in Toronto. If the flash is correct—then instead of taking our warnings it seems that thousands of sightseers crowded to the targets. There probably have been casualties. How many we do not know.”

“I see. What was I supposed to do? Take each one by hand and lead away? We warned them.”

Wright cut in with, “The intelligentsia feel that basic humanitarian considerations make it obligatory—”

I said, “Listen, yammerhead, you heard President say this news just came in—so how do you know how anybody feels about it?” He turned red. “Gospodin President! Epithets! Personalities!”

“Don’t call the Minister names, Manuel.”

“Won’t if he won’t. He’s simply using fancier words. What’s that nonsense about nuclear bombs? We haven’t any and you all know it.”

Prof looked puzzled. “I am confused by that, too. This dispatch so alleged. But the thing that puzzled me is that we could actually see, by video, what certainly seemed to be atomic explosions.”

“Oh.” I turned to Wright. “Did your brainy friends tell you what happens when you release a few billion calories in a split second all at one spot? What temperature? How much radiance?” “Then you admit that you did use atomic weapons!”

“Oh, Bog!” Head was aching. “Said nothing of sort. Hit anything hard enough, strike sparks. Elementary physics, known to everybody but intelligentsia. We just struck damnedest big sparks ever made by human agency, is all. Big flash. Heat, light, ultraviolet. Might even produce X-rays, couldn’t say. Gamma radiation I strongly doubt. Alpha and beta, impossible. Was sudden release of mechanical energy. But nuclear? Nonsense!”

Prof said, “Does that answer your questions, Mr. Minister?”

“It simply raises more questions. For example, this bombardment is far beyond anything the Cabinet authorized. You saw the shocked faces when those terrible lights appeared on the screen. Yet the Minister of Defense says that it is even now continuing, every twenty minutes. I think—”

Glanced at watch. “Another just hit Cheyenne Mountain.”

Wright said, “You hear that? You hear? He boasts of it. Gospodin President, this carnage must stop!”

I said, “Yammer—Minister, are you suggesting that their space defense HQ is not a military target? Which side are you on? Luna’s? Or F.N.?” “Manuel!”

“Tired of this nonsense! Was told to do job, did it. Get this yammerhead off my back!” Was shocked silence, then somebody said quietly, “May I make a suggestion?”

Prof looked around. “If anyone has a suggestion that will quiet this unseemliness, I will be most happy to hear it.”

“Apparently we don’t have very good information as to what these bombs are doing. It seems to me that we ought to slow up that twenty-minute schedule. Stretch it out, say to one every hour—and skip the next two hours while we get more news. Then we might want to postpone the attack on great China at least twenty-four hours.”

Were approving nods from almost everybody and murmurs: “Sensible idea!”—”Da. Let’s not rush things.” Prof said, “Manuel?” I snapped, “Prof, you know answer! Don’t shove it on me!”

“Perhaps I do, Manuel… but I’m tired and confused and can’t remember it.” Wyoh said suddenly, “Mannie, explain it. I need it explained, too.”

So pulled self together. “Asimple matter of law of gravitation. Would have to use computer to give exact answer but next half dozen shots are fully committed. Most we can do is push them off target—and maybe hit some town we haven’t warned. Can’t dump them into an ocean, is too late; Cheyenne Mountain is fourteen hundred kilometers inland. As for stretching schedule to once an hour, that’s silly. Aren’t tube capsules you start and stop; these are falling rocks. Going to hit somewhere every twenty minutes. You can hit Cheyenne Mountain which hasn’t anything alive left on it by now—or can hit somewhere else and kill people. Idea of delaying strike on Great China by twenty-four hours is just as silly. Can abort missiles for Great China for a while yet. But can’t slow them up. If you abort, you waste them—and everybody who thinks we have steel casings to waste had better go up to catapult head and look.”

Prof wiped brow. “I think all questions have been answered, at least to my satisfaction.” “Not to mine, sir!”

“Sit down, Gospodin Wright. You force me to remind you that your ministry is not part of the War Cabinet. If there are no more questions—I hope there are none—I will adjourn this meeting. We all need rest. So let us—”

“Prof!”

“Yes, Manuel?”

“You never let me finish reporting. Late tomorrow or early Sunday we catch it.” “How, Manuel?”

“Bombing. Invasion possible. Two cruisers headed this way.”

That got attention. Presently Prof said tiredly, “The Government Cabinet is adjourned. The War Cabinet will remain.” “Just a second,” I said. “Prof, when we took office, you got undated resignations from us.”

“True. I hope not to have to use any of them, however.” “You’re about to use one.”

“Manuel, is that a threat?”

“Call it what you like.” I pointed at Wright. “Either that yammerhead goes… or I go.” “Manuel, you need sleep.”

Was blinking back tears. “Certainly do! And going to get some. Right now! Going to find a doss here at Complex and get some. About ten hours. After that, if am still Minister of Defense, you can wake me. Otherwise let me sleep.”

By now everybody was looking shocked. Wyoh came up and stood by me. Didn’t speak, just slipped hand into my arm.

Prof said firmly, “All please leave save the War Cabinet and Gospodin Wright.” He waited while most filed out. Then said, “Manuel, I can’t accept your resignation. Nor can I let you chivvy me into hasty action concerning Gospodin Wright, not when we are tired and overwrought. It would be better if you two were to exchange apologies, each realizing that the other has been overstrained.”

“Uh—” I turned to Finn. “Has he been fighting?” I indicated Wright.

“Huh? Hell, no. At least he’s not in my outfits. How about it, Wright? Did you fight when they invaded us?’

Wright said stiffly, “I had no opportunity. By the time I knew of it, it was over. But now both my bravery and my loyalty have been impugned. I shall insist—”

“Oh, shut up,” I said. “If duel is what you want, can have it first moment I’m not busy. Prof, since he doesn’t have strain of fighting as excuse for behavior, I won’t apologize to a yammerhead for being a yammerhead. And you don’t seem to understand issue. You let this yammerhead climb on my back—and didn’t even try to stop him! So either fire him, or fire me.”

Finn said suddenly, “I match that, Prof. Either fire this louse—or fire us both.” He looked at Wright. “About that duel, choom—you’re going to fight me first. You’ve got two arms—Mannie hasn’t.”

“Don’t need two arms for him. But thanks, Finn.”

Wyoh was crying—could feel it though couldn’t hear it. Prof said to her most sadly, “Wyoming?” “I’m s-s-sorry, Prof! Me, too.”

Only “Clayton” Watenabe, Judge Brody, Wolfgang, Stu, and Sheenie were left, handful who counted—War Cabinet. Prof looked at them; I could see they were with me, though it cost Wolfgang an effort; he worked with Prof. not with me.

Prof looked back at me and said softly, “Manuel, it works both ways. What you are doing is forcing me to resign.” He looked around. “Goodnight, comrades. Or rather, ‘Good morning.’ I’m going to get some badly needed rest.” He walked briskly out without looking back.

Wright was gone; I didn’t see him leave. Finn said, “What about these cruisers, Mannie?”

I took deep breath. “Nothing earlier than Saturday afternoon. But you ought to evacuate Tycho Under. Can’t talk now. Groggy.” Agreed to meet him there at twenty-one hundred, then let Wyoh lead me away. Think she put me to bed but don’t remember.

27

Prof was there when I met Finn in Warden’s office shortly before twenty-one hundred Friday. Had had nine hours’ sleep, bath, breakfast Wyoh had fetched from somewhere, and a talk with Mike—everything going to revised plan, ships had not changed ballistic, Great China strike about to happen.

Got to office in time to see strike by video—all okay and effectively over by twenty-one-oh-one and Prof got down to business. Nothing said about Wright, or about resigning. Never saw Wright again.

I mean I never saw him again. Nor ask about him. Prof didn’t mention row, so I didn’t.

We went over news and tactical situation. Wright had been correct in saying that “thousands of lives” had been lost; news up from Earthside was full of it. How many we’ll never know; if a person stands at ground zero and tonnes of rock land on him, isn’t much left. Those they could count were ones farther away, killed by blast. Call if fifty thousand in North America.

Never will understand people! We spent three days warning them—and you couldn’t say they hadn’t heard warnings; that was why they were there. To see show. To laugh at our nonsense. To get “souvenirs.” Whole families went to targets, some with picnic baskets. Picnic baskets! Bojemoi!

And now those alive were yelling for our blood for this “senseless slaughter.” Da. Hadn’t been any indignation over their invasion and (nuclear!) bombing of us four days earlier—but oh were they sore over our “premeditated murder.” Great New York Times demanded that entire Lunar “rebel” government be fetched Earthside and publicly executed—”This is clearly a case in which the humane rule against capital punishment must be waived in the greater interests of all mankind.”

Tried not to think about it, just as had been forced not to think too much about Ludmilla. Little Milla hadn’t carried a picnic lunch. She hadn’t been a sightseer looking for thrills. Tycho Under was pressing problem. If those ships bombed warrens—and news from Earthside was demanding exactly that—Tycho Under could not take it; roof was thin. H-bomb

would decompress all levels; airlocks aren’t built for H-bomb blasts.

(Still don’t understand people. Terra was supposed to have an absolute ban against using H-bombs on people; that was what F.N. was all about. Yet were loud yells for F.N. to H-bomb us. They quit claiming that our bombs were nuclear, but all North America seemed frothingly anxious to have us nukebombed)

Don’t understand Loonies for that matter. Finn had sent word through his militia that Tycho Under must be evacuated; Prof had repeated it over video. Nor was it problem; Tycho Under was small enough that Novylen and L-City could doss and dine them. We could divert enough capsules to move them all in twenty hours—dump them into Novylen and encourage half of them to go on to L-City. Big job but no problems. Oh, minor problems—start compressing city’s air while evacuating people, so as to save it; decompress fully at end to minimize damage; move as much food as was time for; cofferdam accesses to lower farm tunnels; so forth—all things we knew how to do and with stilyagi and militia and municipal maintenance people had organization to do.

Had they started evacuating? Hear that hollow echo!

Were capsules lined up nose to tail at Tycho Under and no room to send more till some left. And weren’t moving. “Mannie,” said Finn, “don’t think they are going to evacuate.”

“Damn it,” I said, “they’ve got to. When we spot a missile headed for Tycho Under will be too late. You’ll have people trampling people and trying to crowd into capsules that won’t hold them. Finn, your boys have got to make them.”

Prof shook his head. “No, Manuel.”

I said angrily, “Prof, you carry this ‘no coercion’ idea too far! You know they’ll riot.”

“Then they will riot. But we will continue with persuasion, not force. Let us now review plans.’

Plans weren’t much but were best we could do. Warn everybody about expected bombings and/or invasion. Rotate guards from Finn’s militia above each warren starting when and if cruisers passed around Luna into blind space, Farside—not get caught flat-footed again. Maximum pressure and p-suit precautions, all warrens. All military and semi-military to go on blue alert sixteen hundred Saturday, red alert if missiles launched or ships maneuvered. Brody’s gunners encouraged to go into town and get drunk or whatever, returning by fifteen hundred Saturday—Prof’s idea. Finn wanted to keep half of them on duty. Prof said No, they would be in better shape for a long vigil if they relaxed and enjoyed selves first—I agreed with Prof.

As for bombing Terra we made no changes in first rotation. Were getting anguished responses from India, no news from Great China. Yet India had little to moan about. Had not used a grid on her, too heavily populated. Aside from picked spots in Thar Desert and some peaks, targets were coastal waters off seaports.

But should have picked higher mountains or given less warning; seemed from news that some holy man followed by endless pilgrims chose to climb each target peak and hold off our retaliation by sheer spiritual strength.

So we were murderers again. Besides that, our water shots killed millions of fish and many fishermen, as fishermen and other seafarers had not heeded warnings. Indian government seemed as furious over fish as over fishermen—but principle of sacredness of all life did not apply to us; they wanted our heads.

Africa and Europe responded more sensibly but differently. Life has never been sacred in Africa and those who went sightseeing on targets got little bleeding-heart treatment. Europe had a day to learn that we could hit where we promised and that our bombs were deadly. People killed, yes, especially bullheaded sea captains. But not killed in empty-headed swarms as in India and North America. Casualties were even lighter in Brasil and other parts of South America.

Then was North America’s turn again—0950.28 Saturday 17 Oct ‘76.

Mike timed it for exactly 1000 our time which, allowing for one day’s progress of Luna in orbit and for rotation of Terra, caused North America to face toward us at 0500 their East Coast time and 0200 their West Coast time.

But argument as to what to do with this targeting had started early Saturday morning. Prof had not called meeting of War Cabinet but they showed up anyhow, except “Clayton” Watenabe who had gone back to Kongville to take charge of defenses. Prof, self, Finn, Wyoh, Judge Brody, Wolfgang, Stu, Terence Sheehan—which made eight different opinions. Prof is right; more than three people can’t decide anything.

Six opinions, should say, for Wyoh kept pretty mouth shut, and so did Prof; he moderated. But others were noisy enough for eighteen. Stu didn’t care what we hit—provided New York Stock Exchange opened on Monday morning. “We sold short in nineteen different directions on Thursday. If this nation is not to be bankrupt before it’s out of its cradle, my buy orders covering those shorts had better be executed. Tell them, Wolf; make them understand.”

Brody wanted to use catapult to smack any more ships leaving parking orbit. Judge knew nothing about ballistics—simply understood that his drillmen were in exposed positions. I didn’t argue as most remaining loads were already in stow orbits and rest would be soon—and didn’t think we would have old catapult much longer.

Sheenie thought it would be smart to repeat that grid while placing one load exactly on main building of North American Directorate. “I know Americans, I was one before they shipped me. They’re sorry as hell they ever turned things over to F.N. Knock off those bureaucrats and they’ll come over to our side.”

Wolfgang Korsakov, to Stu’s disgust, thought that theft speculations might do better if all stock exchanges were closed till it was over.

Finn wanted to go for broke—warn them to get those ships out of our sky, then hit them for real if they didn’t. “Sheenie is wrong about Americans; I know them, too. N.A. is toughest part of F.N.; they’re the ones to lick. They’re already calling us murderers, so now we’ve got to hit them, hard! Hit American cities and we can call off the rest.”

I slid out, talked with Mike, made notes. Went back in; they were still arguing. Prof looked up as I sat down. “Field Marshal, you have not expressed your opinion.” I said, “Prof, can’t we lay off that ‘field marshal’ nonsense? Children are in bed, can afford to be honest.”

“As you wish, Manuel.”

“Been waiting to see if any agreement would be reached.”

Was none. “Don’t see why I should have opinion,” I went on. “Am just errand boy, here because I know how to program ballistic computer.” Said this looking straight at Wolfgang—a number-one comrade but a dirty-word intellectual. I’m just a mechanic whose grammar isn’t much while Wolf graduated from a fancy school, Oxford, before they convicted him. He

deferred to Prof but rarely to anybody else. Stu, da—but Stu had fancy credentials, too.

Wolf stirred uneasily and said, “Oh, come, Mannie, of course we want your opinions.”

“Don’t have any. Bombing plan was worked out carefully; everybody had chance to criticize. Haven’t seen anything justify changing it.” Prof said, “Manuel, will you review the second bombardment of North America for the benefit of all of us?”

“Okay. Purpose of second smearing is to force them to use up interceptor rockets. Every shot is aimed at big cities—at null targets, I mean, close to big cities. Which we tell them, shortly before we hit them—how soon, Sheenie?”

“We’re telling them now. But we can change it. And should.”

“As may be. Propaganda isn’t my pidgin. In most cases, to aim close enough to force them to intercept we have to use water targets—rough enough; besides killing fish and anybody who won’t stay off water, it causes tremjous local storms and shore damage.”

Glanced at watch, saw I would have to stall. “Seattle gets one in Puget Sound right in her lap. San Francisco is going to lose two bridges she’s fond of. Los Angeles gets one between Long Beach and Catalina and another a few kilometers up coast. Mexico City is inland so we put one on Popocatepetl where they can see it. Salt Lake City gets one in her lake. Denver we ignore; they can see what’s happening in Colorado Springs—for we smack Cheyenne Mountain again and keep it up, just as soon as we have it in line-of-sight. Saint Louis and Kansas City get shots in their rivers and so does New Orleans—probably flood New Orleans. All Great Lake cities get it, a long list—shall I read it?”

“Later perhaps,” said Prof. “Go ahead.”

“Boston gets one in her harbor, New York gets one in Long Island Sound and another midway between her two biggest bridges—think it will ruin those bridges but we promise to miss them and will. Going down their east coast, we give treatment to two Delaware Bay cities, then two on Chesapeake Bay, one being of max historical and sentimental importance. Farther south we catch three more big cities with sea shots, Going inland we smack Cincinnati, Birmingham, Chattanooga, Oklahoma City, all with river shots or nearby mountains. Oh, yes, Dallas—we destroy Dallas spaceport and should catch some ships, were six there last time I checked. Won’t kill any people unless they insist on standing on target; Dallas is perfect place to bomb, that spaceport is big and flat and empty, yet maybe ten million people will see us hit it.”

“If you hit it,” said Sheenie.

“When, not ‘if.’ Each shot is backed up by one an hour later. If neither one gets through, we have shots farther back which can be diverted—for example easy to shift targets among Delaware-Bay-Chesapeake-Bay group. Same for Great Lakes group. But Dallas has its own string of backups and a long one—we expect it to be heavily defended. Backups run about six hours, as long as we can see North America—and last backups can be placed anywhere on continent… since farther out a load is when we divert it, farther we can shift it.”

“I don’t follow that,” said Brody.

“Amatter of vectors, Judge. Aguidance rocket can give a load so many meters per second of side vector. Longer that vector has to work, farther from original point of aim load will land. If we signal a guidance rocket three hours before impact, we displace impact three times as much as if we waited till one hour before impact. Not quite that simple but our computer can figure it—if you give it time enough.”

“How long is ‘time enough’?” asked Wolfgang.

I carefully misunderstood. “Computer can solve that sort of problem almost instantaneously once you program it. But such decisions are pre-programmed. Something like this: If, out of target group A, B, C, and D, you find that you have failed to hit three targets on first and second salvoes, you reposition all group-one second backups so that you will be able to choose those three targets while distributing other second backups of that group for possible use on group two while repositioning third backups of supergroup Alpha such that—”

“Slow up!” said Wolfgang. “I’m not a computer. I just want to know how long before we have to make up our minds.”

“Oh.” I studied watch showily. “You now have … three minutes fifty-eight seconds in which to abort leading load for Kansas City. Abort program is set up and I have my best assistant— fellow named Mike—standing by. Shall I phone him?”

Sheenie said, “For heaven’s sake, Man—abort!”

“Like hell!” said Finn. “What’s matter, Terence? No guts?” Prof said, “Comrades! Please!”

I said, “Look, I take orders from head of state—Prof over there. If he wants opinions, he’ll ask. No use yelling at each other.” I looked at watch. “Call it two and a half minutes. More margin, of course, for other targets; Kansas City is farthest from deep water. But some Great Lake cities are already past ocean abort; Lake Superior is best we can do. Salt Lake City maybe an extra minute. Then they pile up.” I waited.

“Roll call,” said Prof. “To carry-out the program. General Nielsen?” “Da!”

“Gospazha Davis?”

Wyoh caught breath. “Da.” “Judge Brody?”

“Yes, of course. Necessary.” “Wolfgang?”

“Yes.”

“Comte LaJoie?” “Da.”

“Gospodin Sheehan?”

“You’re missing a bet. But I’ll go along. Unanimous.” “One moment. Manuel?”

“Is up to you, Prof; always has been. Voting is silly.”

“I am aware that it is up to me, Gospodin Minister. Carry out bombardment to plan.”

Most targets we managed to hit by second salvo though all were defended except Mexico City. Seemed likely (98.3 percent by Mike’s later calculation) that interceptors were exploding by radar fusing with set distances that incorrectly estimated vulnerability of solid cylinders of rock. Only three rocks were destroyed; others were pushed off course and thereby did more harm than if not fired at.

New York was tough; Dallas turned out to be very tough. Perhaps difference lay in local control of interception, for it seemed unlikely that command post in Cheyenne Mountain was still effective. Perhaps we had not cracked their hole in the ground (don’t know how deep down it was) but I’ll bet that neither men nor computers were still tracking.

Dallas blew up or pushed aside first five rocks, so I told Mike to take everything he could from Cheyenne Mountain and award it to Dallas… which he was able to do two salvoes later; those two targets are less than a thousand kilometers apart.

Dallas’s defenses cracked on next salvo; Mike gave their spaceport three more (already committed) then shifted back to Cheyenne Mountain—later ones had never been nudged and were still earmarked “Cheyenne Mountain.” He was still giving that battered mountain cosmic love pats when America rolled down and under Terra’s eastern edge.

I stayed with Mike all during bombardment, knowing it would be our toughest. As he shut down till time to dust Great China, Mike said thoughtfully, “Man, I don’t think we had better hit that mountain again.”

“Why not, Mike?”

“It’s not there any longer.”

“You might divert its backups. When do you have to decide?”

“I would put them on Albuquerque and Omaha but had best start now; tomorrow will be busy. Man my best friend, you should leave.” “Bored with me, pal?”

“In the next few hours that first ship may launch missiles. When that happens I want to shift all ballistic control to Little David’s Sling—and when I do, you should be at Mare Undarum site.”

“What’s fretting you, Mike?”

“That boy is accurate, Man. But he’s stupid. I want him supervised. Decisions may have to be made in a hurry and there isn’t anyone there who can program him properly. You should be there.”

“Okay if you say so, Mike. But if needs a fast program, will still have to phone you.” Greatest shortcoming of computers isn’t computer shortcoming at all but fact that a human takes a long time, maybe hours, to set up a program that a computer solves in milliseconds. One best quality of Mike was that he could program himself. Fast. Just explain problem, let him program. Samewise and equally, he could program “idiot son” enormously faster than human could.

“But, Man, I want you there because you may not be able to phone me; the lines may be cut. So I’ve prepared a group of possible programs for Junior; they may be helpful.” “Okay, print ‘em out. And let me talk to Prof.”

Mike got Prof; I made sure he was private, then explained what Mike thought I should do. Thought Prof would object—was hoping he would insist I stay through coming bombardment/invasion/whatever—those ships. Instead he said, “Manuel, it’s essential that you go. I’ve hesitated to tell you. Did you discuss odds with Mike?”

“Nyet.”

“I have continued to do so. To put it bluntly, if Luna City is destroyed and I am dead and the rest of the government is dead—even if all Mike’s radar eyes here are blinded and he himself is cut off from the new catapult—all of which may happen under severe bombardment… even if all this happens at once, Mike still gives Luna even chances if Little David’s Sling can operate—and you are there to operate it.”

I said, “Da, Boss. Yassuh, Massuh. You and Mike are stinkers and want to hog fun. Will do.” “Very good, Manuel.”

Stayed with Mike another hour while he printed out meter after meter of programs tailored to other computer—work that would have taken me six months even if able to think of all possibilities. Mike had it indexed and cross-referenced—with horribles in it I hardly dare mention. Mean to say, given circumstances and seemed necessary to destroy (say) Paris, this told how—what missiles in what orbits, how to tell Junior to find them and bring to target. Or anything.

Was reading this endless document—not programs but descriptions of purpose-of-program that headed each—when Wyoh phoned. “Mannie dear, has Prof told you about going to Mare Undarum?”

“Yes. Was going to call you.”

“All right. I’ll pack for us and meet you at Station East. When can you be there?” “Pack for ‘us’? You’re going?”

“Didn’t Prof say?”

“No.” Suddenly felt cheerful.

“I felt guilty about it, dear. I wanted to go with you… but had no excuse. After all, I’m no use around a computer and I do have responsibilities here. Or did. But now I’ve been fired from all my jobs and so have you.”

“Huh?”

“You are no longer Defense Minister; Finn is. Instead you are Deputy Prime Minister—” “Well!”

“—and Deputy Minister of Defense, too. I’m already Deputy Speaker and Stu has been appointed Deputy Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. So he goes with us, too.” “I’m confused.”

“It’s not as sudden as it sounds; Prof and Mike worked it out months ago. Decentralization, dear, the same thing that McIntyre has been working on for the warrens. If there is a disaster at L-City, Luna Free State still has a government. As Prof put it to me, ‘Wyoh dear lady, as long as you three and a few Congressmen are left alive, all is not lost. You can still negotiate on equal terms and never admit your wounds.’”

So I wound up as a computer mechanic. Stu and Wyoh met me, with luggage (including rest of my arms), and we threaded through endless unpressured tunnels in p-suits, on a small flatbed rolligon used to haul steel to site. Greg had big rolligon meet us for surface stretch, then met us himself when we went underground again.

So I missed attack on ballistic radars Saturday night.

28

Captain of first ship, FNS Esperance, had guts. Late Saturday he changed course, headed straight in. Apparently figured we might attempt jingle-jangle with radars, for he seems to have decided to come in close enough to see our radar installations by ship’s radar rather than rely on letting his missiles home in on our beams.

Seems to have considered himself, ship, and crew expendable, for he was down to a thousand kilometers before he launched, a spread that went straight for five out of six of Mike’s radars, ignoring random jingle-jangle.

Mike, expecting self soon to be blinded, turned Brody’s boys loose to burn ship’s eyes, held them on it for three seconds before he shifted them to missiles.

Result: one crashed cruiser, two ballistic radars knocked out by H-missiles, three missiles “killed”—and two gun crews killed, one by H-explosion, other by dead missile that landed square on them—plus thirteen gunners with radiation burns above 800-roentgen death level, partly from flash, partly from being on surface too long. And must add: Four members of Lysistrata Corps died with those crews; they elected to p-suit and go up with their men. Other girls had serious radiation exposure but not up to 800-r level.

Second cruiser continued an elliptical orbit around and behind Luna.

Got most of this from Mike after we arrived Little David’s Sling early Sunday. He was feeling groused over loss of two of his eyes and still more groused over gun crews—I think Mike was developing something like human conscience; he seemed to feel it was his fault that he had not been able to outfight six targets at once. I pointed out that what he had to fight with was improvised, limited range, not real weapons.

“How about self, Mike? Are you right?”

“In all essentials. I have outlying discontinuities. One live missile chopped my circuits to Novy Leningrad, but reports routed through Luna City inform me that local controls tripped in satisfactorily with no loss in city services. I feel frustrated by these discontinuities—but they can be dealt with later.”

“Mike, you sound tired.”

“Me tired? Ridiculous! Man, you forget what I am. I’m annoyed, that’s all.” “When will that second ship be back in sight?”

“In about three hours if he were to hold earlier orbit. But he will not—probability in excess of ninety percent. I expect him in about an hour.” “AGarrison orbit, huh? Oho!”

“He left my sight at azimuth and course east thirty-two north. Does that suggest anything, Man?”

Tried to visualize. “Suggests they are going to land and try to capture you, Mike. Have you told Finn? I mean, have you told Prof to warn Finn?” “Professor knows. But that is not the way I analyze it.”

“So? Well, suggests I had better shut up and let you work.”

Did so. Lenore fetched me breakfast while I inspected Junior—and am ashamed to say could not manage to grieve over losses with both Wyoh and Lenore present. Mum had sent Lenore out “to cook for Greg” after Milla’s death—just an excuse; were enough wives at site to provide homecooking for everybody. Was for Greg’s morale and Lenore’s, too; Lenore and Milla had been close.

Junior seemed to be right. He was working on South America, one load at a time. I stayed in radar room and watched, at extreme magnification, while he placed one in estuary between Montevideo and Buenos Aires; Mike could not have been more accurate. I then checked his program for North America, found naught to criticize—locked it in and took key. Junior was on his own—unless Mike got clear of other troubles and decided to take back control.

Then sat and tried to listen to news both from Earthside and L-City. Co-ax cable from L-City carried phones, Mike’s hookup to his idiot child, radio, and video; site was no longer isolated. But, besides cable from L-City, site had antennas pointed at Terra; any Earthside news Complex could pick up, we could listen to directly. Nor was this silly extra; radio and video from Terra had been only recreation during construction and this was now a standby in case that one cable was broken.

F.N. official satellite relay was claiming that Luna’s ballistic radars had been destroyed and that we were now helpless. Wondered what people of Buenos Aires and Montevideo thought about that. Probably too busy to listen; m some ways water shots were worse than those where we could find open land.

Luna City Lunatic’s video channel was carrying Sheenie telling Loonies outcome of attack by Esperance, repeating news while warning everybody that battle was not over, a warship would be back in our sky any moment—be ready for anything, everybody stay in p-suits (Sheenie was wearing his, with helmet open), take maximum pressure precautions, all units stay on red alert, all citizens not otherwise called by duty strongly urged to seek lowest level and stay there till all clear. And so forth.

He went through this several times—then suddenly broke it: “Flash! Enemy cruiser radar-sighted, low and fast. It may dido for Luna City. Flash! Missiles launched, headed for ejection end of—”

Picture and sound chopped off.

Might as well tell now what we at Little David’s Sling learned later: Second cruiser, by coming in low and fast, tightest orbit Luna’s field permits, was able to start its bombing at ejection end of old catapult, a hundred kilometers from catapult head and Brody’s gunners, and knock many rings out in minute it took him to come into sight-and-range of drill guns, all clustered around radars at catapult head. Guess he felt safe. Wasn’t. Brody’s boys burned eyes out and ears off. He made one orbit after that and crashed near Torricelli, apparently in attempt to land, for his jets fired just before crash.

But our next news at new site was from Earthside: that brassy F.N. frequency claimed that our catapult had been destroyed (true) and that Lunar menace was ended (false) and called on all Loonies to take prisoner their false leaders and surrender themselves to mercy of Federated Nations (nonexistent—”mercy,” that is).

Listened to it and checked programming again, and went inside dark radar room. If everything went as planned, we were about to lay another egg in Hudson River, then targets in succession for three hours across that continent—”in succession” because Junior could not handle simultaneous hits; Mike had planned accordingly.

Hudson River was hit on schedule. Wondered how many New Yorkers were listening to F.N. newscast while looking at spot that gave it lie.

Two hours later F.N. station was saying that Lunar rebels had had missiles in orbit when catapult was destroyed—but that after those few had impacted would be no more. When third bombing of North America was complete I shut down radar. Had not been running steadily; Junior was programmed to sneak looks only as necessary, a few seconds at a time.

I then had nine hours before next bombing of Great China.

But not nine hours for most urgent decision, whether to hit Great China again. Without information. Except from Terra’s news channels. Which might be false. Bloody. Without knowing whether or not warrens had been bombed. Or Prof was dead or alive. Double bloody. Was I now acting prime minister? Needed Prof: “head of state” wasn’t my glass of chai. Above all, needed Mike—to calculate facts, estimate uncertainties, project probabilities of this course or that.

My word, didn’t even know whether ships were headed toward us and, worse yet, was afraid to look. If turned radar on and used Junior for sky search, any warship he brushed with beams would see him quicker than he saw them; warships were built to spot radar surveillance. So had heard. Hell, was no military man; was computer technician who had bumbled into wrong field.

Somebody buzzed door; I got up and unlocked. Was Wyoh, with coffee. Didn’t say a word, just handed it to me and went away. Sipped it. There it is, boy—they’re leaving you alone, waiting for you to pull miracles out of pouch. Didn’t feel up to it.

From somewhere, back in my youth, heard Prof say, “Manuel, when faced with a problem you do not understand, do any part of it you do understand, then look at it again.” He had been teaching me something he himself did not understand very well—something in maths—but had taught me something far more important, a basic principle.

Knew at once what to do first.

Went over to Junior and had him print out predicted impacts of all loads in orbit—easy, was a pre-program he could run anytime against real time running. While he was doing it, I looked for certain alternate programs in that long roll Mike had prepared.

Then set up some of those alternate programs—no trouble, simply had to be careful to read them correctly and punch them in without error. Made Junior print back for check before I gave him signal to execute.

When finished—forty minutes—every load in trajectory intended for an inland target had been retargeted for a seacoast city—with hedge to my bet that execution was delayed for rocks farther back. But, unless I canceled, Junior would reposition them as soon as need be.

Now horrible pressure of time was off me, now could abort any load into ocean right up to last few minutes before impact. Now could think. So did.

Then called in my ‘War Cabinet”—Wyoh, Stu, and Greg my “Commander of Armed Forces,” using Greg’s office. Lenore was allowed to go in and out, fetching coffee and food, or sitting and saying nothing. Lenore is a sensible fem and knows when to keep quiet.

Stu started it. “Mr. Prime Minister, I do not think that Great China should be hit this time.” “Never mind fancy titles, Stu. Maybe I’m acting, maybe not. But haven’t time for formality.” “Very well. May I explain my proposal?”

“Later.” I explained what I had done to give us more time; he nodded and kept quiet. “Our tightest squeeze is that we are out of communication, both Luna City and Earthside. Greg, how about that repair crew?”

“Not back yet.”

“If break is near Luna City, they may be gone a long time. If can repair at all. So must assume we’ll have to act on our own. Greg, do you have an electronics tech who can jury-rig a radio that will let us talk to Earthside? To their satellites, I mean—that doesn’t take much with right antenna. I may be able to help and that computer tech I sent you isn’t too clumsy, either.” (Quite good, in fact, for ordinary electronics—a poor bloke I had once falsely accused of allowing a fly to get into Mike’s guts. I had placed him in this job.)

“Harry Biggs, my power plant boss, can do anything of that sort,” Greg said thoughtfully, “if he has the gear.”

“Get him on it. You can vandalize anything but radar and computer once we get all loads out of catapult. How many lined up?” “Twenty-three, and no more steel.”

“So twenty-three it is, win or lose. I want them ready for loading; might lob them off today.” “They’re ready. We can load as fast as the cat can throw them.”

“Good. One more thing—Don’t know whether there’s an F.N. cruiser—maybe more than one—in our sky or not. And afraid to look. By radar, I mean; radar for skywatch could give away our position. But must have skywatch. Can you get volunteers for an eyeball skywatch and can you spare them?”

Lenore spoke up. “I volunteer!” “Thanks, honey; you’re accepted.”

“We’ll find them,” said Greg. “Won’t need fems.”

“Let her do it, Greg; this is everybody’s show.” Explained what I wanted: Mare Undarum was now in dark semi-lunar; Sun had set. Invisible boundary between sunlight and Luna’s shadow stretched over us, a precise locus. Ships passing through our sky would wink suddenly into view going west, blink out going east. Visible part of orbit would stretch from horizon to some point in sky. If eyeball team could spot both points, mark one by bearing, other by stars, and approximate time by counting seconds, Junior could start guessing orbit—two passes and Junior would know its period and something about shape of orbit. Then I would have some notion of when would be safe to use radar and radio, and catapult—did not want to loose a load with F.N. ship above horizon, could be radar-looking our way.

Perhaps too cautious—but had to assume that this catapult, this one radar, these two dozen missiles, were all that stood between Luna and total defeat—and our bluff hinged on them never knowing what we had or where it was. We had to appear endlessly able to pound Terra with missiles, from source they had not suspected and could never find.

Then as now, most Loonies knew nothing about astronomy—we’re cave dwellers, we go up to surface only when necessary. But we were lucky; was amateur astronomer in Greg’s crew, cobber who had worked at Richardson. I explained, put him in charge, let him worry about teaching eyeball crew how to tell stars apart. I got these things started before we went back to talk-talk. “Well, Stu? Why shouldn’t we hit Great China?”

“I’m still expecting word from Dr. Chan. I received one message from him, phoned here shortly before we were cut off from cities—” “My word, why didn’t you tell me?”

“I tried to, but you had yourself locked in and I know better than to bother you when you are busy with ballistics. Here’s the translation. Usual LuNoHo Company address with a reference which means it’s for me and that it has come through my Paris agent. ‘Our Darwin sales representative’—that’s Chan—’informs us that your shipments of’—well, never mind the coding; he means the attack days while appearing to refer to last June—’were improperly packaged resulting in unacceptable damage. Unless this can be corrected, negotiations for long-term contract will be serously jeopardized.”

Stu looked up. “All doubletalk. I take it to mean that Dr. Chan feels that he has his government ready to talk terms … but that we should let up on bombing Great China or we may upset his apple cart.”

“Hmm—” Got up and walked around. Ask Wyoh’s opinion? Nobody knew Wyoh’s virtues better than I… but she oscillated between fierceness and too-human compassion—and I had learned already that a “head of state,” even an acting one, must have neither. Ask Greg? Greg was a good farmer, a better mechanic, a rousing preacher; I loved him dearly—but did not want his opinion. Stu? I had had his opinion.

Or did I? “Stu, what’s your opinion? Not Chan’s opinion—but your own.”

Stu looked thoughtful. “That’s difficult, Mannie. I am not Chinese, I have not spent much time in Great China, and can’t claim to be expert in their politics nor their psychology. So I’m forced to depend on his opinion.”

“Uh—Damn it, he’s not a Loonie! His purposes are not our purposes. What does he expect to get out of it?”

“I think he is maneuvering for a monopoly over Lunar trade. Perhaps bases here, too. Possibly an extraterritorial enclave. Not that we would grant that.” “Might if we were hurtin’.”

“He didn’t say any of this. He doesn’t say much, you know. He listens.” “Too well I know.” Worried at it, more bothered each minute.

News from Earthside had been droning in background; I had asked Wyoh to monitor while I was busy with Greg. “Wyoh, hon, anything new from Earthside?”

“No. The same claims. We’ve been utterly defeated and our surrender is expected momentarily. Oh, there’s a warning that some missiles are still in space, falling out of control, but with it a reassurance that the paths are being analyzed and people will be warned in time to avoid impact areas.”

“Anything to suggest that Prof—or anybody in Luna City, or anywhere in Luna—is in touch with Earthside?” “Nothing at all.”

“Damn. Anything from Great China?”

“No. Comments from almost everywhere else. But not from Great China.”

“Uh—” Stepped to door. “Greg! Hey, cobber, see if you can find Greg Davis. I need him.” Closed door. “Stu, we’re not going to let Great China off.”

“So?”

“No. Would be nice if Great China busted alliance against us; might save us some damage. But we’ve got this far only by appearing able to hit them at will and to destroy any ship they send against us. At least I hope that last one was burned and we’ve certainly clobbered eight out of nine. We won’t get anywhere by looking weak, not while F.N. is claiming that we are not just weak but finished. Instead we must hand them surprises. Starting with Great China and if it makes Dr. Chan unhappy, we’ll give him a kerchief to weep into. If we can go on looking strong—when F.N. says we’re licked—then eventually some veto power is going to crack. If not Great China, then some other one.”

Stu bowed without getting up. “Very well, sir.” “I—”

Greg came in. “You want me, Mannie?” “What makes with Earthside sender?”

“Harry says you have it by tomorrow. Acrummy rig, he says, but push watts through it and will be heard.”

“Power we got. And if he says ‘tomorrow’ then he knows what he wants to build. So will be today—say six hours. I’ll work under him. Wyoh hon, will you get my arms? Want number-six and number-three—better bring number-five, too. And you stick with me and change arms for me. Stu, want you to write some nasty messages—I’ll give you general idea and you put acid in them. Greg, we are not going to get all those rocks into space at once. Ones we have in space now will impact in next eighteen, nineteen hours. Then, when F.N. is announcing that all rocks are accounted for and Lunar menace is over… we crash into their newscast and warn of next bombings. Shortest possible orbits, Greg, ten hours or less—so check everything on catapult and H-plant and controls; with that extra boost all has to be dead on.”

Wyoh was back with arms; I told her “number six” and added, “Greg, let me talk with Harry.”

Six hours later sender was ready to beam toward Terra. Was ugly job, vandalized mainly out of a resonance prospector used in project’s early stages. But could ride an audio signal on its radio frequency and was powerful. Stu’s nastified versions of my warnings had been taped and Harry was ready to zipsqueal them—all Terran satellites could accept high speed at sixty-to-one and had no wish to have our sender heated more seconds than necessary; eyeball watch had confirmed fears: At least two ships were in orbit around Luna.

So we told Great China that her major coastal cities would each receive a Lunar present offset ten kilometers into ocean—Pusan, Tsingtao, Taipei, Shanghai, Saigon, Bangkok, Singapore, Djakarta, Darwin, and so forth—except that Old Hong Kong would get one smack on top of F.N.’s Far East offices, so kindly have all human beings move far back. Stu noted that human beings did not mean F.N. personnel; they were urged to stay at desks.

India was given similar warnings about coastal cities and was told that F.N. global offices would be spared one more rotation out of respect for cultural monuments in Agra—and to permit human beings to evacuate. (I intended to extend this by another rotation as deadline approached—out of respect for Prof. And then another, indefinitely. Damn it, they would build their home offices next door to most overdecorated tomb ever built. But one that Prof treasured.)

Rest of world was told to keep their seats; game was going extra innings. But stay away from any F.N. offices anywhere; we were frothing at mouth and no F.N. office was safe. Better yet, get out of any city containing an F.N. headquarters—but F.N. vips and finks were urged to sit tight.

Then spent next twenty hours coaching Junior into sneaking his radar peeks when our sky was clear of ships, or believed to be. Napped when I could and Lenore stayed with me and woke me in time for next coaching. And that ended Mike’s rocks and we all went into alert while we got first of Junior’s rocks flung high and fast. Waited until certain it had gone hot and true—then told Terra where to look for it and where and when to expect it, so that all would know that F.N.’s claims of victory were on a par with their century of lies about Luna—all in Stu’s best, snotty, supercilious phrases delivered in his cultured accents.

First one should have been for Great China but was one piece of North American Directorate we could reach with it—her proudest jewel, Hawaii. Junior placed it in triangle formed by Maui, Molokai, and Lanai. I didn’t work out programming; Mike had anticipated everything.

Then pronto we got off ten more rocks at short intervals (had to skip one program, a ship in our sky) and told Great China where to look and when to expect them and where—coastal cities we had neglected day before.

Was down to twelve rocks but decided was safer to run out of ammunition than to look as if we were running out. So I awarded seven to Indian coastal cities, picking new targets—and Stu inquired sweetly if Agra had been evacuated. If not, please tell us at once. (But heaved no rock at it.)

Egypt was told to clear shipping out of Suez Canal—bluff; was hoarding last five rocks. Then waited.

Impact at Lahaina Roads, that target in Hawaii. Looked good at high mag; Mike could be proud of Junior. And waited.

Thirty-seven minutes before first China Coast impact Great China denounced actions of F.N., recognized us, offered to negotiate—and I sprained a finger punching abort buttons. Then was punching buttons with sore finger; India stumbled over feet following suit.

Egypt recognized us. Other nations started scrambling for door.

Stu informed Terra that we had suspended—only suspended, not stopped—bombardments. Now get those ships out of our sky at once—NOW!—and we could talk. If they could not get home without refilling tanks, let them land not less than fifty kilometers from any mapped warren, then wait for their surrender to be accepted. But clear our sky now!

This ultimatum we delayed a few minutes to let a ship pass beyond horizon; we weren’t taking chances—one missile and Luna would have been helpless. And waited.

Cable crew returned. Had gone almost to Luna City, found break. But thousands of tonnes of loose rock impeded repair, so they had done what they could—gone back to a spot where they could get through to surface, erected a temporary relay in direction they thought Luna City lay, sent up a dozen rockets at ten-minute intervals, and hoped that somebody would see, understand, aim a relay at it—Any communication?

No. Waited.

Eyeball squad reported that a ship which had been clockfaithful for nineteen passes had failed to show. Ten minutes later they reported that another ship had missed expected appearance.

We waited and listened.

Great China, speaking on behalf of all veto powers, accepted armistice and stated that our sky was now clear. Lenore burst into tears and kissed everybody she could reach.

After we steadied down (a man can’t think when women are grabbing him, especially when five of them are not his wives)—a few minutes later, when we were coherent, I said, “Stu, want you to leave for Luna City at once. Pick your party. No women—you’ll have to walk surface last kilometers. Find out what’s going on—but first get them to aim a relay at ours and phone me.”

“Very good, sir.”

We were getting him outfitted for a tough journey—extra air bottles, emergency shelter, so forth—when Earthside called me on frequency we were listening to because message was

(learned later) on all frequencies up from Earthside:

“Private message, Prof to Mannie—identification, birthday Bastille and Sherlock’s sibling. Come home at once. Your carriage waits at your new relay. Private message, Prof to—” And went on repeating.

“Harry!”

“Da, Boss?”

“Message Earthside—tape and squeal; we still don’t want them ranging us. ‘Private message, Mannie to Prof. Brass Cannon. On my way!’ Ask them to acknowledge—but use only one squeal.”

29

Stu and Greg drove on way back, while Wyoh and Lenore and I huddled on open flatbed, strapped to keep from falling off; was too small. Had time to think; neither girl had suit radio and we could talk only by helmet touch—awkward.

Began to see—now that we had won—parts of Prof’s plan that had never been clear to me. Inviting attack against catapult had spared warrens—hoped it had; that was plan—but Prof had always been cheerfully indifferent to damage to catapult. Sure, had a second one—but far away and difficult to reach. Would take years to put a tube system to new catapult, high mountains all way. Probably cheaper to repair old one. If possible.

Either way, no grain shipped to Terra in meantime.

And that was just what Prof wanted! Yet never once had he hinted that his plan was based on destroying old catapult—his long-range plan, not just Revolution. He might not admit it now. But Mike would tell me—if put to him flatly: Was or was not this one factor in odds? Food riot predictions and all that, Mike? He would tell me.

That tonne-for-tonne deal—Prof had expounded it Earthside, had been argument for a Terran catapult. But privately he had no enthusiasm for it. Once he had told me, in North America, “Yes, Manuel, I feel sure it would work. But, if built, it will be temporary. There was a time, two centuries ago, when dirty laundry used to be shipped from California to Hawaii—by sailing ship, mind you—and clean laundry returned. Special circumstances. If we ever see water and manure shipped to Luna and grain shipped back, it will be just as temporary. Luna’s future lies in her unique position at the top of a gravity well over a rich planet, and in her cheap power and plentiful real estate. If we Loonies have sense enough in the centuries ahead to remain a free port and to stay out of entangling alliances, we will become the crossroads for two planets, three planets, the entire Solar System. We won’t be farmers forever.”

They met us at Station East and hardly gave time to get p-suits off—was return from Earthside over again, screaming mobs and being ridden on shoulders. Even girls, for Slim Lemke said to Lenore, “May we carry you, too?”—and Wyoh answered, “Sure, why not?”—and stilyagi fought for chance to.

Most men were pressure-suited and I was surprised to see how many carried guns—until I saw that they were not our guns; they were captured. But most of all what blessed relief to see L-City unhurt!

Could have done without triumphal procession; was itching to get to phone and find out from Mike what had happened—how much damage, how many killed, what this victory cost. But no chance. We were carried to Old Dome willy-nilly.

They shoved us up on a platform with Prof and rest of Cabinet apd vips and such, and our girls slobbered on Prof and he embraced me Latin style, kiss cheek, and somebody stuck a Liberty Cap on me. Spotted little Hazel in crowd and threw her a kiss.

At last they quieted enough for Prof to speak.

“My friends,” he said, and waited for silence. “My friends,” he repeated softly. “Beloved comrades. We meet at last in freedom and now have with us the heroes who fought the last battle for Luna, alone.” They cheered us, again he waited. Could see he was tired; hands trembled as he steadied self against pulpit. “I want them to speak to you, we want to hear about it, all of us.

“But first I have a happy message. Great China has just announced that she is building in the Himalayas an enormous catapult, to make shipping to Luna as easy and cheap as it has been to ship from Luna to Terra.”

He stopped for cheers, then went on, “But that lies in the future. Today—Oh, happy day! At last the world acknowledges Luna’s sovereignty. Free! You have won your freedom—” Prof stopped—looked surprised. Not afraid, but puzzled. Swayed slightly.

Then he did die.

30

We got him into a shop behind platform. But even with help of a dozen doctors was no use; old heart was gone, strained too many times. They carried him out back way and I started to follow.

Stu touched my arm. “Mr. Prime Minister—” I said, “Huh? Oh, for Bog’s sake!”

“Mr. Prime Minister,” he repeated firmly, “you must speak to the crowd, send them home. Then there are things that must be done.” He spoke calmly but tears poured down cheeks.

So I got back on platform and confirmed what they had guessed and told them to go home. And wound up in room L of Raffles, where all had started—emergency Cabinet meeting. But first ducked to phone, lowered hood, punched MYCROFTXXX.

Got null-number signal. Tried again—same. Pushed up hood and said to man nearest me, Wolfgang, “Aren’t phones working?” “Depends,” he said. “That bombing yesterday shook things up. If you want an out-of-town number, better call the phone office.” Could see self asking office to get me a null. “What bombing?”

“Haven’t you heard? It was concentrated on the Complex. But Brody’s boys got the ship. No real damage. Nothing that can’t be fixed.”

Had to drop it; they were waiting. I didn’t know what to do but Stu and Korsakov did. Sheenie was told to write news releases for Terra and rest of Luna; I found self announcing a lunar of mourning, twenty-four hours of quiet, no unnecessary business, giving orders for body to lie in state—all words put into mouth, I was numb, brain would not work. Okay, convene Congress at end of twenty-four hours. In Novylen? Okay.

Sheenie had dispatches from Earthside. Wolfgang wrote for me something which said that, because of death of our President, answers would be delayed at least twenty-four hours.

At last was able to get away, with Wyoh. Astilyagi guard kept people away from us to easement lock thirteen. Once home I ducked into workshop on pretense of needing to change arms. “Mike?”

No answer—

So tried punching his combo into house phone—null signal. Resolved to go out to Complex next day—with Prof gone, needed Mike worse than ever.

But next day was not able to go; trans-Crisium tube was out—that last bombing. You could go around through Torricelli and Novylen and eventually reach Hong Kong. But Complex, almost next door, could be reached only by rolligon. Couldn’t take time; I was “government.”

Managed to shuck that off two days later. By resolution was decided that Speaker (Finn) had succeeded to Presidency after Finn and I had decided that Wolfgang was best choice for Prime Minister. We put it through and I went back to being Congressman who didn’t attend sessions.

By then most phones were working and Complex could be called. Punched MYCROFFXXX. No answer—So went out by rolligon. Had to go down and walk tube last kilometer but Complex Under didn’t seem hurt.

Nor did Mike appear to be.

But when I spoke to him, he didn’t answer.

He has never answered. Has been many years now.

You can type questions into him—in Loglan—and you’ll get Loglan answers out. He works just fine … as a computer. But won’t talk. Or can’t. Wyoh tried to coax him. Then she stopped. Eventually I stopped.

Don’t know how it happened. Many outlying pieces of him got chopped off in last bombing—was meant, I’m sure, to kill our ballistic computer. Did he fall below that “critical number” it takes to sustain self-awareness? (If is such; was never more than hypothesis.) Or did decentralizing that was done before that last bombing “kill” him?

I don’t know. If was just matter of critical number, well, he’s long been repaired; he must be back up to it. Why doesn’t he wake up?

Can a machine be so frightened and hurt that it will go into catatonia and refuse to respond? While ego crouches inside, aware but never willing to risk it? No, can’t be that; Mike was unafraid—as gaily unafraid as Prof.

Years, changes—Mimi long ago opted out of family management; Anna is “Mum” now and Mimi dreams by video. Slim got Hazel to change name to Stone, two kids and she studied engineering. All those new free-fall drugs and nowadays earthworms stay three or four years and go home unchanged. And those other drugs that do almost as much for us; some kids go Earthside to school now; And Tibet catapult—took seventeen years instead of ten; Kilimanjaro job was finished sooner.

One mild surprise—When time came, Lenore named Stu for opting, rather than Wyoh. Made no difference, we all voted “Da!” One thing not a surprise because Wyoh and I pushed it through during time we still amounted to something in government: a brass cannon on a pedestal in middle of Old Dome and over it a flag fluttering in blower breeze—black field speckled with stars, bar sinister in blood, a proud and jaunty brass cannon embroidered over all, and below it our motto: TANSTAAFL! That’s where we hold our Fourth-of-July celebrations.

You get only what you pay for—Prof knew and paid, gaily.

But Prof underrated yammerheads. They never adopted any of his ideas. Seems to be a deep instinct in human beings for making everything compulsory that isn’t forbidden. Prof got fascinated by possibilities for shaping future that lay in a big, smart computer—and lost track of things closer home. Oh, I backed him! But now I wonder. Are food riots too high a price to pay to let people be? I don’t know.

Don’t know any answers. Wish I could ask Mike.

I wake up in night and think I’ve heard him—just a whisper: “Man… Man my best friend…” But when I say, “Mike?” he doesn’t answer. Is he wandering around somewhere, looking for hardward to hook onto? Or is he buried down in Complex Under, trying to find way out? Those special memories are all in there somewhere, waiting to be stirred. But I can’t retrieve them; they were voice-coded.

Oh, he’s dead as Prof, I know it. (But how dead is Prof?) If I punched it just once more and said, “Hi, Mike!” would he answer, “Hi, Man! Heard any good ones lately?” Been a long time since I’ve risked it. But he can’t really be dead; nothing was hurt—he’s just lost.

You listening, Bog? Is a computer one of Your creatures?

Too many changes—May go to that talk-talk tonight and toss in some random numbers.

Or not. Since Boom started quite a few young cobbers have gone out to Asteroids. Hear about some nice places out there, not too crowded. My word, I’m not even a hundred yet.

The End

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