Contents

COPYRIGHT INFO

A NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER

The MEGAPACK™ Ebook Series

INTERVIEW: DAN SIMMONS, conducted by Darrell Schweitzer

THE SPIRES OF DENON, by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

OVER THE TOP, by Lester del Rey

AIN’T NOTHIN’ BUT A HOUND DOG, by Brenda W. Clough

FOR I AM A JEALOUS PEOPLE! by Lester del Rey

LUVVER, by Mack Reynolds

FROG LEVEL, by Bud Webster

CAPTAINS CONSPIRING AT THEIR MUTINIES, by Jay Lake

SHIFTING SEAS, by Stanley G. Weinbaum

THROUGH TIME AND SPACE WITH FERDINAND FEGHOOT: 8, by Grendel Briarton

ROCK GARDEN, by Kevin O’Donnell, Jr.

THE GENOA PASSAGE, by George Zebrowski

EIGHT O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING, by Ray Faraday Nelson

WHEN THEY COME FROM SPACE, by Mark Clifton

THE SEALED SKY, by Cynthia Ward

METEOR STRIKE! by Donald E. Westlake

WAITING FOR THE COIN TO DROP, by Dean Wesley Smith

BEYOND THE DARKNESS, by S. J. Byrne

THE SMALLEST GOD, by Lester del Rey

THE SCIENCE FICTION ALPHABET, by Allen Glasser

CANAL, by Carl Jacobi

THE LOCH MOOSE MONSTER, by Janet Kagan

MY FAIR PLANET, by Evelyn E. Smith

BEFORE EDEN, by Arthur C. Clarke

SEQUENCE, by Carl Jacobi

PREFERRED RISK, by Frederik Pohl and Lester del Rey

INTERVIEW: FREDERIK POHL, conducted by Darrell Schweitzer

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

COPYRIGHT INFO

The Ninth Science Fiction Megapack is copyright © 2014 by Wildside Press LLC. All rights reserved. For more information, contact the publisher.

* * * *

Special thanks to Steven H. Silver for help scanning the Lester del Rey stories, and to Michael Willis & Arthur Johnson, Jr. for much-appreciated typo reports.

* * * *

“Interview: Dan Simmons,” conducted by Darrell Schweitzer, originally appeared (in partial format) in Science Fiction Review #9, April 1992, and (partial) in Cemetery Dance #13, 1992. It appearsed complete for the first time in Speaking of the Fantastic. Copyright © 2002 by Darrell Schweitzer. Reprinted by permission of Darrell Schweitzer.

“The Spires of Denon,” by Kristine Kathryn Rusch, originally appeared in Asimov’s Science Fiction, April/May 2009. Copyright © 2009 by Kristine Kathryn Rusch. Reprinted by permission of the author.

“Over the Top,” by Lester del Rey, originally appeared in Astounding, November 1949. Copyright © 1949 by Street & Smith Publications, Inc. Copyright renewed in 1977 by Conde Nast Publications, Inc. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.

“Ain’t Nothin’ but a Hound Dog,” by Brenda W. Clough, originally appeared in Rod Serling’s The Twilight Zone Magazine, June 1988. Copyright © 1988 by B. W. Clough. Reprinted by permission of the author.

“For I Am a Jealous People!” by Lester del Rey, originally appeared in Star Short Novels. Copyright © 1952 by Lester del Rey. Edited version copyright © 2014 by Wildside Press LLC.

“Luvver,” by Mack Reynolds, originally appeared in Fantastic Adventures, June 1950. Copyright © 1950 by Mack Reynolds. This version, edited by John Betancourt, is copyright © 2014 by Wildside Press LLC. Published by permission of the Estate of Mack Reynolds.

“Captains Conspiring at Their Mutinies, by Jay Lake, originally appeared, as “To Raise a Mutiny Betwixt Yourselves” in The New Space Opera 2. Copyright © 2009 by Joseph E. Lake, Jr. Reprinted by permission of the author.

“Shifting Seas,” by Stanley G. Weinbaum, originally appeared in Amazing Stories, April 1937. No record of copyright renewal.

“Through Time and Space with Ferdinand Feghoot: 8,” by Grendel Briarton, is taken from The Collected Feghoot. Copyright © 1992 by Reginald Bretnor. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.

“Rock Garden,” by Kevin O’Donnell, Jr., originally appeared in Omni magazine, July 1986. Copyright © 1986 by Kevin O’Donnell, Jr. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.

“The Genoa Passage,” by George Zebrowski, originally appeared in Interzone, January-February 1913. Copyright © 2013 by George Zebrowski. Reprinted by permission of the author.

“The Smallest God,” by Lester del Rey, originally appeared in Astounding Science Fiction, January 1940. Copyright © 1940 by Street & Smith publications; copyright renewed (renewal #R400175) by Conde Nast Publications, Inc. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.

“Eight O’clock in the Morning,” by Ray Faraday Nelson, originally appeared in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, November 1963. Reprinted by permission of the author.

“When They Come from Space,” by Mark Clifton, originally appeared in 1962. Copyright © 1962 by Mark Clifton. No record of copyright renewal found.

“The Sealed Sky,” by Cynthia Ward, originally appeared in The Age of Wonders. Copyright © 2000 by Cynthia Ward. Reprinted by permission of the author.

“Meteor Strike!” by Donald E. Westlake, originally appeared in Amazing Stories, November 1961. Copyright ©1961 by Ziff-David Publishing Co. No record of copyright renewal found.

“Waiting for the Coin to Drop,” by Dean Wesley Smith, originally appeared in Fiction River: Timestreams. Copyright © 2013 by Dean Wesley Smith. Reprinted by permission of the author.

“Beyond the Darkness,” by S. J. Byrne, originally appeared in Other Worlds #12, June-July 1951.

“The Science Fiction Alphabet,” by Allen Glasser, originally appeared in The Fantasy Fan, Sept. and Oct. 1933.

“The Loch Moose Monster,” by Janet Kagan, originally appeared in Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, March 1989.

“My Fair Planet,” by Evelyn E. Smith, originally appeared in Galaxy magazine, March 1958.

Preferred Risk, by Frederik Pohl and Lester del Rey, originally appeared as a 4-part serial in Galaxy magazine, June through September, 1955. Copyright © 1955 by Galaxy Publishing Corporation. Reprinted by permission of the Estate of Lester del Rey.

“Interview: Frederik Pohl,” conducted by Darrell Schweitzer, originally appeared in Science Fiction Chronicle #210, March 2001. Copyright © 2001 by DNA Publications. Reprinted by permission of Darrell Schweitzer.

A NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER

Welcome to The Ninth Science Fiction Megapack #9! When we started, I never dreamed we would make it this far—and the Megapack series now extends well beyond science fiction, into Mystery, Horror, Westerns, Young Adult, and many other genres.

This volume has been especially fun to work on. I have been a sucker for generation-ship stories since reading Robert A. Heinlein’s Orphans of the Sky as a teenager, and I’m pleased to include one here: S.J. Byrne’s “Beyond the Darkness”—a hefty novella at 30,000 words. But that’s not the longest story—Kris Rush also has a 30,000-word tale. And included is the magazine version of Frederik Pohl and Lester del Rey’s novel, Preferred Risk, which easily tops both!

Darrell Schweitzer provides two more interviews this time: Fred Pohl and Dan Simmons.

*

On a sadder note, I must mention the passing of one of our authors: Jay Lake died June 1, 2014 from cancer. He was a great writer and an even better guy, and we will all miss him. We still have several of his short stories in inventory, and I am including one in this volume.

Wildside Press continues to add the estates of old-time authors to our stable. We now own the copyrights to all works by Lester del Rey, Mack Reynolds, H.B. Fyfe, Carl Jacobi, Arthur Leo Zagat, Reginald Bretnor, Janet Fox, George H. Scithers, and several others. Horace B. Fyfe (1918-1997) left behind about 50 unpublished short stories (!) and a lot of poems, which we have yet to read and catalog. (Long-time SF readers may recall his “Bureau of Slick Tricks” series from Astounding in the 1940s and 1950s.) And we have recently picked up Everil Worrell’s unpublished fantasy and science fiction stories—she published quite a few short stories in Weird Tales during its original run. Lots of fun stuff! Keep watching for new Wildside Press Megapacks.

—John Betancourt

Publisher, Wildside Press LLC

www.wildsidepress.com

ABOUT THE MEGAPACKS

Over the last few years, our “Megapack” series of ebook anthologies has proved to be one of our most popular endeavors. (Maybe it helps that we sometimes offer them as premiums to our mailing list!) One question we keep getting asked is, “Who’s the editor?”

The Megapacks (except where specifically credited) are a group effort. Everyone at Wildside works on them. This includes John Betancourt, Mary Wickizer Burgess, Sam Cooper, Carla Coupe, Steve Coupe, Bonner Menking, Colin Azariah-Kribbs, Robert Reginald. A. E. Warren, and many of Wildside’s authors…who often suggest stories to include (and not just their own!).

A NOTE FOR KINDLE READERS

The Kindle versions of our Megapacks employ active tables of contents for easy navigation…please look for one before writing reviews on Amazon that complain about the lack! (They are sometimes at the ends of ebooks, depending on your reader.)

RECOMMEND A FAVORITE STORY?

Do you know a great classic science fiction story, or have a favorite author whom you believe is perfect for the Megapack series? We’d love your suggestions! You can post them on our message board at http://movies.ning.com/forum (there is an area for Wildside Press comments).

Note: we only consider stories that have already been professionally published. This is not a market for new works.

TYPOS

Unfortunately, as hard as we try, a few typos do slip through. We update our ebooks periodically, so make sure you have the current version (or download a fresh copy if it’s been sitting in your ebook reader for months.) It may have already been updated.

If you spot a new typo, please let us know. We’ll fix it for everyone. You can email the publisher at wildsidepress@yahoo.com or use the message boards above.

The MEGAPACK™ Ebook Series

MYSTERY

The Lady Sleuth MEGAPACK™

The First Mystery MEGAPACK™

The Second Mystery MEGAPACK™c

The Achmed Abdullah MEGAPACK™

The Bulldog Drummond MEGAPACK™*

The Carolyn Wells Mystery MEGAPACK™

The Charlie Chan MEGAPACK™*

The Craig Kennedy Scientific Detective MEGAPACK™

The Detective MEGAPACK™

The E. Hoffmann Price Spicy Story MEGAPACK™

The Father Brown MEGAPACK™

The Girl Detective MEGAPACK™

The Second Girl Detective MEGAPACK™

The Mary Fortune Mystery & Suspense MEGAPACK™

The First R. Austin Freeman MEGAPACK™

The Second R. Austin Freeman MEGAPACK™*

The Third R. Austin Freeman MEGAPACK™*

The Jacques Futrelle MEGAPACK™

The Anna Katharine Green Mystery MEGAPACK™

The Penny Parker MEGAPACK™

The Philo Vance MEGAPACK™*

The Pulp Fiction MEGAPACK™

The Raffles MEGAPACK™

The Red Finger Pulp Mystery MEGAPACK™, by Arthur Leo Zagat*

The Sherlock Holmes MEGAPACK™

The Victorian Mystery MEGAPACK™

The Victorian Rogues MEGAPACK™

The Wilkie Collins MEGAPACK™

GENERAL INTEREST

The Adventure MEGAPACK™

The Baseball MEGAPACK™

The Cat Story MEGAPACK™

The Second Cat Story MEGAPACK™

The Third Cat Story MEGAPACK™

The Christmas MEGAPACK™

The Second Christmas MEGAPACK™

The Charles Dickens Christmas MEGAPACK™

The Classic American Short Stories MEGAPACK™, Vol. 1.

The Classic Humor MEGAPACK™

The Dog Story MEGAPACK™

The Doll Story MEGAPACK™

The Horse Story MEGAPACK™

The Military MEGAPACK™

The Pirate Story MEGAPACK™

The Sea-Story MEGAPACK™

The Thanksgiving MEGAPACK™

The Utopia MEGAPACK™

The Walt Whitman MEGAPACK™

THE GOLDEN AGE OF SCIENCE FICTION

1. Winston K. Marks

2. Mark Clifton

3. Poul Anderson

4. Clifford D. Simak

5. Lester del Rey

6. Charles L. Fontenay

7. H.B. Fyfe

8. Milton Lesser (Stephen Marlowe)

9. Dave Dryfoos

10. Carl Jacobi

11. F.L. Wallace

12. David H. Keller, M.D.

13. Lester del Rey (vol. 2)

SCIENCE FICTION & FANTASY

The First Science Fiction MEGAPACK™

The Second Science Fiction MEGAPACK™

The Third Science Fiction MEGAPACK™

The Fourth Science Fiction MEGAPACK™

The Fifth Science Fiction MEGAPACK™

The Sixth Science Fiction MEGAPACK™

The Seventh Science Fiction MEGAPACK™

The Eighth Science Fiction MEGAPACK™

The Ninth Science Fiction MEGAPACK™

The Edward Bellamy MEGAPACK™

The Lloyd Biggle, Jr. MEGAPACK™

The First Reginald Bretnor MEGAPACK™

The Fredric Brown MEGAPACK™

The Fred M. White Disaster MEGAPACK™

The First Theodore Cogswell MEGAPACK™

The Ray Cummings MEGAPACK™

The Philip K. Dick MEGAPACK™

The Charles Dickens Christmas MEGAPACK™

The Dragon MEGAPACK™

The Randall Garrett MEGAPACK™

The Second Randall Garrett MEGAPACK™

The Edmond Hamilton MEGAPACK™

The C.J. Henderson MEGAPACK™

The Murray Leinster MEGAPACK™***

The Second Murray Leinster MEGAPACK™***

The Jack London Science Fiction MEGAPACK™

The Lost Worlds MEGAPACK™

The Mad Scientist MEGAPACK™

The Martian MEGAPACK™

The A. Merritt MEGAPACK™*

The E. Nesbit MEGAPACK™

The Andre Norton MEGAPACK™

The H. Beam Piper MEGAPACK™

The Pulp Fiction MEGAPACK™

The Mack Reynolds MEGAPACK™

The Milton A. Rothman Science Fiction MEGAPACK™

The Darrell Schweitzer MEGAPACK™

The Science-Fantasy MEGAPACK™

The Robert Sheckley MEGAPACK™

The Space Opera MEGAPACK™

The Space Patrol MEGAPACK™

The Steampunk MEGAPACK™

The Time Travel MEGAPACK™

The Second Time Travel MEGAPACK™

The Utopia MEGAPACK™

The William Hope Hodgson MEGAPACK™

The First Willam P. McGivern Science Fiction MEGAPACK™

The Second Willam P. McGivern Science Fiction MEGAPACK™

The Willam P. McGivern Fantasy MEGAPACK™

The Wizard of Oz MEGAPACK™

The Zanthodon MEGAPACK™, by Lin Carter

HORROR

The 2014 Halloween Horrors MEGAPACK™

The Horror MEGAPACK™

The Second Horror MEGAPACK™

The Achmed Abdullah MEGAPACK™

The Second Achmed Abdullah MEGAPACK™

The E.F. Benson MEGAPACK™

The Second E.F. Benson MEGAPACK™

The Algernon Blackwood MEGAPACK™

The Second Algernon Blackwood MEGAPACK™

The Cthulhu Mythos MEGAPACK™

The Erckmann-Chatrian MEGAPACK™

The Ghost Story MEGAPACK™

The Second Ghost Story MEGAPACK™

The Third Ghost Story MEGAPACK™

The Haunts & Horrors MEGAPACK™

The Lon Williams Weird Western MEGAPACK™

The M.R. James MEGAPACK™

The Macabre MEGAPACK™

The Second Macabre MEGAPACK™

The Third Macabre MEGAPACK™

The Arthur Machen MEGAPACK™**

The Mummy MEGAPACK™

The Occult Detective MEGAPACK™

The Darrell Schweitzer MEGAPACK™

The Vampire MEGAPACK™

The Weird Fiction MEGAPACK™

The Werewolf MEGAPACK™

The William Hope Hodgson MEGAPACK™

WESTERN

The Andy Adams Western MEGAPACK™

The B.M. Bower MEGAPACK™

The Max Brand MEGAPACK™

The Buffalo Bill MEGAPACK™

The Cowboy MEGAPACK™

The Zane Grey MEGAPACK™

The Charles Alden Seltzer MEGAPACK™

The Western MEGAPACK™

The Second Western MEGAPACK™

The Third Western MEGAPACK™

The Western Romance MEGAPACK™

The Lon Williams Weird Western MEGAPACK™

YOUNG ADULT

The Bobbsey Twins MEGAPACK™

The Boys’ Adventure MEGAPACK™

The Dan Carter, Cub Scout MEGAPACK™

The Dare Boys MEGAPACK™

The Doll Story MEGAPACK™

The G.A. Henty MEGAPACK™

The Girl Detectives MEGAPACK™

The E. Nesbit MEGAPACK™

The Penny Parker MEGAPACK™

The Pinocchio MEGAPACK™

The Rover Boys MEGAPACK™

The Second Carolyn Wells MEGAPACK™

The Space Patrol MEGAPACK™

The Tom Corbett, Space Cadet MEGAPACK™

The Tom Swift MEGAPACK™

The Wizard of Oz MEGAPACK™

SINGLE-AUTHOR

The Achmed Abdullah MEGAPACK™

The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction MEGAPACK™

The Edward Bellamy MEGAPACK™

The E.F. Benson MEGAPACK™

The Second E.F. Benson MEGAPACK™

The Henri Bergson MEGAPACK™

The Lloyd Biggle, Jr. MEGAPACK™

The Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson MEGAPACK™

The Algernon Blackwood MEGAPACK™

The Second Algernon Blackwood MEGAPACK™

The B.M. Bower MEGAPACK™

The Max Brand MEGAPACK™

The First Reginald Bretnor MEGAPACK™

The Fredric Brown MEGAPACK™

The Second Fredric Brown MEGAPACK™

The Wilkie Collins MEGAPACK™

The Stephen Crane MEGAPACK™

The Ray Cummings MEGAPACK™

The Guy de Maupassant MEGAPACK™

The Philip K. Dick MEGAPACK™

The Charles Dickens Christmas MEGAPACK™

The Frederick Douglass MEGAPACK™

The Erckmann-Chatrian MEGAPACK™

The F. Scott Fitzgerald MEGAPACK™

The Mary Fortune Mystery & Suspense MEGAPACK™

The First R. Austin Freeman MEGAPACK™

The Second R. Austin Freeman MEGAPACK™*

The Third R. Austin Freeman MEGAPACK™*

The Jacques Futrelle MEGAPACK™

The Randall Garrett MEGAPACK™

The Second Randall Garrett MEGAPACK™

The Anna Katharine Green MEGAPACK™

The Zane Grey MEGAPACK™

The Edmond Hamilton MEGAPACK™

The Dashiell Hammett MEGAPACK™

The C.J. Henderson MEGAPACK™

The William Hope Hodgson MEGAPACK™

The M.R. James MEGAPACK™

The Selma Lagerlof MEGAPACK™

The Harold Lamb MEGAPACK™

The Murray Leinster MEGAPACK™***

The Second Murray Leinster MEGAPACK™***

The Jonas Lie MEGAPACK™

The Arthur Machen MEGAPACK™**

The Katherine Mansfield MEGAPACK™

The George Barr McCutcheon MEGAPACK™

The William P. McGivern Fantasy MEGAPACK™

The First William P. McGivern Science Fiction MEGAPACK™

The Second William P. McGivern Science Fiction MEGAPACK™

The A. Merritt MEGAPACK™*

The Talbot Mundy MEGAPACK™

The E. Nesbit MEGAPACK™

The Andre Norton MEGAPACK™

The H. Beam Piper MEGAPACK™

The E. Hoffmann Price Spicy Story MEGAPACK™

The Mack Reynolds MEGAPACK™

The Rafael Sabatini MEGAPACK™

The Saki MEGAPACK™

The Darrell Schweitzer MEGAPACK™

The Charles Alden Seltzer MEGAPACK™

The Robert Sheckley MEGAPACK™

The Bram Stoker MEGAPACK™

The Fred M. White Disaster MEGAPACK™

The Lon Williams Weird Western MEGAPACK™

The Walt Whitman MEGAPACK™

The Virginia Woolf MEGAPACK™

The Arthur Leo Zagat Science Fiction MEGAPACK™

* Not available in the United States

** Not available in the European Union

***Out of print.

FREE PROMO MINIPACKS™

Each one is only available for a single day—on Free Ebook Monday! Like us on Facebook to see new title announcements.

The Lt. Jon Jarl of the Space Patrol MINIPACK™, by Eando Binder

The Paul Di Filippo MINIPACK™

The John Gregory Betancourt MINIPACK™

The Thubway Tham Thanksgiving MINIPACK™

OTHER COLLECTIONS YOU MAY ENJOY

The Great Book of Wonder, by Lord Dunsany (it should have been called “The Lord Dunsany MEGAPACK™”)

The Wildside Book of Fantasy

The Wildside Book of Science Fiction

Yondering: The First Borgo Press Book of Science Fiction Stories

To the Stars—And Beyond! The Second Borgo Press Book of Science Fiction Stories

Once Upon a Future: The Third Borgo Press Book of Science Fiction Stories

Whodunit?—The First Borgo Press Book of Crime and Mystery Stories

More Whodunits—The Second Borgo Press Book of Crime and Mystery Stories

X is for Xmas: Christmas Mysteries

INTERVIEW: DAN SIMMONS, conducted by Darrell Schweitzer

Question: You seem to have come out of nowhere in the past couple of years. Is that actually so, or are you one of those cases where ten years of hard work made you an overnight success?

Simmons: I’d like to say I’m one of those classic overnight successes that takes a decade, but it’s been somewhere in between. I’ve been writing professionally for eight years now, and in the last year or two things have begun to come to a critical mass.

Q: Weren’t you a Twilight Zone contest-winner and discovery?

Simmons: I was the co-winner of the 1982 Twilight Zone annual contest—the first big one they had. It was an exercise in finding perspective because the day that my first piece of fiction was published in Twilight Zone, our daughter Jane was born. So nobody noticed that I was a published writer for six months.

Q: But they noticed as soon as Song of Kali came out. Could you tell us something about the background of that book? How much of it did you experience personally?

Simmons: Oddly enough, a lot of things in Song of Kali are true. In fact, many of them I either witnessed personally or heard about second-hand. But the terrible stuff didn’t happen to me. It was rather arrogant of me to write about Calcutta, or India. I spent nine weeks wandering through India in the summer of 1977 on a Fulbright Fellowship with some other educators from the United States. During that time I think I spent a total of two and a half days in Calcutta. One of the nice things about it was that my agenda in Calcutta included attended the Calcutta Writers’ workshop, which was run by a poet named P. Lal, who is quite famous on the Subcontinent. He was a protege of Tagore—who was the great poet, artist, film-maker of India. So in that sense the book includes some reportage, just some of the details of meeting P. Lal in this ancient, rotting hotel in the rotting center of the city, the electricity going out and the conversation going on unabated in pitch darkness. There was no light whatsoever. All you could hear was the scurry of rats in the darkness. It was about a hundred and five degrees in this ballroom, and the writers and intellectuals there continued chatting until some waiter brought a candle, and then the conversation continued by candlelight. So little touches like that gave me the atmosphere. At first I didn’t consider writing a story or novel set completely in India, but after a few years passed and I had already structured an article for Harper’s, I said, “Why not a book?”

Q: Have you any idea how the Indians reacted? Have they seen it?

Simmons: You mean other than the class-action suit from the city of Calcutta chamber of commerce? I’ve spoken to just a few Indian nationals about the book. I did have one opportunity at a college where I was going to speak. There was a reception committee of several Indian students who were ready for a debate. But the confrontation didn’t occur and I have no idea what I would have debated since obviously I did libel and slander the city of Calcutta. Several Bengalis who have spoken to me since have said that the book was strangely accurate. Not all of them have lived in Calcutta, but they confirm that certain details about the Beggars’ Union and the like were accurate, which must be luck after my having spent just nine weeks in India.

Q: You managed to make it a fairly scary place. Then again, people from Calcutta would probably think that way about New York.

Simmons: I think that way about New York too.

Q: Are you going to write more about India, or quit while you’re ahead?

Simmons: Definitely quit while I’m ahead. I really don’t have anymore to say about India. Actually, I have two books in Indian settings. One of my favorite books (of my own) is Phases of Gravity, about an ex-Apollo astronaut who goes on sort of an epistemological quest to find out the truth about himself and the universe, and it starts in India. Some people have suggested, “Oh, you’re following up Song of Kali with something else about India.” But this first section in Phases of Gravity was set in India because I had started book before I began Song of Kali, and then set Phases of Gravity aside for several years. Otherwise I would not have repeated the Indian setting.

Q: I saw one suitably scary thing about Calcutta in the paper recently, which I’m sure someone is going to write a book about. Have you heard about the “Stone Man”? He is a serial killer stalking the streets of Calcutta, and he carries fifty-pound slabs of concrete around and drops them on the heads of people sleeping on the sidewalks late at night. To me the image and the name The Stone Man somehow resonate. There’s a book there for someone.

Simmons: I think someone should write it, but perhaps set it in New York. It’s interesting because I just went back to New York last week after several years of being away. My reaction was, “My God, it’s turned into Calcutta,” just with the number of people sleeping in Grand Central and in the street. There always were a few, but what strikes one in India is the tens of thousands who live on the streets, and the idea of someone like the Stone Man is just so horrifying. In many of my snapshots—mental and Kodak—of the city of Calcutta there was a baby sleeping in a crack in the sidewalk with people stepping over it on their way to work. So somebody walking around with a fifty pound of stone, dropping it on sleeping people, would be comparable to someone who has total access, somebody capable of moving through the fourth, fifth dimensions into our children’s bedrooms here. It’s a horrifying thought. But if someone does it as fiction, though, I think he or she should move it to New York.

Q: To most Americans New York is sufficiently horrifying that it would just seem natural.... But anyway, after India, you rapidly got off the planet. Obviously you didn’t spend nine weeks wandering through Hyperion. How did the novel Hyperion begin, and how did the creation of an imaginary setting differ for you from describing some place you’ve actually been.

Simmons: It was more of a challenge than I expected, and I expected a challenge. The two Hyperion books, Hyperion and The Fall of Hyperion, came out of an easy promise to write two science-fiction novels for Bantam/Doubleday, and part of the deal was that they would publish my Phases of Gravity, which is, as I say, a favorite child of mine. I liked the name Hyperion, so rather off-handedly I decided to co-opt Keats’s unfinished poems, which was absurd, because his themes are so important. I knew the poems casually when I decided to write about them, and by the time I finished the second book (which is rather large—the two volumes together are almost a thousand printed pages, about the size of Carrion Comfort), I felt a tremendous affinity and affection for John Keats. I hadn’t expected that. So this is my attempt to respond to some of the powerful themes that Keats began and left unfinished, which sounds presumptuous, but his poetic fantasy world was no less an exercise in hubris than my creating the science-fiction universe that I shared in Hyperion.

Q: One of the things that most impressed me about the book, rather than its sheer intensity, was the way that each segment became a masterful version of a specific type of science-fiction story, the one about the priest being a Philip José Farmer story, the detective’s tale being cyberpunk, and so on. But somehow it coalesced into a unified whole rather than becoming a bundle of in-jokes. So, how much of this was a deliberate attempt to address various set modes of SF?

Simmons: Rather than a conscious, premeditated decision to touch all the bases in science fiction, I think it was an enjoyable subconscious choice. The different voices had to be there, because it was a Canterbury Tales type of story. Those voices have been in the types of science fiction I’ve enjoyed so much, and so, rather than a calculated, premeditated, and outlined choice, a different voice simply began speaking as I came to each section. Actually, it was a bit of a celebration. I don’t know if I’ll come back to science fiction, so in these two Hyperion books, especially the first one with its possibility of the different voices, I had fun celebrating things like the energy of cyberpunk, the scope of Asimov, and the sense of “other-whereness” one finds in Wolfe and Vance. Why not? I figured I might only pass this way once.

Q: The one standard type that I found missing from Hyperion is what you might called the Left Hand of Darkness voice, the somewhat detached anthropologically-inclined outsider’s observation. Is there any of that in the second book?

Simmons: There may be a certain element. The narrator of the second book is a cybrid—which is the human, mobile unit of a huge, artificial intelligence—and he shows a little of the historical, archaeological, learned perspective you’re talking about, but I think that voice—the Left Hand of Darkness, elegant SF voice—is quite powerful, and I tend to reserve it. If I come back to science fiction, it might be in a future novel.

Q: So far, in the space of two books, you seem to have absorbed and stood above all science fiction that’s gone before. So if you came back to it again, what would follow?

Simmons: A variety of things could follow. The Hyperion books were my cosmic scale books ... the ones that dealt with the macroverse. If I came back to science fiction, I think I would choose a focus that would be tighter and terribly intense. There is a novel I’d like to write called The Hollow Man, about a telepath, and there you’re moving into the region of Silverberg and Dying Inside and Le Guin and my own Phases of Gravity, and just a different voice and tone entirely, a rather introspective, personal tale that deals with our interior universe. So that could be my next foray into science fiction. Obviously that doesn’t allow the chance the Hyperion book did just to gallop rough-shod right through the field, which I enjoyed doing. And I hope it was a respectful rough-shod gallop, because the intent certainly was.

Q: I’m hoping it’ll be this year’s Hugo winner. I think if it gets enough exposure, either a book club edition or mass-market paperback in time, it has an excellent chance. But, what I notice about all your books so far is that they’ve been sharply different. Are you still going to be able to keep this up indefinitely, or will the publishers at some point say, “Well, Hyperion did so well that we want more books like that”?

Simmons: You know publishers. Song of Kali was not a commercial success by any means, but it won the World Fantasy Award in 1986, so they immediately said, “Please, keep this tone, this voice, this genre, and preferably write about India again.” To which I said, “No.” My goal is not necessarily to make everything different. It’s just that so far all the books have been different. Sometimes I do reflect that the one joy of being unpublished is that you can write what you damn well please. I’m trying to maintain some of that freedom. I think the important thing is not which genre you write in and not the subject-matter of each book, but that there be an identifiable voice that the readers trust. I think that makes all the difference, and it will determine whether or not any writer finds a readership.

Q: Having done two horror novels, Phases of Gravity, and then some science fiction, if you do not pass this way again, what next? What are you writing now?

Simmons: Currently I’m working on a horror novel, which is not quite a horror novel, for Putnam’s. I have a two-book contract with Putnam’s. This first one, titled Summer of Night, takes me to what I consider to be Ray Bradbury country. It’s about children but none of the topics are childish topics. It’s about the innocence of our country and ourselves when a lot of us in the Baby-Boom generation were just approaching the end of innocence—which all sounds terribly clichéd, so obviously this is a minefield of a book. But it does reassure me that what I’m writing about, while not all overtly supernatural, does scare me. Very little of the fiction I’ve read recently is frightening, but some of what I’m writing about is does scare me. It could be just intensely personal, just scaring me, but I think that perhaps other people will find it a little unnerving too. Part of our childhood and national past got scary very quickly back around 1960.

Q: Do you have any theories on why one writes about scary things? It’s possible to write a book that would be so frightening that no one could read it. On the other hand, I have a suspicion that people are drawn to bad horror films precisely because they’re not convincing. Obviously you can’t do it that way. A book is expected to be convincing. So, why are we reading about intensely unpleasant things? Audiences have always been drawn to this sort of thing ever since there have been stories, but you wouldn’t want to live through, say, the events in the average Shakespeare play. But we’re attracted.

Simmons: I think a lot of people are not drawn to unpleasant things. That’s why they rule out a lot of literary horror along with slasher films that are simply unpleasant. Many sensitive adults don’t need or want the blend of biological and psychological unpleasantness which horror offers. That’s all there is to it. And you’re right, the adolescents who watch and wallow in some of the more slasher-type stories and novels—well, both the fiction and its audience are shallow and predictable, and they reduce a real fear to nonsense. That’s not the kind of written horror that I have much interest in. I like fiction and films which present something that is unsettling but honest and put into a perspective where one can make some sense out of it. I think that is what is often lacking in horror fiction. After the unsettling, what? One would like to see some perspective, some explanation, some sense that not only is it a shared experience of an unsettling feeling or something that is rather terrifying, but also be offered some way to deal with it, some way that’s at least an account of how some other person dealt with it, rather than simply a record of despair or of being overcome or being sacrificed to this fear, whatever it is. That’s what I think is lacking in a lot of horror fiction, a point where not only do the victims realize they are victims, but where they decide to cease being victims and to stand up to whatever it is. I don’t mean by going down in the dungeon and slaughtering the monster, but simply to see it, to put it in perspective, and to wrestle with it to the best of one’s limited human abilities.

Q: At least to face it with some dignity.

Simmons: Exactly.

Q: What if it is something like the Lovecraftian view of things, where what you’re facing is the chaotic universe itself? He, for instance, was not optimistic about our ability to cope.

Simmons: Well, here at the World Fantasy Convention I heard someone say something like that on a panel; that one definition of dark fantasy was simply trying to stand up to this huge wind from nowhere that you can’t stand up against. I’m familiar with the Lovecraftian view. I don’t share it. One of the trends in my fiction is that no matter how huge and powerful this force is from the other place, human beings have to stand up to it. It’s simply part of the contract we have with life; we have to deal with it. Instead of having the Lovecraftian force coming through some inter-dimensional portal and just overwhelming the humans, I’ve got cancer vampires oozing through the wall, and we human beings in a hospital ward trying our damndest to deal with them before they lay their tumor eggs in our loved ones. So that’s my response to Lovecraftian fiction.

Q: I suppose an existentialist would try to plug in morality to give some meaning to life. Lovecraft did it with aesthetics. There is some validity in that, for all he thought that if a man went to another planet, he’d go quite mad. But that’s just one more voice in horror fiction. Your fiction, in any case, has so many voices already. How do you maintain a distinctive voice of your own amid so many others?

Simmons: Well, first I establish my own voice. If my first novel had been Hyperion, I think there would have been a lot of legitimate concern from readers, certainly from critics, “Does this man have a voice?” But I feel fairly confident that, having written and published several novels before Hyperion, the voice is there. And, under the SF subject matter and certain superficial tonal qualities in Hyperion, you’ll certainly hear the Simmons voice. That’s my feeling. And because Hyperion is a tale told in two volumes, with the second volume being one unified narrative voice I don’t have very much concern about being lost in the Chaucerian babel of the first volume.

Q: In which direction would you like to go after the horror novels?

Simmons: Well, I should know better than to talk about future projects, but I do have one project that I am very much looking forward to. That’s a novel that I’ve titled The Crook Factory, set in 1941-42, during Ernest Hemingway’s lost year in Cuba, when he refused to go off to become a war correspondent even while his wife Martha Gellhorn was sending back wonderful dispatches from the front and urging him to join her. Instead he was sitting there in Cuba playing spy with a rag-tag counter-espionage group he had put together called The Crook Factory. It consisted of bullfighters, veterans of the Spanish Civil War, bartenders, rum-runners, gun-runners, and the crooks and lost souls of Havana. Over the last few years I’ve been amassing more information about this and both the plot and the complicated, contradictory character of Hemingway get more and more interesting. As I say, it’s silly to talk about a project, but I’ve staked this out, so this story, by God, will be mine. That’s my dream project.

Q: Could you give a little more information about your background? What were you doing before you started writing?

Simmons: Since I graduated from Wabash College in 1970 I have been involved in education, not as a college professor but as an elementary teacher. I came out of school right as the Vietnam War was winding down, and I ended up going to graduate school to become a teacher. After quickly learning that I didn’t want to teach English to bored high school students, I taught elementary school for eighteen years. During that time I enjoyed teaching gifted children. So I set up programs for gifted kids, and have done some consulting with gifted education and the teaching of language arts. All that time writing was in the back of my mind. I continued to hone my writing skills—I hope—but the true passion was reading. After a while I decided it was time to fish or cut bait and get to work on the writing. I happened to meet Harlan Ellison right at the time when I was trying to decide whether to pursue it seriously, and he gave me no choice. He promised to rip my bleeping nose off if I did not try to write seriously, and when one is given that ultimatum by Harlan Ellison, one tries to write seriously. Within a year I was published.

Q: Could you describe your writing methods? Everybody is different: I collect them.

Simmons: I’m fascinated with writing methods too. I suspect it’s a literary strain of voyeurism. I tend to read Writers at Work in The Paris Review to find my cheap thrills. I’m finally getting some discipline in my writing methods, so day by day it’s a job now. Perhaps the thing of interest to my fellow voyeurs would be that Carrion Comfort and all the preceding novels were written longhand and revised longhand before being typed. I no longer have that luxury because of schedule deadlines, so I am working on a word-processor now. But I still print the first draft and scribble at it as much as possible. There is something about the kinesthetic feedback one gets while writing longhand which I enjoy. I try to follow set hours, but actually what I end up doing is setting a page limit per day and getting those pages done and rewarding myself as Hemingway used to do. He used to go fishing in his boat the Pilar if he got his required number of words done every day. I don’t have the Gulf Stream outside my window, but at least I can go take a walk or play with my child in the afternoon when she gets home from school ... if I get my ten pages done every day.

Q: All those years of reading must have been a preparation for your writing. So, what were you reading that influenced or directed you?

Simmons: The stock answer: reading everything. Actually, my interests changed as I got older, so that by the early ‘80s I was almost totally weaned, as I thought of it, from science fiction. As many adult males in the United States tend to do, I started reading a lot of history, a lot of literary biographies and so forth. I tended to choose more fiction that I considered “serious.” I tried to catch up on all the classics I had meant to read but hadn’t. And, it’s rather interesting that one science fiction story in the late ‘70s sent me back to science fiction. I hadn’t quite gotten away from all SF, but short science fiction had been disappointing me to the point I had abandoned the SF magazines, and most of SF novels seemed childish. Then I read a story called “Particle Theory” and I couldn’t remember the author’s name—

Q: Ed Bryant.

Simmons: Yes. I know now. Ed’s a good friend. It’s odd, because a year after I met Ed, I still didn’t associate his name with the story that sent me back to science fiction. It’s the ultimate insult when you can’t remember the author’s name; I’m damn good at that. But the humanity of the story, the juxtaposition with what I thought was the real feel of science fiction with true human concern, kept me interested in science fiction long enough that I discovered a whole new generation of writers. I regained my interest in the field. And people like Harlan also kept me interested, people who were moving fast enough and writing well enough that they couldn’t be nailed down to a genre. One just did not know what they’d be writing next. So, for a while there it was a rather a slim thread that kept me connected to the field I had loved for so many years. Now it’s like coming home to a family that’s grown in once’s absence as I read the new people and rediscover all the writers I used to enjoy.

Q: What about horror writers? Were you reading the classic ones, or just the moderns, or none at all?

Simmons: I’m fairly illiterate. I’ve read the classics—Frankenstein and Dracula and so forth—but I know little about Victorian ghost stories and so forth. Lovecraft, well, I have this respect from a distance because it’s simply not my taste. But there was one piece of contemporary horror writing which transcended genre even at the time, and which hooked me forever, and that was of course Shirley Jackson’s The Haunting of Hill House. There’s something about Shirley Jackson’s work that continues to resonate in my tiny little skull, so that even now, having recently reread Hill House after many years, it was just as effective this time around as it was twenty-five ago when I read it for the first time. So that’s the book that hooked me when I was fairly young, and upon rereading it I loved it just as much. The rest of the current crop of horror writers I’m just beginning to appreciate and catch up on.

Q: Are you encountering any problems with preconceived notions of what a horror novel is supposed to be? I am thinking of the problem Raymond Chandler had with his last novel, Playback, which made the publisher extremely frustrated because this was supposed to be a mystery novel, and there wasn’t even a corpse until 60% of the way through. Do publishers ever tell you to be scary on the first page?

Simmons: If you’re scary on the first page, publishers say, “Why did you wait so long?” But seriously I started with that problem of preconceived notions. My first novel, Song of Kali, can be read with no overtly supernatural occurrences. It can be read as a strictly psychological reaction to a city that’s a monster. But worse than that, the primary sin of that novel, which lost some readers but more editors, was that I seemed to set up the classic revenge scenario with a man’s child killed by someone in the Calcutta underground—almost literally the sewer underground of Calcutta, the strange, semi-mystical guild of gangsters and beggar-masters—and after someone had murdered his child, he went back to Calcutta to wreak revenge but then stopped. What I did was have him avoid the revenge so as not to participate in the cycle of violence that the goddess Kali represents. That upset editors. They felt that readers would not be satisfied by someone saying no to violence. Certainly it’s a hard thing to carry off dramatically. That was the difficult thing, not avoiding the expectations of horror genre per se, although they did want more overtly supernatural things, but in providing an honest and emotionally satisfying alternative to the cliché. But I think that by having Song of Kali end as it did, more or less over the protests of the experts who felt it didn’t follow the right plan, and then having readers over the years respond to the subtleties and the message beneath the omitted clichés, I’ve avoided a lot of battles later on.

Q: What would you write if you were to do something totally off-the-wall? A historical novel, maybe? The basic theoretical question about reader and publisher expectations I’ve always wondered about is this: what would happen if Stephen King wrote a light, romantic comedy?

Simmons: First, he would sell about six million copies of it.

Q: With a black cover and something menacing on it...

Simmons: Yeah. I wonder if Stephen King has really tried to do that. I remember at one point in his career he announced that horror was just a station on the way for him and he was going on to other things. Some of us are still waiting for the “other things.” I think what happens isn’t so much pressure from publishers or even readers. What happens is that I feel that King, and many of the popular writers, has been trapped by the urge to please. He wants to tell the stories not just to the largest audience, but to the most appreciative audience. For my part, I tend to have this perverse urge to write for people who don’t ordinarily read “that sort of thing.” But, on the other hand, I doubt I’ll do anything quite as off-the-wall as write a light, romantic comedy. A historical novel intrigues me, but I am a distant cousin of Bruce Catton so the historical side’s covered. I tasted that a little bit with “Iverson’s Pits,” the Civil War horror novelette I wrote for Night Visions 5. I found I was enjoying the research so much that I didn’t want to deal with the fiction. There was a non-fiction book in there that keeps fighting to get out. It’s quite possible that I’ll do something like that someday. Again, the only prerogatives that I’m fighting to keep are, one, to be allowed to tell the tales I want to tell, and, two, to be allowed to continue writing in whatever form that takes.

Q: You can’t be the grumpy person who sits in a corner and says, “I write only for myself and I don’t care what anyone thinks.” I know of writers who say that, but I don’t think any of them mean it.

Simmons: No, but I think there’s some happy middle ground. One goes to the publishing panels at these conventions. You hear the hopefuls there asking, “What do the audiences want? Two years from now, what kind of book will sell?” That’s self-destructive right from the start. There has to be a happy blend between writing what you want to write and being willing to please the readership. But you can’t run around and do market surveys, I’m convinced, as a writer. The publishers can do it all they want and then find whatever writer they want. But you can’t do a market survey and become a successful writer that way. I think that the writers whom I enjoy and that most people enjoy are simply writing books that the writers themselves would like to have read. If they don’t find the books, and if they don’t find them of sufficient quality, they write them themselves, and the readers are waiting out there to join them.

Q: On this note, it’s my instinct that sharecropped books and franchised books are just death...

Simmons: Yes. I won’t get into that, but there are certain rules about what I won’t write. I just shocked myself tremendously. I did work for hire, and I also just joined in a collaboration to write a Joker story for an anthology from Bantam of Joker/Batman stories. I realized that, okay, I’ve got all my prime rules: no shared worlds, no messing with someone else’s characters. However, the temptation to go back to when I was twelve years old and loving Batman was too great. My seven-year-old daughter enjoyed talking to me about it and helping me plot the story, and we have a big prop-up poster of the Joker in my study now. So it was fun, and it actually turned out to be an enjoyable learning experience collaborating with Ed Bryant on this story. So I guess that for all the hard-and-fast rules, there have to be exceptions.

Q: I suppose what really matters is that you keep writing at all. I don’t know who said it, but one of my favorite remarks on this is that sex is the best thing two people can do together, while writing is the best thing you can do alone.

Simmons: The variation on that is that writing is that shameful thing one does behind closed doors alone.

Q: I suppose we’re all basically bent.

Simmons: Amen.

THE SPIRES OF DENON, by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

1

Meklos Verr took over once the command ship entered Amnthra’s atmosphere. He was a better on-planet pilot than anyone else on board. Besides, he preferred to do most things himself.

Even though he had the coordinates, Meklos flew hands-on. He opened the portals so that the cockpit, which jutted out in front of the small ship, seemed like it was encased in sky. He didn’t have quite a three-hundred-and-sixty degree view, although it was close.

Only the area directly behind him, where a door led to the area the crew usually called the bunkhouse, blocked the view.

It had taken two days to get to Amnthra from base, and that was about twelve hours longer than any group should have been in this vessel. But no other space-to-ground vessel had been available on short notice, so he had to take this one.

This part of Amnthra was isolated and sparsely populated. According to rumor, the ancients still lived in these mountains. However, no matter how hard he looked, he couldn’t find any independent confirmation of those rumors.

The Naramzin Mountain Range had some of the tallest peaks in this sector. It ran from east to west along Amnthra’s largest continent. In fact, except for the beaches along the edge of the continent, the range and its small hidden valleys were Amnthra’s largest continent.

Most of Amnthra’s people now lived on islands and the four smaller continents, which were mostly flat. The weather was good in those places, the soil rich, and life spectacular.

Or so the travelogues told him.

They also told him to avoid the Naramzins. Hostile terrain of surprising beauty, the travelogues said. Easy to get lost in.

Easy to die in.

Meklos had no intention of dying.

He also had no intention of getting lost.

He was heading to the largest valley on the continent—the Valley of Conquerors—where he and his team would camp before they hiked to the Spires of Denon—and the city beneath them.

The Spires of Denon were the reason he had to leave the ship so far away. They were delicate, so delicate that scientists believed that the wrong harmonic vibration would shatter them, and one of the great treasures of the Lost Age would disappear forever.

He could see the Spires in the distance, rising like Earthmade skyscrapers into the clear blue sky.

Right now, he didn’t care about the Spires. Right now, he worried about landing, hiking, and working under such restrictive conditions.

He had agreed to those conditions—had, in truth, hired on for them. But he didn’t like them.

And he liked them less as the peaks of the Naramzin Range came into view. The Naramzin was unconquerable—that was what the ancient texts said, which was why the Denonites had, for a time, conquered every known civilization on Amnthra.

It wasn’t until Amnthra got rediscovered by the other peoples in the sector that the Denonites actually got defeated.

And then they disappeared.

One of the great mysteries of the Lost Age.

And one he wasn’t about to solve.

He was just here to provide security—not that he could find any real reason for it. He had done some research, in the limited time he had before taking this job, and it looked like no one and nothing threatened the group of archeologists who worked the ancient city of Denon.

His people needed a rest. They’d gone on a rescue mission two months before and found themselves in the middle of a civil war. Two weeks and four deaths later, they managed to rescue some university professors who had wandered into the wrong encampment.

He’d given the bulk of his team a vacation. Fifteen remained—the fifteen who, like him, didn’t believe in time off.

So he’d force them to take it with this easy job in one of the great sites of the Lost Age.

He had a hunch he might even enjoy this job himself.

2

Gabrielle Reese stood hip-deep in the chalk-covered water. The water was cold against her waders. Her hands were growing numb, which was the worst thing for this work. Even the tip of her nose was cold.

She stood on an unstable pile of rocks, which partially blocked the center arch in the underground caverns. She had wedged herself against the wall and what might have been a stone protecting a small cubby.

She could see the statue in the glare of her headlamp. The statue was small, black, and definitely not Denonite. If she had to guess, she would wager that the statue had come from one of the lost tribes, the ones that the Denonites had conquered early in their reign on Amnthra.

“Gabrielle,” said Yusef Kimber, one of the best archeologists on her crew, “you have to get out of there. You’re fifteen minutes past time.”

Fifteen minutes past time. A time she had established, based on her own research. She hadn’t allowed the medical doctor down here to do his own estimates.

So far, only she and Yusef even knew the caverns existed.

She didn’t trust the rest of her team. If she told anyone else, they’d tell the graduate students, the post-docs, and the hangers-on who were digging out the ancient city.

Once those people knew, this place would be overrun with thieves, thrill seekers, and treasure hunters, not to mention journalists and art historians, who would want to see all this evidence of wars in the Lost Age.

“Gabrielle,” Yusef said.

“All right,” she said, letting the exasperation into her voice.

She reached into the niche and carefully grabbed the statue. It felt like it was made of ice, even though she knew it wasn’t.

Her breath caught.

It was lovely—and she was right. It wasn’t Denonite. It came from a completely different culture, one she hadn’t seen outside of historical texts.

She waved her other hand at Yusef so that he could come down and take the statue. They hadn’t found as much in the niches as she expected. Not all the niches were full. But enough of them were that she was convinced an entire treasure trove had once existed here.

The water posed the greatest problem. She knew they weren’t very deep in the caverns. The flooding had probably taken artifacts and moved them out of their protective holes.

She could only hope that it hadn’t ruined them as well.

Yusef wrapped the statue in protective covering and put it into his pack. They’d been storing everything in a hidden part of the building that covered the entrance to the caverns.

Soon she would have to move the items. She was preparing a nearby temple so that she could clean and identify them. Mostly, she planned to work alone.

But if she did bring in some of the other members of her team, she would tell them the items had come from the ground or the buildings inside the city, not from the caverns.

She placed her hands on the flat rock just above the waterline and pulled herself up, the way that she used to pull herself out of the full-grav pool on her father’s starbase. She scraped her right wader against the stone, leaving a dank chalky mark.

She wasn’t sure if that mark would be permanent or not. Damage was easy in these caverns—hell, it was easy everywhere in the ancient city, which had been untouched until her team had uncovered it five years before.

It had taken a lot of work, but she’d managed to keep the city quiet for two years. Finally, she needed more help, so she advertised on college boards all over the sector. She got dozens of graduate students, and a handful of post-docs. The post-docs were still here, but the graduate students cycled in and out like the itinerant students they were, bringing the news of the ancient city of Denon into the mainstream community.

Fortunately, she had published her early research before the ad. She would have to do the same thing with the caverns. But not until she explored them all and learned what other treasures were here.

She pulled her other knee up, making a second mark, then placed her hand on the side of the arch. This time, she didn’t leave a mark. But the stone was cold, even through her glove. She was going to have to sit in the sun for a long time to get this chill out of her system.

Still, she wasn’t quite ready to leave. Before she walked to the old path that led to the steps, she peered through the arch.

She had hoped to get inside that next cavern before her time elapsed, and she hadn’t made it. But she had learned something. The floor slanted upwards, so the next series of caverns—if, indeed, there was a series—would not yet be underwater.

The light from her miner’s helmet shone inside, reflecting off the natural white walls. She didn’t see inky blackness below, which was how the water manifested itself in the darkness—even when the water had taken on the sludge from the walls.

A pristine cavern—maybe the last pristine cavern—before the underwater work began.

3

The air was drier here than Meklos expected, and the sunlight brighter. He’d never seen sunlight this bright. When he’d asked Chavo Grennoble, the young man the archeologists had sent to lead the team up the correct path, Chavo had said that the brightness was a change in perception, which came because Meklos had so recently been on a ship.

Meklos had been on many ships before landing planetside, and he’d never experienced light like this before. But he said nothing, even though his own second in command Phineas Aussiere gave him an odd look.

Meklos had been on jobs filled with academics before. They always condescended to him, assuming he was stupid because he preferred a physical job to sitting in some classroom letting someone else tell him what to think.

He adjusted his pack along his shoulders. In it, he had an automatic tent, rations for the next month, and more equipment than he probably needed. He hadn’t been able to assess the job from the starbase, so he had brought collapsible bots, motion detectors, sound detectors and a variety of cameras. He also had sixteen self-assembling laser rifles, several Grow-it grenades, and one giant sky cannon.

Even though everything was in its inert or collapsed state, he was still carrying thirty-five kilos on his back. He carried the greatest weight because he had the sky cannon, but his team’s packs weren’t much lighter.

The kid, Chavo, was scrambling up the path like a mountain goat, and the entire team was keeping up with him. Meklos knew for a fact that the kid wouldn’t have been able to walk this path with thirty-five kilos on his back.

Meklos thought of asking the kid how they’d gotten their equipment over this peak, then realized that the kid wouldn’t know. From what little Meklos had learned before agreeing to the job, the project started ten years before with an examination of the Spires of Denon, and then turned into an excavation of the entire ancient city nestled in the center of the mountain itself.

As they got closer to the peak, the air grew warmer. Meklos had thought it would be colder. On inhabited worlds, most mountains, particularly those this tall, had a snow pack at the top.

In fact, he had thought this mountain—called Denon’s Secret—had a snow pack. From the valley where they’d left the ship, he had noted the reddish-brown dirt slowly turning white near the Spires. He had naturally assumed snow.

But no snow could survive in this heat. If he had known it was going to be this warm, he would have worn some environmental gear.

The ground beside him was turning white, which was how he knew they were nearing the top. From this angle, it was nearly impossible to look at the Spires. They loomed above him, large and imposing.

Their shadows crisscrossed the path, like the shadows of branches in a forest. But unlike the shadows of branches, these shadows were huge. He would step out of a shadow into the sunlight, and walk for several meters before stepping into another shadow.

The Spires weaved and bent into each other, adding at least four more kilometers to the top of the mountain. As he neared the peak, he couldn’t tell if this mountain was old and rounded with time or if—in some distant past—the mountaintop had blown off.

If it had blown off, then he was climbing a volcano which unnerved him slightly. He’d worked two separate jobs near active volcanoes and their rumblings kept him awake at night.

But nothing in his research claimed Denon’s Secret was an active volcano. If it had been, the Spires would not have survived. The groundquakes would have shattered them.

The team had nearly reached the Spires when Chavo stopped. He extended his spindly arms as if he were some religious figure leading his followers to the promised land.

“Before we go farther,” he said, “I need to tell you the rules of the Spires. I’m sure that Gabrielle or someone else below will reiterate, but since we’re going to go right past them, I figured I’d better say something.”

“Could’ve said it at the base,” someone muttered behind Meklos.

“He thinks we’re too dumb to remember for that long,” someone else answered, echoing Meklos’s thoughts.

Chavo didn’t seem to hear or if he did, the comments didn’t embarrass him—probably because he believed them to be true.

He glanced behind him, then swept his hand toward the upper part of the mountain.

“The Spires are manmade,” Chavo said. “They’re handcarved. They’ve been treated with something—we don’t know what—that has allowed it to remain in place for hundreds, maybe thousands, of years. In addition to being bent and formed by hand, the Spires are also etched.”

Meklos didn’t know that. He raised his head a little, and saw the edges of the Spires coming out of the white dirt.

He couldn’t imagine that sort of painstaking work. He wasn’t even sure how the creators made it. Did they begin at the top and add pieces as they went along, until they had the full-sized Spires? Then did they take them from whatever workshop they’d used and attach them to the mountainside?

The technology needed to do this seemed beyond the ancients. But the ancients had built and forgotten more technology than he would ever know. After all, geneticists proved beyond any doubt that this sector was colonized by people from Earth, just like the stories said. The DNA matches were complete.

Which meant that everyone in the sector had common ancestors, at least once upon a time. That time was so long ago that civilizations rose and fell, knowledge was lost, knowledge was gained, and wars were fought, then forgotten.

Just like the history of colonization had been forgotten.

“So,” Chavo said, “because they’re unusually delicate, don’t touch the Spires. We’re afraid that the oils from your fingertips could harm the coating.”

“Why?” someone muttered. “Because of where we’ve been?”

“They don’t know where we’ve been,” someone else said. “That’s what they’re afraid of.”

“Actually,” Chavo said loudly—since he’d clearly heard that, “none of us is allowed to touch. We’ve seen them forever and examined them for ten years, and we still can’t touch. We can’t figure out how to study them without dismantling one, and that would be a crime.”

Not to mention that it might undermine the entire Spire system.

“So we take readings and try to examine with what equipment we have. Even that we have to be careful with. We don’t dare use powerful equipment near the Spires. We’re too afraid to damage them. What we’re hoping for is that we’ll find some pieces in the city below, and then we can do a proper study, but so far, we haven’t found anything.”

It almost sounded like a tourist guide spiel, except that Meklos knew tourists never came here.

He found it curious that they couldn’t figure out anything about the Spires. The lack of knowledge, even after a decade of study, made him realize that all those precautions the academics had presented him with were just that: Precautions. They were based on guesses, not actual knowledge.

He wondered what they all would think if they knew how many weapons he was bringing into their stronghold. He would wager that they would disapprove.

They were probably taking so long on this dig because they couldn’t use some of the normal tricks of the trade—sonic cleaners set on a level for delicate work and large equipment to carry dirt and debris out of this area.

“Is this the only path?” Meklos asked.

“It’s the only one we use,” Chavo said.

“That wasn’t my question,” Meklos said. “We’re here to protect you and your dig. We need to know if there are other ways to access it.”

Chavo glanced over his shoulder again, as if someone were watching him. As he turned back, he bit his lower lip.

“There are lots of paths over the peak and through the Spires. This is the only one that is accessible.”

“To whom?” Meklos asked. “To your people? Or to machinery? Or to anyone with climbing experience?”

Chavo shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t know. This is the only one I’ve ever used.”

“How long have you been here?” Meklos asked.

“Two years,” Chavo said. “My post-doc focuses on the architecture of the city of Denon as it evolved—”

“Couldn’t you study that from some library somewhere?” Phineas asked, obviously unable to contain his contempt any longer.

“I’m an archeologist, and an art historian,” Chavo said with no little bit of pride. “This is an area of study that combines both of my disciplines.”

“Well, you’re testing our discipline,” Meklos said. “We’re wearing thirty-five kilograms on our backs and it’s hot up here. We’d like to get to that city, find where we’re going to camp, and eat a little something.”

“No kidding,” said one of the voices from the back.

Chavo looked at the pack on Meklos’s back as if seeing it for the first time.

“Sorry,” he said. “You might have to take that off as we cross the peak. The arch beneath this part of the Spires is pretty narrow.”

Meklos frowned. Obviously, then, the original teams hadn’t used this path to lug their equipment in.

Chavo climbed ahead of them, waiting near the arch, which barely reached the top of his head. When Meklos joined him, Chavo pointed up. “Your pack gonna hit that?”

“Of course not,” Meklos said, but he paused anyway, not because he was uncertain, but because he wanted to get a good look at the Spires up close.

The arch wasn’t a true arch. Instead, it was part of the weave. Several branches came together at this point. Two twisted above Meklos to form an even larger pattern. Two more branched in from the sides, giving the arch itself a four-point base.

The trail went below that base.

“I’m going to make sure the others won’t hit it,” Chavo said. “So go ahead.”

“They’ll be fine,” Meklos said.

Chavo looked nervously at the rest of the team, climbing single-file behind Meklos, then back at Meklos.

Meklos raised his eyebrows. “After you,” he said.

Chavo swallowed, then nodded. He clearly didn’t want to go first, but he didn’t see any choice.

Meklos smiled to himself. The kid was finally becoming intimidated.

Chavo walked under the arch, then eased himself down the side of the mountain. The trail had to have gotten steep there. Meklos made a mental note of that.

He followed, going slowly, not because he was afraid of hitting the arch, but because he wanted to look at it as he passed.

Chavo wasn’t kidding—the Spires had etchings. So far as Meklos could see, each etching was different. Some appeared to be characters, like letters or numbers, and others were drawings. He noted one as he passed, a woman standing beneath this very arch, or something quite similar to it.

He only had to hunch slightly as he walked through the arch. He had plenty of clearance. Even if he hadn’t, his pack would have flattened itself against his back to avoid touching anything. It was a design feature he neglected to tell Chavo.

The kid didn’t need to know everything.

Once Meklos got through the arch, the path turned sharply to the right. That was why Chavo had braced himself as he came through. There were more parts to the arch, some actually flattened before Meklos, like a floor.

The path swerved to avoid all of that.

The floor had etchings as well, but he couldn’t see them clearly from the path.

What surprised him was that they weren’t covered with dust or dirt. Just one day on this mountaintop should have kept that floor covered in the whitish material that surrounded them.

He swerved with the path, then walked down four steps. Chavo was waiting for him on a stone platform, one that was not part of the Spires. Meklos stopped beside Chavo, then looked up the mountainside. His team was coming through, one at a time, each examining the Spires as they walked, each showing the same amount of curiosity he had.

“The city’s just down there,” Chavo said, with no small amount of pride.

Meklos looked. The city sprawled below them as if it had always been exposed to the sun, as if teams of archeologists hadn’t uncovered it in the past five years.

Some of the dirt remained along the edges, more, it seemed to Meklos, to prevent climbers from going through the Spires the wrong way than as any integral part of the dig.

But the dirt did show how deeply the city had once been buried.

It filled the hollow in the mountain. White buildings, some small, and several quite large, scattered before him. They glimmered in the sunlight.

He realized then that some of the brightness had come from the reflected light off the white substance on the side of the mountain. Add to that the city itself, and his eyes actually hurt.

“Lovely, isn’t it?” Chavo asked.

“Astonishing,” Meklos said, and meant it. He had seen a lot of amazing things in his career, but never anything like this.

“Wait until you see it up close,” Chavo said.

Meklos frowned. He had heard about the ancient city of Denon in school—everyone had. So many of this sector’s myths and stories had come from here.

The city itself had survived several sieges.

As he looked at it now, though, the idea of surviving a siege here made him shudder. With a more powerful enemy on the mountainside, the inhabitants of the city would not stand a chance.

“Ready?” Chavo asked, leading Meklos to yet another set of stairs.

Meklos nodded. Places usually didn’t make him uncomfortable, but this one did.

And he wasn’t entirely sure why.

4

Navi Salvino clasped her hands behind her back and studied the holographic map floating above the table. She had walked around it now a dozen times, zooming in, zooming out, and still she couldn’t decide what to do.

The Naramzin Mountain Range looked formidable all by itself, but the strictures on landing anywhere near the Spires of Denon made this job almost impossible.

She wouldn’t be able to get her people into the city of Denon without being seen. She certainly couldn’t use weapons, and the newest strictures, made by the Monuments Protection Arm of the Unified Governments of Amnthra, restricted most forms of scanning equipment as well.

The Unified Governments had been suing Scholars Exploration for ownership of the mountaintop itself. Scholars Exploration had used a loophole in some of the local laws to claim ownership of the mountaintop.

Apparently the Unified Governments had never designated the Spires a protected area, which was a major mistake.

The Scholars took advantage of major mistakes. They’d become the bully in the sector, at least when it came to research sites.

In the beginning, the Scholars had simply been a way for sector universities to protect their research. A dozen universities had founded Scholars Exploration to give them some clout with the various sector governments. A variety of donors, many wealthy alumni, had provided startup funding for the company decades ago. That start-up money had become a large fortune, thanks to the funds generated by patents, copyrights, sales of land and items made and/or found by the various scholars.

Most people saw the Scholars as a boon to knowledge throughout the sector. Navi saw them as a pain in the ass.

She walked around the table yet again. The mountaintop rose as if it had been carved there.

The Spires rose above the white mountaintop, hopelessly delicate. On one of her passes, she had counted sixteen spires, but it was hard to gauge, since they twisted and twined into each other. One branch would rise into a point, while another part of it forked away, wrapping itself around another spire.

The highest spire stood alone for several meters, white and shining in the simulation, as if lit from within.

If this holographic map was even half as impressive as the Spires themselves, then they were something to behold.

She pressed a button on her wristband, summoning this job’s expert. She hated the experts. They were self-important little people who often felt slighted by being left out of some Scholars Exploration expedition.

This particular expert, Jonas Zeigler, hid his disappointment well, but Navi could still feel it, as if she had caused it.

The double doors slid open and he stepped inside, stopping as he gazed on the map. His black bangs flopped over the left side of his narrow face. He wore faded jeans and a cotton top, even though Navi kept her ship at regulation temperature—which meant it was cool, even for her.

He was a full professor of antiquities and art history at a tiny college at the edge of the sector. His speeches, his dissertation, and his annual works brought him to Navi’s attention. Even though he didn’t have a prestige position, he was considered the sector’s foremost authority on the Spires—or he had been until Scholars had discovered the City of Denon in the hollow below them.

Zeigler had predicted that find in his now-famous dissertation, published nearly a decade before anyone thought to look for the city. But his tiny college couldn’t afford to buy into Scholars, and so he wasn’t qualified to lead an expedition into the area.

“You act like you’ve never seen the Spires.” She had to walk behind him and wave her hand at the door, closing it. He hadn’t moved since he stepped inside.

He shook himself, then took a deep breath. “Not like that,” he said. “My school doesn’t have the funds for such a sophisticated holounit.”

“But you’ve seen them up close,” she said. As a fifteen-year-old, he had hiked up Denon’s Secret with his family, long before any archeologists had taken interest in the Spires.

“Up close you can hardly take in a single branch. The entire thing is impossible to see.” He finally walked toward the map. “Although….”

“Although?” She hated the way he spoke, as if his thoughts raced ahead and he didn’t feel as if he had to articulate all of them.

“Although they’re much brighter in person. They are so white it actually hurts your eyes.” He sounded wistful.

Sometimes places got a hold on people, made them almost worshipful. She’d seen it countless times—people willing to defend a small patch of ground that looked like nothing to her, because it meant something to them.

She hadn’t suspected Zeigler of such an attitude, although someone else might have. It took her longer than most to recognize worshipful.

She had never worshipped anything. Her work was everything to her, had been since she left home at thirteen. She hadn’t even fallen in love. Someone would mention a new job, and she would take it, for the challenge mostly, since money and perks didn’t matter much to her.

“Last night,” she said to Zeigler, “you mentioned something. You said you didn’t think the security team would have been hired to protect the city. What did you mean?”

The words had echoed in her head since that moment. The security team had triggered her trip to Amnthra. Even though the Scholars had hired the security team, the request for security hadn’t originated with the Scholars.

The request had come directly from the surface itself.

Navi’s computer systems were set up to automatically flag actions like that. She’d been monitoring nearly two hundred Scholars projects and sites all over the sector, and whenever something unusual happened, she got flagged.

This one intrigued her, because the city had been discovered so recently and it was hard to reach.

Historic places that were hard to reach and relatively new to the academic community were often rich with treasures.

Zeigler was still looking at the Spires.

His silence exasperated her. She asked, “Do you think the team was hired to protect the Spires?”

He gave her a look of such panic that she actually regretted the question.

“They’re too beautiful to cut up,” he said, which wasn’t an answer to her question. The fact that he had thought of cutting them up meant someone else probably had as well.

“Could they be sold in parts?” she asked.

He let out a heavy sigh. It sounded almost mournful.

“Anything can be sold in parts,” he said.

“So that’s what you meant,” she said. “You think the team was hired to protect the Spires.”

He shook his head, but said no more.

“Then why do you think they hired the team?” she asked.

“The museum,” he said after a moment.

His tone implied that she knew what the museum was.

She knew of countless museums. Some were attached to the universities. Some were in the wealthier cities throughout the sector. The Scholars had been making noise for years about starting a universal museum, one in the center of the sector, like a space port, complete with restaurants, hotels, and condos. The entire thing could be expanded as the Scholars found more items to put into it.

“Which museum?” she asked when he became clear he wasn’t going to elaborate.

He whirled toward her, his face more animated than she had ever seen it.

“I thought you studied my work,” he snapped. “You said you were familiar with it.”

“I am,” she said. She hadn’t studied his work; that would have taken too much time. But she had scanned the précis and listened to his detractors as well as his supporters. She learned all she could about him as quickly as she could.

She simply hadn’t had time to familiarize herself with the work itself.

“Everything I’ve done in the past six years has been about the museum,” he said.

“The last six years, you talked about the history of Denonites,” she said. “I recall nothing about a museum.”

His face flushed. “You listened to the critics. You didn’t listen to me.”

She sighed, then extended her hands flat, in a gesture of peace. “Guilty,” she said. “I don’t have the patience for scholarship.”

He glared at her, then turned his back on her. He continued to study the Spires.

“So what did the critics miss?” she asked.

“A discovery equal to that of the city itself,” he said.

He answered her quicker than she had expected him to. She had thought he would nurse his anger a bit longer, but he hadn’t.

“Why would they ignore that?”

“Because I’m not on-site,” he said. “But I wasn’t on-site when I figured out the city’s location either.”

“So tell me about the museum,” she said.

He turned, his expression open. She didn’t like the mood swing. She kept her back straight, her face impassive. She wasn’t going to encourage this kind of emotionalism—although she would remember it.

He said, “The ancient texts all talked about the spoils of war. The Denonites went to war not for the conquest, but for the spoils.”

So did many communities, she almost said, but remembered: it was better not to have a dialogue with Zeigler. It would derail him.

“Most scholars,” he was saying, “believe the spoils are the standard ones—slaves, property, maybe extending the gene pool. But it always seemed to me to be more than that.”

She frowned.

Zeigler reached toward the Spires. He touched them. The hologram encased his fingers.

“I always thought that any people who could create something that beautiful would appreciate beauty. The city bears this out. The new documentation shows that it uses classical designs—ancient Earth designs—in its most prominent buildings.”

Then he closed his hand into a fist and pulled it away from the Spires.

Navi nodded, to encourage him to continue.

“The Denonites lived in a small community,” he said. “It’s a jewel. They sent their own undesirables away, let them run the conquered cities. Nothing in the texts talk about slaves or massive troops moving back toward Denon’s Secret. There is no mention of a place to keep prisoners or a place to ritually humiliate the losers of any war. So I spent the last few years asking myself this: If they didn’t want the traditional spoils, what did they want?”

She was going to be here all day while he explained how he came to his conclusions. God, she hated academics.

“Then I discovered a mention of the caverns,” he said.

Suddenly he had her attention.

“Caverns honeycomb that mountain. I think that’s how the Denonites survived their many sieges. They weren’t in the city when it got attacked. They were below it or beside it or maybe not even in it, if the caverns led to places outside of the mountain.”

Her breath caught. Marvelous. The caverns would give her a way into the city, a way that could avoid the Spires entirely.

“Do you have proof of this?” she asked.

“Not exact proof,” he said.

And she felt her heart sink.

“But,” he added, “the texts mention the networks a lot, and then they mention the honeycombs. Only one of those references is in connection with cavern, but that’s enough. Because if you look at the Spires, what could they be, but a giant map?”

She frowned, and looked at the Spires. They seemed like artwork to her—a way of marking the city long before anyone arrived at it.

A monument, something that a culture built because it could.

“A map?” she asked, letting the disbelief into her voice.

“Surround it, not with air, but with dirt,” he said. “Then what does it look like?”

She had to squint to imagine that. Then she shook her head.

“It’s a network of caves,” he said, “with exit points.”

She wanted him to be right. She needed him to be right. But she didn’t believe he was right. Everything he told her was too disjointed.

“But how does that tie to a museum?” she asked.

“It is the museum,” he said.

He shoved his hand back into the middle of the hologram.

“This part,” he said. “This maze-like network in the center, would be the best place to store artifacts stolen from other cultures. And if the caves look like the Spires, then they’re white. Anything with color would jump off the walls, and stand out, even in a large space. Imagine it. It would be the best museum in the sector. Better even than that thing the Scholars are proposing because everything in this place would be ancient, and from cultures long gone.”

That was the problem. She could imagine it. The wealth would be beyond measure.

Immediately her mind turned to the task at hand. “They would need more than fifteen people and some tech to guard this place.”

“If they know what they have which I don’t think they do,” he said. “They stumbled onto the city. They weren’t looking at my work. It was an accident.”

“You think they have no idea how far these things extend.

He nodded. “And, since scans from above are limited by law, they have no way to find out.”

She turned to the Spires, squinting, trying to see what he saw.

A map.

Navi smiled.

If Zeigler was right, he had just given her a way in.

5

They activated their tents on a flat part of the mountainside half a kilometer above the city.

From this vantage, they could see the city itself—all parts of it—and they would remember that they were here to guard it. Meklos still hadn’t figured out how he was going to deploy his people and his equipment. He needed better maps for that. He also needed to know what exactly he’d been hired to protect.

If it was a single building, then he’d send his people there in shifts as well as keep a few stationed near the Spires. If it was the entire city itself, he might need reinforcements.

This area was vast, something that he hadn’t realized when he took the job. It wasn’t vast in area, so much as in sprawl. And it would be difficult to guard against a motivated invader, someone who wanted inside, someone to whom the rules about the Spires of Denon meant nothing.

He had one other problem as well. No one had warned him about how bright it was here. Even with proper equipment, the whiteness of the Spires, combined with the white shale on the mountainside and the white buildings below, created a kind of bleary-eyed exhaustion that he hadn’t experienced outside of snow countries.

If he kept his people on shift too long or if they were stationed in the wrong spot, they might experience a kind of snow blindness.

And he hadn’t checked the planet’s cycle in relation to its sun. He had no idea if they would move closer while he was stationed here.

If so, the sun would grow brighter, and so would the light.

Even if he sent for better equipment, he still would have to station his people at their posts for half a normal shift. Which meant he would be understaffed.

He wished he’d been able to inspect the site before he arrived, just like he had asked to do. But Scholars Exploration, which had hired him, had said the site was too remote to justify the expense.

Then they had tripled his fee.

He’d noted the contradiction, and he understood the reason for it. They didn’t want anyone who wasn’t on their payroll near the site.

And that had peaked his curiosity.

This whole job had—partly because of the Spires themselves.

6

Gabrielle stepped backwards, toward the open doorway, and stuck her hands in her back pockets. The temple’s main floor extended away from her, fading away into darkness.

Except for the front entrance, which had no door—and hadn’t been designed for one, the temple had sealable doors and no windows. Perfect for storage.

It was the largest building in the ancient city, a giant rectangle that stood in the exact center. All the main roads (the ones that the archeologists could clearly define as roads) led to this one spot.

She called it a temple, but there was no evidence that the Denonites were particularly religious. It was just that in previous ancient societies, buildings with this general shape and focus always ended up being the center of the religion.

Yusef believed it was some kind of government building, but he couldn’t suggest what kind.

The main floor was one long open space. There wasn’t even an altar or a place with a rise so that someone could stand above a crowd and make speeches.

The walls were plain white, like the exterior walls, but the floor was a marvel all by itself.

It was an inlaid replica of the Spires of Denon. As the careful cleaning commenced, she realized that the floor’s design wasn’t white against blue like she had initially thought. The Spires went from a warm reddish color to lighter shades of rose finally becoming a faint white. Only near the top, where the Spires supposedly touched the sun, did the drawing itself become a spectacular white.

She had initially planned on covering the floor, but she wasn’t sure whether or not it would ruin the artwork. Her specialists thought that even a raised floor could scratch the image below.

So she had to be careful. On the areas where there was no artwork, she had installed a raised floor. She would put up half walls around those areas. She needed them for the final cleaning, sorting and classification. Then the artifact, whatever it was, would get moved to the correct part of the floor until it could go to its assigned destination.

The problem, of course, would be the larger items. She wasn’t even sure where to store them, let alone how to work with them.

And if she had to remove any of them from the city…

She shook her head. She had already commandeered a couple of buildings near the temple, but none were as sturdy.

One of the post-docs suggested leaving the larger artifacts where she found them, which sounded well and good, until they tried to deal with the artifacts in the flooded part of the caverns.

Not that she knew for certain there were artifacts in that part of the cavern. Even though the guards had shown up, the special cave-divers she sent for were delayed on some other job.

Someone touched her arm, and she jumped.

She turned. Yusef stood next to her, his eyes twinkling.

She had been so deep in thought, she hadn’t even heard him approach.

“What?” she asked.

“The guards you hired,” he said, “they want to talk to you.”

She suppressed a sigh. The last thing she wanted to do was talk to a group of guards.

She hadn’t given them much thought. She had asked the Scholars to hire some security guards and to make sure they weren’t thugs. She didn’t want careless people blundering their way through the delicate parts of the city.

If she had been able to afford it, she would have hired them herself. But she’d had her hands full with hiring the cave divers. She didn’t want the Scholars to know she had even found caves, until she knew exactly what those caves were and what treasures they contained.

She sighed. She didn’t want to deal with the guards, but she was clearly going to have to.

“Where are they?” she asked.

“He,” said a voice behind her. “And he’s right here.”

She turned. The man who stood behind her wasn’t as large as she would have expected a guard to be. He was not much taller than she was, and his muscles looked real, not the enhanced kind that made him seem like he had inserted cotton under his skin. His hair was a little too long, and his dark eyes were wary.

“I’m Meklos Verr,” he said. “I’m in charge of the security team.”

She didn’t have to ask where the rest of the team was. That was obvious. She had seen the automated tents blossom on the inside of the crater. They weren’t too far from her initial base camp.

“Gabrielle Reese,” she said. “I’m the person in charge of this mess.”

He glanced at the entrance behind him. “It’s much less of a mess than I expected.”

“We’ve had years on the upper layer of the city, but there’s so much more work to be done.”

He nodded, then looked at Yusef. The look held dismissal, and just a little contempt.

She put her hand on Yusef’s arm. If she hadn’t, he would have left without Meklos saying a word.

That was power. Amazing that such a slight man in such an unimportant position had it.

“I need to talk with you about the security arrangements,” Meklos said.

She nodded, but didn’t let go of Yusef’s arm.

“I think the fewer who are privy to them the better.” Meklos’s tone made it sound like what he had just said was the opening salvo in a conversation, not a cue to dismiss Yusef.

She had to give it a second of consideration. Normally, she would include Yusef in any conversation. But Yusef seemed to make the guard uncomfortable. It was just easier to do what the guard wanted. Then they could be done with this conversation.

She let go of Yusef’s arm. “It’s all right. I’ll join everyone for lunch in about an hour.”

Yusef flushed. He gave Meklos a furtive glance, frowned, and then scurried off.

Gabrielle had never seen Yusef move like that. It took her a few moments to realize that Meklos actually scared him.

“You scared him,” she said in wonder.

Meklos’s eyes moved slightly. She had a feeling she had surprised him.

“Very good,” he said. “Most people wouldn’t have noticed.”

“It was pretty obvious,” she said. “I’ve never seen him react like that.”

“Hm,” Meklos said. It wasn’t an answer. It wasn’t even really a word. It was, however, a dismissal, as if her opinion didn’t count for much.

“Are you going to do that all the time?” she asked.

“Scare your people?” he asked.

She nodded.

He shrugged. “Depends on if it’s part of my job.”

“Your job is to guard the dig,” she said.

“That’s what it said on the hire.” He shifted his weight slightly, without moving his feet. “But I’m not sure what that means. Or who I’m guarding it from.”

She frowned. She hadn’t expected to have to talk to him. She had expected him and his team to get to work the moment they arrived.

Clearly the Scholars hadn’t explained this job to them. Of course, how hard could a guard job be?

She mentally shrugged. People with Meklos’s job were, by definition, not that bright. So she would explain it.

“All right,” she said. “Here’s what we need. You need to protect us from anyone who wants to see the city. At the moment, anyone can view the Spires—from a safe distance. We—”

“Which is?” he asked.

He had derailed her train of thought. “Excuse me?”

“What’s the safe distance?”

She frowned at him. “You were told the distances when you arrived. The protected area begins at the base of the mountain. No one can climb it and no one can come near the Spires. They’re fragile.”

“They don’t look fragile,” he said. “Up close they look amazingly sturdy.”

“They’re fragile,” she repeated. He was irritating her. She didn’t like her statements questioned.

He opened his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “All right,” he said. “They’re fragile.”

She crossed her arms.

“Go on,” he said.

She had lost her place. He had asked what the rules for protection were. She sighed deeply, then nodded once.

“No one comes up the mountainside without our permission. No one gets into the city without our permission.”

“Okay,” he said. “Got that. What else?”

“Soon we’ll be taking some items from the city to another site for cleaning, grading and inspection. We’re going to need protection for those operations.”

“Another site,” he said. “On Amnthra?”

Her cheeks had grown warm. “Where that site is doesn’t matter right now.”

“Oh, but it does,” he said. “Because if we’re making a land trip, we’ll need the right equipment. It’ll probably take longer. If we’re using some kind of jumper to get across the planet, then we’ll need to know weight limits. We may need an extra jumper or two so that we have the correct amount of personnel and equipment going with the items. Honestly, the more I know, the better job I’ll do.”

She didn’t want him to know. She didn’t want him in the middle of her work.

She would wait to tell him details like until the time came. Maybe by then, she would know how to control him.

“We’ll make the plans for item removal later,” she said. “It’s not something we need to think about now.”

“Well,” he said. “We might want to, because if we require help or additional equipment—”

“I said, we don’t need to think about it now.”

He stared at her for a moment. His entire expression had gone flat. “All right.”

“We’re done now,” she snapped.

He shook his head just once. “I’m sorry, Ms. Reese—Dr. Reese? Gabrielle?”

“Dr. Reese,” she said, even though everyone on her team called her Gabrielle.

“Dr. Reese,” he said. “I still have a lot of questions.”

“I don’t have time for them,” she said.

“Then who do I talk to? Because we’re not starting work until these questions are answered.”

She bit her lower lip so hard she could taste blood, something she hadn’t done in a long time. “I think you’ve forgotten, Meklos, that you work for me.”

“Actually, no, I don’t, Dr. Reese.” His voice was calm. That galled her. While she was furious at him, he didn’t seem to have any emotions concerning her at all. “If you check the agreement—”

“I didn’t see the agreement. That’s between you and Scholars.”

“It’s about you and how our operations run,” he said. “Once security understands its job, we take precedence. If we tell you the area needs to be evacuated immediately, you evacuate immediately. If we tell you that we have proof someone is a threat, that someone—no matter how valuable they appear—will leave the premises. If you would like a copy of the agreement, I can have it sent directly to you. I’m not sure exactly where you’d like it—”

“I’ll get a copy from the Scholars.” Her cheeks were hot now, and had to be bright red. There was no way to hide how angry he had made her.

“Good,” he said. “You’ll see that I’m right. So, in the spirit of cooperation, let me ask a few more questions.”

She sighed heavily so that he understood what an inconvenience this all was.

“I need to know how much access we get to the site.” He waited as if he expected an answer to that immediately.

“What do you mean, access?”

“Are we allowed in the dig sites? Can we get off the paths near the Spires without damaging something important?”

She waved a hand. She had no idea, and she wasn’t about to tell him that. So she said, “Just list your questions. I’ll answer the ones I can right now, and I’ll send you to the right people for the others.”

“All right.” His back straightened, as if she had finally upset him. “I need to know whether we protect from the air as well as the ground. I need to know if we pay attention to ships in orbit. I need to know if we monitor communications—”

“My god,” she said. “It’ll take half my life to direct you people. I just wanted some guards.”

He ignored that and continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “I need to know who you think wants to get onto this site, and if those people have theft or sabotage in mind. I need to know if anyone’s life has been threatened.”

“Sabotage?” she asked, feeling cold. “You think someone might come in here and ruin this?”

“I don’t think anything, Dr. Reese. I need to know what your concerns are. Most importantly, I need to know which members of your staff and crew we can trust, which ones we need to monitor, and which ones we need to watch zealously.”

She felt a little woozy. She must have been holding her breath.

“This is not what I expected when I told Scholars to hire you,” she said.

“What did you expect?” he asked.

“That you’d come in, stand guard, and let us get on with our work.”

“We’ll do that, ma’am,” he said. “Just as soon as we know what we’re guarding, who we’re guarding it from, and how much access we have.”

She hadn’t given it any thought at all. Did she want his people to guard the city itself or just the access routes? And what were the access routes?

And then there was the question of her staff and crew. She didn’t trust any of them. She never told them anything except what they needed to know.

At the same time, she trusted them implicitly. She sent them to work on sites without supervision. She wasn’t sure how to explain the contradiction to this man.

“I take it your behavior is not unusual for your line of work,” she said to him.

That thin smile rose on his lips. This time, he didn’t try to hide the contempt.

“If you want to hire someone else, go ahead,” he said. “Just remember, in your initial communiqué with Scholars, you asked for the best security team they could find.”

She didn’t ask for that. All she had asked for were some guards. Obviously, someone in Scholars figured she needed more than simple guards.

Dammit.

He was saying, “They found us. Whoever they send next may not ask as many questions, may not be as annoying from the start, but they may not be as good either.”

She wasn’t sure she cared about good. She wasn’t sure she cared about any of this at all.

But he was here. They were here. They’d do as she asked when the time came. Until then, she would stall.

“I don’t think of my people the way you want me to,” she said.

He said, “Then maybe it’s time you start.”

7

Navi finally forced herself to look at Zeigler’s scholarly works. Since she and her team were orbiting Amnthra waiting for something to come out of the City of Denon—more communications, maybe items in transit, maybe the arrival of more security—she didn’t have a lot to do except think.

And she’d been thinking a great deal since her conversation with Zeigler.

She kept staring at the holomap. She had brightened the Spires so that they looked almost blinding, although Zeigler said even that wasn’t correct.

Then she had two of her assistants look through geologic records to see if anyone had mapped caves in the Naramzin Mountain Range.

The mountains, it turned out, were mostly unexplored—or at least, they hadn’t been explored in the modern era. Only mountain climbers, adventurers, and extreme athletes had gone up there until the archeologists and scholars descended upon the Spires of Denon as if they were some kind of holy relic.

She couldn’t even tell what caused the descent—whether it was some scholarly discovery or a meeting or something that happened in passing.

Zeigler’s research was meticulous. She had started with the works he’d published six years ago, and worked her way forward. She didn’t care as much about his hypothesis about the City of Denon, the hypothesis that had turned out to be right, although she probably should have. Because if he used similar logic and proof to find the caverns, then she could really trust his conclusions.

Only she somewhat trusted them now, and she barely had the patience to go through the six years of research. The idea of going over his entire life’s work gave her the shudders.

Zeigler made his presentations in lectures, holovids, actual documents, and at conferences where his words were recorded, as well as the question and answer sessions. All of his raw research was easily accessible, unlike some she’d seen. Some scholars made it hard to dig through the raw materials, but Zeigler clearly wasn’t afraid of someone stealing his positions.

He obviously wanted his work to be transparent, so that the other scholars would realize how correct he was.

It took her days to go through the material, and she still wasn’t done. But she was convinced: there were caverns beneath the City of Denon.

The problem was, she had her ship’s sensors go over the mountain range. The area around the Spires was blocked. Every time a sensor touched the area, the stream got bounced back to her ship with a warning:

Energy of any kind could destroy a valuable part of Amnthra. The Spires of Denon are a preserved monument to the ancient past. If your work destroys even a small portion of the Spires, you will be subject to the Monument Protection Arm of the Unified Governments of Amnthra…

All of that, followed by legal codes, and legal language. The upshot—years in an Amnthran prison or something equivalent in other parts of the sector, her ship’s license removed, and her travel privileges permanently suspended. Even if she didn’t get the prison sentence, the other items terrified her more.

She stopped using the sensor. It hadn’t compiled any information from the nearby mountains either. They had come up blank on her data screen, which was odd. As if they were simply a holographic feature of the land, something she knew was not true.

She had experienced sensor white-out on other jobs. Usually the sensors stopped functioning because of a protective field, but she couldn’t believe one existed so close to the Spires.

Although something had to exist, given the way her own beam had come back to her, along with a message.

But she hadn’t traced that message. It could have come from any part of Amnthra, activated when her sensor touched the protective barrier near the Spires.

She would figure all of that out when she needed to. Right now, she was trying to customize one of the holomaps of the mountain range when her assistant, Roye Bruget, came into the room.

It wasn’t really fair to call Roye an assistant. He was more like a part of her. They had worked together from her very first job, and he had saved her butt more times than she wanted to think about.

Sometimes she felt that even though she was nominally in charge, Roye knew more about the way everything worked. Her team usually trusted him to be the voice of reason on all of her jobs. She could be snappish, short, and difficult on good days. Roye was always cheerful, always willing to help.

Unless someone made him angry.

He was a slight, precise man. He wore casual clothes—a shirt and light pants with some slipper-like shoes. The clothes themselves looked pressed, and his hair was so manicured it looked like it had been glued to his head.

“You might want to see this,” he said without greeting her.

He moved in front of her to the in-room control panel. He saved her work, moved the holomap to one side, and then did some light touchwork on the panel.

She looked at the translation running across the screen in front of her.

“You broke the Scholars’ encryption,” she said.

“This wasn’t Scholars,” he said. “It came from outside their system. The request is direct from the folks in the City of Denon.”

She read the request twice. Her heart was pounding. “They want divers?”

“Not any divers,” he said. “Cave divers.”

“You’re sure this isn’t a translation error?” she asked. “They don’t want spelunkers? They want divers? People who’ll go into water in darkness, in caves?”

“Divers,” he said.

She let out a small breath. This opened up a wealth of possibilities.

It meant that caves and water existed below the ancient city. Maybe a river. Which would explain how the ancients lived there through countless sieges without massive deaths.

It also gave her a lot of opportunities. If she had the right equipment, she might be able to map the caves using sensors on the ground.

The Unified Government of Amnthra expected sensors from above, but did they expect them from ground level? Probably not.

And then there was the other possibility.

She looked at Roye, her eyes shining. “Did you bring our diving equipment?”

He grinned. “I’m prepared for any emergency, my friend.”

She grinned in response.

“This isn’t an emergency, Roye,” she said. “This is an opportunity.”

“One of the best we’ve ever had,” he said.

8

Meklos sat on the hard floor of his tent. The tent was elaborate—nicer, in fact, than the way the academics were living in the city below. His tent had three separate rooms—the main room, where he was now and where he often held meetings; a smaller room to the side that he used as a bedroom; and a fully functional bathroom, complete with sonic or water shower depending on the conditions on the ground.

He had opted for a sonic shower, since it looked like water was scarce here. But no one on the academic team acted like water was scarce, so he might have to reassess that opinion.

He had sent Phineas to get maps from Dr. Reese’s assistant, and to remain until he had the latest maps of all the areas, complete with the listings of treasures and protected items. Meklos had a hunch Phin might be gone for a while.

Meklos knew that Dr. Reese was holding something back from him. He just couldn’t figure out what it was.

At least she had finally told him what she needed.

She needed protection against thieves, just like he had suspected. Now that the city of Denon was mostly dug out, the academics would set about finding the valuable items, marking them, and figuring out what to do with them.

Amnthra had no laws protecting individual artifacts, meaning the kind that could be moved from one place to another. The Monuments Protection Arm of the Unified Governments of Amnthra hadn’t been formed that long ago, and so far, it only applied to things that were defined as part of the land of Amnthra.

The Monuments Protection Arm legislation did specifically mention the Spires of Denon and the City of Denon as protected. But, the word “city” wasn’t really defined, and that already presented a problem, at least to Meklos.

Because the definition of city in most Amnthran languages was the same as it was in Meklos’s language—a densely populated center.

Which meant that the City of Denon wasn’t a city at all by Amnthra’s definition. If someone tried to get picky about the legal definitions, he had a hunch they would be able to argue that the City of Denon, as a location, was protected, but movable items within that city, like paintings or jewelry, were not. Even that marvelous inlay floor he had walked across that morning didn’t belong to the city.

Because if the floor were removed, the city would remain.

He needed a definition because he needed to know what could remain in this part of Amnthra and what could be removed. He documented everything—his assumptions, his ideas, and his worries—in case Dr. Reese or, worse, the Scholars disagreed with him.

If they disagreed with him, it would probably mean that he had let someone walk off with a part of the city proper.

At least he hoped that was what it would mean. Because the other option was that he had to protect the City from the academics themselves.

Dr. Reese had finally conceded that some of the academics couldn’t be trusted. The interns, the post-docs, the guest experts—anyone who wasn’t part of her initial team—had to be searched coming in and going out of the area.

As for her initial team, she said she would consider searching them as well, but that sounded dismissive, as if she hoped Meklos would forget he had asked.

He wouldn’t forget.

Dr. Reese would soon learn that Meklos rarely forgot anything.

9

Gabrielle had finally finished laying out the temple. She had marked off areas, and set up shifts so that the interns (at least the well-trained ones) could begin cleaning off artifacts.

She knew which artifacts she wanted out of the City first. Not the most valuable ones—she would save those until later. First, she wanted some tiny but valuable objects to go to the Scholars, with the message that yes, there was more, and no, she really didn’t care which institutions got what pieces.

In truth, she did care, which was why she was sending the less valuable items. However, most of her team did not know which items were extremely valuable and which weren’t. Certain items, like statues in one of the houses not far from here, were too big to carry out, at least at the moment.

She was sitting on the temple steps, drinking purified water. The water had a chalky taste that no amount of filtering or purification could get rid of. The water had come from the caverns below. She had known that the ground water was safe to drink since they’d discovered a small spring not far from the city itself.

But the discovery of the larger caverns made her feel even better about drinking the water. Now she knew there was enough to support her people for a long time to come, she had no qualms about using the recycled water for showers and artifact cleansing.

The sun had reached its zenith. She’d learned to recognize it by the way the light fell around the temple. Actually, the light didn’t fall as much as it blazed. The entire area became so bright that she actually wore extra eye protection out here.

Even then the brightness was the most amazing thing she’d ever seen. The Spires reflected the sun in all directions, acting like some kind of beacon, sending light cascading down the white part of the mountainside. Then the light hit the white buildings, which reflected it all back to the Spires.

She first experienced the blazing whiteness after the tops of the first buildings were uncovered. She had cleaned the tops, just to see what the original buildings looked like.

Then the sun reached its zenith, the Spires flared and the light cascaded down. She felt as if she were inside a sunlight machine. Her skin—her assistants’ skin, everyone’s skin—burned. They’d had to put the dirt back on the buildings until they figured out how to deal with the flare of whiteness.

Now, years later, she was no longer frightened of the light and its power. Now, she sat outside and ate her mid-afternoon snack, watching the light reflect, bounce, and reflect again.

The light was her favorite part of this dig—indeed, her favorite part of any dig—and ironically enough (at least to her) she couldn’t take with her. This light phenomenon would remain part of Amnthra forever.

She sighed and turned her face upwards. She had skin protectors now, as well as the eye protections. Still, she believed that there was an addictive aspect to the light. When she spent a few of her days in the caves below, she had had a palpable mood shift, one that didn’t get corrected until an afternoon in the light bath.

Sometimes that feeling of addiction worried her, made her wonder if she could survive away from this place.

Fortunately, that problem was far in her future. She had so much work to do here that she doubted she’d leave for a long time.

“Gabrielle?”

Yusef.

She tilted her face away from the Spires, blinked several times to clear her eyes, and then looked at him.

He handed her a small communications pad, but her eyes were so sunblinded that she couldn’t see the screen.

Or maybe it just wasn’t visible in this light.

She handed it back to him. “I can’t see it.”

“Come inside.” He climbed up the stairs to the inside of the temple.

She sighed, glanced up at the Spires, and watched the shifting light for just a moment. Then she stood—slowly, she’d learned not to stand quickly after a light bath—and went into the temple.

It was at least fifteen degrees cooler inside, maybe more. The dim light, which seemed perfect when she was working here, seemed like the dark of night after the light bath.

She stood in place until her eyes adjusted.

“What is it?” she asked as she took the pad.

“We have divers,” he said. “If we want them.”

His voice had that odd tone again. She frowned, then tapped the screen. The notification had come back in her personal code: two cave divers nearby, willing to work for a lower price than she had expected, so long as their expenses and insurance costs got met.

“They’re not bonded,” he said, “and they’re not on any approved list of divers. But they’re the closest.”

“Did you vet them?” she asked.

He nodded. He’d clearly been working in the old Command Center at the base of the mountain rather than with the communications equipment here. The equipment in the city itself wasn’t that powerful, and wouldn’t have allowed much more than a quick search of nearby archives.

“They seem clean enough. Their records go way back,” he said.

“But?”

“No real references,” he said.

She clutched the pad. The guards wouldn’t like the lack of references. Or, more clearly, that Meklos Verr wouldn’t like it.

But she wasn’t working for him. He was working for her.

“I’m not sure it matters,” she said. “We need them to see how deep the water runs, if there are any artifacts in the caverns underwater, and where the water actually came from—if they can find that. What else?”

“Nothing,” Yusef said.

“They wouldn’t even really know what they’re seeing, right?” Her heart was pounding. She and Yusef had only had a handful of conversations like this one over the years. The conversations made her uncomfortable, but they’d been necessary.

“Not if we do it right, no, they wouldn’t,” he said.

“And if they reported only to us….?”

“Then we should be all right,” he said.

She bit her lower lip. The second time that day. She was more nervous than she realized.

“And if we’re not all right,” Yusef said, “then we…I don’t know…”

“It’s a risk,” she said. “We’re hiring them for risky work. Can we afford the insurance payout if it fails?”

He blanched. He always blanched when she asked questions like this.

“Only if it’s a one-time payout,” he whispered.

No injuries, then. Nothing that would last or linger.

“Do they have families?” she asked.

“Not according to the records. But lots of people in odd jobs never record their families. They’re usually running from their families.”

“Check on that,” she said. “Because if there are no families, then there’s probably no one to even pay the insurance to if something goes wrong.”

She nodded. “If they have no obvious families, then I think we take the risk. Just you and I. You do know something about diving equipment, right?”

“Enough,” he said. His voice shook.

She stared at him. He stared back. Sixteen times they’d had this conversation. Sixteen. And out of those sixteen times, they’d only had to take the hard action four times.

No one else knew.

No one else could know.

“What about Meklos Verr?” she asked. “Will the security team get in the way?”

“Have you told them about the caves?” Yusef asked.

She shook her head.

“You have to,” he said.

“No, I don’t,” she said. “I’m just going to tell them we’ve found water, and we need to make sure that it’s not undermining the city.”

“The guy in charge seems smart. He’ll know you’re lying.”

“Only if you tell him,” she said. “No one else has been in the caves.”

Yusef sighed. “Then I guess we have to keep it that way, don’t we?”

“At least for a while,” she said.

10

They landed their air-to-ground deep exploration ship on the far side of Denon’s Secret, far away from the sanctioned trails that wound their way up the mountainside. Even though the ship was in a forest of some kind, she still had the pilot camouflage the ship.

She didn’t want anything to go wrong.

Because of that, she hadn’t brought Zeigler, even though he had begged.

Shortly after the ship arrived, Navi ran the scanning equipment. If the Unified Governments of Amnthra had some kind of law against scanning from the ground near the Spires of Denon, she wanted to be the one who broke it. She could argue necessity and flash her credentials.

By the time the Unified Governments figured out that she was subject to the same rules as everyone else, she’d be long gone.

But she hadn’t gotten a notice about the scan, like she did when they tried to scan Denon’s Secret from above.

The scan worked.

She found caves.

The images on her screen looked familiar—a tangle just like Zeigler predicted. She bet if she put a two-dimensional image of the Spires of Denon on top of the image before her, one part of it would match.

She didn’t have time for that. She had to find exits from the City of Denon that didn’t show up on any modern map.

So far, it looked like this side of the mountain had about two dozen of them.

11

It had taken Meklos two days to figure out the best way to deploy his team.

Fifteen wasn’t enough. Fifteen wasn’t close to enough. If he ran long shifts, he only had seven actual humans on the ground. He and Phineas had to monitor the robots and the various detectors. Since he and Phin were on opposite shifts, they wouldn’t see each other except when they relieved each other.

He didn’t like that set-up at all. Usually he and Phin coordinated and put an able but less important team member on the equipment.

He had already sent for reinforcements

They wouldn’t come for a week. He’d stressed the urgency, but he couldn’t name the threat, so he knew he went into the queue behind some less important but more easily definable jobs.

And now, Dr. Reese had thrown him another curve. She had hired two new experts to come into the city. She wouldn’t define their area of expertise, nor would she let him vet them.

They’re my responsibility, Meklos, she’d said in that snotty tone of hers, and no matter how much he argued, he couldn’t convince her otherwise.

So he was going to meet them near the old Command Center at the base of the mountain.

Instead of pulling one of his seven-member team off recon, he woke Phin just before heading to the Command Center. He also took two members of Phin’s team with him down the mountainside. They would set up as if they were guarding the Command Center.

When Meklos had asked to accompany Chavo to the newcomers’ ship, Dr. Reese had denied his request.

I need to see exactly what they’re flying and where it came from, Meklos said.

They’re vetted, Dr. Reese said. And besides, you’ll escort them into the city and out of the city. They won’t be able to do anything.

Little did she know. He’d seen a single person disrupt one of the most orderly jobs he’d had. That person had destroyed everything in a short period of time.

So he pulled rank on Dr. Reese again, and told her that he would inspect the newcomers’ equipment and supplies. What he didn’t tell her was that he would take their names and any other identifying information and vet them himself.

Meklos had sent Valma Tanis to the old Command Center ahead of him. He and Declan Ceema, who had been with him almost since Meklos began security work, climbed down the mountainside together.

Going down was considerably harder than coming up. He hadn’t quite realized how steep the grade was. Fortunately, his hands were free. He carried his usual weapons—a laser pistol (even though they were banned near the Spires), a knife, and a small explosive charge that he didn’t dare use near the top of the mountain. All of those were hidden away on his person. Most people wouldn’t be able to see the weapons at all, just his small comm unit, attached to his hip.

Declan had similar weapons, although not the explosive, since Meklos didn’t want a member of his team forgetting where they were and accidentally causing damage to the Spires.

The old Command Center had been the original base for the first Scholars team to come to Denon’s Secret. The team arrived shortly after some members of a mountain climbing expedition realized that the Spires weren’t some kind of natural phenomenon.

Initial Scholars teams were so well funded that they always built a command and control center. The center had sleeping quarters, a fully stocked kitchen, indoor plumbing, and a communications array that rivaled the ones on many ships.

The building itself was located below the lines that the Monuments Protection Arm had designated to protect the Spires. He suspected the line was designed to exclude the Command Center, since it predated not only the line, but the Monuments Protection Arm as well.

He appreciated the lack of designation—because it meant that he could use the communications equipment without worrying about damaging the Spires. He suspected he would have a lot of work to do here, even after he had vetted the newcomers.

His other team member waited outside the Command Center’s main door. Valma Tanis was a tall woman. She wore shorts and a t-shirt that bared her muscular arms despite the sunburn threat. Long ago, she had led a military unit stationed on a planet hotter and brighter than this one; the implants she got as part of that service would allow her to stand in light two times brighter than this without any noticeable skin damage.

“Any sign of them?” Meklos asked.

The center itself stood in the exact middle of the path that Chavo and the two newcomers would take to come up the mountainside.

“Not yet,” Valma said. “I checked for ships. They have a single space cruiser parked in the designated zone. The ship is small and had to have come from a relatively short distance away.”

“How short?” Meklos asked.

“The nearest star base is about the extent of its range.”

He felt a surge of irritation. If Dr. Reese had told him more about these two, he wouldn’t worry about such things as ships and ranges and travel times.

“Any identifying marks?” he asked.

“Just commercial ones. The ship was purchased from a regular dealer, without any government or business labels. It’s not connected to the Scholars, and it’s not part of any known business.”

Which could be good and bad. If they weren’t affiliated, then they had no real contacts, and couldn’t be expected to have any kind of back-up. Or the ship looked deliberately innocuous, to make anyone who wanted to check on it relax their guard.

“Ships in orbit?” he asked.

“More than I care to count,” she said. “This center doesn’t have the equipment to surreptitiously scan them, but I did check with the Unified Governments, and they say nothing out of the ordinary is going on up there.”

Well, that was something, at least. He gazed down the trail. It was quite a hike from the designated parking area, and if the two newcomers didn’t know how to pack, they’d be struggling by the time they got here.

Declan came round the building. He was short and squat, stronger than he looked and older as well. His fatigues were covered with the red dust from this lower section of the mountain.

“They’re winding their way around the last part of the trail,” he said. “Chavo, a man, and a woman. They have professional level backpacks.”

“Any idea who they are?” Meklos asked.

“I can go inside, scan, and see if I get identifiers,” Declan said.

Meklos shook his head. He could see them now, both taller than the too-thin Chavo. “There isn’t time.”

He turned to Valma.

“Get them water,” he said.

She nodded and disappeared into the command center. He should have thought of that earlier. People were much more willing to subject themselves to search when they thought the people searching them were kind.

She came back out with three chilled bottles in her right hand just as Chavo and the other two arrived. Chavo saw Meklos and rolled his eyes. Meklos ignored him.

Meklos stepped forward and extended his hand. “Meklos Verr, head of security.”

The woman was the one who took his hand, which meant she was the one in charge.

“Navi Salvino,” she said, “and my partner, Roye Bruget.”

Meklos nodded at Valma. She handed out the water. Bruget put the bottle against his forehead and closed his eyes. Obviously the heat was getting to him already.

Salvino opened her bottle and took a dainty sip. She seemed fine, but Meklos didn’t know if that was an act or not.

“I’m sorry,” he said as gently as he could. “I need you to state your purpose here so that I can check it against our logs.”

“We’re the cave divers that Dr. Reese sent for,” Salvino said.

Salvino’s words so shocked him that he nearly repeated what she said to make sure he’d heard it correctly. Cave divers? Dr. Reese had said nothing about caves. If caves honeycombed a mountain like Denon’s Secret, then they were a security risk, and one he should have known about from the very beginning.

Meklos hoped his shock hadn’t shown on his face. He glanced at Chavo who shrugged. Apparently he hadn’t known either.

Declan had moved slightly into a more defensive position. Valma watched warily from the side of the path.

“We need to search your packs,” Meklos said.

“Sure,” Salvino said.

She slid her pack off her shoulders and set it on the ground. Bruget did the same, opening his quickly, then stepping back.

Salvino stepped back as well. They’d clearly been searched many times before.

“We’ll need to search you as well,” Declan said.

They both nodded.

Valma watched. Meklos had been shot once during a search. He’d been so focused on the search that he forgot to keep an eye on the people whose items he was going through. Ever since, he had three people on a potential search: two to search and one to watch.

The packs were a revelation. He’d worked with water divers before. They always had breathing equipment, some kind of environmental suit, and supplies, but these two also had recording technology, a variety of lights, and special sonar. He didn’t see the breathing equipment.

He held up one of the sonar pieces. “You’ll have to clear that with Dr. Reese. You might be operating it too close to the Spires.”

As he mentioned the Spires, both Salvino and Bruget looked up, their mouths open slightly.

Declan ignored the movement. He continued the hands-on search, then followed it with a full body scan.

“Clean,” he said.

Meklos pulled out one of the suits. “This seems more like a space diving suit than a water diving suit.”

Salvino nodded. “It’s made specially for cave diving,” she said. “You can get trapped in a very small space in a cave, and you need to survive, sometimes for a day or more, while you’re waiting for your partner to go for help. Which is why, you’ll note, we also have an extra suit, in case there are divers above who could assist.”

Meklos wasn’t sure he believed the explanation. He had done water diving himself, but never with a suit this thin. Suits like this worked best in the vacuum of space. The oxygen was threaded through the material instead of in sturdy containers worn at the hip.

He always thought suits like this dangerous because they could rip so easily, which would disturb the oxygen flow.

Still, he noted the make of the suits, and the design number. He would vet those as well.

Otherwise he found nothing in the packs. He slid them back to their owners for repacking.

The other thing he noticed about the packs was that they had no room for extras. Everything inside had a purpose for this trip, and there was no way any of it could be left behind.

If these two people wanted to smuggle something out of the City of Denon, then they would have to do it by leaving all of their equipment behind.

“Okay,” he said after catching Declan’s nod. “You’re ready to go up. Declan and Valma will join you. Chavo here will give you both the speech about the Spires as you climb. If you need more water, say so now. It’ll only get hotter the higher we go.”

Neither Salvino nor Bruget looked surprised when he said that, which bothered him. He had been surprised about the warmth up top, and he had researched the Naramzin Mountain Range as well as the Spires.

Maybe their research was more thorough.

Or maybe they weren’t just experts in cave diving. Maybe they were experts in something else as well.

He hoped he would have enough time to find out.

12

Navi climbed slowly, pretending she wasn’t familiar with the path. In truth, she’d studied it for nearly a week. The path and the Spires and the ground around it all, as well as the designated areas.

She also had a complete map of the caverns, made with her scanning equipment. The deep exploration ship was where she had left it, with her people inside. They could no longer send her updates, but she didn’t need them. Unless there were cave ins or some serious problems (and, honestly, wouldn’t the cave-ins have shown up in the scan?), all they had to do was wait for her all-clear.

She could finally understand why Zeigler had fallen in love with this place. The light alone was refreshing, even though it was amazingly bright. The Spires were spectacular. She was actually excited about seeing the city.

The diving worried her—she hadn’t done anything like that in a long time—but it would end quickly. She had lied about the timing to that security guard. These caverns and passageways were too honeycombed to get lost in for long. As long as she had a partner and as long as they were vigilant about going one at a time, only one could get trapped. And they had the equipment to get that person out, which the guard hadn’t really said anything about.

Maybe he hadn’t noticed.

More likely, her ruse was working.

She wasn’t sure how long it would. That guard looked smarter than she liked. And while all of the information she had set up on nearby databases about her cave diving experience was true, it wasn’t complete. She had left off dates and travel times because they were too far apart for a professional cave diver.

Someone smart might also realize that most of her cave diving experience was near archeological digs like this one. She’d tried to cover it in the bio she’d created—saying that she specialized in diving digs, but she wasn’t sure that was enough.

And since she’d used her own name, there was always the possibility that someone who dug deep enough might find out how she really made her living.

Then she’d be in trouble.

But she wasn’t going to think about that. She was going in, she was going to inspect the site, she would do her dive, and she would leave.

After that, she would decide what to do next.

13

The information on the cave divers was clean, but sparse. Meklos didn’t like sparse. It was his experience that sparse was rare. In general, there was too much information on most people, and even more on most businesses.

Meklos was hunched over the control board, looking at an actual screen. The command center was quiet. He was alone in here.

He hadn’t worked on equipment this old in quite a while. He hated how slow the information flow was. He had a limited amount of time, and the system itself was holding him back.

The fact that he could only find the necessary information on the cave divers made him suspicious. It seemed like information had been removed from their bios.

He could always find added information. Added information announced itself, often by being in the wrong place. Added information also had the wrong or misleading dates, or dates that didn’t somehow jibe with other dates already in the biographical information.

But when information was removed, the gaps weren’t as obvious. The gaps could simply be that: gaps. It would take time he didn’t have to prove that the missing information was somehow important.

He would have done all of that if he had been consulted before Dr. Reese hired these people. But he was brought in afterwards, and not asked to doublecheck them.

If Dr. Reese had problems with her cave divers, those problems would be her own fault. He had to file a report for Scholars—the standard weekly update—and he would note the lack of consultation.

He would also remark that, even though Dr. Reese had requested a security team, she didn’t really seem to want one. She certainly wasn’t working with him, and that made his job that much harder.

He would also make note of the caves.

He sighed. One reason he couldn’t properly vet the cave divers was that he wanted to see what he could find on the caves. He had a hunch that Dr. Reese would lie to him about them.

So far as he could tell, no one knew that caves existed beneath the City of Denon.

Some academic from a college too small to be in the Scholar’s system postulated that caves existed beneath the city; he figured it was the only way the ancients could survive all the sieges. He also postulated a river running through those caves as well.

But that was just an hypothesis, not fact.

Meklos figured if Dr. Reese had hired cave divers, she had found caves—and they were filled with water.

He wondered what else she was searching for.

He doubted she would tell him.

He could only hope that he would figure it out before there was any trouble.

But he even doubted that.

14

By the time they’d reached the City of Denon, Navi was exhausted. She was getting too old for this much exercise, particularly in an environment as hostile as this one. The heat was oppressive, the light brighter than anything she could have imagined. Her pack’s normal weight seemed too much for her.

Too many months on the ship, doing exercise in artificial gravity, and not enough time planetside. She hoped she didn’t show it.

Because she didn’t want to be here any longer than she needed to. Infiltration operations went best when they were quick and dirty.

Just coming down the trail, she saw more than she expected. The security team’s automatic tents were sophisticated and expensive. This wasn’t some low-rent team, but one that obviously came highly recommended.

That made her nervous. She had been right to worry about Verr, the head of security. He clearly had the smarts—and the wherewithal—to break through her information screens.

If he had enough time.

The key was to make sure he didn’t have enough time.

She took in as much information as she could. Roye had surreptitiously recorded the Spires, which were so much more impressive in person than they ever could be on any holographic representation.

The city was remarkably well preserved. Parts still hadn’t been uncovered yet, of course, and might not be for some time. But the way that the light reflected off the cleansed buildings suggested this place had been amazing in its day.

It was amazing now.

And it was filled with unrecorded treasures. Things that could be sold for unbelievable prices to collectors and never get recorded as stolen.

If Zeigler was right about the caves—that they had once been a museum for war trophies—then the number of unrecorded treasures would increase exponentially.

The little guide, Chavo, had taken them to a small undecorated house at the edge of the city. Navi got the message. There was nothing here for them to steal. In fact, if they weren’t that bright and didn’t look around, they might think their house representative—that the ancient Denonites preferred unadorned houses and buildings, that the treasure would be the city itself and not the wares housed within.

She knew better.

The Denonites had spread their style throughout this part of the sector. When they conquered a nation, they kept troops onsite until the nation was completely plundered. Sometimes that took decades.

So the Denonites made themselves at home, building houses like this one—on one floor, with one or two bedrooms, a living area, and a nice kitchen. Only every single part of the building had decoration, be it a wall painting or a small flower-decorated cornice or a statue to hide a particularly mundane corner.

Those treasures, in those conquered cities, had been recorded long ago.

It was the heart of the Denonite empire that hadn’t been found—until Dr. Gabrielle Reese and her team of scholars stumbled upon the ancient city of Denon itself.

Roye had already made himself at home here. He’d given them both water and some nutrient bars, then slathered oil on his skin. She needed to do the same.

He was studying her as she moved around the house, getting her bearings. Chavo would be back soon to take them to meet Dr. Reese and discuss the job ahead.

Navi hoped Dr. Reese would provide dinner, because the nutrient bars weren’t going to hold her for long.

“We can postpone the dive for a day or two,” Roye said. “Get our bearings and do this right.”

“It’s not about the dive,” Navi said. “We can’t stay here long.”

He continued to stare at her. “If we’re too tired, we’ll make mistakes.”

She smiled at him. “The dive’ll be safe enough. The suits will protect us.”

He shook his head.

“I programmed them with the maps,” she said. “The suits’ll get us out, even if we’re unconscious. Someone will find us. We’ll be fine.”

“One extra day,” he said. “That’s all I’m asking.”

She thought of that guard’s face, the look he had gotten when she mentioned cave diving. Something had happened just behind his eyes, but she wasn’t quite sure what it was.

“No,” she said. “We dive and then we leave. That’s all.”

“All right,” Roye said, shaking his head. He didn’t have to add that he disagreed with her.

She already knew.

15

“When were you going to tell me about the caves?”

Gabrielle jumped. She thought she was alone in the temple. She was testing her new system, placing items in their designated areas. Then she had gone to the back and cleaned a small elaborate vase.

She was just drying off her hands, when Meklos interrupted her.

He was standing just outside her work area, hands on his hips, his shirt covered in sweat. His boots had left a mixture of white and red dust on the image of the Spires, dust that glommed together wherever his sweat dripped onto it.

“You’re making a mess,” she said.

She continued drying her hands so that he couldn’t see how they were shaking. She hadn’t expected him to confront her about this. She had already told him she was hiring experts. He shouldn’t have questioned them.

Her word should have been enough.

“Caves,” he said. “Tell me about the caves.”

She shrugged. “There’s not much to tell. They’re caves.”

“If they’re just caves, why did you hire divers?” he asked.

She sighed. She wanted him to feel her exasperation so that he wouldn’t ask too many more questions.

“Because,” she said, “the caves are full of water. I want to see if that water comes from a natural stream or if it is something that will undermine the entire city. That’s somewhat important.”

“More important than you know,” he said, “since caves have branches, and they’re not always logical.”

“So?” she asked.

“So people can either enter and leave this city through caves. Or haven’t you thought of that?”

She didn’t like his tone. And, if she were honest with herself, she would have to admit she didn’t like him.

Hiring the guards had been a mistake. She should have done so long after she knew exactly what kind of treasures she had. And then she should have hired some kind of escort, not someone to guard the city itself.

“They can’t get in and out,” she said slowly, as if he were a particularly stupid child. “The caves are full of water.”

“I would like to see them,” he said.

“Well, so would I,” she said, “but I’m not qualified to dive them. Are you?”

He glared at her. “Your experts have thin resumes.”

He didn’t exactly answer her, which she did not appreciate.

“And your resume is a little too thick,” she said. “We really don’t need this level of security.”

He stared at her for a moment. He looked as exasperated as she felt.

“All right,” he said finally. “Hire someone else—someone who’ll stand where you tell them to and march where you want them to and look the other way when you ask them to. When that group arrives, we’ll leave. Okay?”

It was what she wanted. It was what she needed. If she could figure out how, she’d ask him and his team to leave immediately.

But she was the one who had conjured up the threat. She was the one who would have to live with this horribly overexperienced security team until someone better arrived.

“Yes,” she said. “I think that would be for the best.”

16

The cavern was unbelievably cold. Navi had noticed that the night before, and thought it simply the contrast between her overheated body and the natural chill any underground area had. But this chill was deeper than that.

It made her relieved she had a space-equipped suit, one that could handle extreme cold with ease. Still, it was the thought of going into the cold, especially when she was so tired from the heat, that made her nervous.

The cavern looked the same as it had the night before. Gabrielle Reese and her assistant had put lights everywhere, making passage down easy. As Navi walked with her equipment, she noted niches in the wall, but she didn’t have time to look at them closely.

Neither did Roye. Nor could they show a lot of interest in the niches. Because they were here to see what was in the water, whether there were more caverns and maybe an underground river or, Gabrielle Reese had said disingenuously, “a settlement.”

She hadn’t mentioned a museum or artifacts.

But it seemed to Navi, just from the niches alone, that Zeigler’s idea of a museum was a good one. If the niches were manmade—and she guessed from their positions that they were—then they had once held items.

She couldn’t get close enough to see if the items were recently removed. There would be markings in the dirt if they were.

She and Roye hadn’t discussed this much the night before, in case they were overheard. But they did confirm the plan with a sort of shorthand.

If they found nothing in the water except more caverns or the source of the water itself, then they would surface in the cavern and report directly to Gabrielle Reese as they (supposedly) were being paid to do.

But if they found artifacts or evidence of another city, they would go out the passage ways and return to the camouflaged ship.

It sounded simple. But the dive happened between those two choices.

Now she wished she hadn’t been quite so impetuous.

Now she wished she had hired someone else to go into the murky deep.

17

The caverns were empty and there were more of them than Meklos realized. Dr. Reese had told him that there were only a few caves—not these vast cathedral like spaces that could house hundreds, maybe thousands, of people.

She wasn’t happy that he had come with the divers. But he wanted to watch them suit up. He also didn’t like the half-empty packs, the way that they glanced at each other, as if confirming some pre-arranged signal.

He hadn’t had his team bring diving equipment on this mission, so he couldn’t send someone with the divers. He wouldn’t be able to monitor them, since the scanning requirements near the Spires were so restrictive.

He was glad he had sent the weekly update from the Command Center. When the Scholars saw that in conjunction with the news that Dr. Reese had let the team go, they would understand why.

And maybe they would send someone to supervise Dr. Reese.

It took three crumbling flights of stairs—maybe as old as the Spires—to get to the cavern with the water. The water was a chalky mess of dust and some kind of oil.

He wouldn’t want to go into it, although he gathered, from Dr. Reese’s conversation with the divers, that she had waded into it more than once.

He couldn’t imagine why. She wouldn’t know where to put her feet or what she was stepping on. She also couldn’t know if there was a current.

Because if this was part of a river, there could be a very strong current, one that might take divers and force them away from the caverns altogether.

He mentioned this to the woman, Salvino. She had nodded, looking a little distracted. The man, Bruget, was the one who answered.

“The suits are state of the art. They can keep us alive in adverse conditions for days. By then, we should figure out where we are and how to get out.”

“Unless there is only one way out,” Meklos said.

“Even then,” Bruget said. “A lead, a line….”

“Or a small explosive,” Salvino said.

“…would get us out.”

An explosive. As if Dr. Reese would allow one to go off below the city.

Still, Meklos had made his protest—both to them and to Dr. Reese. He had done what he could.

They were professionals. Theoretically, they knew what they were getting into.

The water started as a small trickle at the edge of this cavern. If Dr. Reese was right, the water level had been rising for centuries.

But, she added, no one knew that for certain. For all they know, the caverns got flooded five hundred years ago and the water was evaporating.

The divers were to find the source, if they could. If they couldn’t, they were to go all the way to the bottom of the caverns.

Salvino warned that the dives might take days. She promised that they wouldn’t stay under than five hours each, and she recommended someone stay in the cavern at all times.

Dr. Reese’s assistant, Yusef Kimber, would wait down here during this first dive. Apparently Dr. Reese didn’t want the non-permanent members of her team to even know the caverns were here—someone like Chavo or the other students.

That alone made Meklos suspicious.

Normally, watching over a dive was the kind of crappy mindless job given to someone with no status whatsoever.

The divers set down their packs on a flat area not too far from the water’s edge. They opened the packs in unison, and removed their suits.

Meklos had watched divers before. Generally they stripped before suiting up, but these two did not. They slid their suits over their clothing, then with a nod to each other, over their faces.

Hands went up, adjusting, twisting, making certain. At one point, both divers stopped and stared at each other.

They didn’t have helmets. The suit itself covered their faces, leaving only their eyes visible.

As they stared at each other, he realized they were checking their communications equipment.

He wondered if Dr. Reese realized that, and if she did, if she objected to the use of the equipment. He didn’t know how far its reach was, but it had to cover a good distance, in case the divers got separated.

He glanced at Dr. Reese. She watched intently, her fingers threaded together. As the divers continued to check their equipment, she twisted her fingers, keeping them locked, but trying to pull them apart at the same time.

She was nervous, almost frightened.

Finally, the divers finished. They turned to Meklos and Dr. Reese. The divers were distinguishable now only by height and body shape. The suits themselves matched. The suits looked like a thin silver coating that someone had applied over every centimeter of the divers. The suits moved easily with the divers.

After a moment, the divers gave Dr. Reese a tiny salute. Then Salvino walked into the water, followed closely by Bruget. It took them only a few steps to disappear.

“Do you have some kind of communicator to stay in touch with them?” Meklos asked.

Dr. Reese shook her head. “We can’t use equipment that powerful here,” she said. “Although we did compromise and let them bring their emergency beacons. If they get in trouble, we’ll know, and we’ll know where to find them.”

“Then what?” Meklos asked. “We don’t have another diver.”

“We’ll figure it out if it happens,” she said. “I doubt that it will.”

He shivered, a movement that had nothing to do with the cold. He loathed her callousness, and her blithe assumption that everything would be fine.

No one knew what was down there. No one knew what they would encounter.

And whenever anyone was in a situation where no one knew what could go wrong, something inevitably did.

“I hope you’re insured if something goes wrong here,” he said.

She glanced at him.

“I have no idea,” she said. Then she smiled. “But I do know that they are.”

18

The water was cold. Navi couldn’t feel it through her suit, but she knew it anyway, and that made her shiver. The whole dive was making her nervous, in a way that she didn’t entirely understand.

The final equipment check worked. The comm was on. She walked down into the submerged cavern, the water rising until it covered her head.

The water was chalky, murky, dark, like a lake after someone had disturbed the sediment below. She turned on the suit’s dim lights—which Roye called fog lights—and could see a bit better.

Then she turned on all of her cameras. She wanted this dive recorded, so she wouldn’t have to repeat it.

If they found something, she wanted to be able to identify it clearly.

You back there? she asked Roye through the comm.

Right behind you, he said.

His voice sounded small and mechanical through the suit. She fought the urge to turn toward him.

Deploy map, she said.

She hadn’t dared give that order above in case they were monitoring the communication. But she doubted they would monitor through the water.

Gabrielle Reese didn’t even seem to care about communications. She seemed detached, almost withdrawn. When Roye had brought up the idea of a malfunction, she had shrugged.

She really didn’t seem to care if they survived or not.

That was one way to run a dig. It didn’t matter how many people died, just so long as the artifacts got out.

But Navi had checked before she even arrived on Amnthra. Gabrielle Reese’s digs suffered no more deaths than other digs. No more, but no less either. She always seemed to stay within the average, even though her earlier digs were on worlds much more hostile than this one.

The only anomaly in any of the information was that Gabrielle Reese’s digs often had deaths later rather than earlier.

Navi could find no reason for that little statistical blip. Although now, as she walked along the bottom of this cavern in the murky darkness, she wondered if it wasn’t because Dr. Reese ceased using precautions later in her projects—precautions that were in place early on.

Navi turned on her map. It rose in front of her left eye. The map itself was a series of thin outlines, clear so that she could see through them. Except for the red dot which marked where she was standing, she saw no color at all.

There’s a lot of cave to go, she said.

But not a lot of cavern, Roye said. We explore this area here, and that’s about it. If we’re going to find anything, it’ll be here.

She turned on the lights above her helmet and in her fingertips. She directed the beams toward the walls.

More little niches, but they appeared empty.

She would have to get closer to make sure.

Sediment did flow around her, like snow in a harsh breeze. The water was hard to walk through, but she didn’t want to swim. She wasn’t sure it would be easier—the water seemed more viscous here than it had on the surface.

What the hell is this stuff? she asked.

Taking a sample now, he said. It’s got some chemical composition that wasn’t present above, but if we want a better reading we’re going to need the ship’s equipment.

Just great, she said, but she kept walking.

Finally, she reached the wall. Niches stacked on top of each other like cubbyholes. Gingerly she eased her left hand inside, and found nothing. The edges of the niche were waterworn, and the walls themselves seemed furry.

Mold maybe, or some kind of algae. She took a sample of that and placed it in her own kit.

Whatever that stuff was, it meant that this part of the cavern had been underwater for a very long time.

This seems a little weird to be a museum, Roye said.

Let’s not jump to conclusions, she said. We’re just getting started.

Then she shivered again. They were just getting started. They had planned their route the night before: This series of large caverns, then two passageways down, another bigger cave. If they didn’t find anything there, they’d use scanning equipment to see if they could find the water’s source.

And if they didn’t find that, then they would work their way back.

She was ready to go back now. She was so tense that she had been grinding her teeth—at least, she thought she had. They ached, even though her jaw didn’t.

You finding anything? she asked Roye.

A whole lotta nothing, he said.

Me too. But she dutifully felt and walked and recorded, going over the giant cavern bit by furry bit.

19

The divers disappeared under the water. Gabrielle watched for several minutes, until the bubbles faded and she couldn’t see shadows moving under the surface.

The cold had numbed her hands—she hadn’t worn gloves or added protection because she knew she wouldn’t be down here long.

Besides, she liked carrying the chill to the surface and let the sun burn it off her.

She was about to leave when something rustled behind her. She turned.

Meklos was kneeling in front of the divers’ packs. He had opened one and was taking the pieces out.

“I thought you already inspected those,” she said.

“I did,” he said. “I wanted to see if they added anything.”

“You still don’t trust them,” she said.

“You pay me not to trust anyone.”

She shook her head. She was glad he would be gone soon. Who knew that security guards could be so thorough?

She watched him take items out—things she couldn’t quite identify. And then he stopped as he removed an extra suit.

“You got someone who can use this?” he asked.

She shook her head. She had no idea. He had asked something similar before, and she hadn’t known the answer then either.

She wasn’t sure why he cared.

“So they have a back-up,” she said. “So what?”

“Back-up,” he muttered. “Hmmm.”

He set the suit aside and continued his search.

“If you don’t need me any longer,” she said, “I’m heading to the surface where it’s warm.”

Without waiting for his answer, she walked around him to the stairs. She glanced at Yusef. He was bundled in three extra layers of clothing beneath his heavy coat.

“You’ll be all right?” she asked.

He held up a reading pad and pointed to his lunch. “I’m here for the long haul.”

She smiled at him. Then she took one last look at the water. It seemed completely undisturbed now, as if there weren’t two humans beneath it.

A chill ran down her spine. She certainly wouldn’t go down there.

But, then, she wasn’t being paid to.

20

Meklos had cleared out the packs, finding nothing he hadn’t seen before. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was looking for—a small piece of equipment, a tiny receiver, something. But he didn’t find anything except the third suit.

Was it simply a required precaution or was there a third diver hiding somewhere?

He didn’t know enough about professional cave diving to know what the required precautions were. Regular water diving didn’t last as long as a cave dive; the suits weren’t as sophisticated and weren’t meant to last for days should something go wrong.

He picked up the suit and poked it with his finger. It stretched, then embraced his finger, becoming a part of it.

He had a hunch puncturing this thing would take a great deal of work. It might be impossible.

So it wasn’t as fragile as it initially seemed.

If the suit had belonged to Dr. Reese, he would have punctured it and dealt with the consequences. But he didn’t want to risk insulting the experts.

Besides, they might need that third suit for a reason he hadn’t yet thought of. He didn’t dare do anything to it, at least until the dive was over.

But he did turn it inside out. Controls were scattered throughout—some on the fingertips, some on the back of the hand. Others ran along the chin.

The eye area was clear, but probably had some kind of communications screen. He pressed one of the control chips along the chin and the eye area lit up. He pressed another and got a temperature readout that ran along the side of the right eye.

Then he pressed a third and the Spires appeared before the left eye, looking just like they did on the floor of the temple.

Only on this image of the Spires was clear, except for the outlines of the branches and a red dot at the edge of one of the wide areas.

His heart started to pound. He picked up the suit and carried it to the steps.

The red dot moved with him.

He cursed.

“Everything okay?” Yusef asked.

Meklos almost cursed again. He had forgotten Yusef was here.

“Yeah,” he said. “I accidentally turned something on. I need to figure out how to shut it off.”

“Let me.” Yusef had to struggle to stand with all of his layers of clothing.

Meklos pressed the controls again. The Spires disappeared.

“Never mind,” he said. “I got it.”

“Never seen a suit like that before, huh?” Yusef asked.

“Not like this,” Meklos said. “Have you?”

“I try not to do anything that requires I carry my environment with me,” Yusef said. “This is as close to an environmental suit as I get.”

He indicated his coat and boots.

Meklos smiled because he was supposed to. Then he shut off the other parts of the suit, turned it rightside to, and put it back inside the pack.

Then he turned to Yusef. “You sure you don’t want one of my team down here too?”

Yusef shrugged. “I’m okay by myself.”

“You’ve established emergency procedures?”

“I have some field medicine training, if needed. Besides, I’m pretty sure they’ll be fine. If the caverns below are anything like the caverns up here, there aren’t even sharp edges for them to get caught on.”

He was as cavalier as his employer. Maybe that was why Yusef and Dr. Reese got along so well.

“I’ll be back down before they’re due to come up,” Meklos said.

“Okay.” Yusef sounded like he didn’t care. He pressed himself against the wall, getting white residue on the back of his coat. He sank to the floor facing the water, but pulled out his work pad.

Meklos shook his head. Maybe he’d send someone down.

After he had some time to think.

Because he felt mildly stupid already. How could he have missed it? The Spires weren’t some artistic design. They were a map.

A three-dimensional map of the cave system below the city.

But why would there be a map of the caves so visible from the mountaintop?

“You guys ever figure out what the Spires were for?” Meklos asked.

Yusef gave him an annoyed look. Clearly the man wanted to be left alone. “They were never my specialty. I came here for the city.”

“But has anyone figured out what they’re for? I mean, they’re pretty dramatic.”

“The whole place is dramatic,” Yusef said.

Meklos stared at him.

Yusef figured out that he wasn’t going to leave until the question got answered.

“And no, no one knows for certain what they are. All that inlay, all that writing, the way they vibrate if you hit them too hard says artwork to me. But I’ll leave it to people who are interested. I’d much rather look at a building than some sculpture that people attached to a mountaintop.”

He sounded convinced. He sounded irritated.

Meklos nodded. “Thanks,” he said. “I was just wondering.”

“Yep,” Yusef said. “Everyone wonders about this place. Maybe someday we’ll have answers.”

“Maybe,” Meklos said as he mounted the stairs for the surface.

And maybe, he thought, some people already had this place all figured out.

21

Nothing in the widest part of the caverns. Navi had steeled herself to come across some statue, a face looming in the murk, maybe, or an arm reaching out to her.

But nothing like that happened.

She walked through meters and meters of thick water, the white sediment thick and flowing around her as if she were in the middle of a blizzard.

Creepiest dive I’ve done in a long time, Roye said.

Me, too.

She had been hoping for artifacts. Maybe they got moved as the caverns flooded. Maybe she would step into one of the smaller areas and find everything crammed against the walls, forced by the force of the water.

You don’t think this white stuff is from dissolved artifacts, do you? she asked.

No, he said. Haven’t you noticed? The walls flake.

I thought that was algae.

It is—or something like it—in the niches. But the walls themselves. Touch one. You’ll see.

She was close to an outcropping. She touched its rounded surface gently. As her fingers found the surface, a flurry of white chips entered the water and flowed with it.

There is some kind of current down here, isn’t there? she asked.

I’m not sure, he said. We could be doing this. I’m not getting readings that suggest anything other than our disturbing the environment.

She wasn’t either. She just wanted to find something.

She moved into the next cavern. It seemed darker than the one before, even though she knew that wasn’t possible.

No light filtered down here except the lights she and Roye had brought with them.

At least the water hadn’t gotten any thicker. She glanced at the map. One more large room to go after this one. Then the passageways.

Then she could get out.

This would be her last cave dive. If she ever had to go through a ruse like this again, she would stay on the surface and supervise. They would bring a new cave diver in.

She was getting too old and too impatient for this kind of thing.

Or maybe the impatience was coming from the lack of treasure.

She loved treasure just like everyone else.

The only difference was all she had to do was touch it.

Then it was hers forever.

22

Meklos hadn’t realized how cold he had become in that cavern. His hands ached. His nose throbbed. The moment the sunlight hit him, the blood rose in his skin, attempting to warm him.

How cold had it been down there?

Colder than it should have been, even in an underground chamber.

He wondered what caused that.

Those caverns were important in a way he couldn’t understand. And if Yusef’s comments were to be believed, Dr. Reese and her team didn’t understand either.

They didn’t even realize that the Spires were a map.

Meklos moved away from the building that housed the entrance to the caverns. He stepped into an open area and looked up.

He had been right. The image he had seen in that suit was the Spires, with a dot indicating where he was.

A map.

And his little cave divers, the experts who supposedly knew nothing about this dig, had known about that.

What else did they know?

He really should have gone to Dr. Reese and told her that her experts knew more about this place than she did, but he wasn’t going to—at least not yet.

The walk across the city of Denon took longer than he expected it to. He didn’t walk along the main roads, but stayed to the backs of buildings.

Not everything was excavated yet. He had to go around mounds of reddish brown dirt, some of which had reattached itself to nearby white buildings.

Only the larger buildings had been completely excavated. The smaller ones were still half buried.

He hadn’t realized that before. He’d never done a thorough walk-through of the city. He’d been too busy setting up defensive parameters, and trying to find out exactly what Dr. Reese wanted and then worrying about these so-called experts.

He hadn’t had time to do some of the most important work at this job.

But he had had a chance to examine the building where they housed the cave divers. He hadn’t come at it from this angle before—he’d come at it from the front, off the main road, which was where it was situated.

Coming from the back and side, he realized that half the buildings behind it weren’t fully excavated. Their basic shape had been dug out, and many had been excavated down to the foundation on one side only—usually the side that faced the main street.

Someone could have—and probably had—gone inside, looked around, and then gone back out. But dirt remained on the walls, and seemed to fill the back areas.

Oddly enough, however, the roofs on all of the buildings had been cleaned off. They were that same pristine white as the excavated parts of the city.

He didn’t think about the reasons for that—although he did know the effect. It maximized the light and the reflections.

This place was already overly bright. Clearing the roofs of all the buildings made it even brighter.

He ducked inside the building that had housed the cave divers and had to blink at the darkness. Even now, his eyes had trouble adjusting to the shift in light levels.

He had to pause and wait for his eyes to adjust, which annoyed him. If someone wanted to attack him here, all they had to do was wait until he came in from the outside.

Fortunately, no one lurked inside. The main room barely looked used, and the air mattresses in the back were pressed against the wall, like beds on a ship, their covers folded and pristine as if they were newly made.

The cave divers hadn’t left many of their belongings. The clothes they wore the day before were hanging off one of two chairs that Dr. Reese had provided. A few personal items were scattered on the only table.

A secondary pack, one that had initially been tucked into the other packs, waited near the foot of one of the beds, but had nothing inside.

The emptiness bothered him. The way the couple had described the cave dives had given him the impression that they would be here for several days, taking each dive slowly, especially if they had to look for the water’s source.

But the building didn’t look like someone planned to camp here for several days. It looked like one night’s use was all it was going to get.

Maybe these two were former military, and never left things in a mess. Or maybe they hadn’t brought a lot because they weren’t sure what they would find.

But the lack of personal items—here and in the cavern—bothered him.

He carried minimal amounts of things when he was doing what he called a “quick and dirty,” a job that would required him to go in and come out within 24 Earth hours.

This looked like a quick and dirty to him, right down to the items left in the building.

If the experts had to leave quickly, they could abandon the things they had here with no consequences at all. A few items of clothing, some cheap jewelry, nothing that couldn’t be easily replaced.

Nothing that wouldn’t be missed.

He shivered now, even though he had gotten warm.

What were they planning?

Why were they here?

And, most important of all, what did Dr. Reese know, and why hadn’t she told him?

23

Navi let Roye go into the passageway first. She dreaded it, which surprised her. He had mentioned getting caught or trapped inside the passages before they dove, and now the idea was stuck in her head.

Everything seemed stuck in her head. Her teeth ached, and the ache was traveling up her cheekbones into her forehead. She would have a blinding headache before this was through if she didn’t stop grinding her teeth together.

Roye’s lights reflected off the white walls, coming back toward her like a halo. She dove into that instead of the darkness, swimming for the first time since they’d gone underwater.

At least the white sediment had thinned. Now it looked like they were going through actual water, not some kind of snow storm.

Roye moved slowly ahead of her, his feet kicking just enough to propel him forward. She followed far enough behind that his moving feet wouldn’t hit her.

She hadn’t asked him if this place made him uneasy. She didn’t want to admit it to herself.

So far they had found nothing.

She was beginning to wonder if they would find anything at all.

24

Gabrielle wiped the last of the dirt off a tiny vase. The vase was fragile, the glass so thin that a press of her fingers would crack it. Amazing it had survived this long underground. Amazing that digging it up hadn’t harmed it in anyway.

Amazing that she even held it at all.

She was in the cleaning station at the back of the temple. So far, she was the only one to use this building. Even then, she hadn’t brought the most precious items in here, like the statue she had found in the caverns. She didn’t want to get into the habit.

She knew she would have to allow the others in soon, but she didn’t want to.

She didn’t want the interns and the post-docs and the eager young graduate students to see all of her treasures.

Of course, they wouldn’t see all of her treasures. Some she would move to her own building, without ever having crossed the threshold here.

But even the small vases, insignificant except that they had come from the City of Denon and were a great example of Denonite workmanship, felt like hers.

She could sell this little thing for a small fortune, enough to retire on, and no one would ever know. She could sell the two dozen tiny vases already recovered, replenishing her finances as the years went by, and she would never get caught.

Collectors never told. They just enjoyed.

The problem was that she didn’t want to retire. She loved the work in the field as much as she loved the treasures.

And she loved having her name attached to a major discovery—a discovery that would forever change not just the field of archeology, but the fields of history and art history. A discovery that might even help the humans in this sector recover the knowledge they had lost.

She held the vase up to the light flowing in from the door. The glass was so fine, she could see through it. It was so milky white, so dainty, that she had a hunch it was made from the white dirt that covered the top of the mountain.

As she stared through the vase, a shadow appeared.

Someone had come inside.

She sighed, and set the vase down.

Of course, the person violating her privacy was the stupid head of security, Meklos Verr.

Eventually, he would leave her alone.

Eventually, he would leave.

“Your experts have made a fascinating discovery,” he said.

Her heart leaped. She had been hoping for this, but she hadn’t wanted it to come through him. She wanted it to come from Yusef down in the cavern.

She carefully set the vase down—she didn’t want to break it in her excitement—and stepped off the newly constructed floor. The tips of her shoes touched the edge of the drawing on the temple floor.

But Meklos didn’t stand on the drawing, even though on previous occasions, he had walked all over it. He stayed at the other end of it, forcing her to walk to him.

She almost didn’t. She almost made him come to her.

But she was too excited over the idea of a discovery. She wanted to see it, whatever it was.

“Aren’t they early?” she asked. “Was there trouble? Why are they back so soon?”

“They aren’t back,” he said. “I found out about this by going through their packs.”

The disappointment hit her like a physical blow.

She made sure her tone was cool. “I thought you had already searched the packs.”

“I did,” he said. “But I hadn’t turned on their extra diving suit.”

“They have an extra suit?” she asked.

He shrugged. “In case one got damaged, I would suppose. They form to whatever body puts them on.”

She nodded. She’d seen suits like that in some of the space vessels she’d traveled on. She had even worn one, since one of the captains on one of her early trips wanted to make certain everyone knew how to put one on.

“So?”

“So,” he said, “this one comes fitted with a map.”

“A map?” she asked.

“Of the caverns.”

“I never gave them a map of the caverns,” she said. “We don’t have one.”

He studied her for a moment, as if he didn’t believe her. “Are you sure about that?”

“Why the hell do you think I’ve sent them below?” she snapped. “It’s not because I enjoy spending money. I need to know what’s down there, and right now, I don’t.”

He nodded. The nod was tiny, and she wasn’t even sure she was meant to see it. It seemed like a private nod, meant for him alone.

“Well,” he said after a moment. “You know part of what’s down there.”

“Of course I do,” she said. “Just like you do. We’ve been in the dry caverns—”

“No,” he said. “You’re standing on it.”

She frowned, then looked down. She was standing on the reproduction of the Spires of Denon.

“What are you saying?”

He crouched and put his finger alongside one of the curves. “When I turned on the suit, this appeared. Only it was in outline only and three dimensional, like the Spires are above. And it had one added feature.”

She walked toward him so that she could see what he was doing.

“Right here,” he said, “was a small red dot. Right here.”

One of the widest points of the Spires.

“When I moved the suit,” he said, “the dot moved.”

Like a directional device.

“It fits.” With his finger, he traced the bottom part of the Spires. The drawing was wider here than at any other point. The circles crowded in on each other and eventually were separated by branches.

Passageways.

“If you overlay the map you have of the existing caves, you’ll see that they’re identical to this drawing,” he said.

“That’s not possible,” she said. But she didn’t mean that it was impossible to have this be a map. She was surprised, yes, but not that surprised.

He was right; the bottom part of this drawing did outline the caverns.

“It’s possible,” he said, somewhat defensively.

“No, no,” she said. “That’s not what I meant.”

Then she realized she couldn’t explain what she meant. She meant it was impossible for a lowly security guard, no matter how inflated his opinion was of himself, could make a discovery that she had missed.

“What did you mean then?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I meant,” she lied, “I wonder how they knew.”

25

The next cavern was obviously smaller. Navi could see that from the passageway. Roye’s light hit the walls, the ceiling, and the floor all at the same time, showing the entire cavern.

She could even see the passageway beyond.

The floor held nothing, so far as she could tell. There were niches, just like there’d been in the other caverns, but if she were a betting woman, she would bet they were empty.

Still, she would have to check them out.

Roye had moved toward one wall. She kicked slightly to propel herself forward, and veered a little to the left.

She grabbed the edge of the passageway’s opening with one covered hand, planning to use the wall to push herself into the cavern.

Instead a thrumming echoed through her head. Her hand shook off the wall, and the violence of it sent her tumbling backwards.

Her entire body felt like it was being vibrated apart.

On one of her spins, she saw Roye, bent in half, his hands over his ears, even though the suit covered them.

What the hell? she said, but doubted Roye could hear her.

He shook his head—maybe he had heard her—and then looked toward her.

Sediment was filling the water.

Sediment—and something else—something coming out of the top of the passageway door.

26

Sirens went off—and just as Meklos was going to ask what was causing the sound (and why had Dr. Reese set up such a system, since they were worried about the vibrations destroying the Spires)—light flared.

Reflexively, he covered his eyes, and then he forced himself to open them.

A small line on the Spires drawing near his feet was glowing, the light so bright that he had to blink to keep the tears out of his eyes.

He looked up and saw that the ceiling of the temple had become porous, and through it, he thought he saw a similar light on the Spires themselves.

“Make it stop!” Dr. Reese shouted. “You’ll ruin the Spires.”

Her shout sounded like a whisper. He didn’t want to answer her—it would take more effort than she deserved.

Instead, he ran outside. The light seemed worse than it had a moment ago, as if the sun had become even brighter. He shielded his eyes and made himself look up.

Sure enough, one small part of the Spires was glowing, sending light down to the temple, to the map that the Denonites had built in the temple floor.

He couldn’t see the Spires clearly enough from below, not clearly enough to understand what he was looking at, so he went back inside the temple.

The single line glowed and so did one of the circles beyond. It wasn’t very far from the first caverns that the divers would have gone into underwater.

A series of caverns, and then a passageway, and then another cavern. The passageway and the cavern had lit up.

“My God,” Meklos said. “It’s not artwork at all.”

“What?” Dr. Reese had somehow managed to join him. Her eyes were small pinpoints of blackness in her pale face. “What’s not art?”

“The Spires,” he said. “They’re not art or a map or anything like that. They’re a defense system.”

27

A barrier descended from the top of the passageway door. The barrier was milk-colored and opaque, like the water, and it came down with great force.

Navi thought it should have shattered as it hit the ground. Then she realized that had her hand been in the way, the sharp bottom of that barrier would have sliced it off.

She whirled, not wanting to be trapped in the passageway. But nothing had come down behind her. She looked up, and the ceiling of the passage looked fine.

She was disturbing the water, making the sediment rise around her, but otherwise she was fine.

The vibrating had stopped. All the shaking and thrumming and violence had ended when the barrier connected with the bottom of the passage.

Roye? She sent to him. Roye?

She could see him through the barrier. He looked a little smaller than he was. He had swum to the barrier between them.

He tapped his head—he couldn’t hear her or communicate with her. He had to be trying, just like she was.

They both grabbed the sides of the passageway, just like she had before, feeling for something, anything, that would make the barrier rise again.

Only she hadn’t pressed her hands flat against anything. She had grabbed the curve in the doorway, the wall itself, separating the passage from the cavern.

She had activated something.

And now she had to shut it off.

She held up a finger, then swam back to the caverns they had explored before.

The first cavern looked no different, except that there might have been more sediment floating in the water.

She had to force herself to breathe slowly, to calm herself, so that she didn’t swim through the caverns and out.

She swam back into the passageway, even though it made her cringe.

Roye was still trying to figure out how to open the damn thing. He didn’t look panicked, not like she felt.

But how could she tell? She could only see his eyes, through the clear part of his suit and even that was through this weird milky barrier.

She resumed touching the sides as well. If only she could remember exactly where she had put her hand, she might be able to touch the edge of whatever it was.

Her heart was racing and she was breathing too rapidly. Her suit would shut her down soon if she wasn’t careful. It would start regulating her air.

She concentrated on touching the wall. One hand overlapping the other, moving slowly.

Moving deliberately.

Trying to find a way to get Roye out.

28

The sirens stopped. Meklos’s ears rang.

He looked down. The light remained, the line glowing, the cavern glowing, and a smaller blackish silvery light threading out of the little area between them.

“Did we have a groundquake?” Dr. Reese asked.

He frowned. He hadn’t noticed, with the light and the sound and the Spires glowing above them.

“Was that real vibration or was it caused by the sound?” she asked.

Her words still sounded tinny and far away. Those sirens had been loud. He looked up. The ceiling was still porous. The light was still flowing down, and he could almost see that silvery blackness in the center of it.

She shook her head at him in exasperation, then staggered away from him, toward the back. He had a hunch she was talking, but he had no idea what she was saying.

He didn’t care.

If this was some kind of defense system, then the divers had set it off.

And if they had set it off, then they were in trouble.

He left the temple at full run.

29

The little vase had shattered. It had vibrated off her work table and landed on the newly installed floor. Gabrielle knelt, removing tiny slivers of glass, her heart aching.

If she had left the vase in the niche near the door of the house she had chosen to live in, the vase would be fine now. It wouldn’t have fallen.

It wouldn’t have broken.

All those centuries, only to have her carelessness destroy it.

But, as she held the larger shards in the palm of her hand, she realized she could test it now. She could see if the glass had truly been made from the white dirt near the Spires.

The Spires. What had Meklos said? That they were a defense system? Which meant that they made that noise.

Impossible.

She cupped the shards in her hand, grabbed a small box that still remained on her worktable, and poured the shards into the box. Then she used a cloth to gently wipe off her palm.

Her ears rang.

Maybe the fall hadn’t broken the vase. Maybe the sound had shattered it.

Just like it would have shattered the Spires.

Her breath caught.

She set the cloth down. Shattered the Spires and sent them tumbling to the ground, causing the quake.

She was probably lucky nothing had hit the temple. Even though she really didn’t recognize this place, with the debris on the floor, the light emanating from one small part of the painting, and the open ceiling, which was letting the light through.

She had panicked and now she wasn’t. Now she was thinking clearly.

She made herself walk out of the temple, avoiding the artwork on the floor just because it made her nervous.

The whole thing made her nervous.

She had never experienced anything like this, not in all her years as an archeologist and leader of expeditions.

The sunlight blinded her. She blinked away tears, then wiped her eyes. Finally she looked at the area around her.

Even after the quake, it looked the same. Nothing had fallen here. Nothing had broken.

She expected to see bits of the Spires all over the city, crushing buildings, ruining all her hard work.

But she saw nothing different.

Except a small amount of dust floating in the air, as if it had been dislodged from the dust piles.

She steeled herself, straightening her shoulders, stiffening her back.

Then she looked up.

The Spires were so bright that they hurt her eyes. Light flowed from them to the temple itself.

But the Spires hadn’t crumbled. They hadn’t fallen apart. All that worry about sound and vibration and powerful equipment had been completely wrong.

The Spires were sturdy.

They were sending light to the temple, through the open ceiling, and onto that little two dimensional drawing on the floor. White light threaded with black.

Like the drawing.

Meklos had said it was a map.

And if it was a map, then something had just triggered it. Something had turned it on.

The light had appeared in the area where the divers were.

She cursed.

How was she supposed to deal with the fact that the security guard—a lowly security guard—had seen something she and her team had missed for years?

She shook her head. She couldn’t think about that now. She needed to figure out what to do next.

30

Roye had brought a scanner. He held it up against the barrier. The scanner was small, barely the size of his fingers, and if Navi hadn’t known what it was, she wouldn’t have recognized it.

He ran it along the edge of the barrier.

She hadn’t brought any equipment, not like that. She had believed Dr. Reese’s experts—that this place was incredibly fragile, and needed protection from all sorts of equipment.

If this place was fragile, then it should have fallen apart from the vibration as the barrier came down.

It hadn’t.

Still, she was here with only her suit’s sensors.

They would have to do.

She opened the palm of her right hand and surveyed the wall holding the barrier in place. Equipment yes, but no controls. The controls, so far as her small scanner could tell, had to be somewhere else.

She methodically moved her hand along the edge, searching for some kind of device, any kind, to release the barrier.

After all, she had triggered it from here. She had to be able to release it from here as well.

Roye ran his scan along his side. He finished before she did, then started all over again.

When she was finally done, she looked at him through the barrier. His face was distorted by the water and the glass-like material. His eyes looked too big in their clear protective area.

He shook his head.

So did she.

What had she triggered?

She put her palm on the side again and this time, got a small hit.

This part of the wall was touch-sensitive. She had triggered something, but nothing in the wall itself. The touch system had sent a signal elsewhere and that signal told the system to lower the barrier.

Then she frowned. Slowly she raised her hand to her mouth.

Her teeth didn’t ache any more. Neither did her head.

She had been feeling some kind of energy field. Either the barrier had cut the field off, or the field had shut off when she touched the wall.

She couldn’t remember when her teeth stopped aching. It was hard to notice an absence of pain.

She tapped the barrier. Roye looked at her, startled.

She put a finger to her cheek and hoped he could understand what she meant since they could no longer communicate. She couldn’t mouth anything at him, and she couldn’t point to her own teeth.

She tapped her cheek again, then held out her hands in a question.

He stared at her for a moment, then he seemed to understand. He ran a hand along his chin, then stopped. He shook his head. Then he shrugged.

She wasn’t sure what that meant. Was the pain still there? Or was it gone?

She shrugged.

He made a circle with his fist. Zero. He didn’t feel anything.

Neither did she.

She nodded.

So the barrier hadn’t broken the field, leaving it working on his side and off on hers. The field had just gone away.

Maybe she hadn’t triggered it when she touched the wall. Maybe Roye had when he swam through the opening.

Or maybe the only part of the field that still worked was the wall area. The water might have damaged the rest.

She pointed at her finger, as if she held the small scanner he had brought. It took him a moment, but he finally held it up.

She nodded.

Then she pointed behind him.

It took a few more gestures before he realized what she wanted.

She wanted him to scan the passages behind him, see if there were more barriers. He held up a finger and swam away from her.

The water swirled where he had been. There was definitely more sediment in it now, and that intrigued her. It meant something, although she wasn’t sure what.

She waited, holding her breath until she realized what she was doing. When she finally released it, she saw him swimming back toward her.

He was nodding. It looked like his eyes were crinkling in the corners. Did that mean he was grinning?

He mimed swimming, then pointed behind him. Then he pointed behind her. She nodded.

They were each going to swim away from the barrier. Obviously as far as he could scan, there were no obvious barriers.

She doubted there were any on her side either.

But if there were, she would wait near one of them for him to come get her. Because once they got out of this godforsaken underground lair, they’d communicate with each other, Spires be damned.

And then they’d get the hell out of here.

He waved at her. She waved back.

Then he whirled and swam away from the barrier.

After a moment, she did the same thing, swimming back the way they came.

31

Meklos went down the ancient steps five at a time, until he slipped and had to catch himself with a hand on the ice-cold wall. The steps were covered with white dust, which was as slick as water.

He made his way down the remaining steps carefully until he reached the cavern where Yusef was waiting for the divers to return.

For a moment, Meklos didn’t see Yusef. He didn’t see the packs either, and thought he was in the wrong place.

Then he realized they were all covered in dust.

He hurried across the floor. Yusef leaned against the wall, his heavy coat white, his face so dust-covered it looked like it was coated in ice.

“You all right?” Meklos asked.

Yusef opened his eyes. He focused on Meklos and then his eyes filled with tears.

“My ears,” Yusef said too loudly. He reached toward them with his uncovered hand. The fingertips were black. Why wasn’t he wearing gloves?

Meklos turned Yusef’s head. Blood had oozed out of his ears and frozen onto the side of his head. His fingertips were probably not frostbitten; they were probably covered in blood.

“Can’t stand,” Yusef said, again speaking much too loud. “I’m so dizzy.”

The siren must have been particularly loud in here. Whether the cavern was the source or whether the sound had just echoed off the enclosed space—and the water—Meklos didn’t know.

“I’ll get you out,” Meklos said.

He didn’t want to. He wanted to make sure the divers were all right. But he had to take care of this man first.

“Can you stand?” Meklos asked.

Yusef put a finger up toward his ear again. “I can’t hear you.”

His eardrums must have ruptured. Meklos didn’t even want to think about that kind of pain.

“Can you stand?” Meklos asked slowly, making sure his mouth formed each word carefully.

“I think so,” Yusef said. He struggled to his feet, using the wall to brace himself.

Meklos slipped his arm around Yusef’s back and half-carried him toward the stairs.

The slippery stairs.

This would take longer than he wanted it to. But he had to do it.

Then he would come back for the divers.

If it wasn’t too late.

32

Navi swam into the larger cavern, happy to be out of the passageways. She didn’t try to walk this time. She wasn’t moving slowly. She was swimming as hard as she could.

The cavern looked bigger than it had on the way in, but that was probably because Roye wasn’t with her. His presence had put the place into perspective, giving her something to concentrate on besides the snowy water and the curving walls.

She had nothing to concentrate on now except getting the hell out of here.

She slowed as she reached the first archway, and gingerly extended her hand toward it.

They had both touched the walls in here, looking for niches or anything that could be valuable, and they hadn’t set anything off.

So either that other cavern had been more valuable or the barriers didn’t exist this far in.

She made herself concentrate on her fingers, reaching, reaching—

—and finding nothing. They slipped into the next cavern, just like they had on the way in.

She swam through, her heart pounding.

Why have barriers on that side? Why not here?

She couldn’t figure it out.

But it kept her brain busy while she swam to the next cavern.

It kept her busy while she did her best to get out.

33

“We have to figure out how to shut this off,” Gabrielle said. She was standing on the temple steps. Most of her team had gathered here, apparently looking for instruction.

If they wanted instruction, she’d give it to them.

She waved her hand at the wave of light. “This thing could be dangerous.”

The light bath that she enjoyed every day hadn’t been a brighter moment in the sun. The system had run some kind of program, one she was too stupid to understand.

She’d never been inside the temple when it ran. She had always come outside to bath in the light.

If she had been inside, would she have seen that the temple’s ceiling grew clear, and the light illuminated parts of the drawing below?

She had no idea, and she couldn’t think about it now.

“There’s a silvery black thread running through the light,” she said. “I don’t like it. I’ve never seen it before.”

She didn’t tell them that the light illuminated the drawing inside or that the drawing was really a map. Nor did she tell them Meklos’s theory that the entire thing—the Spires, the map, the temple—was some kind of defense system.

“I’m convinced though,” she said, “that this is all manmade. If there’s a way to turn it on—and something clearly did—then there’s a way to turn it off. We have to find it.”

“The light is focused on the temple,” said one of the graduate students. “Does that mean the controls are inside?’

How am I supposed to know, you ass? she nearly snapped, but she caught herself just in time.

“Maybe,” she said. “Or maybe there’s something near the Spires. Spread out and look. Those of you with engineering experience, look around here first. Use scanners and communicators. If the Spires can survive that loud siren, they can survive anything.”

She hoped.

It was all a guess now.

And so far, at least when it came to the Spires of Denon, all of her previous guesses had been wrong.

34

By the time they reached the ground floor of the building that hid the cavern’s entrance, Meklos was carrying Yusef. The man had fainted halfway up, which was probably a blessing.

Meklos carried him through the door and into the street. Several members of Dr. Reese’s team were running by.

“Hey! Hey!” he shouted. “I need help here.”

Chavo stopped. So did two others.

“He needs a doctor,” Meklos said. “Get him to the doctor. And send my people here. They need to go to the caves.”

“Caves?” Chavo asked.

So Dr. Reese hadn’t told the rest of her team.

“Caves,” Meklos said. “Through this door is an entrance leading down. I need at least three of my people, preferably the ones who can dive.”

“Dive?” Chavo asked.

“Just tell Phin that,” Meklos said, realizing he had no time to explain. “He’ll understand.”

Meklos passed Yusef off to two of the students, then ran back into the building. He heard steps behind him, turned, and saw Chavo.

“I gave you instructions,” Meklos snapped.

“I just didn’t believe it. Do you think the controls are in here?”

“What controls?” Meklos asked.

“For the light,” Chavo said.

“I don’t care,” Meklos said. “Go get Phin. I need help here—experienced help—and I need it now. You got that? You can search for whatever it is you’re searching for after you get me some assistance.”

“Yes, sir,” Chavo said and sprinted for the door.

Meklos was halfway down the stairs before he realized what Chavo was talking about.

The controls for the defense system. Dr. Reese must have sent them in search of the controls.

Stupid woman. Didn’t she realize that a group of dirt scientists wouldn’t know anything about ancient technology?

If they found controls, they might make things worse.

But he kept going down into the cold.

He needed to get those divers out before the archeologists screwed things up again.

35

Finally, Navi’s head rose above the water. She let out a relieved breath and almost removed her suit, then remembered how cold this cavern was.

It was completely empty. She thought Gabrielle Reese had left someone to watch for them, but no one was in the cavern. And their packs were gone.

She swam until she had to walk, and then she hurried out of the water, her breath coming in small gasps. As she got closer to the water’s edge, she scanned the cavern.

It looked like the one she had left, but she wasn’t sure. Caverns could look alike down here, with their niches and their archways—

And the stairs.

Not only were there stairs, but the stairs had footprints, going up, coming down and going up.

She made her gaze follow the footprints until she saw a huge disturbance in the cavern floor. It was right next to the wall, near where the water ended.

Someone had been sitting there, and someone else had come down. One set of footprints came down, and two went up, although one seemed like that person dragged their feet.

The fact she could see prints registered for the first time. The water wasn’t the only thing filled with more sediment. The walls had flaked, and the flaking had been severe.

The flakes had fallen throughout the cavern like snow.

Which meant that this had happened before. Because of the sediment in the water. That had come from somewhere before the barrier came down.

She stepped out of the water, and searched for her pack. It had to be here. It was probably just covered in sediment.

The sediment clung to her feet and legs, coating her in white. As she disturbed it, more and more covered her.

Then she heard something from above.

She looked up. A man came down the stairs, sideways, holding the wall.

The man’s head suddenly came into view. It was Meklos Verr, the head of security.

The competent one.

She let out the breath she was holding, relieved.

“Oh, thank god,” she said, and realized her voice was muffled by the suit. She pulled it off her face.

The air wasn’t just cold.

It was frigid.

“Where’s your partner?” Meklos said. “Is he all right?”

“I think so,” she said. “We’ll know soon enough.”

“What does that mean?” He finally reached the bottom part of the cavern. “Is he behind you?”

“No,” she said, then glanced at the water.

“Then where is he?”

If she told Meklos, she would have to tell him about the map. She would have to explain her scans. She would probably have to admit who she was.

She glanced at the stairs.

“Are you alone?” she asked.

“At the moment. I sent for reinforcements. Some members of my team have water diving experience. I was going to use your extra suit.”

Something passed across his face then. His expression sharpened for just a moment.

“The suit,” he said, “adjusts to the wearer, doesn’t it?”

She nodded.

“And you can stay underwater for a very long time,” he said.

“It’s designed for that,” she said.

“So you and one of my team can get him.”

She shook her head. “We probably won’t have to.”

She hoped they wouldn’t have to. She never wanted to go into that water again.

“You triggered something down there,” he said.

“A barrier. Roye was on one side, and I was on the other.”

“So he went out the passageway to the ship you have waiting.”

She blinked at him, not sure if she had heard him correctly.

“I found your map,” he said. “How did you get that?”

She had heard him. This day was full of surprises.

“He’ll contact me when he gets out,” she said, choosing not to answer Meklos’s question. “I’m not sure how long to wait.”

“What were you planning to do? Rob the lower caverns? Take all the loot and fly it out of here without any of us being wiser?” He took a step toward her. “What even made you think there’s something down in those caverns?”

“There’s nothing in those caverns,” she said.

“You know that now,” he said. “But you thought something was down there before.”

“I did,” she said. “I was told this might be a museum. For the Denonites. They would have used it for all the spoils of the various wars they fought.”

“And you came to rob it,” Meklos said.

“I came to save it,” she said.

He glared at her. “Really?”

“Really,” she said.

“How did you plan to do that?” he asked.

She took a deep breath. She was going to have to trust him. “By getting enough evidence to arrest Dr. Gabrielle Reese.”

36

A light was moving along the interior lines of the Spires. Gabrielle had gone inside the temple to watch. Looking up at the Spires hurt her eyes, but in here, in the dimness, she could see the light move.

It moved as if someone were shining a light source on a particular area. Then, once that area received a thorough examination, the source moved to the next area.

If she hadn’t learned long ago that there were no light sources underneath the drawing of the Spires (at least none that she recognized), she would have thought someone was playing with lights underneath the floor.

The movement unnerved her. The way everything had changed in just the past hour had unnerved her.

Her staff crowded parts of the temple. They were using scanners and talking loudly. Before people had spoken in hushed tones here. Now the voices were raised, excited, the way people talked when they were panicked and thrilled at the same time.

Her team thought this new development interesting.

It worried her.

Not just because it could be dangerous. Hell, it was dangerous. She had seen Yusef as the staff carried him to their doctor. He was so pale she thought he had died. Blood blackened both of his ears, and his lips were blue.

Something had happened in that cavern. Chavo ventured a guess that the sound was magnified down there. But she wasn’t so sure.

She wasn’t sure about anything.

She wasn’t even sure why that light was moving.

The only thing she could tell was that it was heading away from the caverns.

And she couldn’t figure out why that would happen either.

She rubbed her hands over her upper arms, feeling the gooseflesh along her skin.

In all her years digging and searching, finding ancient burial sites, ancient treasure, she had never experienced anything like this.

And she never wanted to experience anything like it again.

37

“Arrest Doctor Reese?” Meklos couldn’t keep the shock from his voice. He’d researched Dr. Reese before taking this job. Even though she wasn’t yet forty, she had discovered several important sites, including this one. She’d made large contributions to the fields of archeology, art history, and general history in this sector.

Granted, she was a loner and not always liked by her crews, but that hadn’t bothered him. Most people in positions of power weren’t liked.

Although he hadn’t liked her either, partly because of her attitude and partly because she had hid information from him.

Like these caves.

“Yes, we were looking for reasons to arrest her.” Salvino had found the packs. She picked one up, making the sediment float around her like a dust storm. Some of the whiteness adhered to her right thigh, her belly, and her lower arm.

Then she let the pack fall. She opened her suit, and slowly pulled it off, sliding it off her right arm and hand first, and then going to her left.

Meklos was torn between two questions. He wanted more information on Dr. Reese and this startling announcement.

But, over the years, he had learned that startling announcements were often diversionary tactics, to make a questioner forget his line of questioning.

He had asked Salvino if she was going to rob the artifacts from this area, just before she had said she was going to prevent a robbery. She hadn’t answered his first question.

So he decided against pursuing that tack and went for the other.

“I checked you out,” he said, not adding that he had done it as best he could in a limited amount of time. “You’re a cave diver, not a police officer.”

“Technically, I’m neither.” Salvino stepped out of the suit. It crumpled against the ground. The water dripping off it made a little trail back to the pool.

Then she opened her pack. She slid her hand inside, grasped a seam, and peeled it back.

Meklos cursed. How had he missed that? Not once, but twice.

She glanced at him. “You couldn’t have found it without very specialized equipment,” she said as if she were reading his thoughts. “It’s keyed to my DNA, and my DNA only. That’s why I wasn’t worried about leaving the pack behind. You’d never find this pouch and if you miraculously did, you’d never open it.”

He pressed his lips together. He didn’t believe in never. He would have gotten it open, eventually.

She slipped her hand into the pouch and pulled something out. It was some kind of data drive as thin as a fingernail.

She handed it to him, but he didn’t have a scanner on him.

“What this will tell you,” she said, “is that I’m Navi Salvino of the Interagency Arts and Monuments Protection League. We’re a squad of investigators authorized by various governments, including the Unified Governments of Amnthra, to protect historic sites and properties throughout the sector. If we do find a problem, we turn that problem over to the enforcement arm best equipped to handle that problem.”

He slipped the small dataport into a pocket of his shirt, and sealed that pocket. He’d heard of the Interagency Arts and Monuments Protection League mostly by its acronym IAMPL. In the last decade, they’d stopped some spectacular thefts throughout the sector.

But that didn’t mean she was a legitimate part of the organization. Only that she had heard of it, along with everyone else in the sector.

“Dr. Reese has a fantastic reputation,” Meklos said.

“I’m sure you noted that when you decided to take this job,” Salvino said. “You probably also noted that she had a significant amount of money in various accounts.”

He had. He hadn’t thought much of it. She was an in-demand expert in her field, a woman who commanded high prices for almost anything she did.

“That wasn’t my concern.”

“It was ours.” Salvino pulled the thin heating blanket from her pack. She flapped the blanket open, then wrapped it around herself. “No matter how well known they are, people in Dr. Reese’s position don’t make a great deal of money. Everything they do is paid for. The Scholars funded this expedition, and will continue to fund it for all the years of its lifetime. They funded her previous expeditions as well.”

“So?” Meklos was getting cold. He’d run around a great deal since the sirens went off, sweating through his clothes. Now the clammy material was starting to freeze. “That proves nothing.”

“In and of itself, you’re right.” Salvino pushed her hair out of her face. Her hand was trembling. “But we also found a lot of small items with dubious provenance that we could later trace back to her earlier digs. At some point, she takes items from her sites and sends them through a series of dealers. She sells these small items to private buyers for a great deal of money.”

“I don’t know how she could,” Meklos said. “This dig is well known.”

But as he spoke, he understood. The dig was well known, but the location of the so-called museum wasn’t. If the caverns were as billed, then Dr. Reese could have taken items from here before they were ever recorded. They would have been deemed lost, if they were even known.

She hadn’t told him about the caverns. She didn’t want her assistants down here. From Chavo’s reaction, he hadn’t known about the cavern either.

She had been keeping secrets.

Too many of them.

“You’re beginning to understand,” Salvino said.

“Or you’re lying to me to cover up your own plan.”

She sighed. “My plan was simple. I wanted to get into this dig to see if there were valuables to loot. The cave diving was a gift. Then we were able to map the caverns, and—”

“How did you map the caverns?” he asked. “Dr. Reese didn’t.”

“Dr. Reese was afraid of her site,” Salvino said. “She didn’t want to use equipment because of the Spires.”

“You believe that?” he asked. It could have been a good excuse to keep everyone else from finding the caverns below.

“Yes, I believe that,” Salvino said. She picked up her suit, folded it, and shoved it into her pack. “All the scientists worried that the Spires were too fragile to handle much of anything.”

He had seen that in some of his research.

“We decided to try scanning from the ground, just outside the secure zone. But we were looking for the caverns.” Salvino picked up the other pack. The blanket started to slide off her shoulders. “No one else ever did.”

Meklos put the blanket around her, then took both packs. “How did you know about the caverns?” he asked.

“We didn’t. But when I realized we were going to see the Spires, I hired an expert, a man by the name of Zeigler—”

“I’ve heard of him,” Meklos said.

She gave Meklos a measuring look. “Then you know why I trusted his instinct. It turned out to be right.”

Meklos nodded. He would check Salvino out, but her explanations made a lot of sense.

“Lying about your cave diving experience could have killed you,” he said.

She shook her head. “Nothing in my information packet was a lie. I’ve dived a lot, mostly on jobs like this. You’d be surprised how many ancient cities are flooded.”

“Nothing was a lie,” he repeated. “But you left out a lot.”

“I erased everything that was important, figuring no one would bother to check. I was right.”

His cheeks warmed. “I checked,” he said. “But the equipment here—”

“Worked to my advantage,” she said. Her teeth were chattering.

“What’s your plan now?” he asked. “Go to the surface and arrest Dr. Reese?”

“No,” Salvino said. “There’s no reason. The caverns are empty.”

“So you say,” Meklos said. “There’s no way to check. For all I know, your companion is taking valuables out now.”

“I’ll let you check our ship,” she said. “You can examine everything we have.”

He gave her a measuring look. She seemed truthful, but he had no real way to know.

Although deep down, he trusted her.

And he had never trusted Dr. Reese.

38

As they climbed the stairs, Meklos explained what happened above ground to Navi. He explained his defense system theory.

It made sense.

It made her disappointment fade.

She had wanted to see the museum. But that didn’t exist—or no longer existed, at least not here. The defense system was almost as good, maybe better, since it probably had applications in the modern era.

And it would prevent Gabrielle Reese from robbing this place blind—if, indeed, there was anything to steal. Because she wouldn’t be in charge any longer.

The Scholars got most of their funding from government grants from all over the sector. Various governments would want to know how this defense system worked. They’d bid for the rights to study it.

This entire place would become famous. Dr. Reese wouldn’t have untrammeled access any longer.

They had nearly reached the top of the stairs when Navi put her hand on Meklos’s arm.

“Check me out,” she said. “As soon as we get to the surface. If what you say is true, then you can use proper communications equipment right from the city and it won’t cause any harm. With a more powerful system, you’ll see my bio, even without the disk I gave you. You’ll find it all.”

He stopped beside her, moving the packs to one hand. “Why should I do that?”

“Because we’re going to hire you. You’ll guard this place for us until we can bring in reinforcements and take control from Dr. Reese.”

“She found this place. By your own admission, she hasn’t done anything,” he said. “You were right. There is no reason to take her off the dig.”

Navi smiled. “I’m glad you understand. She truly is a gifted expert in her field. She should be allowed to stay. But you need to make sure everything else stays as well.”

He grunted, which she took as an assent. Although she wasn’t sure.

She climbed the remaining steps into the building. People combed the walls, scanning everything.

The site looked completely different than it had in the morning.

“Are there really caves down there?” one of the graduate students asked her.

The kid was so excited he apparently didn’t noticed the white all over her clothing or the blanket around her shoulders. Or the way her teeth were chattering.

“I’m not at liberty to say,” Navi said. She let Meklos lead her into the sunshine.

The warm sunshine that seemed to have a life of its own. It undulated like water toward the building that Gabrielle Reese had called the temple.

Clearly that wasn’t a temple at all, but some kind of central control station.

“You want to see it?” Meklos asked her.

Navi nodded. She wanted to see it, then she wanted to go back to the building she’d been staying in. She wanted to sit alone in the darkness and shake.

She wanted a few minutes to let the fear ease away before she had to be completely professional again.

39

The light was almost to the end of the Spires now. Gabrielle studied the light moving through the two-dimensional drawing as if it were alive and about to attack.

A few of her team had gathered around as well, asking questions that she mostly ignored.

Then Meklos came inside. People parted from him as if he were going to harm them. He had a woman with him, and it took Gabrielle a moment to realize it was one of the divers.

“What did you find?” she asked, barely able to control her excitement. The museum? Treasures? She wasn’t sure she could hide any of it now, but that mattered less than the fact of the artifacts. She wanted to see the famous Spoils of War Museum that the Denonites had created.

“Nothing,” the woman said. She sounded tired.

“It’s a long story,” Meklos said. Obviously, he already knew what the story was.

Gabrielle glared at him. He was still getting in her way.

But he didn’t seem to notice her glare. Instead, he was staring at the drawing.

“This is brilliant,” he said to the diver. “This is how the Denonites protected themselves against siege. Those passages below had to have once been easily visible from the ground. The Denonites built this so that they could track anyone entering.”

“And prevent them from coming into the city with those barriers,” the diver said.

“What barriers?” Gabrielle asked.

But they ignored her. She wasn’t used to being ignored.

She was about to ask the question again, when the light moved to the last part of a Spire. It flickered for a moment, and then disappeared.

There was a grinding above her.

The ceiling closed.

The lights were gone.

“What was that?” she asked.

But she didn’t expect anyone to answer her, so she hurried outside. The light no longer flowed down from the Spires.

The city looked normal—as normal as it had before the sirens went off.

The defense system had shut off, but she didn’t know why. She was beginning to think she didn’t know anything.

All her assumptions had been false.

She was torn between awe at the system she’d seen and a disconcerting sense of unease, as if life as she had known it had suddenly and irrevocably changed.

40

“He got out,” Navi said softly. “He got out.”

She felt more relief than she expected to.

“I’ll give him a few minutes, and then contact the ship.”

She looked at Meklos.

“I can’t believe he got out.”

Meklos smiled. He seemed calmer too. “He got out and the system shut off. This thing is brilliant. The threat is gone, so the entire system is back in wait mode.”

“We’re going to be studying this for a long time,” Navi said. “Will you help?”

“When everything checks out,” Meklos said.

She nodded. She understood that. She took her pack from Meklos, dug into the pouch, and grabbed her communicator.

Damn, it was nice to use a powerful system again.

She held it up to him. His smile widened.

She walked to the door. Gabrielle Reese was sitting on the stairs outside, looking like she was lost.

And she had lost. The woman was smart enough to know that the change in the Spires made the dig something completely different.

Oddly, Navi wanted to comfort her, to tell her that what she would lose financially, she would gain in reputation. Gabrielle Reese would forever be the woman who discovered the long-lost technology of the Denonites.

But Navi didn’t say that. Instead she stepped into the street, bathing in the warmth of Amnthra’s bright sun. She held up her communicator, pressing it on.

She didn’t use any identifying words. The signal from the comm should have been enough.

“I’m checking on Roye,” she said. “Is he all right?”

He looks like he’s made of snow, the pilot of her deep exploration ship answered. But he’s all right. Glad to be out of there. You coming to join us?

She looked over her shoulder. There were too many changes here, too much going on. Much as she trusted Meklos Verr, she had a hunch he didn’t trust her.

And there was too much at stake to leave to a man she’d just hired.

“No, I’m staying here. I’ll send up a full report tonight. We’re going to need a lot of experts here very fast. And not the kind that we have. We’re dealing with technology now, not ancient art.”

Figured out that much, the pilot said. Roye wants to know if you’re all right. Does he need to come over the mountain to find you?

“I’m fine,” she said, then she took a deep breath of the warm air.

More than fine. She was thrilled.

Everything had turned out much better than she expected.

“Tell him,” she said, “I’m just fine.”

41

It didn’t take Meklos long to check out Navi Salvino, now that he had the proper equipment. He spent most of his time digging through information logs from far away, ones she never would have thought to tamper with.

While he did that, Meklos had his team set up a better perimeter. He put robots and motion detectors all around the rim of the crater, like he’d wanted to do from the beginning.

He was going to ask if he could stay here. He wanted to study the Spires system. It fascinated him.

He’d been in countless cities that protected themselves from attack, but not like this place. He wanted to know more.

And he had a hunch there would always be more to know.

He lifted his face toward the Spires. He’d thought them beautiful when he first saw them.

But now he realized they were more than beautiful. They were fascinating and, more importantly, useful.

He smiled at them—and silently promised he would always keep them safe.

OVER THE TOP, by Lester del Rey

The sky was lousy with stars—nasty little pinpoints of cold hostility that had neither the remoteness of space nor the friendly warmth of Earth. They didn’t twinkle honestly, but tittered and snickered down. And there wasn’t even one moon. Dave Mannen knew better, but his eyes looked for the low scudding forms of Deimos and Phobos because of all the romanticists who’d written of them. They were up there all right, but only cold rocks, too small to see.

Rocks in the sky, and rocks in his head—not to mention the lump on the back of his skull. He ran tense fingers over his wiry black hair until he found the swelling, and winced. With better luck, he’d have had every inch of his three-foot body mashed to jelly, instead of that, though. Blast Mars!

He flipped the searchlight on and looked out, but the view hadn’t improved any. It was nothing but a drab plain of tarnished reddish sand, chucked about in ridiculous potholes, running out beyond the light without change. The stringy ropes of plantlike stuff had decided to clump into balls during the night, but their bilious green still had a clabbered appearance, like the result of a three days’ binge. There was a thin rime of frost over them, catching the light in little wicked sparks. That was probably significant data; it would prove that there was more water in the air than the scientists had figured, even with revised calculations from the twenty-four-inch lunar refractor.

But that was normal enough. The bright boys got together with their hundred-ton electronic slipsticks and brought forth all manner of results; after that, they had to send someone out to die here and there before they found why the sticks had slipped. Like Dave. Sure, the refractory tube linings were good for twenty-four hours of continual blast—tested under the most rigorous lab conditions, even tried on a couple of Moon hops.

So naturally, with Unitech’s billionaire backer and new power handling methods giving them the idea of beating the Services to Mars—no need to stop on the Moon even, they were that good—they didn’t include spare linings. They’d have had to leave out some of their fancy radar junk and wait for results until the rocket returned.

Well, the tubes had been good. It was only after three hours of blasting, total, when he was braking down for Mars, that they began pitting. Then they’d held up after a fashion until there was only forty feet of free fall—about the same as fifteen on Earth. The ship hadn’t been damaged, had even landed on her tripod legs, and the radar stuff had come through fine. The only trouble was that Dave had no return ticket. There was food for six months, water for more by condensing and reusing; but the clicking of the air machine wouldn’t let him forget his supply of breathing material was being emptied, a trickle at a time. And there was only enough there for three weeks, at the outside. After that, curtains.

Of course, if the bright boys’ plans had worked, he could live on compressed air drawn from outside by the air lock pumps. Too bad the landing had sprung them just enough so they could barely hold their own and keep him from losing air if he decided to go outside. A lot of things were too bad.

But at least the radar was working fine. He couldn’t breathe it or take off with it, but the crystal amplifiers would have taken even a free fall all the way from mid-space. He cut the power on, fiddling until he found the Lunar broadcast from Earth. It had a squiggly sound, but most of the words come through on the begacycle band. There was something about a fool kid who’d sneaked into a plane and got off the ground somehow, leaving a hundred honest pilots trying to kill themselves in getting him down. People could kill each other by the millions, but they’d go all out to save one spectacular useless life, as usual.

Then it came: “No word from the United Technical Foundation rocket, now fourteen hours overdue in reporting. Foundation men have given up hope, and feel that Mannen must have died in space from unknown causes, leaving the rocket to coast past Mars unmanned. Any violent crash would have tripped automatic signalers, and there was no word of trouble from Mannen—”

There was more, though less than on the kid. One rocket had been tried two years before, and gone wide because the tubes blew before reversal; the world had heard the clicking of Morse code right to the end, then. This failure was only a secondhand novelty, without anything new to gush over. Well, let them wonder. If they wanted to know what had happened, let ’em come and find out. There’d be no pretty last words from him.

Dave listened a moment longer, as the announcer picked up the latest rift in the supposedly refurbished United Nations, then cut off in disgust. The Atlantic Nations were as determined as Russia, and both had bombs now. If they wanted to blast themselves out of existence, maybe it was a good thing. Mars was a stinking world, but at least it had died quietly, instead of raising all that fuss.

Why worry about them? They’d never done him any favors. He’d been gypped all along. With a grade-A brain and a matinee idol’s face, he’d been given a three-foot body and the brilliant future of a circus freak—the kind the crowd laughed at, rather than looked at in awe. His only chance had come when Unitech was building the ship, before they knew how much power they had, and figured on saving weight by designing it for a midget and a consequently smaller supply of air, water, and food. Even then, after he’d seen the ad, he’d had to fight his way into position through days of grueling tests. They hadn’t tossed anything in his lap.

It had looked like the big chance, then. Fame and statues they could keep, but the book and endorsement rights would have put him where he could look down and laugh at the six-footers. And the guys with the electronic brains had cheated him out of it.

Let them whistle for their radar signals. Let them blow themselves to bits playing soldier. It was none of his worry now.

He clumped down from the observatory tip into his tiny quarters, swallowed a couple of barbiturates, and crawled into his sleeping cushions. Three weeks to go, and not even a bottle of whiskey on the ship. He cursed in disgust, turned over, and let sleep creep up on him.

It was inevitable that he’d go outside, of course. Three days of nothing but sitting, standing up, and sleeping was too much. Dave let the pumps suck at the air in the lock, zipping down his helmet over the soft rubber seal, tested his equipment, and waited until the pressure stood about even, outside and in. Then he opened the outer lock, tossed down the plastic ramp, and stepped out. He’d got used to the low gravity while still aboard, and paid no attention to it.

The tripod had dug into the sand, but the platform feet had kept the tubes open, and Dave swore at them softly. They looked good—except where part of one lining hung out in shreds. And with lining replacements, they’d be good—the blast had been cut off before the tubes themselves were harmed. He turned his back on the ship finally and faced out to the shockingly near horizon.

This, according to the stories, was supposed to be man’s high moment—the first living human to touch the soil outside his own world and its useless satellite. The lock opened, and out stepped the hero—dying in pride with man’s triumph and conquest of space! Dave pushed the rubbery flap of his helmet back against his lips, opened the orifice, and spat on the ground. If this was an experience, so was last year’s stale beer.

There wasn’t even a “canal” within fifty miles of him. He regretted that, in a way, since finding out what made the streaks would have killed time. He’d seen them as he approached, and there was no illusion to them—as the lunar scope had proved before. But they definitely weren’t water ditches, anyhow. There’d been no chance to pick his landing site, and he’d have to get along without them.

It didn’t leave much to explore. The ropes of vegetation were stretched out now, holding up loops of green fuzz to the sun, but there seemed to be no variation of species to break up the pattern. Probably a grove of trees on Earth would look the same to a mythical Martian. Possibly they represented six million and seven varieties. But Dave couldn’t see it. The only point of interest was the way they wiggled their fuzz back and forth, and that soon grew monotonous.

Then his foot squeaked up at him, winding up in a gurgle. He jumped a good six feet up in surprise, and the squeak came again in the middle of his leap, making him stumble as he landed. But his eyes focused finally on a dull brownish lump fastened to his boot. It looked something like a circular cluster of a dozen pine cones, with fuzz all over, but there were little leglike members coming out of it—a dozen of them that went into rapid motion as he looked.

“Queeklrle,” the thing repeated, sending the sound up through the denser air in his suit. It scrambled up briskly, coming to a stop over his supply kit and fumbling hurriedly. “Queeklrle!”

Oddly, there was no menace in it, probably because it was anything but a bug-eyed monster; there were no signs of any sensory organs. Dave blinked. It reminded him of a kitten he’d once had, somehow, before his usual luck found him and killed the little creature with some cat disease. He reacted automatically.

“Queekle yourself!” His fingers slipped into the kit and came out with a chocolate square, unpeeling the cellophane quickly. “It’ll probably make you sick or kill you—but if that’s what you’re after, take it.”

Queckle was after it, obviously. The creature took the square in its pseudopods, tucked it under its body, and relaxed, making faint gobbling sounds. For a second, it was silent, but then it squeaked again, sharper this time. “Queeklrle!”

Dave fed it two more of the squares before the creature seemed satisfied, and began climbing back down, leaving the nuts in the chocolate neatly piled on the ground behind it. Then Queekle went scooting off into the vegetation. Dave grimaced; its gratitude was practically human.

“Nuts to you, too,” he muttered, kicking the pile of peanuts aside. But it proved at least that men had never been there before—humans were almost as fond of exterminating other life as they were of killing off their own kind.

He shrugged, and swung off toward the horizon at random in a loose, loping stride. After the cramped quarters of the ship, running felt good. He went on without purpose for an hour or more, until his muscles began protesting. Then he dug out his water bottle, pushed the tube through the helmet orifice, and drank briefly. Everything around him was the same as it had been near the ship, except for a small cluster of the plants that had dull red fuzz instead of green; he’d noticed them before, but couldn’t tell whether they were one stage of the same plant or a different species. He didn’t really care.

In any event, going farther was purposeless. He’d been looking for another Queekle casually, but had seen none. And on the return trip, he studied the ground under the fuzz plants more carefully, but there was nothing to see. There wasn’t even a wind to break up the monotony, and he clumped up to the ramp of the ship as bored as he had left it. Maybe it was just as well his air supply was low, if this was all Mars had to offer.

Dave pulled up the ramp and spun the outer lock closed, blinking in the gloom, until the lights snapped on as the air lock sealed. He watched the pressure gauge rise to ten pounds, normal for the ship, and reached for the inner lock. Then he jerked back, staring at the floor.

Queekle was there, and had brought along part of Mars. Now its squeaks came out in a steady stream as the inner seal opened. And in front of it, fifteen or twenty of the plant things went into abrupt motion, moving aside to form a narrow lane through which the creature went rapidly on into the ship. Dave followed, shaking his head. Apparently there was no way of being sure about anything here. Plants that stood steady on their roots outside could move about at will, it seemed—and to what was evidently a command.

The fool beast! Apparently the warmth of the ship had looked good to it, and it was all set to take up housekeeping—in an atmosphere that was at least a hundred times too dense for it. Dave started up the narrow steps to his quarters, hesitated, and cursed. It still reminded him of the kitten, moving around in exploratory circles. He came back down and made a dive for it.

Queekle let out a series of squeals as Dave tossed it back into the air lock and closed the inner seal. Its squeaks died down as the pressure was pumped back and the outer seal opened, though, and were inaudible by the time he moved back up the ladder. He grumbled to himself halfheartedly. That’s what came of feeding the thing—it decided to move in and own him.

But he felt better as he downed what passed for supper. The lift lasted for an hour or so afterward-and then left him feeling more cramped and disgusted than ever as he sat staring at the walls of his tiny room. There wasn’t even a book to read, aside from the typed manual for general care of the ship, and he’d read that often enough already.

Finally he gave up in disgust and went up to the observatory tip and cut on the radar. Maybe his death notices would be more interesting tonight.

They weren’t. They were carrying speculations about what had happened to him—none of which included any hint that the bright boys could have made an error. They’d even figured out whether Mars might have captured the ship as a satellite and decided against it. But the news was losing interest, obviously, and he could tell where it had been padded out from the general broadcast to give the Lunar men more coverage—apparently on the theory that anyone as far out as the Moon would be more interested in the subject. They’d added one new touch, though!

“It seems obvious that further study of space conditions beyond the gravitic or magnetic field of Earth is needed. The Navy announced that its new rocket, designed to reach Mars next year, will be changed for use as a deep-space laboratory on tentative exploratory trips before going further. United Technical Foundation has abandoned all further plans for interplanetary research, at least for the moment.”

And that was that. They turned the microphone over to international affairs then, and Dave frowned. Even to him, it was obvious that the amount of words used had no relation to the facts covered. Already they were beginning to clamp down the lid, and that meant things were heading toward a crisis again. The sudden outbreak of the new and violent plague in China four years before had brought an end to the former crisis, as all nations pitched in through altruism or sheer self-interest, and were forced to work together. But that hadn’t lasted; they’d found a cure after nearly two million deaths, and there had been nothing to hold the suddenly created co-operation of the powers. Maybe if they had new channels for their energies, such as the planets—

But it wouldn’t wash. The Atlantic Nations would have taken over Mars on the strength of his landing and return, and they were in the lead if another ship should be sent. They’d gobble up the planets as they had taken the Moon, and the other powers would simply have more fuel to feed their resentments and bring things to a head.

Dave frowned more deeply as the announcer went on. There were the usual planted hints from officials that everything was fine for the Atlantic Powers—but they weren’t usual. They actually sounded super-confident—arrogantly so. And there was one brief mention of a conference in Washington, but it was the key. Two of the names were evidence in full. Someone had actually found a way to make the lithium bomb work, and—

Dave cut off the radar as it hit him. It was all the human race needed—a chance to use what could turn into a self-sustaining chain reaction. Man had finally discovered a way to blow up his planet.

He looked up toward the speck that was Earth, with the tiny spot showing the Moon beside it. Behind him, the air machine clicked busily, metering out oxygen. Two and a half weeks. Dave looked down at that, then. Well, it might be long enough, though it probably wouldn’t. But he had that much time for certain. He wondered if the really bright boys expected as much for themselves. Or was it only because he wasn’t in the thick of a complacent humanity, and had time for thinking, that he could realize what was coming?

He slapped the air machine dully, and looked up at the Earth again. The fools! They’d asked for it; let them take their medicine now. They liked war better than eugenics, nuclear physics better than the science that could have found his trouble and set his glands straight to give him the body he should have had. Let them stew in their own juice.

He found the bottle of sleeping tablets and shook it. But only specks of powder fell out. That was gone, too. They couldn’t get anything right. No whiskey, no cigarettes that might use up the precious air, no more amytal. Earth was reaching out for him, denying him the distraction of a sedative, just as she was denying herself a safe and impersonal contest for her clash of wills.

He threw the bottle onto the floor and went down to the air lock. Queekle was there—the faint sounds of scratching proved that. And it came in as soon as the inner seal opened, squeaking contentedly, with its plants moving slowly behind it. They’d added a new feature—a mess of rubbish curled up in the tendrils of the vines, mixed sand, and dead plant forms.

“Make yourself at home,” Dave told the creature needlessly. “It’s all yours, and when I run down to the gasping point, I’ll leave the locks open and the power on for the fluorescents. Somebody might as well get some good out of the human race. And don’t worry about using up my air—I’ll be better off without it, probably.”

“Queeklrle.” It wasn’t a very brilliant conversation, but it had to do.

Dave watched Queekle assemble the plants on top of the converter shield. The bright boys had done fine, there—they’d learned to chain radiation and neutrons with a thin wall of metal and an intangible linkage of forces. The result made an excellent field for the vines, and Queekle scooted about, making sure the loads of dirt were spread out and its charges arranged comfortably, to suit it. It looked intelligent—but so would the behavior of ants. If the pressure inside the ship bothered the creature, there was no sign of it.

“Queeklrle,” it announced finally, and turned toward Dave. He let it follow him up the steps, found some chocolate, and offered it to the pseudopods. But Queekle wasn’t hungry. Nor would the thing accept water, beyond touching it and brushing a drop over its fuzzy surface.

It squatted on the floor until Dave flopped down on the cushions, then tried to climb up beside him. He reached down, surprised to feel the fuzz give way instantly to a hard surface underneath, and lifted it up beside him. Queekle was neither cold nor warm; probably all Martian life had developed excellent insulation, and perhaps the ability to suck water out of the almost dehydrated atmosphere and then retain it.

For a second, Dave remembered the old tales of vampire beasts, but he rejected them at once. When you come down to it, most of the animal life wasn’t too bad—not nearly as bad as man had pictured it to justify his own superiority. And Queekle seemed content to lie there, making soft monotonous little squeaks and letting it go at that.

Surprisingly, sleep came easily.

Dave stayed away from the ship most of the next two days, moving aimlessly, but working his energy out in pure muscular exertion. It helped, enough to keep him away from the radar. He found tongs and stripped the lining from the tubes, and that helped more, because it occupied his mind as well as his muscles. But it was only a temporary expedient, and not good enough for even the two remaining weeks. He started out the next day, went a few miles, and came back. For a while then, he watched the plants that were thriving unbelievably on the converter shield.

Queekle was busy among them, nipping off something here and there and pushing it underneath where its mouth was. Dave tasted one of the buds, gagged, and spat it out; the thing smelled almost like an Earth plant, but combined all the quintessence of sour and bitter with something that was outside his experience. Queekle, he’d found, didn’t care for chocolate—only the sugar in it; the rest was ejected later in a hard lump.

And then there was nothing to do. Queekle finished its work and they squatted side by side, but with entirely different reactions; the Martian creature seemed satisfied.

Three hours later, Dave stood in the observatory again, listening to the radar. There was some music coming through at this hour—but the squiggly reception ruined that. And the news was exactly what he’d expected—a lot of detail about national things, a few quick words on some conference at the United Nations, and more on the celebration of Israel over the anniversary of beginning as an independent nation. Dave’s own memories of that were dim, but some came back as he listened. The old United Nations had done a lot of wrangling over that, but it had been good for them, in a way—neither side had felt the issue offered enough chance for any direct gain to threaten war, but it kept the professional diplomats from getting quite so deeply into more dangerous grounds.

But that, like the Chinese plague, wouldn’t come up again.

He cut off the radar, finally, only vaguely conscious of the fact that the rocket hadn’t been mentioned. He could no longer even work up a feeling of disgust. Nothing mattered beyond his own sheer boredom, and when the air machine—

Then it hit him. There were no clicks. There had been none while he was in the tip. He jerked to the controls, saw that the meter indicated the same as it had when he was last here, and threw open the cover. Everything looked fine. There was a spark from the switch, and the motor went on when he depressed the starting button. When he released it, it went off instantly. He tried switching manually to other tanks, but while the valve moved, the machine remained silent.

The air smelled fresh, though—fresher than it had since the first day out from Earth, though a trifle drier than he’d have liked.

“Queekle!” Dave looked at the creature, watched it move nearer at his voice, as it had been doing lately. Apparently it knew its name now, and answered with the usual squeak and gurgle.

It was the answer, of course. No wonder its plants had been thriving. They’d had all the carbon dioxide and water vapor they could use, for a change. No Earth plants could have kept the air fresh in such a limited amount of space, but Mars had taught her children efficiency through sheer necessity. And now he had six months, rather than two weeks!

Yeah, six months to do nothing but sit and wait and watch for the blowup that might come, to tell him he was the last of his kind. Six months with nothing but a squeaking burble for conversation, except for the radar news.

He flipped it on again with an impatient slap of his hand, then reached to cut it off. But words were already coming out:

“…Foundation will dedicate a plaque today to young Dave Mannen, the little man with more courage than most big men can hold. Andrew Buller, backer of the ill-fated Mars rocket, will be on hand to pay tribute—”

Dave kicked the slush off with his foot. They would bother with plaques at a time like this, when all he’d ever wanted was the right number of marks on United States currency. He snapped at the dials, twisting them, and grabbed for the automatic key as more circuits coupled in.

“Tell Andrew Buller and the whole Foundation to go—”

Nobody’d hear his Morse at this late stage, but at least it felt good. He tried it again, this time with some Anglo-Saxon adjectives thrown in. Queekle came over to investigate the new sounds and squeaked doubtfully. Dave dropped the key.

“Just human nonsense, Queekle. We also kick chairs when we bump into—”

“Mannen!” The radar barked it out at him. “Thank God, you got your radar fixed. This is Buller—been waiting here all week and more now. Never did believe all that folderol about it being impossible for it to be the radar at fault. Oof, your message still coming in and I’m getting the typescript. Good thing there’s no FCC out there. Know just how you feel, though. Darned fools here. Always said they should have another rocket ready. Look, if your set is bad, don’t waste it, just tell me how long you can hold out, and by Harry, we’ll get another ship built and up there. How are you, what—”

He went on, his words piling up on each other as Dave went through a mixture of reactions that shouldn’t have fitted any human situation. But he knew better than to build up hope. Even six months wasn’t long enough—it took time to finish and test a rocket—more than he had. Air was fine, but men needed food, as well.

He hit the key again. “Two weeks’ air in tanks. Staying with Martian farmer of doubtful intelligence, but his air too thin, pumps no good.” The last he let fade out, ending with an abrupt cutoff of power. There was no sense in their sending out fools in half-built ships to try to rescue him. He wasn’t a kid in an airplane, crying at the mess he was in, and he didn’t intend to act like one. That farmer business would give them enough to chew on; they had their money’s worth, and that was that.

He wasn’t quite prepared for the news that came over the radar later—particularly for the things he’d been quoted as saying. For the first time it occurred to him that the other pilot, sailing off beyond Mars to die, might have said things a little different from the clicks of Morse they had broadcast. Dave tried to figure the original version of “Don’t give up the ship” as a sailor might give it, and chuckled.

And at least the speculation over their official version of his Martian farmer helped to kill the boredom. In another week at the most, there’d be an end to that, too, and he’d be back out of the news. Then there’d be more long days and nights to fill somehow, before his time ran out. But for the moment, he could enjoy the antics of nearly three billion people who got more excited over one man in trouble on Mars than they would have out of half the population starving to death.

He set the radar back on the Foundation wave length, but there was nothing there; Buller had finally run down, and not yet got his breath back. Finally, he turned back to the general broadcast on the Lunar signal. It was remarkable how man’s progress had leaped ahead by decades, along with his pomposity, just because an insignificant midget was still alive on Mars. They couldn’t have discovered a prettier set of half-truths about anybody than they had from the crumbs of facts he hadn’t even known existed concerning his life.

Then he sobered. That was the man on the street’s reaction. But the diplomats, like the tides, waited on no man. And his life made no difference to a lithium bomb. He was still going through a counter-reaction when Queekle insisted it was bedtime and persuaded him to leave the radar.

After all, not a single thing had been accomplished by his fool message.

But he snapped back to the message as a new voice came on: “And here’s a late flash from the United Nations headquarters. Russia has just volunteered the use of a completed rocketship for the rescue of David Mannen on Mars, and we’ve accepted the offer. The Russian delegation is still being cheered on the floor! Here are the details we have now. This will be a oneway trip, radar-guided by a new bomb control method—no, here’s more news! It will be guided by radar and an automatic searching head that will put it down within a mile of Mannen’s ship. Unmanned, it can take tremendous acceleration, and reach Mannen before another week is out! United Technical Foundation is even now trying to contact Mannen through a hookup to the big government high-frequency labs where a new type of receiver—”

It was almost eight minutes before Buller’s voice came in, evidently while the man was still getting Dave’s hurried message off the tape. “Mannen, you’re coming in fine. Okay, those refractories—they’ll be on the way to Moscow in six hours, some new type the scientists here worked out after you left. We’ll send two sets this time to be sure, but they test almost twenty times as good as the others. We’re still in contact with Moscow, and some details are still being worked on, but we’re equipping their ship with the same type refractories. Most of the other supplies will come straight from them—”

Dave nodded. And there’d be a lot of things he’d need—he’d see to that. Things that would be supplied straight from them. Right now, everything was milk and honey, and all nations were being the fool pilots rescuing the kid in the plane, suddenly bowled over by interplanetary success. But they’d need plenty later to keep their diplomats busy—something to wrangle over and blow off steam that would be vented on important things, otherwise.

Well, the planets wouldn’t be important to any nation for a long time, but they were spectacular enough. And just how was a planet claimed, if the man who landed was taken off in a ship that was a mixture of the work of two countries?

Maybe his theories were all wet, but there was no harm in the gamble. And even if the worst happened, all this might hold off the trouble long enough for colonies. Mars was still a stinking world, but it could support life if it had to.

“Queekle,” he said slowly, “you’re going to be the first Martian ambassador to Earth. But first, how about a little side trip to Venus on the way back, instead of going direct? That ought to drive them crazy and tangle up their interplanetary rights a little more. Well? On to Venus, or direct home to Earth?”

“Queeklrle,” the Martian creature answered. It wasn’t too clear, but it was obviously a lot more like a two-syllable word.

Dave nodded. “Right! Venus.”

The sky was still filled with the nasty little stars he’d seen the first night on Mars, but he grinned now as he looked up, before reaching for the key again. He wouldn’t have to laugh at big men, after all. He could look up at the sky and laugh at every star in it. It shouldn’t be long before those snickering stars had a surprise coming to them.

AIN’T NOTHIN’ BUT A HOUND DOG, by Brenda W. Clough

My first order from Mt. Adelaide was for the Modesty Blaise poster. I’m always telling Arnold I don’t sell porn. It’s very tasteful; you don’t even see her face, just the leather bikini and the gun. Most people know not to send cash in the mail these days, and they put a name on their envelope. But I thought, hey, a nine-year-old boy with a fix on masterful women and no checking account. I mailed it off to ‘Mt. Adelaide, W. VA’ as requested, in a tube—not folded—and wished him luck in hiding it from his mother.

In the mail-order comics business you send out catalogs the way other people put quarters in a slot machine—as a gamble. I included one, rolled up small inside the poster tube. Ten days later I found a fat business-sized envelope in my box among the utility bills and grocery store flyers. Curious, I opened it right away. Out flopped a stack of money, ten twenty-dollar bills! I have my box in a nice suburban post office, very quiet in the middle of the morning, and the only person in the lobby was an old lady in a pink designer jogging suit. She looked over the top of her sunglasses at my jeans and shaggy mustache, and I could hear her think, ‘Drug payoff.’

I scooped up the bills, which were neatly rubber-banded together, and stuffed them into my pocket. My hands shook as I unfolded the order form. It was the one from my catalog, plus a typed page of additional orders. In the “MAIL TO” block was nothing but Mt. Adelaide, W. VA. 24956.

“Jackpot!” I whooped, making the postal clerk look up.

I hurried home, flipped the sign in the window from ‘Sorry, We’re Closed’ to “Hi, We’re Open,’ and read the order. I never have any walk-in trade until after noon, when the school kids start getting out. The order was what my sister calls eclectic—no comic books at all. There were X-Men bumper stickers and iron-on decals of Disney characters. And there was one of each and every button I listed, everything from ‘Aerobics Instructors Do It With Rhythm’ to ‘Only Visiting This Planet’ to ‘E=MC^2.’ Some of them I didn’t even stock any more: most button freaks buy them at cons. And typed at the bottom of the second page was a note, unsigned: ‘Please keep the change.’

Right then I decided Mt. Adelaide was my favorite customer. The total order came to less than one hundred-fifty dollars, and that was at list price. Even after packing and postage I’d turn a handsome profit. I spent the rest of the morning calling around for the buttons I’d sold out of, and packing the shipment into padded mailbags. And in the last one I put my own note: ‘Write for an estimate on Special Orders.’

Well, like Bogart says, that was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. Mt. Adelaide wrote back, saying he wanted more buttons. I picked them up at conventions and novelty stores. You never come to the end of buttons: they’re always making more, all different. In half a year, Mt. Adelaide had probably the finest collection in West Virginia, and I only charged him triple the price I paid, too.

Then he expressed an interest in Deely-Bobbers. Sent me an old article from some magazine. Expense no object. You remember Deely-Bobbers, those plastic headbands with shiny little balls on springs like antennae. They’re dead out of fashion now, at least in Herndon, but hey, West Virginia is kind of rural. I went down to DC, and when I found they were just as dead there, to New York City. I came back with Deely-Bobbers all right, hearts, globes, crescents, stars, eyeballs, you name it. After I mailed them out I had glitter, all colors, under my nails for weeks. But it was worth it when I got those envelopes full of bills by return mail.

By this time I had a handle on Mt. Adelaide. I figured he was one of those reclusive millionaires, like Howard Hughes. I mean if you get out at all you can buy liquor, right? He had an ongoing yen for Elvis memorabilia, and every now and then I’d buy him a commemorative liquor bottle. I’m not sure it’s legal to ship liquor over state lines, but I figured these were Art. They weren’t cheap, especially when you realize no one’ll ever twist off the King’s head and sip the bourbon, but Mt. Adelaide always paid up and asked for more. So he didn’t go to liquor stores or cities, or else he could’ve bought his own Deely-Bobbers on the street about four years ago, or even shopping centers. Where in America can’t you find a stuffed Garfield the Cat? I learned what Mt. Adelaide liked. He didn’t care for books or magazines or records—Beatle bubble-gum cards were good, but not Beatle albums. No Star Wars or GoBots or E.T. or Star Trek, which is too bad because there’s a lot of goodies in that line. And nothing really valuable. I suggested bidding for John Lennon’s psychedelic-painted Rolls Royce and got a very nice no. In a word, he liked tacky. The really tony art galleries go beyond just selling stuff, I understand. For good customers they’ll buy on speculation, guide their tastes. Well, for about three years I guided Mt. Adelaide’s, only in a different way of course. I introduced him to new worlds: fuzzy dice to hang from your rear-view mirror, trolls with idiotic grins and long fluffy acrylic hair, souvenir copies of major national monuments. New depths, Josie would say.

When I went downtown to buy him a plastic Washington monument, I saw a parked car with a picture of Prince Charles stuck on the back window, with a big Styrofoam hand mounted on a spring beside it so that he’d wave. They like them in England, but you don’t see them much here. I waited for the driver to come back, and dickered with him for half an hour. I had to go to thirty-five dollars before he’d sell. When I got back to Herndon, I mailed it off to Mt. Adelaide with a bill for $250. I figured I deserved it, for exerting initiative. He loved it and wrote back urging me to keep an eye out for more Royal merchandise.

By then Mt. Adelaide was my meal ticket. The comic book store had never made much money. Now I could afford to hire an assistant to run it while I made a trip to Memphis. Mt. Adelaide knew the mother-lode for Elvis stuff was at Graceland, and begged me to go. When he mailed me a few liquor boxes full of twenties I allowed he had a point. Crazy millionaires always use cash; they probably don’t trust banks. In April I hired a truck and drove down in three days. The postcards and statuettes and paintings on black velvet and plush floppy-eared dogs that wind up to tinkle, ‘You Ain’t Nothin’ But a Hound Dog’ were okay. But I was proudest of the guaranteed genuine ticket to Elvis’s last concert, with a snip from one of his white silk scarves thrown in.

Once you drive across Tennessee it’s a straight shot up I-81. I planned to find a Marriott outside Roanoke. Once I’d have camped out. Now I had plenty of twenties left, and more where they came from. But at Wytheville I saw a sign for I-77 North. ‘West Virginia,’ it said.

I got so excited I cut off an Audi and pulled out at the next exit. Why drive back to Herndon to mail the stuff back to West Virginia, when I could drop it off now? Mt. Adelaide might be so pleased with the delivery, he’d invite me in to his secluded mansion, which I imagined was about as big as Wayne Manor. I always wanted to meet a reclusive millionaire!

So at a motor lodge outside Wytheville I bought a map of West Virginia. I unfolded it to the Cities and Towns index and looked for Mt. Adelaide. Nothing! I had to scratch my head about that for a second. All I knew about my customer was his town and his Zip Code. Then I realized it might not even be the name of a town. If it was a big estate, with a name, all you might need was the Zip Code. I bet William Randolph Hearst got his mail even if all it had was ‘San Simeon’ on it. Next morning I swung by the Wytheville post office to consult their Zip Code directory. Mail to 24956 is handled at Seneca, West Virginia. My map showed Seneca was a tiny town near the Virginia line, only about a hundred miles north of here—a nice morning’s drive.

I didn’t consider that a fully-loaded Ryder Rent-A-Truck is bad on mountains. The roads were secondary all the way, and the engine groaned up and down every hill. I got lost twice, the second time so bad I had to stop at an Arco to ask where I was, and it’s a point of pride in our family not to do that. Trout Spring, the grease monkey said. When I asked about Mt. Adelaide he just stared.

I made Seneca late in the afternoon, just in time to catch the postmaster. His directions sent me out past Clover Lick onto a one-lane gravel road that snaked down the side of a mountain. I didn’t like it one bit when the yellow hood of the truck nosed out over empty space on the curves. At the bottom of the hill the road quit. The clearing wasn’t even gravel, just clay, with barely room for a vehicle to turn. In the deep green shadow under the loblolly pines was a big steel mailbox sitting on a cut log. It was labeled, ‘Mt. Adelaide.’

Right then I should have quit too. But I said, “Hey, I wanted a recluse.” Scuffing around among the pines I found a narrow trail winding deeper into the hills. As I followed it I told myself it wouldn’t be safe to just unload my cargo and leave it. What if a bear came by and broke the Blue Hawaii bud vases?

By that time evening was coming on. It was pretty dark under the trees. I almost missed the cabin, tucked in a narrow side valley. The path turned so sharp towards it I overshot myself and got tangled in some brambles. The cabin was one of those do-it-yourself log homes, probably a single room inside—San Simeon, hah! No light showed from the single window. “I’m so full of dumbshit my eyes are brown,” I cussed myself, but I took a peek inside.

Of course it was too dark to see anything. I was turning away when a gleam of light flashed out. It was a harsh blue upward glare, like the kind a photocopy machine puts out if you forget to drop the cover before pumping in your coin. I recognized the toy standing on the glass right away—the Rambo poseable action figure I sent in my last order. As the light poured up, the doll began to get shorter. Stallone’s legs began to sink through the glass, then the overmuscled torso and arms (complete with automatic weapon), and finally the sweatbanded head went under. The doll was gone, and the blue light went out.

I stood there with my jaw hanging down to my chest, just stood there while all these sensible thoughts tapped on my skull trying to get in—thoughts like, it’s none of my business what the customer does with his stuff, and, it’s a hologram machine, whatever a hologram is, and, Rambo’s just a fad, so I wouldn’t invest in much Rambo junk. Before any of them could get in, the light surged up again, blue and fierce. On the glass was the bubble packet and cardboard tab that Rambo had come packaged in, when I bought him at Toys ‘R’ Us. And just above, the hand that had laid it there was moving away.

Now I’ve seen the Star Wars movies, and E.T., and I have a store full of comics about Bizarro and the Alien Legion and Mutant Teenage Ninja Turtles.—I read them, too. So why was I so stunned, when the hand was like a three-armed starfish? Sort of crusty all over, but totally flexible, boneless. I couldn’t make out the color, the blue light made everything blue. No wonder he didn’t buy Star Wars stuff!

I hightailed out of there so fast, it’s a wonder the alien didn’t come out to investigate the noise. I threw myself into the truck. I gunned up that hill in second gear, the engine screaming for mercy, the Elvis doodads lurching back and forth in back as I wrenched the wheels around the curves. To get back to I-81 I had to go through Minnehaha Springs and Mountain Grove and Staunton, all twisty secondary roads, but at least they were paved. It’s a miracle I didn’t kill myself ten times over. I was sweating bullets until I got onto the interstate a steady sixty-five miles per hour heading north. Then I mopped my forehead and tried to relax, knowing it would take all night to drive home. I turned on the radio, and it gave a sputter and began to whine, “Almost heaven, West Virginia, Blue Ridge mountains—” I twisted the volume knob so hard it came off in my hand.

* * * *

When I pulled up in front of the store I was nearly dead. The truck didn’t sound so good either—as I cut the engine it gave a soggy thump, like a horse rolling over dead. It was ten in the morning, but the driveway was blocked by a white station wagon. I sat slumped at the wheel, too shot to even lean on the horn. The front door opened and the twins boiled out of the store. “Hey, it’s Unca Tully!” “Didja read what’s been happening to Batman, Unca Tully, isn’t it neat with Two-Face—” “Didja bring back more comics, Unca Tully?”

Josie followed them out, yelling, “Hush up!” Then in a more civilized voice she said, “Coffee’s on the stove, Tully. How’re you doing these days?”

“Coffee, thank God!” I’m a year older than Josie, but my sister’s always been more sane and normal and supportive and mature. I used to resent it sometimes but now mature and normal sounded wonderful. We went in through the store, where Arnold had already taped a towel over the Frazetta poster above the cash register, and upstairs to the kitchen. “What are you doing here, Josie?”

She took a mug down from the cupboard. “I told you we’d be here over spring break, Tully. Here you are. Be careful, it’s hot. Your assistant let us in. I tried to keep the twins from trashing your stock.”

“It’s okay.” I’m real good friends with Becca and Mikey. Six-year-olds have naturally juvenile minds, so we have a lot in common. Besides, they like comics. The coffee was like a sip of sanity. “How long you staying?”

“A week.” She frowned, cocking an ear at the sound of Mikey strangling Becca downstairs. “Honey, Tully’s back.”

Arnold came out of the bathroom, newly-shaven and pink in the face. He shook my hand solemnly. “Good of you to let us camp on you like this, Tull. Where’ve you been? Have you had breakfast?”

No way I could tell them I’d been playing culture-vulture to a Martian or something. “Oh, picking up some stock,” I lied, weakly. “Food sounds great.”

Arnold put some eggs to fry, and began washing dishes. He’s a house-husband. Josie brings home the bacon by working on computers for the Navy. I always tell him Jerry Falwell wouldn’t approve. “We’re going downtown to tour the White House today,” Josie was saying. “Will you join us?”

All I wanted was sleep. After breakfast my house-guests took themselves off, and I crashed. But the minute my body was rested I woke up again. I’d seen E.T.—the movie, I mean—and Close Encounters, too. I knew I had to do something. Suppose Elvis Presley was somehow the foothold for the invasion of Earth? But I couldn’t think what—call the cops, the FBI? Maybe it’s a crime to sell stuff to aliens, I thought. Even if it was nothing but Gumby and Rambo, I bet they’d throw the book at me. And what was I going to do with the truck’s load?

I felt so shook, I went downstairs and skimmed a couple issues of Action Comics, to see how Superman might have handled it. And once I was in the store I felt better. The twins had messed up the shelves. While my helper rang up customers I sorted all the issues of Spider-Man back into order. I might have to live off the store’s profits again real soon now. I took the towel down off of the Frazetta too. You might say Arnold had a real broad definition of porn.

Next day we all went downtown to the Air and Space Museum. The cherry blossoms were in bloom and the Mall was jammed. Josie and the twins got off at the museum while Arnold and I drove around looking for a parking space. We finally found one on the other side of Constitution Avenue. After Arnold locked all the doors and checked his pocket twice for the keys I said, “Let’s cut through the National Gallery. There’s a moving sidewalk in the underpass between the buildings.” Arnold sighed. The twins have aged him. “When are you going to grow up, Tully? Find a nice girl, settle down?”

I knew he was worried I might be gay. “I’m waiting for the right girl, Arnie,” I said earnestly. “You know that God has the ideal mate for every one of us. It’d be a shame if I jumped the gun and missed her.” That was from Pat Robertson Answers Two Hundred of Life’s Most Probing Questions, which Arnold gave me last Christmas. I’d read it carefully so that when he nagged me I could quote it. Of course Arnold had read it too, so he just mumbled about going to church, which I hardly ever do.

We went into the East Wing and gaped up at the Calder mobile. “Only in America,” Arnold said. He doesn’t really approve of abstract art. Then we went downstairs and toward the moving sidewalk. I had to wait while he bought a Matisse poster. It was one of the cut-out ones, with bright dancing figures and flowers. “Now that’s beautiful,” he told me as we waited to pay, and I agreed. It was beautiful, the way April, and the cherry blossoms, and the dirty happy faces of the twins were beautiful.

All of a sudden I thought about the Modesty Blaise, and was ashamed. Here this alien wanted samples of human culture for a museum on Alpha Centauri, and I was exploiting his ignorance, selling him kitsch. I remembered reading about that space probe, where they put in recordings of whale songs and Bach. That’s the sort of thing Earth should be represented by. “Wait a minute, Arnie.” I grabbed a fat glossy art book at random. “Buy this too. I’ll pay you back outside.” He looked at me funny—it cost $60—but didn’t say anything.

We went through the West Building and out into the sunshine, Arnold holding his poster and me carrying the book in a paper bag. The walks were crowded with tourists, joggers, strollers, and people lined up for ice cream. A teenaged girl with long black hair planted herself in front of us and said, “Hi, are you saved?”

With grave pride Arnold said, “Yes, I am, but my brother here isn’t.”

I tried to think of some retort from Pat Robertson, but could only say, “But, hey, Arnie!” The girl thrust a pocket New Testament at me, chattering like a blue jay. I took it and marched off, letting Arnold catch up as best he could.

Usually I love the Air and Space Museum, but this time I couldn’t enjoy it. An even more depressing idea had hit me. Should I try to convert this alien? You see, I’d been rolled in enough gospel to know the only way to salvation. You can figure that everyone on this planet has had a Bible pushed at them, one time or another. But not Mt. Adelaide. And I realized that if I didn’t do it, no one would. He’d be damned. And maybe his whole planet, his whole galaxy, with him. Maybe God was watching me—counting on me to make the right decision. Then, as if the idea of a celestial Peeping Tom set me off, I saw there was a whole slew of religious stuff I could send. Plastic Jesuses with magnetic bases that let them stand on your dashboard, white plaster garden statues of the Blessed Virgin Mary, stick-on window plaques with rainbows and doves and scriptural texts in curly letters—I could keep Mt. Adelaide happy for years! Thinking about God up there, watching me think all this, made my head spin.

The kids were tired and cranky on the way home. I sat between them in the back seat and helped Mikey page through All About Comets. Then, prying in my bag, Becca whined, “It’s my turn now, Unca Tully. Read me this!”

When I took the book out I found I’d bought Monet Retrospective. We looked at photographs of paintings of shimmery water lilies for a while. Then, bored, Becca began to whimper and kick the seat again. “I wanna drink. I wanna get out. I wanna comic book!”

Mikey joined in the chant, “I wanna comic book!” That’s the worst part about twins, the way they reinforce each other.

For two cents I would have got out of the car myself. But Josie, wonderful Josie, fumbled under the front seat and produced The Mighty Thor—not one but two copies! “I’m sorry to steal your comics, Tully,” she said in the sudden quiet. “They were a last resort. “I’ll pay you for these, I promise.”

“No, that’s okay.” The peace was worth it. I can see how kids get spoiled. Arnold had been driving and following the whole exchange in the rear view mirror. “From Monet to Thor,” he snorted.

Josie gave him a be-polite-now nudge. “Lots of people read comic books, dear,” she said. “Who’s to say, if they aren’t as legitimate an expression as painting?”

I sat up. “You know, I never thought of that.”

Arnold gave me another one of those funny looks in the mirror and said, warningly, “You read the chapter in Pat Robertson about alcohol and drugs, Tully?”

I didn’t answer. What I saw was that an ET smart enough to hide out in the boonies and shop by mail was smart enough to know a Calder from a pair of fuzzy dice. He was deliberately, systematically studying this aspect of people—the Deely-Bobber factor, whatever it is that makes us produce wacko items. A non-human would learn more from that than by studying, say, our NORAD defenses. I bet most people wouldn’t recognize a cruise missile if it fell on them, though Josie would. But Deely-Bobbers have a deep appeal.

And it wasn’t ‘only in America,’ either. The entire human race has this streak of nuttiness. Look at the waving Prince Charles ornament. And I figured that folks that know us, that want to know us, that deeply, are okay.

As soon as the station wagon stopped in the driveway I jumped out and ran inside to the telephone. The Ryder people promised to tune up the engine first thing tomorrow morning if I nursed the truck to their garage. My helper had got the mail. On top of the stack was an envelope from West Virginia. Inside was the unsigned typewritten note:

“Am interested in more Royal souvenirs, esp. a set of cups in the shape of Prince Charles and Lady Diana’s heads. Would you be able to visit Britain?”

“What is it, Unca Tully?” Mikey asked, hugging my leg.

Josie was right behind, so I said, “A confirmation.” I went out and threw the letter on the front seat of the truck, to answer in person. I brought the Bible and Monet too. Hey, you never know. Then I opened up the back. If I was going to drive back down those roads again, the load should be packed better.

Tagging along, the twins immediately began to fight over the stuffed hound dog. “Hey! Don’t destroy that—this is how to play with it.” I wound up the key and set the dog on the tailgate. The kids watched, owl-eyed, as I sang along with the music-box. They were able to warble along too, by the second verse. “They said you was high-class, well that was just a lie…”

FOR I AM A JEALOUS PEOPLE! by Lester del Rey

1

…the keepers of the house shall tremble, and the strong men shall bow themselves…and the doors shall be shut in the streets, when the sound of the grinding is low…they shall be afraid of that which is high, and fears shall be in the way, and the almond tree shall flourish…because man goeth to his long home, and the mourners go about the streets…

Ecclesiastes, 12:3-5

THE BOOK OF THE JEWS

There was the continuous shrieking thunder of an alien rocket overhead as the Reverend Amos Strong stepped back into the pulpit. He straightened his square, thin shoulders slightly, and the gaunt hollows in his cheeks deepened. For a moment he hesitated, while his dark eyes turned upward under bushy, grizzled brows. Then he moved forward, placing the torn envelope and telegram on the lectern with his notes. The blue-veined hand and knobby wrist that projected from the shiny black serge of his sleeve hardly trembled.

Unconsciously, his eyes turned toward the pew where his wife should be, before he remembered that Ruth would not be there this time. She had been delayed by the arrival of the message and had read it before sending it on to him. Now she could not be expected. It seemed strange to him. She hadn’t missed service since Richard was born nearly thirty years ago.

The sound of the rocket hissed its way into silence over the horizon, and Amos stepped forward, gripping the dusty surface of the rickety lectern with both hands, he straightened and forced his throat into the pattern that would give his voice the resonance and calm it needed.

“I have just received final confirmation that my son was killed in the battle of the moon,” he told the puzzled congregation, which had been rustling uncertainly since he was first interrupted. He lifted his voice, and the resonance in it deepened. “I had asked, if it were possible, that this cup might pass from me. Nevertheless, not as I will, Lord, but as Thou wilt.”

He turned from their shocked faces, closing his ears to the sympathetic cries of others who had suffered. The Church had been built when Wesley was twice its present size, but the troubles that had hit the people had driven them into the worn old building until it was nearly filled. He pulled his notes to him, forcing his mind from his own loss to the work that had filled his life.

“The text today is drawn from Genesis,” he told them. “Chapter seventeen, seventh verse; and chapter twenty-six, fourth verse. The promise which God made to Abraham and again to Isaac.” He read from the Bible before him, turning to the pages unerringly at the first try. “And I will establish my covenant between me and thee, and thy seed after thee, in their generations, for an everlasting covenant, to be a God unto thee, and to thy seed after thee.

“And I will make thy seed to multiply as the stars of heaven, and will give unto thy seed all these countries: and in thy seed shall all the nations of the earth be blessed.”

He had memorized most of his sermon, no longer counting on inspiration to guide him as it had once done. He began smoothly, hearing his own words in snatches as he drew the obvious and comforting answer to their uncertainty. God had promised man the earth as an everlasting covenant. Why then should men be afraid or lose faith because alien monsters had swarmed down out of the emptiness between the stars to try man’s faith? As in the days of bondage in Egypt or captivity in Babylon, there would always be trials and times when the faint-hearted should waver, but the eventual outcome was clearly promised.

He had delivered a sermon from the same text in his former parish of Clyde when the government had first begun building its base on the moon, drawing heavily in that case from the reference to the stars of heaven to quiet the doubts of those who felt that man had no business in space. It was then that Richard had announced his commission in the lunar colony, using Amos’ own words to defend his refusal to enter the ministry. It was the last he saw of the boy.

He had used the text one other time, over forty years before, but the reason was lost, together with the passion that had won him fame as a boy evangelist. He could remember the sermon only because of the shock on the bearded face of his father when he had misquoted a phrase. It was one of his few clear memories of the period before his voice changed and his evangelism came to an abrupt end.

He had tried to recapture his inspiration after ordination, bitterly resenting the countless intrusions of marriage and fatherhood on his spiritual forces. But at last he had recognized that God no longer intended him to be a modern Peter the Hermit, and resigned himself to the work he could do. Now he was back in the parish where he had first begun; and if he could no longer fire the souls of his flock, he could at least help somewhat with his memorized rationalizations for the horror of the alien invasion.

Another ship thundered overhead, nearly drowning his words. Six months before, the great ships had exploded out of nothing in space and had fallen carefully to the moon, to attack the forces there. In another month they had begun a few forays against Earth itself.

And now, while the world haggled and struggled to unite against them, they were establishing bases all over and apparently setting out to conquer the world mile by mile.

Amos saw the faces below him turn up, hate-filled and uncertain. He raised his voice over the thunder, and finished hastily, moving quickly through the end of the service.

He hesitated as the congregation stirred. The ritual was over and his words were said, but there had been no real service. Slowly, as if by themselves, his lips opened, and he heard his voice quoting the Twenty-seventh Psalm. “The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear?”

His voice was soft, but he could feel the reaction of the congregation as the surprisingly timely words registered. “Though an host should encamp against me, my heart shall not fear; though war should rise against me, in this will I be confident.” The air seemed to quiver, as it had done long ago when God had seemed to hold direct communion with him, and there was no sound from the pews when he finished. “Wait on the Lord: be of good courage, and he shall strengthen thine heart; wait, I say, on the Lord.”

The warmth of that mystic glow lingered as he stepped quietly from the pulpit. Then there was the sound of motorcycles outside, and a pounding on the door. The feeling vanished.

Someone stood up and sudden light began pouring in from outdoors. There was a breath of the hot, droughty physical world with its warning of another dust storm, and a scattering of grasshoppers on the steps to remind the people of the earlier damage to their crops. Amos could see the bitterness flood back over them in tangible waves, even before they noticed the short, plump figure of Dr. Alan Miller.

“Amos! Did you hear?” He was wheezing as if he had been running. “Just came over the radio while you were in here gabbling.”

He was cut off by the sound of more motorcycles. They swept down the single main street of Wesley, heading west. The riders were all in military uniform, carrying weapons and going at the top speed of their machines. Dust erupted behind them, and Doc began coughing and swearing. In the last few years, he had grown more and more outspoken about his atheism; when Amos had first known him, during the earlier pastorate in Wesley, the man had at least shown some respect for the religion of others.

“All right,” Amos said sharply. “You’re in the house of God, Doc. What came over the radio?”

Doc caught himself and choked back his coughing fit. “Sorry. But damn it, man, the aliens have landed in Clyde, only fifty miles away. They’ve set up a base there! That’s what all those rockets going over meant.”

There was a sick gasp from the people who had heard, and a buzz as the news was passed back to others. Faces grayed. Some dropped back to the hard seats, while others pressed forward, trying to reach Doc, shouting questions at him.

Amos let himself be shoved aside, hardly noticing the reaction of his flock. It was Clyde where he had served before coming here again. He was trying to picture the alien ships dropping down, scouring the town ahead of them with gas and bullets. The grocer on the corner with his nine children, the lame deacon who had served there, the two Aimes sisters with their horde of dogs and cats and their constant crusade against younger sinners. He tried to picture the green-skinned, humanoid aliens moving through the town, invading the church, desecrating the altar! And there was Anne Seyton, who had been Richard’s sweetheart, though of another faith…

“What about the garrison nearby?” a heavy farmer yelled over the crowd. “I had a boy there, and he told me they could handle any ships when they were landing! Shell their tubes when they were coming down…”

Doc shook his head. “Half an hour before the landing, there was a cyclone up there. It took the roof off the main building and wrecked the whole training garrison.”

“Jim!” The big man screamed out the name, and began dragging his frail wife behind him, out toward his car. “If they got Jim…”

Others started to rush after him, but another procession of motorcycles stopped them. This time they were traveling slower, and a group of tanks were rolling behind them. The rear tank drew abreast, slowed, and stopped, while a dirty-faced man in a major’s untidy uniform stuck his head out.

“You folks get under cover! Ain’t you heard the news? Go home and stick to your radios, before a snake plane starts potshooting the bunch of you for fun. The snakes’ll be heading straight over this town if they’re after Topeka, like it looks!” He jerked back down and began swearing at someone inside. The tank jerked to a start and began heading away toward Clyde. There had been enough news of the sport of the alien planes in the papers. The people melted from the church. Amos tried to stop them for at least a short prayer and to give them time to collect their thoughts, but gave up after most of the people began moving away. A minute later, he was standing alone with Doc Miller.

“Better get home, Amos,” Doc suggested. “My car’s half a block down. Suppose I give you a lift?”

Amos nodded wearily. His bones felt dry and brittle, and there was a dust in his mouth thicker than that in the air. He felt old, and for the first time, almost useless. He followed the doctor quietly, welcoming the chance to ride the six short blocks to the little house the parish furnished him.

A car of ancient age and worse repair rattled toward them as they reached Doc’s auto. It stopped, and a man in dirty overalls leaned out, his face working jerkily. “Are you prepared, brothers? Are you saved? Armageddon has come, as the Book foretold. Get right with God, brothers! The end of the world as foretold is at hand, amen!”

“Where does the Bible foretell alien races around other suns?” Doc shot at him.

The man blinked, frowned, and yelled something about sinners burning forever in hell before he started his rickety car again. Amos sighed. Now, with the rise of their troubles, fanatics would spring up to cry doom and false gospel more than ever, to the harm of all honest religion. He had never decided whether they were somehow useful to God or whether they were inspired by the forces of Satan.

“In my Father’s house are many mansions,” he quoted to Doc as they started up the street. “It’s quite possibly an allegorical reference to other worlds in the heavens.”

Doc grimaced, and shrugged. Then he sighed and dropped one hand from the wheel onto Amos’ knee. “I heard about Dick, Amos. I’m sorry. The first baby I ever delivered—and the best-looking!” He sighed again, staring toward Clyde as Amos found no words to answer. “I don’t get it. Why don’t we ever drop atom bombs on them? Why didn’t the moon base use their missiles?”

Amos had no answer to that, either. There was a rumor that all the major powers had sent their whole supply of atomic explosives up to the moon base early in the invasion, and that a huge meteorite had buried the stockpile under tons of debris, where there had been no chance to excavate it. It matched the other cases of accidents that had beset all human resistance.

He got out at the unpainted house where he lived, taking Doc’s hand silently and nodding his thanks.

He would have to organize his thoughts this afternoon. When night fell and the people could move about without the danger of being shot at by chance alien planes, the church bell would summon them, and they would need spiritual guidance. If he could help them to stop trying to understand God, and to accept Him… There had been that moment in the church when God had seemed to enfold him and the congregation in warmth—the old feeling of true fulfillment. Maybe, now in the hour of its greatest need, some measure of inspiration had returned.

He found Ruth setting the table. Her small, quiet body moved as efficiently as ever, though her face was puffy and her eyes were red. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it, Amos. But right after the telegram, Anne Seyton came. She’d heard—before we did. And…”

The television set was on, showing headlines from the Kansas City Star, and he saw there was no need to tell her the news. He put a hand on one of hers. “God has only taken what he gave, Ruth. We were blessed with Richard for thirty years.”

“I’m all right.” She pulled away and picked up a pot, turning toward the kitchen. “Didn’t you hear what I said? Anne’s here. Dick’s wife! They were married before he left, secretly—right after you talked with him about the difference in religion. You’d better see her, Amos. She knows about her people in Clyde.”

He watched his wife move from the room, his heart heavy with her grief, while the words penetrated. He’d never forbidden marriage, he had only warned the boy, who had been so much like Ruth. He hesitated, and finally turned toward the tiny second bedroom. There was a muffled answer to his knock, and the lock clicked rustily.

“Anne?” he said. The room was darkened, but he could see her blonde head and the thin, almost unfeminine lines of her figure. He put out a hand and felt her slim fingers in his palm. As she turned toward the weak light, he saw no sign of tears, but her hand shook with her dry shudders. “Anne, Ruth has just told me that God has given us a daughter…”

“God!” She spat the word out harshly, while the hand jerked back. “God, Reverend Strong? Whose God? The one who sends meteorites against Dick’s base, plagues of insects and drought against our farms? The God who uses tornadoes to make it easy for the snakes to land? That God, Reverend Strong? Dick gave you a daughter, and he’s dead! Dead! Dead!”

Amos backed out of the room. He had learned to stand the faint mockery with which Doc pronounced the name of the Lord, but this was something that set his skin into goose pimples and caught at his throat. Anne had been of a different faith, but she had always seemed religious before.

It was probably only hysteria. He turned toward the kitchen to find Ruth and send her in to the girl.

Overhead, the staccato bleating of a ramjet cut through the air in a sound he had never heard. But the radio description fitted it perfectly. It could be no Earth ship with such a noise!

Then there was another and another, until they blended together into a steady drone.

And over it came the sudden firing of a heavy gun, while a series of rapid thuds came from the garden behind the house. Rover let out two loud barks, and then screamed in animal agony!

Amos stumbled toward the back door, but Ruth was already ahead of him. “Dick’s dog! Now they’ve got his dog!” she cried out.

Before Amos could stop her, she threw back the door and darted out. There was another burst of shots and a sick cry. Ruth was crumpling before he could get to the doorway.

2

My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me? I am poured out like water, and all my bones are out of joint: my heart is like wax; it is melted in the midst of my bowels. My strength is dried up like a potsherd; and my tongue cleaveth to my jaws; and thou hast brought me into the dust of death.

Psalm 22:1,14,15

THE BOOK OF THE JEWS

There were no more shots as he ran to her and gathered her into his arms. The last of the alien delta planes had gone over, heading for Topeka or whatever city they were attacking.

Ruth was still alive. One of the ugly slugs had caught her in the abdomen, ripping away part of her side, and the wound was bleeding horribly. But he felt her heart still beating, and she moaned faintly when he lifted her. Then, as he put her on the couch, she opened her eyes briefly, saw him, and tried to smile. Her lips moved, and he dropped his head to hear.

“I’m sorry, Amos. Foolish. Nuisance. Sorry.”

Her eyes closed, but she smiled again after he bent to kiss her lips. “Glad now. Waited so long.”

Anne stood in the doorway, staring unbelievingly. But as Amos stood up, she unfroze and darted to the medicine cabinet, to come back and begin snipping away the ruined dress and trying to staunch the flow of blood.

Amos reached for the phone, unable to see it clearly. He mumbled something to the operator, and a minute later to Doc Miller. He’d been afraid that the doctor would still be out. He had a feeling that Doc had promised to come, but could remember no words.

The flow of blood outside the wound had been stopped, but Ruth was white, even to her lips. Anne forced him back to a chair, her fingers gentle on his arm.

“I’m sorry, Father Strong. I—I…” He stood up after a few minutes and went over to stand beside Ruth, letting his eyes turn toward the half-set table. There was a smell of scorching food in the air, and he went out to the old wood-burning stove to pull the pans off and drop them into the sink. Anne followed, but he hardly saw her, until he heard her begin to cry softly. There were tears this time.

“The ways of God are not the ways of man, Anne,” he said, and the words released a flood of his own emotions. He sank tiredly onto a stool, his hands falling limply onto his lap. He dropped his head against the table, feeling the weakness and uncertainty of age. “We love the carnal form and our hearts are broken when it is gone. Only God can know all of any of us or count the tangled threads of our lives. It isn’t good to hate God!”

She moved beside him as he rose and returned to the living room. “I don’t, Father Strong. I never did.” He couldn’t be sure of the honesty of it, but he made no effort to question her, and she sighed. “Mother Ruth isn’t dead yet!”

He was saved from any answer by the door being slammed open as Doc Miller came rushing in. The plump little man took one quick look at Ruth and was beside her, reaching for plasma and his equipment. He handed the plasma bottle to Anne, and began working carefully.

“There’s a chance,” he said finally. “If she were younger or stronger, I’d say there was an excellent chance. But now, since you believe in it, you’d better do some fancy praying.”

“I’ve been praying,” Amos told him, realizing that it was true. The prayers had begun inside his head before she was outside the door, and they had never ceased.

They moved her gently, couch and all, into the bedroom, where the blinds could be drawn, and where the other sounds of the house couldn’t reach her. Doc gave Anne a shot of something and sent her into the other bedroom. He turned to Amos, but didn’t insist when the minister shook his head.

“I’ll stay here, Amos,” Doc said, “with you. As long as I can until I get another emergency call. The switchboard girl knows where I am.”

He went back into the bedroom without closing the door. Amos stood in the center of the living room, his head bowed, for long minutes.

It was a whining sound that finally called him back to the world around him. He went to the back door and stared out. The Scotty was still alive, pulling its little body along the dirt of the garden toward the house. The whole hind section was paralyzed, and the animal must have been in agony from the horrible wound on its back. But it saw him and whined again, struggling toward him.

He went out automatically. He had never been fond of the dog, nor it of him. But now there was an understanding between them. “Shh, Rover,” he told the dog. “Quiet, boy. The mistress is all right.”

Rover whined again, and a wet tongue caressed Amos’ hand. He bent as gently as he could to examine the wound. Then he stood up, trying to reassure the animal.

He found Richard’s hunting rifle in one of the trunks and made sure it was unrusted. He loaded it carefully, feeling his skin crawl at the touch of the gun. It seemed strange to use the weapon on Rover when the dog and Richard had both found such pleasure in hunting with this same gun. But he couldn’t see the animal suffering. Rover looked up and tried to bark as he saw the gun. Amos dropped beside him, feeling that the dog knew what he meant to do. The eyes looked up at him with a curious understanding as he placed the muzzle near the animal’s head. Amos stopped, wondering. The wound was a horrible thing—but Doc might be able to save the animal, even though he was no veterinarian. If it had been a wounded human, the attempt would have to be made.

Rover drew back his lips, and Amos stopped, expecting a growl. He even reached out to put the gun away. But the wet tongue came out again, brushing across his hand, accepting the fate intended, and blessing him for it. He patted the dog’s head, closed his eyes, and pulled the trigger. It was merciful. There wasn’t even time for a cry of pain.

If the dog had fought him, if it had struggled against its fate in a final desire to live… But it had submitted to what it considered a superior being. Only man could defy a Higher Will. Rover had accepted…and Rover was dead. He buried the small body in the soft dirt of the garden.

Doc stood in the doorway when he started back for the house. “I heard the shot and thought you were trying something foolish,” the doctor said. “I should have known better, I guess, with your beliefs. Then I waited here, listening for a snake plane, ready to pull you back. According to the television, they must be returning by now.”

Amos nodded. He found Ruth still in a coma, with nothing he could do. Then he remembered the planes and turned to watch the television. Topeka was off the air, but another station was showing news films.

Hospitals, schools, and similar places seemed to have been the chief targets of the aliens. Gas had accounted for a number of deaths, though those could have been prevented if instructions had been followed. But the incendiaries had caused the greatest damage.

And the aliens had gotten at least as rough treatment as they had meted out. Of the forty that had been counted, twenty-nine were certainly down.

“I wonder if they’re saying prayers to God for their dead?” Doc asked. “Or doesn’t your God extend his mercy to races other than man?”

Amos shook his head slowly. It was a new question to him. But there could be only one answer. “God rules the entire universe, Doc. But these evil beings surely offer him no worship!”

“Are you sure? They’re pretty human!” Amos looked back to the screen, where one of the alien corpses could be seen briefly. They did look almost human, though squat and heavily muscled. Their skin was green, and they wore no clothes. There was no nose, aside from two orifices under their curiously flat ears that quivered as if in breathing. But they were human enough to have passed for deformed men, if they had been worked on by good make-up men.

They were creatures of God, just as he was! And as such, could he deny them? Then his mind recoiled, remembering the atrocities they had committed, the tortures that had been reported, and the utter savageness so out of keeping with their inconceivably advanced ships. They were things of evil who had denied their birthright as part of God’s domain. For evil, there could be only hatred. And from evil, how could there be worship of anything but the powers of darkness?

The thought of worship triggered his mind into an awareness of his need to prepare a sermon for the evening. It would have to be something simple; both he and his congregation were in no mood for rationalizations. Tonight he would have to serve God through their emotions. The thought frightened him. He tried to cling for strength to the brief moment of glory he had felt in the morning, but even that seemed far away.

There was the wail of a siren outside, rising to an ear-shattering crescendo, and the muffled sound of a loudspeaker with its amplifier driven to high distortion levels.

He stood up at last and moved out onto the porch with Doc as the tank came by. It was limping on treads that seemed to be about to fall apart, and the amplifier and speaker were mounted crudely on top. It pushed down the street, repeating its message over and over.

“Get out of town! Everybody clear out! This is an order to evacuate! The snakes are coming! Human forces have been forced to retreat to regroup. The snakes are heading this way, heading toward Topeka. They are looting and killing as they go. Get out of town! Everybody clear out!”

It paused, and another voice blared out, sounding like that of the major who had warned the town earlier. “Get the hell out, all of you! Get out while you’ve still got your skins outside of you. We’ve been licked. Shut up, Blake! We’ve had the holy living pants beat off us, and we’re going back to momma. Get out, scram, vamoose! The snakes are coming! Beat it!”

It staggered down the street, rumbling its message, and now other stragglers began following it—men in trucks, piled together like cattle; men in ancient cars of every description. Then another amplifier sounded from one of the trucks.

“Stay under cover until night! Then get out! The snakes won’t be here at once. Keep cool. Evacuate in order, and under cover of darkness. We’re holing up ourselves when we get to a safe place. This is your last warning. Stay under cover now, and evacuate as soon as it’s dark.”

There was a scream from the sky, and alien planes began dipping down. Doc pulled Amos back into the house, but not before he saw men being cut to ribbons by missiles that seemed to fume and burst into fire as they hit. Some of the men on the retreat made cover. When the planes were gone, they came out and began regrouping, leaving the dead and hauling the wounded with them.

“Those men need me!” Amos protested.

“So does Ruth,” Doc told him. “Besides, we’re too old, Amos. We’d only get in the way. They have their own doctors and chaplains, probably. Those poor devils are risking their lives to save us, damn it. The Army must have piled all its movable wounded together and sent them to warn us and to decoy the planes away from the rest who are probably sneaking back through the woods and fields. They’re heroes, Amos, and they’d hate your guts for wasting what they’re trying to do. I’ve been listening to one of the local stations, and they’ve already been through hell.”

He turned on his heel and went back to the bedroom. The television program tardily began issuing evacuation orders to all citizens along the road from Clyde to Topeka, together with instructions. For some reason, the aliens seemed not to spot anything smaller than a tank in movement at night, and all orders were to wait until then.

Doc came out again, and Amos looked up at him, feeling his head bursting, but with one clear idea fixed in it. “Ruth can’t be moved, can she, Doc?”

“No, Amos.” Doc sighed. “But it won’t matter. You’d better go in to her now. She seems to be coming to. I’ll wake the girl and get her ready.”

Amos went into the bedroom as quietly as he could, but there was no need for silence. Ruth was conscious, as if some awareness of her approaching death had forced her to make the most of these last few minutes of her life. She put out a frail hand timidly to him. Her voice was weak, but clear.

“Amos, I know. And I don’t mind now, except for you. But there’s something I had to ask you. Amos, do you…?”

He dropped beside her when her voice faltered, wanting to bury his head against her, but not daring to lose the few remaining moments of her sight. He fought the words out of the depths of his mind, and then realized it would take more than words. He bent over and kissed her again, as he had first kissed her so many years ago.

“I’ve always loved you, Ruth,” he said. “I still do love you.”

She sighed and relaxed. “Then I won’t be jealous of God anymore, Amos. I had to know.”

Her hand reached up weakly, to find his hair and to run her fingers through it. She smiled, the worn lines of her face softening. Her voice was content and almost young. “And forsaking all others, cleave only unto thee…”

The last syllable whispered out, and the hand fell.

Amos dropped his head at last, and a single sob choked out of him. He folded her hands tenderly, with the worn, cheap wedding ring uppermost, and arose slowly with his head bowed.

“Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was; and the spirit shall return unto God who gave it. Father, I thank thee for this moment with her. Bless her, O Lord, and keep her for me.”

He nodded to Doc and Anne. The girl looked sick and sat staring at him with eyes that mixed shock and pity.

“You’ll need some money, Anne,” he said. “I don’t have much, but there’s a little…”

She drew back and shook her head. “I’ve got enough. Reverend Strong. I’ll make out. Doctor Miller has told me to take his car. But what about you?”

“There’s still work to be done,” he said. “I haven’t even written my sermon. And the people who are giving up their homes will need comfort. In such hours as these, we all need God to sustain us.”

She stumbled to her feet and into her bedroom. Amos opened his old desk and reached for pencil and paper.

3

The wicked have drawn out the sword, and have bent their bow, to cast down the poor and needy, and to slay such as be of upright conversation.

I have seen the wicked in great power, and spreading himself like a green bay tree.

Psalm 37:14, 35

THE BOOK OF THE JEWS

Darkness was just beginning to fall when they helped Anne out into the doctor’s car, making sure that the tank was full. She was quiet, and had recovered herself, but she avoided Amos whenever possible. She turned at last to Doc Miller.

“What are you going to do? I should have asked before, but…”

“Don’t worry about me, girl,” he told her, his voice as hearty as when he was telling an old man he still had forty years to live. “I’ve got other ways. The switchboard girl is going to be one of the last to leave, and I’m driving her in her car. You go ahead, the way we mapped it out. And pick up anyone else you find on the way. It’s safe; it’s still too early for men to start turning to looting, rape, or robbery. They’ll think of that after the shock of this wears off a little.”

She held out a hand to him, and climbed in. At the last minute, she pressed Amos’ hand briefly. Then she stepped on the accelerator and the car took off down the street at top speed.

“She hates me,” Amos said. “She loves other men too much and God too little to understand.”

“And maybe you love your God too much to understand that you love men, Amos. Don’t worry, she’ll figure it out. The next time you see her, she’ll feel different. Look, I really do have to see that Nellie gets off the switchboard and into a car. I’ll see you later.”

Doc swung off toward the telephone office, carrying his bag. Amos watched him, puzzled as always at anyone who could so fervently deny God and yet could live up to every commandment of the Lord except worship. They had been friends for a long time, while the parish stopped fretting about the friendship and took it for granted, yet the riddle of what they found in common was no nearer solution.

There was the distant sound of a great rocket landing, and the smaller stutterings of the peculiar alien ramjets. The ships passed directly overhead, yet there was no shooting this time.

For a moment, Amos faced the bedroom window where Ruth lay, and then he turned toward the church. He opened it, throwing the doors wide. There was no sign of the sexton, but he had rung the bell in the tower often enough before. He took off his worn coat and grabbed the rope.

It was hard work, and his hands were soft. Once it had been a pleasure, but now his blood seemed too thin to suck up the needed oxygen. The shirt stuck wetly to his back, and he felt giddy when he finished.

Almost at once, the telephone in his little office began jangling nervously. He staggered to it, panting as he lifted the receiver, to hear the voice of Nellie, shrill with fright. “Reverend, what’s up? Why’s the bell ringing?”

“For prayer meeting, of course,” he told her. “What else?”

“Tonight? Well, I’ll be—” She hung up.

He lighted a few candles and put them on the altar, where their glow could be seen from the dark street, but where no light would shine upward for alien eyes. Then he sat down to wait, wondering what was keeping the organist.

There were hushed calls from the street and nervous cries. A car started, to be followed by another. Then a group took off at once. He went to the door, partly for the slightly cooler air. All along the street, men were moving out their possessions and loading up, while others took off. They waved to him, but hurried on by. He heard telephones begin to ring, but if Nellie was passing on some urgent word, she had forgotten him.

He turned back to the altar, kneeling before it. There was no articulate prayer in his mind. He simply clasped his gnarled fingers together and rested on his knee, looking up at the outward symbol of his life. Outside, the sounds went on, blending together. It did not matter whether anyone chose to use the church tonight. It was open, as the house of God must always be in times of stress. He had long since stopped trying to force religion on those not ready for it.

And slowly, the strains of the day began to weave themselves into the pattern of his life. He had learned to accept; from the death of his baby daughter on, he had found no way to end the pain that seemed so much a part of life. But he could bury it behind the world of his devotion, and meet whatever his lot was to be without anger at the will of the Lord. Now, again, he accepted things as they were ordered.

There was a step behind him. He turned, not bothering to rise, and saw the dressmaker, Angela Anduccini, hesitating at the door. She had never entered, though she had lived in Wesley since she was eighteen. She crossed herself doubtfully, and waited.

He stood up. “Come in, Angela. This is the house of God, and all His daughters are welcome.”

There was a dark, tight fear in her eyes as she glanced back to the street. “I thought—maybe the organ…”

He opened it for her and found the switch. He started to explain the controls, but the smile on her lips warned him that it was unnecessary. Her calloused fingers over the stops, and she began playing, softly as if to herself. He went back to one of the pews, listening. For two years he had blamed the organ, but now he knew that there was no fault with the instrument, but only with its player before. The music was sometimes strange for his church, but he liked it.

A couple who had moved into the old Surrey farm beyond the town came in, holding hands, as if holding each other up. And a minute later, Buzz Williams stumbled in and tried to tiptoe down the aisle to where Amos sat. Since his parents had died, he’d been the town problem. Now he was half-drunk, though without his usual boisterousness.

“I ain’t got no car and I been drinking,” he whispered. “Can I stay here till maybe somebody comes or something?”

Amos sighed, motioning Buzz to a seat where the boy’s eyes had centered. Somewhere, there must be a car for the four waifs who had remembered God when everything else had failed them. If one of the young couple could drive, and he could locate some kind of vehicle, it was his duty to see that they were sent to safety.

Abruptly, the haven of the church and the music came to an end, leaving him back in the real world—a curiously unreal world now.

He was heading down the steps, trying to remember whether the Jameson boy had taken his rebuilt flivver when a panel truck pulled up in front of the church. Doc Miller got out, wheezing as he squeezed through the door.

He took in the situation at a glance. “Only four strays, Amos? I thought we might have to pack them in.” He headed for Buzz. “I’ve got a car outside, Buzz. Gather up the rest of this flock and get going!”

“I been drinking,” Buzz said, his face reddening hotly.

“Okay, you’ve been drinking. At least you know it, and there’s no traffic problem. Head for Salina and hold your speed under forty and you’ll be all right.” Doc swept little Angela Anduccini from the organ and herded her out, while Buzz collected the couple. “Get going, all of you!”

They got, with Buzz enthroned behind the wheel and Angela beside him. The town was dead. Amos closed the organ and began shutting the doors to the church.

“I’ve got a farm tractor up the street for us, Amos,” Doc said at last. “I almost ran out of tricks. There were more fools than you’d think who thought they could hide it out right here. At that, I probably missed some. Well, the tractor’s nothing elegant, but it can take back roads no car would handle. We’d better get going. Nellie has already gone, with a full load.”

Amos shook his head. He had never thought it out, but the decision had been in his mind from the beginning. Ruth still lay waiting a decent burial. He could no more leave her now than when she was alive. “You’ll have to go alone, Doc.”

“I figured.” The doctor sighed, wiping the sweat from his forehead. “I’d remember to my dying day that believers have more courage than an atheist! Nope, we’re in this together. It isn’t sensible, but that’s how I feel. We’d better put out the candles, I guess.”

Amos snuffed them reluctantly, wondering how he could persuade the other to leave. His ears had already caught the faint sounds of shooting, indicating that the aliens were on their way.

The uncertain thumping of a laboring motor sounded from the street, then wheezed to silence. There was a shout, a pause, and the motor caught again. It seemed to run for ten seconds before it backfired, and was still. Doc opened one of the doors. In the middle of the street, a man was pushing an ancient car while his wife steered. But it refused to start again. He grabbed for tools, threw up the hood, and began a frantic search for the trouble.

“If you can drive a tractor, there’s one half a block down,” Doc called out.

The man looked up, snapped one quick glance behind him, and pulled the woman hastily out of the car. In almost no time, the heavy roar of the tractor sounded. The man revved it up to full throttle and tore off down the road, leaving Doc and Amos stranded. The sound of the aliens was clearer now, and there was some light coming from beyond the bend of the street.

There was no place to hide, except in the church. They found a window where the paint on the imitation stained glass was loose and peeled it back enough for a peephole. The advance scouts of the aliens were already within view. They were dashing from house to house. Behind them, they left something that sent up clouds of glowing smoke that seemed to have no fire connected to its brilliance. At least, no buildings were burning.

Just as the main group of aliens came into view, the door of one house burst open. A scrawny man leaped out, with his fat wife and fatter daughter behind him. They raced up the street, tearing at their clothes and itching frantically at their reddened skin.

Shouts sounded. All three jerked, but went racing on. More shots sounded. At first, Amos thought it was incredibly bad shooting. Then he realized that it was even more unbelievably good marksmanship. The aliens were shooting at the hands first, then moving up the arms methodically, wasting no chance for torture.

For the first time in years, Amos felt fear and anger curdle solidly in his stomach. He stood up, feeling his shoulders square back and his head come up as he moved toward the door. His lips were moving in words that he only half understood. “Arise, O Lord; O God, lift up Thine hand; forget not the humble. Wherefore doth the wicked condemn God? He hath said in his heart, Thou wilt not requite it. Thou hast seen it, for Thou beholdest mischief and spite, to requite it with Thy hand: the poor commiteth himself unto Thee; Thou art the helper of the fatherless. Break Thou the arm of the wicked and the evil ones; seek out their wickedness till Thou find none…”

“Stop it, Amos!” Doc’s voice rasped harshly in his ear. “Don’t be a fool! And you’re misquoting that last verse!”

It cut through the fog of his anger. He knew that Doc had deliberately reminded him of his father, but the trick worked, and the memory of his father’s anger at misquotations replaced his cold fury. “We can’t let that go on!”

Then he saw it was over. The aliens had used up their targets. But there was the sight of another wretch, unrecognizable in half of his skin…

Doc’s voice was as sick as Amos felt. “We can’t do anything. I can’t understand a race smart enough to build star ships and still stupid enough for this. But it’s good for our side, in the long run. While our armies are organizing, the snakes are wasting time on this. And it makes our resistance get tougher, too.”

The aliens didn’t confine their sport to humans. They worked just as busily on a huge old tomcat they found. And all the corpses were being loaded onto a big wagon pulled by twenty of the creatures.

The aliens obviously had some knowledge of human behavior. At first they had passed up all stores and had concentrated on living quarters. The scouts had passed on by the church without a second glance. But they moved into a butcher shop at once, to come out again carrying meat, which was piled on the wagon with the corpses.

Now a group was assembling before the church, pointing up toward the steeple where the bell was. Two of them shoved up a mortar of some sort. It was pointed quickly and a load was dropped in. There was a muffled explosion, and the bell rang sharply, its pieces rattling down the roof and into the yard below.

Another shoved the mortar into a new position, aiming it straight for the door of the church. Doc yanked Amos down between two pews. “They don’t like churches, damn it! A fine spot we picked. Watch out for splinters!”

The door smashed in and a heavy object struck the altar, ruining it. Amos groaned at the shattering sound it made.

There was no further activity when they slipped back to their peepholes. The aliens were on the march again, moving along slowly. In spite of the delta planes, they seemed to have no motorized ground vehicles, and the wagon moved on under the power of the twenty green-skinned things, coming directly in front of the church. Amos stared at it in the flickering light from the big torches burning in the hands of some of the aliens. Most of the corpses were strangers to him. A few he knew. And then his eyes picked out the twisted, distorted upper part of Ruth’s body, her face empty in death’s relaxation.

He stood up wearily, and this time Doc made no effort to stop him. He walked down a line of pews and around the wreck of one of the doors. Outside the church, the air was still hot and dry, but he drew a long breath into his lungs. The front of the church was in the shadows, and no aliens seemed to be watching him.

He moved down the stone steps. His legs were firm now. His heart was pounding heavily, but the clot of feelings that rested leadenly in his stomach had no fear left in it. Nor was there any anger left, nor any purpose.

He saw the aliens stop and stare at him, while a jabbering began among them.

He moved forward with the measured tread that had led him down the aisle when he married Ruth. He came in the wagon and put his hand out, lifting one of Ruth’s dead-limp arms back across her body.

“This is my wife,” he told the staring aliens quietly. “I am taking her home with me.”

He reached up and began trying to move the other bodies away from her. Without surprise, he saw Doc’s arms moving up to help him, while a steady stream of whispered profanity came from the doctor’s lips.

Amos hadn’t expected to succeed. He had expected nothing.

Abruptly, a dozen of the aliens leaped for the two men. Amos let them overpower him without resistance. For a second, Doc struggled; then he too relaxed while the aliens bound them and tossed them onto the wagon.

4

He hath bent his bow like an enemy: he stood with his right hand as an adversary, and slew all that were pleasant to the eye in the tabernacle of the daughter of Zion: he poured out his fury like fire.

The Lord was as an enemy: he hath swallowed up Israel, he hath swallowed up all her palaces: he hath destroyed his strong holds, and hath increased in the daughter of Judah mourning and lamentation.

The Lord hath cast off his altar, he hath abhorred his sanctuary, he hath given up into the hand of the enemy the walls of her palaces; they have made a noise in the house of the Lord, as in the day of a solemn feast.

Lamentations 2:4,5,7

THE BOOK OF THE JEWS

Amos’ first reaction was one of dismay at the ruin of his only good suit. He struggled briefly on the substance under him, trying to find a better spot. A minister’s suit might be old, but he could never profane the altar with such stains as these. Then some sense of the ridiculousness of his worry reached his mind, and he relaxed as best he could.

He had done what he had to do, and it was too late to regret it. He could only accept the consequences of it now, as he had learned to accept everything else God had seen fit to send him. He had never been a man of courage, but the strength of God had sustained him through as much as most men had to bear. It would sustain him further.

Doc was facing him, having flopped around to lie near him. Now the doctor’s lips twisted into a crooked grin. “I guess we’re in for it now. But it won’t last forever, and maybe we’re old enough to die fast. At least, once we’re dead, we won’t know it, so there’s no sense being afraid of dying.”

If it were meant to provoke him into argument, it failed. Amos considered it a completely hopeless philosophy, but it was better than none, probably. His own faith in the hereafter left something to be desired; he was sure of immortality and the existence of heaven and hell, but he had never been able to picture either to his own satisfaction.

The wagon had been swung around and was now being pulled up the street, back toward Clyde. Amos tried to take his mind off the physical discomforts of the ride by watching the houses, counting them to his own. They drew near it finally, but it was Doc who spotted the important fact. He groaned. “My car!”

Amos strained his eyes, staring into the shadows through the glare of the torches. Doc’s car stood at the side of the house, with its left front door open! Someone must have told Anne that he hadn’t left, and she’d forgotten her anger with him to swing back around the alien horde to save him!

He began a prayer that they might pass on without the car being noticed, and it seemed at first that they would. Then there was a sudden cry from the house, and he saw her face briefly at a front window. She must have seen Doc and himself lying on the wagon!

He opened his mouth to risk a warning, but it was too late. The door of the house swung back, and she was standing on the front steps, lifting Richard’s rifle to her shoulder. Amos’ heart seemed to hesitate with the tension of his body. The aliens still hadn’t noticed. If she’d only wait…

The rifle cracked. Either by luck or some skill he hadn’t suspected, one of the aliens dropped. She was running forward now, throwing another cartridge into the barrel. The gun barked again, and an alien fell to the ground, bleating horribly.

There was no attempt at torture this time, at least. The leading alien finally jerked out a tubelike affair from a scabbard at his side and a single sharp explosion sounded. Anne jerked backward as the heavy slug hit her forehead, the rifle spinning from her dead hands. The wounded alien was trying frantically to crawl away. Two of his fellows began working on him mercilessly, with as little feeling as if he had been a human. His body followed that of Anne toward the front of the wagon, just beyond Amos’ limited view.

She hadn’t seemed hysterical this time, Amos thought wearily. It had been her tendency to near hysteria that had led to his advising Richard to wait, not the difference in faith. Now he was sorry he’d had no chance to understand her better.

Doc sighed, and there was a peculiar pride under the thickness of his voice. “Man,” he said, “has one virtue which is impossible to any omnipotent force like your God. He can be brave. He can be brave beyond sanity for another man or for an idea. Amos, I pity your God if man ever makes war on Him!”

Amos flinched, but the blasphemy aroused only a shadow of his normal reaction. His mind seemed numbed. He lay back, watching black clouds scudding across the sky almost too rapidly. It looked unnatural, and he remembered how often the accounts had mentioned a tremendous storm that had wrecked or hampered the efforts of human troops. Maybe a counterattack had begun, and this was part of the alien defense. If they had some method of weather control, it was probable. The moonlight was already blotted out by the clouds.

Half a mile farther on, there was a shout from the aliens, and a big tractor chugged into view, badly driven by one of the aliens who had obviously only partly mastered the human machine. With a great deal of trial and error, it was backed into position and coupled to the wagon. Then it began churning along at nearly thirty miles an hour, while the big wagon bucked and bounced behind. From then on, the ride was a physical hell. Even Doc groaned at some of the bumps, though his bones had three times more padding than Amos could boast.

Mercifully, they slowed when they reached Clyde. Amos wiped the blood off his bitten lip and managed to wriggle to a position where most of the bruises were on his upper side. Beyond the town there was a flood of brilliant lights where the alien rockets stood, and he could see a group of strange machines driven by nonhuman creatures busy unloading the great ships. But the drivers of the machines looked totally unlike the other aliens.

One of the alien trucks swung past them, and he had a clear view of the creature steering it. It bore no resemblance to humanity. There was a conelike torso, covered with a fine white down, ending in four thick stalks to serve as legs. From its broadest point, four sinuous limbs spread out to the truck controls. There was no head, but only eight small tentacles waving above it.

He saw a few others, always in control of machines, and no machines being handled by the green-skinned people, as they passed through the ghost city that had been Clyde. Apparently there were two races allied against humanity, which explained why such barbarians could come in space ships. The green ones must be simply the fighters, while the downy cones were the technicians. From their behavior, though, the pilots of the planes must be recruited from the fighters.

Clyde had grown since he had been there, unlike most of the towns about. There was a new supermarket just down the street from Amos’ former church, and the tractor jolted to a stop in front of it. Aliens swarmed out and began carrying the dead loot from the wagon into big food lockers, while two others lifted Doc and Amos.

But they weren’t destined for the comparatively merciful death of freezing in the lockers. The aliens threw them into a little cell that had once apparently been a cashier’s cage, barred from floor to ceiling. It made a fairly efficient jail, and the lock that clicked shut as the door closed behind them was too heavy to be broken. There was already one occupant—a medium-built young man whom Amos finally recognized as Smithton, the Clyde dentist. His shoulders were shaking with sporadic sobs as he sat huddled in one corner. He looked at the two arrivals without seeing them. “But I surrendered,” he whispered to himself. “I’m a prisoner of war. They can’t do it. I surrendered…”

A fatter-than-usual alien, wearing the only clothes Amos had seen on any of them, came waddling up to the cage, staring in at them, and the dentist wailed off into silence. The alien drew up his robe about his chest and scratched his rump against a counter without taking his eyes off them. “Humans,” he said in a grating voice, but without an accent, “are peculiar. No standardization.”

“I’ll be damned!” Doc swore. “English!”

The alien studied them with what might have been surprise, lifting his ears. “Is the gift of tongues so unusual, then? Many of the priests of the Lord God Almighty speak all the human languages. It’s a common miracle, not like levitation.”

“Fine. Then maybe you’ll tell us what we’re being held for?” Doc suggested.

The priest shrugged. “Food, of course. The grethi eat any kind of meat—even our people—but we have to examine the laws to find whether you’re permitted. If you are, we’ll need freshly killed specimens to sample, so we’re waiting with you.”

“You mean you’re attacking us for food?”

The priest grunted harshly. “No! We’re on a holy mission to exterminate you. The Lord Almighty commanded us to go down to Earth where abominations existed and to leave no living creature under your sun.”

He turned and waddled out of the store, taking the single remaining torch with him, leaving only the dim light of the moon and reflections from farther away.

Amos dropped onto a stool inside the cage. “They had to lock us in a new building instead of one I know,” he said. “If it had been the church, we might have had a chance.”

“How?” Doc asked sharply.

Amos tried to describe the passage through the big unfinished basement under the church, reached through a trap door. Years before, a group of teen-agers had built a sixty-foot tunnel into it and had used it for a private club until the passage had been discovered and bricked over from outside. The earth would be soft around the bricks, however. Beyond, the outer end of the tunnel opened in a wooded section, which led to a drainage ditch that in turn connected with the Republican River. From the church, they could move to the stream and slip down that without being seen. There was even an alley—or had been one—behind the store that would take them to the shadow of the trees around the church.

Doc’s fingers were fumbling with the lock as Amos finished. He grunted and reached for his pocket, taking out a few coins. “They don’t know much about us, Amos, if they expect to hold us here, where the lock is fastened from the inside. Feel those screws.”

Amos fumbled over the lock surface. There were four large screws on the back of the lock, holding it to the door. The cashier’s cage had been designed to keep others out, not to serve as a jail. At best, he thought, it was a poor chance. Yet was it merely chance? It seemed more like the hand of God to him.

“More like the stupidity of the aliens, to my mind,” Doc objected. He was testing the screws with a quarter now. He nodded in some satisfaction, then swore. “Damn it, the quarter fits the slot, but I can’t get enough leverage to turn the screw. Hey, Smithton or whatever your name is, pull out that money drawer and knock the bottom out. I need a couple of narrow slats.”

Smithton had been praying miserably—a childhood prayer for laying himself down to sleep. But he succeeding in kicking out splinters from the drawer bottom.

Doc selected two and clamped them around the quarter, trying to hold them in place while he turned them. It was rough going, but the screws turned. Three came loose finally, and the lock rotated on the fourth until they could force the cage open.

Doc stopped and pulled Smithton to him. “Follow me, and do what I do. No talking, no making a separate jump, or I’ll break your neck. All right!”

The back door was locked, but from the inside. They opened it to a backyard filled with garbage. The alley wasn’t as dark as it should have been, since open lots beyond let some light come through. They hugged what shadows they could until they reached the church hedge. There they groped along, lining themselves up with the side office door. There was no sign of aliens.

Amos broke ahead of the others, being more familiar with the church. It wasn’t until he had reached the door that he realized it could have been locked; it had been kept that way part of the time. He grabbed the handle and forced it back—to find it unlatched.

For a second, he stopped to thank the Lord for their luck. Then the others were with him, crowding into the little kitchen where social suppers were prepared. He’d always hated those functions, but now he blessed them for providing a hiding place that gave them time to find their way. There were sounds in the church, and odors, but none that seemed familiar to Amos. Something made the back hairs of his neck prickle. He took off his shoes and tied them around his neck, and the others followed suit.

The way to the trap door lay down a small hall, across in front of the altar, and into the private office on the other side.

They were safer together than separated, particularly since Smithton was with them. Amos leaned back against the kitchen wall to catch his breath. His heart seemed to have a ring of needled pain around it, and his throat was so dry that he had to fight desperately against gagging. There was water here, but he couldn’t risk rummaging across the room to the sink.

He was praying for strength, less for himself than for the others. Long since, he had resigned himself to die. If God willed his death, he was ready; all he had were dead and probably mutilated, and he had succeeded only in dragging those who tried to help him into mortal danger. He was old, and his body was already treading its way to death. He could live for probably twenty more years, but aside from his work, there was nothing to live for—and even in that, he had been only a mediocre failure. But he was still responsible for Doc Miller, and even for Smithton now.

He squeezed his eyes together and squinted around the doorway. There was some light in the hall that led toward the altar, but he could see no one, and there were drapes that gave a shadow from which they could spy the rest of their way. He moved to it softly, and felt the others come up behind him.

He bent forward, parting the drapes a trifle. They were perhaps twenty feet in front of the altar, on the right side. He spotted the wreckage that had once stood as an altar. Then he frowned as he saw evidence of earth piled up into a mound of odd shape.

He threw the cloth back farther, surprised at the curiosity in him, as he had been surprised repeatedly by the changes taking place in himself. There were two elaborately robed priests kneeling in the center of the chapel. But his eye barely noticed them before it was attracted to what stood in front of the new altar.

A box of wood rested on an earthenware platform. On it were four marks, which his eyes recognized as unfamiliar, but which his mind twisted into a sequence from no alphabet he had learned; yet in them was always more than they were. And above the box was a veil, behind which Something shone brightly without light.

In his mind, a surge of power pulsed, making something that might almost have been words through his thoughts.

“I AM THAT I AM, who brought those out of bondage from Egypt and who wrote upon the wall before Belshazzar, MENE, MENE, TEKEL, UPHARSIN, as it shall be writ large upon the Earth, from this day forth. For I have said unto the seed of Mikhtchah, thou art my chosen people and I shall exalt thee above all the races under the heavens!”

5

And it was given unto him to make war with the saints, and to overcome them: and power was given him over all kindreds, and tongues, and nations.

He that leadeth into captivity shall go into captivity: he that killeth with the sword must be killed with the sword.

Revelation 13:7, 10

THE BOOK OF THE CHRISTIANS

The seed of Mikhtchah. The seed that was the aliens…

There was no time and all time, then. Amos felt his heart stop, but the blood pounded through his arteries with a vigor it had lacked for decades. He felt Ruth’s hand in his, stirring with returning life, and knew she had never existed. Beside him, he saw Doc Miller’s hair turn snow white and knew that it was so, though the was no way he could see Doc from his position.

He felt the wrath of the Presence rest upon him, weighing his every thought from his birth to his certain death, where he ceased completely and went on forever, and yet he knew that the Light behind the veil was unaware of him, but was receptive only to the two Mikhtchah priests who knelt unaware.

All of that was with but a portion of his mind so small that he could not locate it, though his total mind encompassed all time and space, and that which was neither; yet each part of his perceptions occupied all of his mind that had been or ever could be, save only the present, which somehow was a concept not yet solved by the One before him.

He saw a strange man on a low mountain, receiving tablets of stone that weighed only a pennyweight, engraved with a script that all could read. And he knew the man, but refused to believe it, since the garments were not those of his mental image, and the clean-cut face fitted better with the strange Egyptian headpiece than with the language being spoken.

Amos saw every prayer of his life tabulated. But nowhere was there the mantle of divine warmth which he had felt as a boy and had almost felt again the morning before. And there was a stirring of unease at his thought, mixed with wrath; yet while the thought was in his mind, nothing could touch him.

Yet each of those things was untrue, because he could find no understanding of that which was true.

It ended as abruptly as it had begun, either a microsecond or a million subjective years after. It left him numbed, but newly alive. And it left him dead as no man had ever been hopelessly dead before.

He knew only that before him was the Lord God Almighty, who had made a covenant with Abraham, with Isaac, and with Jacob, and with their seed; and that mankind had been rejected, while God now was on the side of the enemies of Abraham’s seed, and all the nations of earth.

Even that was too much for a human mind no longer in touch with the Presence, and only a shadow of it remained.

Beside him, Amos heard Doc Miller begin breathing again, brushing the white hair back from his forehead wonderingly as he muttered a single word. “God!”

One of the Mikhtchah priests looked up, his eyes turning about; there was a glazed look on his face, but it was leaving.

Then Smithton screamed! His open mouth poured out a steady, unwavering screaming, while his lungs panted in and out. His eyes opened, staring horribly. Like a wooden doll on strings, the man stood up and walked forward. He avoided the draperies and headed for the Light behind the veil. Abruptly, the Light was gone, but Smithton walked toward it as steadily as before. He stopped before the falling veil, and the scream cut off sharply.

Doc had jerked silently to his feet, tugging Amos up behind him. The minister lifted himself, but he knew there was no place to go. It was up to the will of God now…Or…

Smithton turned on one heel precisely. His face was rigid and without expression, yet completely mad. He walked mechanically forward toward the two priests they sprawled aside at the last second, holding two obviously human-made automatics, but making no effort to use them. Smithton walked on toward the open door at the front of the church.

He reached the steps, with the two priests staring after him. His feet lifted from the first step to the second and then he was on the sidewalk.

The two priests fired!

Smithton jerked, halted, and suddenly cried out in a voice of normal, rational agony. His legs kicked frantically under him and he ducked out of the sight of the doorway, his faltering steps sounding farther and farther away. He was dead—the Mikhtchah marksmanship had been as good as it seemed always to be—but still moving, though slower and slower, as if some extra charge of life were draining out like a battery running down.

The priests exchanged quick glances and then darted after him, crying out as they dashed around the door into the night. Abruptly, a single head and hand appeared again, to snap a shot at the draperies from which Smithton had come. Amos forced himself to stand still, while his imagination supplied the jolt of lead in his stomach. The bullet hit the draperies, and something else.

The priest hesitated, and was gone again. Amos broke into a run across the chapel and into the hall at the other side of the altar. He heard the faint sound of Doc’s feet behind him.

The trap door was still there, unintentionally concealed under carpeting. He forced it up and dropped through it into the four-foot depth of the incompleted basement, making room for Doc. They crouched together as he lowered the trap and began feeling his way through the blackness toward the other end of the basement. It had been five years since he had been down there, and then only once for a quick inspection of the work of the boys who had dug the tunnel.

He thought he had missed it at first, and began groping for the small entrance. It might have caved in, for that matter. Then, two feet away, his hand found the hole and he drew Doc after him.

It was cramped, and bits of dirt had fallen in places and had to be dug out of the way. Part of the distance was on their stomachs. They found the bricked-up wall ahead of them and began digging around it with their bare hands. It took another ten minutes, while distant sounds of wild yelling from the Mikhtchah reached them faintly. They broke through at last with bleeding hands, not bothering to check for aliens near. They reached a safer distance in the woods, caught their breaths, and went on.

The biggest danger lay in the drainage trench, which was low in several places. But luck was with them, and these spots lay in shadow.

Then the little Republican River lay in front of them, and there was a flatbottom boat nearby.

Moments later they were floating down the stream, resting their aching lungs, while the boat needed only a trifling guidance. It was still night, with only the light from the moon, and there was little danger of pursuit by alien planes. Amos could just see Doc’s face as the man fumbled for a cigarette.

He lighted it and exhaled deeply. “All right, Amos—you were right, and God exists. But damn it, I don’t feel any better for knowing that. I can’t see how God helps me—nor even how He’s doing the Mikhtchah much good. What do they get out of it, beyond a few miracles with the weather? They’re just doing God’s work.”

“They get the Earth, I suppose—if they want it,” Amos said doubtfully. He wasn’t sure they did. Nor could he see how the other aliens tied into the scheme; if he had known the answers, they were gone now. “Doc, you’re still an atheist, though you now know God is.”

The plump man chuckled bitterly. “I’m afraid you’re right. But at least I’m myself. You can’t be, Amos. You’ve spent your whole life on the gamble that God is right and that you must serve Him—when the only way you could serve was to help mankind. What do you do now? God is automatically right—but everything you’ve ever believed makes Him completely wrong, and you can only serve Him by betraying your people. What kind of ethics will work for you now?”

Amos shook his head wearily, hiding his face in his hands. The same problem had been fighting its way through his own thoughts. His first reaction had been to acknowledge his allegiance to God without question; thirty years of conditioned thought lay behind that. Yet now he could not accept such a decision. As a man, he could not bow to what he believed completely evil, and the Mikhtchah were evil by every definition he knew.

Could he tell people the facts, and take away what faith they had in any purpose in life? Could he go over to the enemy, who didn’t even want him except for their feeding experiments? Or could he encourage people to fight, with the old words that God was with them—when he knew the words were false? Yet their resistance might doom them to eternal hellfire for opposing God.

It hit him then that he could remember nothing clearly about the case of a hereafter—either for or against it. What happened to a people when God deserted them? Were they only deserted in their physical form, and still free to win their spiritual salvation? Or were they completely lost? Did they cease to have souls that could survive? Or were those souls automatically consigned to hell, however noble they might be?

No question had been answered for him. He knew that God existed, but he had known that before. He knew nothing now beyond that. He did not even know when God had placed the Mikhtchah before humanity. It seemed unlikely that it was as recent as his own youth. Otherwise, how could he account for the strange spiritual glow he had felt as an evangelist?

“There’s only one rational answer,” he said at last. “It doesn’t make any difference what I decide! I’m only one man.”

“So was Columbus when he swore the world was round. And he didn’t have the look on his face you’ve had since we saw God, Amos! I know now what the Bible means when it says Moses’ face shone after he came down from the mountain, until he had to cover it with a veil. If I’m right, there’s little help for mankind if you decide wrong!”

Doc tossed the cigarette over the side and lit another, and Amos was shocked to see that the man’s hands were shaking. The doctor shrugged, and his tone fell back to normal. “I wish we knew more. You’ve always thought almost exclusively in terms of the Old Testament and a few snatches of Revelation—like a lot of men who became evangelists. I’ve never really thought about God—I couldn’t accept Him, so I dismissed Him. Maybe that’s why we got the view of Him we did. I wish I knew where Jesus fits in, for instance. There’s too much missing. Too many imponderables and hiatuses. We have only two facts, and we can’t understand either. There is a manifestation of God which has touched both Mikhtchah and mankind; and He has stated now that He plans to wipe out mankind. We’ll have to stick to that.”

Amos made one more attempt to deny the problem that was facing him. “Suppose God is only testing man again, as He did so often before?”

“Testing?” Doc rolled the word on his tongue, and seemed to spit it out. The strange white hair seemed to make him older, and the absence of mockery in his voice left him almost a stranger. “Amos, the Hebrews worked like the devil to get Canaan; after forty years of wandering around a few square miles, God suddenly told them this was the land—and then they had to take it by the same methods men have always used to conquer a country. The miracles didn’t really decide anything. They got out of Babylon because the old prophets were slaving night and day to hold them together as one people, and because they managed to sweat it out until they finally got a break. In our own time, they’ve done the same things to get Israel, and with no miracles! It seems to me God always took it away, but they had to it back by themselves. I don’t think much of that kind of a test in this case.”

Amos could feel all his values slipping and spinning. He realized that he was holding himself together only because of Doc; otherwise, his mind would have reached for madness, like any intelligence forced to solve the insoluble. He could no longer comprehend himself, let alone God. And the feeling crept into his thoughts that God couldn’t wholly understand him, either.

“Can a creation defy anything great enough to create it, Doc? And should it, if it can?”

“Most kids have to,” Doc said. He shook his head. “It’s your problem. All I can do is point a few things out. And maybe it won’t matter, at that. We’re still a long ways inside Mikhtchah territory, and it’s getting along toward daylight.”

The boat drifted on, while Amos tried to straighten out his thoughts and grew more deeply tangled in a web of confusion. What could any man who worshipped God devoutly do if he found his God was opposed to all else he had ever believed to be good?

A version of Kant’s categorical imperative crept into his mind; somebody had once quoted it to him—probably Doc. “So act as to treat humanity, whether in thine own person or in that of any other, in every case as an end withal, never as a means only.” Was God now treating man as an end, or simply as a means to some purpose, in which man had failed? And had man ever seriously treated God as an end, rather than as a means to spiritual immortality and a quietus to the fear of death?

“We’re being followed!” Doc whispered suddenly. He pointed back, and Amos could see a faint light shining around a curve in the stream. “Look—there’s a building over there. When the boat touches shallow water, run for it!”

He bent to the oars, and a moment later they touched bottom and were over the side, sending the boat back into the current. The building was a hundred feet back from the bank, and they scrambled madly toward it. Even in the faint moonlight, they could see that the building was a wreck, long since abandoned. Doc went in through one of the broken windows, dragging Amos behind him.

Through a chink in a wall they could see another boat heading down the stream, lighted by a torch and carrying two Mikhtchah. One rowed, while the other sat in the prow with a gun, staring ahead. They rowed on past.

“We’ll have to hole up here,” Doc decided. “It’ll be light in half an hour. Maybe they won’t think of searching a ruin like this.”

They found rickety steps, and stretched out on the bare floor of a huge upstairs closet. Amos groaned as he tried to find a position in which he could get some rest. Then, surprisingly, he was asleep.

He woke once with traces of daylight coming into the closet, to hear sounds of heavy gunfire not far away. He was just drifting back to sleep when hail began cracking furiously down on the roof. When it passed, the gunfire was stilled.

Doc woke him when it was turning dark. There was nothing to eat, and Amos’ stomach was sick with hunger. His body ached in every joint, and walking was pure torture. Doc glanced up at the stars, seemed to decide on a course, and struck out. He was wheezing and groaning in a way that indicated he shared Amos’ feelings.

But he found enough energy to begin the discussion again. “I keep wondering what Smithton saw, Amos. It wasn’t what we saw. And what about the legends of war in heaven? Wasn’t there a big battle there once, in which Lucifer almost won? Maybe Lucifer simply stands for some other race God cast off?”

“Lucifer was Satan, the spirit of evil. He tried to take over God’s domain.”

“Mmm. I’ve read somewhere that we have only the account of the victor, which is apt to be pretty biased history. How do we know the real issues? Or the true outcome? At least he thought he had a chance, and he apparently knew what he was fighting.”

The effort of walking made speech difficult. Amos shrugged, and let the conversation die. But his own mind ground on.

If God was all-powerful and all-knowing, why had He let them spy upon Him? Or was He still all-powerful over a race He had dismissed? Could it make any difference to God what man might try to do, now that He had condemned him? Was the Presence they had seen the whole of God—or only one manifestation of Him? His legs moved on woodenly, numbed to fatigue and slow from hunger, while his head churned with his basic problem. Where was his duty now? With God or against Him?

They found food in a deserted house, and began preparing it by the hooded light of a lantern while they listened to the news from a small battery radio that had been left behind. It was a hopeless account of alien landings and human retreats, yet given without the tone of despair they should have expected. They were halfway through the meal before they discovered the reason.

“Flash!” the radio announced. “Word has just come through from the Denver area. Our second atomic missile has exploded successfully! The alien base has been wiped out, and every alien ship is ruined. It is now clear that the trouble with the earlier bombs we assembled lay in the detonating mechanism. This is being investigated, while more volunteers are being trained to replace this undependable part of the bomb. Both missiles carrying suicide bombers have succeeded. Captive aliens of both races are being questioned in Denver now, but the same religious fanaticism found in Portland seems to make communication difficult.”

It went back to reporting alien landings, while Doc and Amos stared at each other. It was too much to absorb at once—the official admission of two races, the fact that bombs had been assembled and tried, and the casual acceptance of suicide missions. It was as if God could control weather and machines, but not the will of determined men. Free will or…

Amos groped in his mind, trying to dig out something that might tie in the success of human suicide bombers, where automatic machinery was miraculously stalled, together with the reaction of God to his own thoughts of the glow he had felt in his early days. Something about men…

“They can be beaten!” Doc said in a harsh whisper.

Amos sighed as they began to get up to continue the impossible trek. “Maybe. We know God was at Clyde. Can we be sure He was at the other places to stop the bombs by His miracles?”

They slogged on through the night, cutting across country in the dim moonlight, where every footstep was twice as hard. Amos turned it over, trying to use the new information for whatever decision he must reach. If men could overcome those opposed to them, even for a time…

It brought him no closer to an answer.

The beginnings of dawn found them in a woods. Doc managed to heave Amos up a tree, where he could survey the surrounding terrain. There was a house beyond the edge of the woods, but it would take dangerous minutes to reach it. They debated, and then headed on.

They were just emerging from the woods when the sound of an alien plane began its stuttering shriek. Doc turned and headed back to where Amos was, behind him. Then he stopped. “Too late! He’s seen something. Gotta have a target!”

His arms swept out, shoving Amos violently back under the nearest tree. He swung and began racing across the clearing, his fat legs pumping furiously as he covered the ground in straining leaps. Amos tried to lift himself from where he had fallen, but it was too late.

There was the drumming of gunfire and the earth erupted around Doc. He lurched and dropped, to twitch and lie still.

The plane swept over, while Amos disentangled himself from a root. It was gone as he broke free. Doc had given it a target, and the pilot was satisfied, apparently. He was still alive as Amos dropped beside him. Two of the shots had hit, but he managed to grin as he lifted himself on one elbow. It was only a matter of minutes, however, and there was no help possible. Amos found one of Doc’s cigarettes and lighted it with fumbling hands.

“Thanks,” Doc wheezed after taking a heavy drag on it. He started to cough, but suppressed it, his face twisting in agony. His words came in an irregular rhythm, but he held his voice level. “I guess I’m going to hell, Amos, since I never did repent—if there is a hell! And I hope there is! I hope it’s filled with the soul of every poor damned human being who died in less than perfect grace. Because I’m going to find some way—”

He straightened suddenly, coughing and fighting for breath. Then he found one final source of strength and met Amos’ eyes, a trace of his old cynical smile on his face.

“—some way to urge Lucifer to join us!” he finished. He dropped back, letting all the fight go out of his body. A few seconds later, he was dead.

6

…Thou shalt have no other peoples before me…Thou shalt make unto them no covenant against me…Thou shalt not foreswear thyself to them, nor serve them…for I am a jealous people…

Exultations 12:2-4

THE BOOK OF MAN

Amos lay through the day in the house to which he had dragged Doc’s body. He did not even look for food. For the first time in his life since his mother had died when he was five, he had no shield against his grief. There was no hard core of acceptance that it was God’s will to hide his loss at Doc’s death. And with the realization of that, all the other losses hit at him as if they had been no older than the death of Doc.

He sat with his grief and his newly sharpened hatred, staring toward Clyde. Once, during the day, he slept. He awakened to a sense of a tremendous sound and shaking of the earth, but all was quiet when he finally became conscious. It was nearly night, and time to leave.

For a moment, he hesitated. It would be easier to huddle here, beside his dead, and let whatever would happen come to him. But within him was a sense of duty that drove him on. In the back of his mind something stirred, telling him he still had work to do.

He found part of a stale loaf of bread and some hard cheese and started out, munching on them. It was still too light to move safely, but he was going through woods again, and he heard no alien planes. When it grew darker, he turned to the side roads that led in the direction of Wesley.

In his mind was the knowledge that he had to return there. His church lay there; if the human fighters had pushed the aliens back, his people might be there. If not, it was from there that he would have to follow them.

His thoughts were too deep for conscious expression, and too numbed with exhaustion. His legs moved on steadily. One of his shoes had begun to wear through, and his feet were covered with blisters, but he went grimly on. It was his duty to lead his people, now that the aliens were here, as he had led them in easier times. His thinking had progressed no further.

He holed up in a barn that morning, avoiding the house because of the mutilated things that lay on the doorstep where the aliens had apparently left them. And this time he slept with the soundness of complete fatigue, but he awoke to find one fist clenched and extended toward Clyde. He had been dreaming that he was Job, and that God had left him sitting unanswered on his boils until he died, while mutilated corpses moaned around him, asking for leadership he would not give.

It was nearly dawn before he realized that he should have found himself some kind of a car. He had seen none, but there might have been one abandoned somewhere. Doc could probably have found one. But it was too late to bother, now. He had come to the outskirts of a tiny town, and started to head beyond it, before realizing that all the towns must have been well searched by now. He turned down the small street, looking for a store where he could find food.

There was a small grocery with a door partly ajar. Amos pushed it open, to the clanging of a bell. Almost immediately a dog began barking, and a human voice came sharply from the back.

“Down, Shep! Just a minute, I’m a-coming.” A door to the rear opened, and a bent old man emerged, carrying a kerosene lamp. “Darned electric’s off again! Good thing I stayed. Told them I had to mind my store, but they wanted to take me with them. Had to hide out in the old well. Darned nonsense about…”

He stopped, his eyes blinking behind thick lenses, and his mouth dropped open. He swallowed, and his voice was startled and shrill. “Mister, who are you?”

“A man who just escaped from the aliens,” Amos told him. He hadn’t realized the shocking appearance he must present by now. “One in need of food and a chance to rest until night. But I’m afraid I have no money on me.”

The old man tore his eyes away slowly, seeming to shiver. Then he nodded, and pointed to the back. “Never turned nobody away hungry yet,” he said, but the words seemed automatic.

An old dog backed slowly under a couch as Amos entered. The man put the lamp down and headed into a tiny kitchen to begin preparing food. Amos reached for the lamp and blew it out. “There really are aliens—worse than you heard,” he said.

The old man bristled, met his eyes, and then nodded slowly. “If you say so. Only it don’t seem logical God would let things like that run around in a decent state like Kansas.”

He shoved a plate of eggs onto the table, and Amos pulled it to him, swallowing a mouthful eagerly. He reached for a second, and stopped. Something was violently wrong, suddenly. His stomach heaved, the room began to spin, and his forehead was cold and wet with sweat. He gripped the edge of the table, trying to keep from falling. Then he felt himself being dragged to a cot. He tried to protest, but his body was shaking with ague, and the words that spilled out were senseless. He felt the cot under him, and waves of sick blackness spilled over him.

It was the smell of cooking food that awakened him finally, and he sat up with a feeling that too much time had passed. The old man came from the kitchen, studying him. “You sure were sick, Mister. Guess you ain’t used to going without decent food and rest. Feeling okay?”

Amos nodded. He felt a little unsteady, but it was passing. He pulled on the clothes that had been somewhat cleaned for him, and found his way to the table. “What day is it?”

“Saturday, evening,” the other answered. “At least the way I figure. Here, eat that and get some coffee in you.” He watched until Amos began on the food, and then dropped to a stool to begin cleaning an old rifle and loading it. “You said a lot of things. They true?”

For a second, Amos hesitated. Then he nodded, unable to lie to his benefactor. “I’m afraid so.”

“Yeah, I figured so, somehow, looking at you.” The old man sighed. “Well, I hope you make wherever you’re going.”

“What about you?” Amos asked.

The old man sighed, running his hands along the rifle. “I ain’t leaving my store for any bunch of aliens. And if the Lord I been doing my duty by all my life decides to put Himself on the wrong side, well, maybe He’ll win. But it’ll be over my dead body!”

Nothing Amos could say would change his mind. The old man sat on the front step of the store, the rifle on his lap and the dog at his side, as Amos headed down the street in the starlight.

Amos felt surprisingly better after the first half-mile. Rest and food, combined with some treatment of his sores and blisters, had helped. But the voice inside him was driving him harder now, and the picture of the old man seemed to lend it added strength. He struck out at the fastest pace he could hope to maintain, leaving the town behind and heading down the road that the old man had said led to Wesley.

It was just after midnight when he saw the lights of a group of cars or trucks moving along another road. He had no idea whether they were driven by men or aliens, but he kept steadily on. There were sounds of traffic another time, on a road that crossed the small one he followed. But he knew now that he was approaching Wesley, and he speeded up his pace.

When the first dawn light came, he made no effort to seek shelter. He stared at the land around him, stripped by grasshoppers that could have been killed off if men had worked as hard at ending the insects as they had at their bickerings and wars. He saw the dry, arid land, drifting into dust and turning a fertile country into a nightmare. Men could put a stop to that.

It had been no act of God that had caused this ruin, but man’s own follies. And without help from God, man might set it right in time.

God had deserted men. But mankind hadn’t halted. On his own, he’d made a path to the moon and had unlocked the atom. He’d found a means, out of his raw courage, to use hydrogen bombs against the aliens when miracles were used against him. He had done everything but conquer himself—and he could do that, if he were given time.

Amos saw a truck stop at the crossroads ahead and halted, but the driver was human. He saw the open door and quickened his step toward it. “I’m bound for Wesley!”

“Sure.” The driver helped him into the seat. “I’m going back for more supplies myself. You sure look as if you need treatment at the aid station there. I thought we’d rounded up all you strays. Most of them came in right after we sent out the word on Clyde.”

“You’ve taken it?” Amos asked.

The other nodded wearily. “We took it. Got ’em with a bomb, like sitting ducks; we’ve been mopping up since. Not many aliens left.”

They were nearing the outskirts of Wesley, and Amos pointed to his own house. “If you’ll let me off there…”

“Look, I got orders to bring all strays to the aid station,” the driver began firmly. Then he swung and faced Amos. For a second, he hesitated. Finally he nodded quietly. “Sure, glad to help you.”

Amos found the water still running. He bathed slowly. Somewhere, he felt his decision had been made, though he was still unsure of what it was. He climbed from the tub at last and began dressing. There was no suit that was proper, but he found clean clothes. His face in the mirror looked back at him, haggard and bearded as he reached for the razor.

Then he stopped as he encountered the reflection of his eyes. A shock ran over him, and he backed away a step. They were eyes foreign to everything in him. He had seen a shadow of what lay in them only once before, in the eyes of a great evangelist; and this was a hundred times stronger. He tore his glance away to find himself shivering, and he avoided them all through the shaving. Oddly, though, there was a strange satisfaction in what he had seen. He was beginning to understand why the old man had believed him, and why the truck driver had obeyed.

Most of Wesley had returned, and there were soldiers on the streets. As he approached the church, he saw the first-aid station, hectic with business. And a camera crew was near it, taking shots for television of those who had managed to escape from alien territory after the bombing.

A few people called to him, but he went on until he reached the church steps. The door was still in ruins and the bell was gone. Amos stood quietly waiting, his mind focusing slowly as he stared at the people, who were just beginning to recognize him and to spread hasty words from mouth to mouth. Then he saw little Angela Anduccini, and motioned for her to come to him. She hesitated briefly, before following him inside and to the organ.

The little Hammond still functioned. Amos climbed to the pulpit, hearing the old familiar creak of the boards. He put his hands on the lectern, seeing the heavy knuckles and blue veins of age as he opened the Bible and made ready for his Sunday morning congregation. He straightened his shoulders and turned to face the pews, waiting as they came in.

There were only a few at first. Then more and more came, some from old habit, some from curiosity, and many only because they had heard that he had been captured in person, probably. The camera crew came to the back and set up their machines, flooding him with bright lights and adjusting their telelens. He smiled on them, nodding.

He knew his decision now. It had been made in pieces and tatters. It had come from Kant, who had spent his life looking for a basic ethical principle, and had boiled it down in his statement that men must be treated as ends, not as means. It had come from Rover’s passive acceptance of the decision of a god who could do nothing for him, and from the one rebellious act that had won Anne his respect. It had been distilled from Doc’s final challenge, and from the old man sitting in his doorway, ready to face any challenger.

There could be no words with which to give his message to those who waited. No orator had ever possessed such a command of language. But men with rude speech, and limited use of what they had, had fired the world before. Moses had come down from a mountain with a face that shone, and had overcome the objections of a stiff-necked people. Peter the Hermit had preached a thankless crusade to all of Europe, without radio or television. It was more than words or voice.

He looked down at them when the church was filled and the organ hushed.

“My text for today,” he announced, and the murmurs below him hushed as his voice reached out to the pews. “Ye shall know the truth and the truth shall make men free!”

He stopped for a moment, studying them, feeling the decision in his mind, and knowing he could make no other. The need of him lay here, among those he had always tried to serve while believing he was serving God through them. He was facing them as an end, not as a means, and he found it good.

Nor could he lie to them now, or deceive them with false hopes. They would need all the facts if they were to make an end to their bickerings and to unite themselves in the final struggle for the fullness of their potential glory.

“I have come back from captivity among the aliens,” he began. “I have seen the hordes who have no desire but to erase the memory of man from the dust of the earth that bore him. I have stood at the altar of their God. I have heard the voice of God proclaim that He is also our God, and that He has cast us out. I have believed Him, as I believe Him now.”

He felt the strange, intangible something that was greater than words or oratory flow out of him as it had never flowed in his envied younger days. He watched the shock and the doubt arise and disappear slowly as he went on, giving them the story and the honest doubts he still had. He could never know many things, or even whether the God worshipped on the alien altar was wholly the same God who had been in the hearts of men for a hundred generations. No man could understand enough. They were entitled to all his doubts, as well as to all of which he knew.

He paused at last, in the utter stillness of the chapel. He straightened and smiled down at them, drawing the smile out of some reserve that had lain dormant since he had first tasted inspiration as a boy. He saw a few smiles answer him, and then more—uncertain, doubtful smiles that grew more sure as they spread.

He could feel himself reach them, while the television camera went on recording it all. He could feel his regained strength welding them together. He could feel them suddenly one and indivisible as he went on.

But there was something else. Over the chapel there was a glow, a feeling of deepening communion. It lifted and enshrouded him with those below him. He opened himself up to it without reserve. Once he had thought it came only from God. Now he knew it came from the men and women in front of him. Like a physical force, he could sense it emanating from them and from himself, uniting them and dedicating them.

He accepted it, as he had once accepted God. The name no longer mattered, when the thing was the same.

“God has ended the ancient covenants and declared Himself an enemy of all mankind,” Amos said, and the chapel seemed to roll with his voice. “I say to you: He has found a worthy opponent.”

LUVVER, by Mack Reynolds

“APPROACHING A RESTRICTED ZONE. LANDING FORBIDDEN.”

Donald Macbride continued to fight the controls of the sport cruiser, but his facial muscles were less tense now, and his eyes had lost some of the hopelessness. They were going to make it.

The radio blared again. “APPROACHING A RESTRICTED ZONE. LANDING FORBIDDEN.”

Macbride grimaced wryly. “It’s like telling a man who’s just come through a desert not to drink.” He wrenched hard at a control lever. “The worst part’s over. We’ll make it, honey.” He wiped perspiration from his forehead. “I didn’t tell you back there, but I was convinced we were goners.”

She shivered. “You didn’t have to tell me, Father. Actually. Looking at you was enough…”

The televisor screen lit up, and an angry-faced, red-headed young man was pictured.

He spoke curtly. “Haven’t you received our warnings? You’re entering a restricted zone. For security reasons it’s forbidden…”

Macbride flared back. “You young fool. Can’t you see we’re in distress? It’s all I’ve been able to do to wrestle this blasted thing through the last half million miles. And you tell us we can’t land!”

The face in the televisor scowled worriedly. “Can’t you make it to some other port? Only an extreme emergency…”

The older man glared. “We’ll be lucky if we make it to your field. This is an extreme emergency. My daughter and I are fortunate to have made it this far.”

“Daughter?” The young man’s eyes went back over Macbride’s shoulder and widened when they took in the trim blonde. “I’ll be a makron, a girl!” He caught what he’d said, began to redden. The screen suddenly went dead.

Patricia Macbride laughed. “Why, he blushed, father. Actually. I didn’t know it happened anymore.”

Her father scowled at her, still fighting his controls. “Didn’t it ever occur to you that there were still some young fellows raised with the old common decency to be ashamed to swear before a lady?”

She giggled. “Not any more.”

He snorted and began to answer, but the televisor screen brightened again. The face was that of a newcomer. His expression was somewhat startled, and his Space Forces cap and his tie gave the impression of having been hurriedly located and donned. His voice was formal, but his eyes were wide, and although he spoke to Macbride, he kept them on Patricia.

“Lieutenant Steve Benton, sir. Officer in command of Security Base 1645-R. I must warn you that only in extreme emergency can you be permitted to land, and that if you do land there is a possibility that you may never leave.”

The owner of the crippled space craft growled indignantly. “Nonsense. Climb down off your military high-horse. Can’t you see what we are? A man and his daughter in a sport cruiser that’s gone haywire. We must land. It’ll be easy enough to check my credentials. Do we look like spies or something?”

The lieutenant stiffened slightly under the tongue lashing. “You don’t understand, sir. It’s unsafe for human beings. This is not a military base. We’re here to warn off all spaceships. You might say that this is the equivalent of a lighthouse.”

Macbride was impatient. “Whatever it is, we’re coming in for a landing. Stand by.”

“Just one thing, sir. After landing, don’t leave your ship—and don’t look out your ports. You’ll be in considerable danger every moment you’re on this planet. We’ll do what we can to protect you.”

* * * *

Half an hour later, the small cruiser had safely landed on the tiny planet’s sole field. Now that the strain of bringing the damaged craft through so many miles of space was over, the reaction set in. The middle-aged Macbride slumped into an acceleration chair, dragging away at a cigarette.

“Where the devil are they? Don’t land! Don’t leave the ship! Don’t look out the ports! The place is probably populated by the insane, and I’m about ready to join them.”

Patricia giggled. “They didn’t look insane. The red-headed one was cute. Actually.”

They heard a tapping at the inner door of the space lock, and with a grunt Macbride went to open it. The visitors had already closed the outer lock and the view beyond them couldn’t be seen.

They were correctly arrayed in Space Force uniforms, but it obviously was strange to them. Lieutenant Benton’s collar was too tight, his tie askew. The other wore a regulation tunic, but it looked as though it had been packed away in a musty trunk for many a year while its owner had gone in less formal attire. Both of them seemed ill at ease.

Lieutenant Steve Benton stiffened. “May I present Lieutenant Dave Malone, my assistant?”

Macbride rumbled, “I’m Donald Macbride, of Terra; this is my daughter, Patricia. I must say, our treatment thus far on the part of representatives of my planet’s Space Forces has been cavalier, to say the least.”

The eyes of the two lieutenants were on the daughter, not the father, but Benton managed to fumble through an answer. “More than sorry, sir…but, er, orders. I’m afraid that this is an extremely dangerous place to land.”

Patricia giggled. “It’s monstrously thrilling. So adventurous. Actually.”

Her father snorted. “Undoubtedly, the Space Forces have sufficient strength to protect any civilians present on the planet. Lieutenant, I assume you’ve the mechanics and repair facilities to patch up this cursed cruiser of mine?”

Benton dragged his eyes back to Macbride. “Lieutenent Malone and I are alone here. However, both of us have had considerable experience on space craft. We should be able to have your sporter in space again within a few days. Unfortunately, you’ll have to spend the full time cooped up in our quarters… I’m afraid it won’t be too comfortable.”

Patricia bubbled, “You mean the air here can’t be breathed? You must stay inside all of the time? How utterly dreadful. You must become dreadfully bored. Actually!”

Lieutenant Dave Malone finally found his tongue. He’d been standing, almost open-mouthed, looking at this luscious product of Earth’s most expensive beauty salons. “It’s not that, Miss Macbride. The air’s all right. It’s just that we can’t let you be exposed to the animal life here.”

She giggled. “But, Lieutenant, I’m sure you could protect us.”

Her father snorted. “If these animals are so dangerous, why is it that you men don’t find it necessary to carry weapons?”

Benton took over. “You don’t understand, sir. The danger isn’t of the type from which a gun could protect you.” He shivered slightly, as though the very idea was repugnant. “At any rate, the thing to do now is get you to our quarters, where you can rest. Lieutenant Malone and I will look over your ship and see what is needed. I’m afraid you’ll have to wear blindfolds for the short walk to our place.”

They ran into protests on that, but Lieutenant Benton was adamant. Blindfolds must be worn. Regulations. Finally, they submitted and were led carefully from the space cruiser, across what seemed to be a grassy field, to the residence of the two Space Forces officers. A moment later, the blindfolds were removed and they were free to examine their surroundings.

The quarters were ample in size, and seemingly the two men had all they needed in their lonely exile, but it could be seen that the isolated life had seduced them from army trimness. The place was a bachelor shambles.

“What you need around here is a woman,” Patricia giggled.

“You ain’t just a-whistlin’ Dixie,” Malone breathed.

Macbride crushed him with a stare.

“To keep the place neat,” the redhead added quickly. “Let’s see, it’s been nearly six years since anybody’s been here but us.”

“Six years!” Macbride protested. “Do you mean to say that you men haven’t been relieved in six years? Why, that’s unbelievable.”

“It’s been more than ten years for Steve,” Malone said wryly.

“That’s enough, Dave,” Steve Benton rapped. “You’ve said too much.”

“He hasn’t said enough,” Macbride retorted belligerently. “I know the Space Forces. Put three years in myself during the Martian war. And leaving men alone at an isolated base for six years, not to mention ten, without relief, is unnecessary hardship. You boys are being called upon for sacrifices beyond the call of duty.”

Steve Benton walked wearily over to a portable bar and pressed various buttons. Four frosted glasses emerged. He motioned the others to chairs and handed around the drinks.

“You’ll recall, Mr. Macbride, that just before you landed I warned you that possibly you would never be able to leave. That’s the position in which Lieutenant Malone and I find ourselves.”

The older man’s face reddened. “You mean we’d be forced to remain on this unknown, unpopulated planet for a lengthy time?”

Dave Malone grinned and took a sip of his drink. “Not for a lengthy time, sir. Forever.”

Macbride turned his glare from Benton to Malone. “What kind of a fantastic threat is that?”

Benton raised his hand. “Don’t misunderstand, Mr. Macbride. We have no desire to force you to remain here. And, if proper precautions continue to be maintained, there will be no reason for your staying. Just remember, you must stay inside this building until your craft is repaired and you are ready to leave.

“I might also add that Lieutenant Malone seems to have given you an incorrect impression. The Space Forces haven’t forced us to remain here. We stay of our own will. Twice a year a transport is sent to drop us our requirements.” He pointed out the portable bar and various other conveniences usually not seen in a military establishment. “We receive a good deal more than commonly comes under the heading of rations. Our life is quite comfortable.”

“I think it’s all perfectly mysterious. Actually.” Patricia giggled. “You forbid us to land, claiming it’s too dangerous, but when we do, we find nobody here except you boys. You make us wear blindfolds so we can’t see anything, and tell us you’ve been here six years without any relief. You even draw the curtains so we can’t see out your windows. Actually. It’s so mysterious. I just know I’ll love staying for awhile—really, I will.”

Dave Malone was gazing at her with the worshipful eyes of an adoring puppy. Steve Benton looked over at him and snapped, “Come on Dave. We’d better take a look at the cruiser. I hope we have all the materials necessary for its repair.”

He turned back to the two civilians. “You’ll find everything you need. Food, drinks, books, music—movies, if you want. Make yourselves at home. We’ll be back shortly. I’m afraid I must ask your word that you won’t either leave the building nor look out its windows.”

“All right,” Macbride snorted.

“Miss Macbride?”

“I promise.” Patricia giggled.

* * * *

When they found themselves in the open and walking toward the damaged ship, Steve Benton eyed the other worriedly. “You’d better watch yourself, Dave, or you’ll be in an emotional mess. You know she can’t stay here and you can’t leave.”

Malone answered quickly. “Why not? Why couldn’t she stay? It’s not so bad here. We get along fine, don’t we? Why not fix it so they’d have to remain, too? We’d have company, Steve. Why, it’d even be a relief to have the old man around. Somebody new.”

The muscles twitched in the senior officer’s face. “You know better than that, Dave. Being stationed here means more than just doing the usual spaceman’s duty. We’ve got a trust. In a way, the race depends on us. If we start letting down on the job just a fraction, it’ll be a precedent that’ll make it that much easier next time.”

“There’d never need be another time. And nobody would have to know we did it deliberately, not even them.”

Steve Benton’s grin was wry. “I see. When you get this girl for yourself, that ends it. Suppose I want one later on? And suppose that Macbride decides he wants a wife to share his exile? It could pile up, Dave, until the whole project would be a failure.”

The redhead was depressed. “I suppose you’re right, Steve.” They walked in silence for a moment, and his natural exuberance reasserted itself. “Maybe she’ll see a luvver by accident,” he said hopefully.

* * * *

At the beginning, dinner that night was pleasant enough. For the two exiles, Macbride’s crusty nature and snorting comments were more than counterbalanced by his daughter’s accentuated feminine charm. It evidently hadn’t occured to either of them that her giggling would lose its charm given a period of years—if not months. It was obvious that they thought her wonderful.

“What’s the report on the ship?” Macbride growled. “How soon can we leave?”

“Perhaps late tomorrow,” Benton told him. There was an air of hopefulness in his reply.

“Why, I never,” Patricia objected. “You actually sound as though you’re in a hurry to have us leave. Actually. I’ll bet Lieutenant Malone doesn’t feel that way.”

She turned her limpid blue eyes on that love-sick worthy.

The redhead gulped. “Golly, no. But Steve doesn’t mean it that way, Miss Macbride…”

She giggled. “Call me Patricia.”

He gulped again. “Er…Patricia. It’s just that it isn’t safe for you to stay. Every hour is as dangerous as the last, and neither of us will be able to rest until we get you safely away.”

Donald Macbride grunted skeptically. “I think this is a farce. You continually talk of danger, but both of you go unarmed. You hint at something terrible and refuse to let us look out of the windows. Something strange is going on here. You two are hiding something.”

Steve Benton got to his feet, the muscles of his cheeks working. He tossed his napkin to the table. “That is exactly what we are doing, sir. That is why the Space Forces left us here—to hide something. Now, I am afraid it would be better if we refrained from discussing the subject. You must be tired. Lieutenant Malone will show you to your rooms.”

“Aw, Steve,” the redhead protested, “it might be years before we have another chance to talk to someone.”

Benton was curt. “Unfortunately, Mr. Macbride seems unable to refrain from objecting to the strict regulations that must be enforced here. I think it would be preferable if the conversation ended. We’ll finish repairs on the ship tomorrow and have our guests back into space as soon as possible.”

“Young man,” Macbride rumbled, “you’re insufferable. When we arrive home I shall be forced to report you.”

Steve Benton laughed bitterly. “You do that, sir. It’ll be interesting to see what kind of punishment the Space Forces can figure out for a man who is permanently assigned, without relief, to this two-by-four planet.”

Dave Malone grinned at the idea. “Maybe you’ll be demoted, Steve.”

* * * *

It hadn’t been any easier for Steve Benton to resist Patricia Macbride’s charms than it had for Dave Malone. Benton was as normal as the next man; and the next man was pretty normal seeing that he was the red-headed Malone. Ten years without feminine companionship of any sort hadn’t been easy to bear, nor did it help matters for him to realize that a similar ten years stretched ahead, and another ten beyond that.

Exile! Perpetual exile, and nothing else.

He tossed in his bed, knowing that under the same roof, a few score yards away, slept a beautiful, desirable woman. He’d almost forgotten that women were more than fairy tales seen prettily portrayed by the movie projector; had almost forgotten that they were more than characters in the endless number of novels he read to while away the years. Almost…

He was unable to sleep and finally threw back the covers, got to his feet, and searched for and finally found a cigarette on the small table beside his bed. The window was open and the coolness of the night air touched him. He idly looked out, hoping that the strangers would obey his orders to leave their windows closed and shades drawn. Not that there was much danger at night, but still, you never knew when a luvver might choose to stroll near the base.

A glimpse of white drew his attention. It seemed to be moving. He frowned, not being able to place it, and peered out trying to pierce the night’s gloom.

Suddenly, he was on his feet and dashing for the door. He banged into several pieces of furniture, not taking the time to switch on a light.

A sleepy-eyed Malone stared bewilderedly at him from the doorway of another bedroom. He mumbled, “What goes on?”

Benton yelled back over his shoulder as he dashed through the front entrance. “She’s out there! Patricia’s gone outside. You stay here. Watch her old man…”

The redhead was instantly awake. “I’ll be a makron. It’s happened. We should’ve locked them in.”

Steve Benton dashed across the field, searching the shadows with his eyes as best he could as he ran. So far, so good. Not a luvver in sight. It just might be possible…

He reached her side and grasped her arm roughly. She was dressed in a white, semi-transparent negligee. She should have looked like Cleopatra to him, but she didn’t. He had no time nor patience for her femininity.

He shook her. “You fool. What are you doing out here? Get back into the house immediately. What have you seen?” he added anxiously.

She tried to shake off his hand with impatience as he hurried her toward the building but he hustled her along, still darting his eyes into every shadow, nervously alertly.

“Oh, Lieutenant…Steve…don’t be so rough. It was so stuffy in there. I couldn’t sleep. Please, my arm… Besides, what is there to see? You were so mysterious, but there’s nothing out here except an old landing field with the usual hanger and repair shop.”

He grunted. “Maybe you’re safe. They don’t come out very often at night.” He increased their pace, almost dragging her toward the house. “What got into you? Didn’t I tell you that under no circumstances…”

She giggled. “I was going to keep very quiet, and if you caught me I was going to pretend I was sleepwalking… Why, look!”

He glanced at her, then into the darkness.

“Look at what? What do you see?”

He tried anxiously to make out what she was staring at. She’d been in the dark longer than he; her eyes were better adjusted to the night. He shook her roughly. “What do you see?”

She answered impatiently, still trying to free her arm. “Don’t be silly. It’s nothing. Just an adorable little animal, a cute little thing about the size of a fox terrier, something like a tiny monkey. Why, look at those big, sad eyes. Steve…it’s lovable.”

He groaned. “A luvver!”

He swung her around sharply so that she faced him, and lashed out cruelly with his fist to the point of her jaw. She slumped forward and he caught her up into his arms.

He carried her to the door and kicked on it, swearing under his breath as his bare foot struck the metal.

“Let me in, Dave,” he yelled. “There’s a luvver out here. Be sure the old man doesn’t see it, and by all means don’t let it in! Use all your will power, Dave. Even if it wants in, don’t let it in!”

Malone’s voice was muffled through the door, but the strained quality could be felt.

“All right, Steve, I’m opening up. Come in quick.”

The door opened wide enough for Benton to slip through with his burden and was slammed immediately after him. The redhead stood with his back to it, sweat on his forehead.

“Thank God, I didn’t see it! It would have been hell if I had and it felt like coming into the house.”

Steve Benton took the girl to a couch and tried to make her comfortable. He ran his hand through his hair quickly, nervously, as though he wanted to tear out a handful. He stared at her desperately.

Donald Macbride came hurrying from his room, shrugging into a night robe. His face was drawn. “What’s happened? What’s Patricia doing here?”

Steve ignored him and snapped at Malone, “She barely got a glimpse of it. Get the lethe drug, Dave. It’s her only chance.”

The redhead tore from the room and returned in seconds, a hypodermic needle and a small medicine bottle in his hands.

Macbride stared at them. “What’s the matter with my daughter? What are you doing? Why is she unconscious…or, is she…”

Steve Benton was rapidly filling the hypodermic. “She’s not dead if that’s what you mean. I knocked her out. She saw a luvver out there. Our only chance is to try and wipe the memory from her mind.”

The hypodermic needle filled, he bared her arm and bent over her to make the injection.

Her father reached his side and roughly caught his arm. “Just a minute. I want to know more about this. I don’t understand at all. What’s in that needle?”

Malone pushed him aside. “Stand back, you old fool. Do you want your daughter ever to leave this place? If you do, shut up and pray. If we’d known she was such a spoilt, headstrong brat, we’d have locked her in her room.”

“But…but…”

Steve Benton rapidly made the injection. He threw the hypo needle wearily to the table and went over to the automatic bar to return with three stiff brandies. He handed drinks to the others and motioned them to chairs.

He gulped half of his own drink and waited a long moment before saying anything. Then he looked at the now-pale father of the unconscious girl.

“You’ll have to know this now, I guess, in spite of all regulations.”

“I…I don’t understand.”

Steve Benton sighed. “No, of course, you don’t. Only a score of men in the whole system do.” He paused for another spell, then went on. “The last time this happened was six years ago. Dave was the victim that time. The circumstances were quite similar; the ship he was on put in for an emergency landing. As in your case, I made all efforts to prevent its crew from going outside. The mystery was too much for our red-headed friend, and he slipped away and saw a luvver. From then on he had to share my exile. Neither of us will ever leave this isolated planet.” He ran his hand over his mouth. “I hope the measures we’ve taken with your daughter will save her from the same destiny.”

Macbride sputtered. “Fantastic! Just the sight of this ridiculous animal? What horrible…”

Benton finished his drink and accepted the fresh one Dave Malone handed him. The redhead had been standing at the bar, downing one after another.

Steve Benton shook his head. “Have you ever considered, Mr. Macbride, how many different methods animal-life uses as a means of defense? Consider, for a moment, the animals you find on Earth. One runs fast—the deer, for instance; another, the snake, is poisonous. The skunk repels enemies with its scent; the wart-hog with its repulsive appearance. The bird flies away from danger; the chameleon camouflages itself by changing its color to blend with its surroundings. The great cats are fierce; the elephant is large as a fortress; the bee has its sting; the turtle its armor; the porcupine, its quills.”

The older man looked worriedly at his daughter. “I fail to see what it has to do with Patricia, but if I must listen to this, at least let us make her comfortable.”

Dave Malone said, “She’s all right. She’ll be dead to the world for at least three days.”

“Three days!”

“Let me go on,” Steve Benton pursued. “Your daughter is the victim of the natural defense of the luvver, an animal peculiar to this planet. It’s the only life-form known that uses an ability to create affection as its defensive mechanism.”

Macbride was indignant. “You mean to tell me that the only thing this fearful animal does is inspire affection?”

“That’s right. All it does is inspire affection. Everything, not just everybody, loves a luvver. Nothing would dream of hurting one. In fact, it has difficulty keeping other animals away. They’ll follow a luvver in droves, adoringly. Omniverous, like man, it never has trouble securing all the meat it wants. Its animal victims just come close and lovingly let themselves be killed and eaten. Its ability to create affection is actually stronger than the instinct of self-preservation.”

“You mean that Patricia would have let the creature kill her without fighting, or, at least, running?” There was an edge of horror in the man’s voice.

“Happily, we aren’t faced with that problem. The luvver doesn’t seem to care for human flesh. Its danger to your daughter is the fact that it inspires undying love.”

“I can’t see that as such a danger. After all, man has loved his cats and dogs for centuries…”

“I said undying love. Irresistible love, unthinking love. Picture the possibilities. Suppose one was taken to Earth and placed in a zoo. Every person who ever saw it would find himself unable to stay away from the luvver. Millions of persons would pack the zoo trying to be near it. Hundreds, thousands, would scheme, steal, fight, in efforts to try and take it home for their exclusive affection. In short, Macbride, the luvver exerts a stronger force that the most vicious narcotic.

“We are going to place your daughter on your ship tomorrow and let you blast off. I warn you, never mention the luvver to her. If you are fortunate, we will have been successful in wiping its memory from her mind. When she revives, observe her. If she demands to be brought back here, then bring her back. Nothing can be done. She’d die of melancholy if kept indefinitely from seeing a luvver.”

Macbride seemed suddenly old. His face was ashen. His hair, formerly but streaked with gray, now seemed white. He was comprehending slowly.

“But why has the Space Forces left you two here to keep off ships? Why not just kill them? Destroy them utterly!”

Dave Malone shuddered at the blasphemy. “You can’t kill a luvver. You wouldn’t let yourself. All we can do is prevent others from seeing them, and keep them from spreading to other planets. Can you see the danger that some ship might land here and unknowingly take several of the things aboard for pets? Wherever they went, people would follow like the rats followed the Pied Piper.”

* * * *

Macbride was able to blast off shortly before dusk of the next day. He’d been led to the little spacer blindfolded, as before. Steve Benton carried the drugged girl and deposited her in her bunk.

Afterwards the two exiles stood and watched as the cruiser disappeared into the sky.

“Perhaps we got the drug into her in time,” Malone said. “She didn’t really see the luvver very well or for very long.”

Steve looked at his companion wryly. “I thought you were so anxious to have her stay.”

His companion shrugged irritably. “I’m not so sure. To tell you the truth, Steve, it got to be a burden having strangers here so long and being away from them…”

They approached the house again, their eyes brightening.

“There’s one of the little darlings now.” Steve Benton squatted down on his heels and held out a piece of sugar in his hand. “Here sweetheart, here precious…”

A luvver detached itself from the shade of the building and stared at them wistfully. They both smiled in adoration.

It strolled over languidly.

FROG LEVEL, by Bud Webster

The boxcar rocked and the rough boards hummed beneath me like marimba bars as the train sped…somewhere. I didn’t know where then, and I’m still not sure. I had just awakened from a dream I couldn’t remember, and I could still feel the oppressiveness and anxiety of it. I looked around and saw I wasn’t alone; there was an old man stretched out on a sheet of cardboard a few feet away. The Old Man.…

How had we ended up in a boxcar? I tried to remember, but the too-brief sleep I’d gotten hadn’t been restful, and I was foggy. Hadn’t I been on a bus, on my way south?

The bus, right. It came back to me through the fog, the high weirdness on the bus. It had gotten weird pretty quickly.

“There are two Frog Levels in the Commonwealth of Virginia,” the old man had whispered loudly. That’s how this thing had begun, on a south-bound bus one August afternoon and with that simple touch of madness.

“Two.” I smiled dully back at him and tried to bury myself in my book. “That’s…interesting.”

“Two!” he repeated, waggling two calloused fingers in my face. I noticed that his eyes didn’t look in quite the same direction. “Trick is,” the old man said, “trick is knowing which one is the real one.” He shook his head. “If we could just manage to be in both of ’em at the same time, we’d know which one was the real one, and which one the aliens sent us for a birthday present.”

I closed my book and sighed. I’d only been pretending to read, anyway.

“Birthday present?”

“Hell, yes. Always nice to get a birthday present.”

“From aliens?”

He gave me a patient look. “Well, it ain’t no fun if you got to give one to yourself, now, is it?”

“I guess not.” It was easier to let it go; I didn’t have the wherewithal to argue just then—not that I ever did, these days.

Now I watched as the miles inched past the open boxcar doors. It was dusty and noisy, but the gentle rocking and the rhythmic clatter of the wheels against the rails was almost hypnotic, not that that’s an original observation. It dawned on me that I was experiencing the very phenomenon that gave birth to all those train songs I’d heard as a kid. There was probably some kind of metaphor about my life in there somewhere, too. Not that I cared to look for it. My life sucked. My life.…

This deconstruction of my life had really begun when my thesis advisor called me into his office the previous Monday morning before class.

He’d looked at me from across his desk. His office was small, crowded, and filled from floor to ceiling with bookcases. They, in turn, were filled with books. There were no flat surfaces to be seen. On the wall above his head was an autographed photo of his beloved Mudhens.

“Ian,” he said quietly, “you’re one of the best music teachers I’ve ever seen. You have an innate grasp of meter and rhythm, and you can see things in the music that the composers may not even have known they put in there.” He shook his head. “Hell, you showed me things about The Rite of Spring that were new to me, and I’ve been studying that damn-silly piece of dance music for thirty years.”

I waited. There was a “but” coming up.

He shrugged. “You’re a ‘rolling stone’, if I may quote the Great Dylan. You’ve got no direction, no center. I don’t doubt for a minute that you’ve got the requisite knowledge stacked in your head, but there’s no focus to any of it.” He began idly rearranging things on his desk top; without being aware of it, I watched the patterns as they changed.

“The committee has turned your latest thesis proposal down, Ian. It’s been done already, and they don’t think that the process of writing it will be enough of an exercise to make it worthwhile.” He picked at something in front of him. “This is your third rejection, and you’re close to losing your assistantship.”

“What about…” I began.

“I think it’s in your best interest if you take a little time off,” he interrupted. “Give the whole thing some thought. Decide what you want to do, where you want to go.” He shook his head. “Not just academically. You’re not going to be any good to us here if you’re stumbling over the rest of your life. Otherwise,” he said, spreading his hands helplessly and looking grim, “otherwise, we’ll have to send you back down to the minors, or give you your outright release. I’m sorry, Ian.”

I was stunned. Speechless. All those other things, too. I shifted in my seat and something crinkled in my back pocket; the note my girlfriend had left me when she moved out over the weekend. It said pretty much the same thing, but with a lot less consideration.

“I…” My throat clicked. “I don’t know what to say, Nick.”

He shook his head again. “You don’t have to say anything, Ian. But you really do need to do something.” He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a sheet of his personal stationary. Unscrewing his fountain pen, he wrote on the paper and blotted it. “Here’s the address of a folk music center in North Carolina. My cousin runs it, and I’ve spoken to him about you. See if you can turn up a thesis idea there, okay?” He handed it to me and I folded it carefully and put it in my wallet. “You can do this, Ian. I know you can.”

We both stood, and he reached for my hand; I took it numbly, but with gratitude. I didn’t question his sincerity at all; we’d known each other too long. I also didn’t doubt he was right about what I had to do; but I wasn’t at all sure he was right about the rest.

* * * *

Now, looking out the doors of the boxcar in the late August afternoon, I was too bewildered to be sure about anything. I wasn’t even sure where we were, except that we were still north of Richmond. Hell, I was from Van Nuys, what did I know about Virginia? I saw houses from time to time, and once in a while we’d go through some small town with its feedlots and convenience stores, but they could have been anywhere. Where this old geezer had us going was anybody’s guess.

He was awake now, too, staring up at the ceiling with his hands crossed behind his head. I looked him over again, more carefully this time. He was older than dirt, true, but his eyes were a lot clearer than I’d first thought, for all that they were out of kilter. That doesn’t mean much—John Wayne Gacy had clear eyes—but it was an indication that at least he wasn’t a crazed Sterno-bum. He was clean, if shabby, and he had an undeniable dignity.

Dignity. That was just one of the many things that I didn’t have. I can’t say that I missed it as much as I missed my girl, frankly. I was both desperate and desperately tired. All I had was a knapsack and a badly overdrawn emotional bank account.

I wanted to compose music, to write songs, to play them for people and make them sit up and take notice. I couldn’t, and had never been able to. Do you know what it’s like to burn with music and not have a voice to sing it with? Like the Who said: “Schizophrenic, hell. I’m quadraphenic!”

I’d been trying hard not to think about those things back on the bus. “’Birthday present’, huh?” I said, trying to get my mind off my life. “When exactly was our birthday?”

“Long time ago. Back in the scaly-o-zoic era, I figure.”

“Before humans, right?”

“Don’t be stupider than you have to be, son,” he said scornfully. “Aliens ain’t gonna give no presents to no lizards, no matter how big they are.”

“But, I thought…”

“No, you didn’t or you’d of not shot off your mouth concernin’ stuff you don’t know about.”

“Okay, then,” I said, a little piqued, “Define your terms. When exactly was the ‘scaly-o-zoic’?”

“It was when we first made up songs. Or was it the first time we ate fish?” He shrugged. “It don’t matter. Both happened about the same time.”

I was confused and getting more so. “We invented music and seafood at the same time?” I asked.

“Yep,” he said. “3:17 A.M.” He sighed. “Boy, those were the days.”

It made as much sense as anything else he’d said, not that that was saying a lot. The old guy was obviously crazy as a shit-house rat, but he was at least an interesting rat.

The other passengers on the bus had either studiously ignored us or stared blatantly. I leaned closer and lowered my voice.

“Given all that, how old are we?”

“Oh, we ain’t had our first birthday party yet. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not talking about anniversaries here. They give that other Frog Level to us the day we was born. Still,” he continued with a shrug, “it’s been longer than I can remember, and I was a old fart before you was hatched.”

“The Earth is four and a half billion years old, or so the scientists say.”

He shrugged again. “Drop in the bucket, boy. I’m wearin’ socks older’n that. Anyways, birthdays ain’t always reckoned in years.”

“But what’s your interest in all this? And why are you talking to me about it?” I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer, but there was no way I wasn’t going to ask.

“Because somebody’s got to send ’em a thank-you note.”

“’Thank-you note?’ Are you out of…?” But of course. “How? How do you write a thank-you note to aliens? Crop circles?”

He looked at me in horror. “You don’t believe in that booshwah, do you? If so, we might as well end this conversation right here and now.”

I should have done it. I should have said, “Yes. I do believe in crop circles, and the Loch Ness Monster, and Bigfoot.” But I didn’t. Years of knee-jerk skepticism made me say, “No, of course not.”

“Well, then, fine. I got a job to do, and I can’t do it by myself. If I could, I’d’ve done it long since. I need your help.”

I frowned. This could get sticky. “Help. Help how?”

“That,” he said firmly, “remains to be saw.” And he stood up and signaled to the driver to stop.

Why? Why on the face of this good, green Earth did I follow this crazy old man off that bus? I know I’ve asked myself that question every day since I did, and I have no more answer now than I did the day I got up and went after him.

Or, perhaps I do; he was the straw at which I was grasping.

If my problem was that I didn’t have a focus in my life, it certainly wasn’t the old man’s. Hell, he was focused to a point so fine that you could barely see it. Call it an obsession (I know damned well I would), call it whatever, he knew what the problem was, and he knew the solution, and he was determined to apply the latter to the former if it killed him. Or us.

He had a “voice,” a presence, cracked as it was. I didn’t, and how could anybody hear me…why would anybody listen to me if I didn’t have my own voice? I could feel the lack of it, deep inside, an aching wound that had been scooped out of me like a melon ball so many years ago I couldn’t remember not hurting.

Maybe, just maybe, I had something to learn from him. And maybe it would be a lark, a story to dine out on. That would come in handy when the money gave out. It might help stave off dumpster-diving for a few weeks. In any case, anything was better than the bleak landscape inside my own head.

“Look,” I said, “I don’t even know who you are. You don’t know who I am. Hell, I could be anybody. We’re on a bus, for Chrissakes! How do you know you can trust me?”

“I don’t. I trust myself. I’m the only one knows me well enough. And who I am doesn’t matter. Let’s just say I’m ‘of no fixed abode.’”

There was a time when I actually chose to go cross-country on buses. I thought it was romantic. I thought it would give me the edge that Kerouac and Cassidy had, the world-weary experience and gritty sense of realism that I thought was integral to the Beats. At the time, I was dismayed by how wrong I was: it was noisy, filthy, smelly, it made my ass hurt; and let’s not even go near the bathroom facilities, either figuratively or literally. If that was what made the Beats what they were, they were welcome to it.

This time it wasn’t by choice, I simply didn’t have any other way to get where I needed to go.

I hate buses. The only thing I care less for is woods. I know that’s unhip, but I don’t apologize for it. They look great on greeting cards, and they’re perfect for writing songs about, but they’re dirty, musty, and they tear your clothes. So guess what was right in front of us when we got off that bus?

We must have hiked four miles through those damned woods. Can you imagine anything that would make you nostalgic for a Greyhound in August? Well, I can, and we were traipsing through them at a pace that kept me breathless. And it started raining the minute we stepped off the bus, a hot, clammy drizzle that ran down my neck and managed to soak my shirt through from the inside out.

“My…my name is…Ian. I’m a…music teacher,” I said between pants. “Can we slow down some?”

“Nearly there, music teacher. Can’t you hear it yet?”

I stopped. There was something, off in the distance. A train whistle, almost below the threshold of hearing.

“You don’t mean…!” I said, horror dawning.

“First thing you’ve got right, boy. We gonna hop us a freight and catch us some real miles. Where we’re going, you can’t get there from here.”

“But…I’ve never done anything like that in my life!”

“First time for everything. Well, almost everything. There’s never a first time for a tuna-melt on dry-wall in aspic.” He shuddered. “Boy, I’ll never do that again.”

“But isn’t, uh, ‘hopping a freight’ against the law?”

“Depends on the law. If you go by the law of supply and demand, etiquette demands we send a thank you note, and we gotta supply it. If you go by the law of averages, well, I figure there’s one of us that don’t cover.”

“What about the law of conservation of energy?” I muttered.

“That’s a good ’un. Hang onto it, you’ll need it later.”

“Wait a minute,” I said, trying to catch my breath. “If…we’re going to be hobos, don’t we need one of those bags on a stick?”

He snorted. “Nawp, and if you see any see-gars with toothpicks in ’em on the ground, just leave ’em lay.”

As we went along, the old man would pull up a weed or pick leaves off some bush, and he carefully placed them in the center of a rag he took out of his back pocket. I didn’t want to know what they were for.

I heard a loud hissing noise ahead of us, and the old man began to walk even faster.

“Hurry up, boy, or we’ll miss our ride!”

We ran around a bend in the creek and, sure enough, there was a long freight moving slowly across a trestle. The old man stopped and scanned the train carefully.

“Gotta keep away from the bulls,” he muttered. “They wouldn’t understand, nawsir. Gotta find us a nice side-door Pullman, most of these are grainers. There! That’s the one!” He took off running, and it was all I could do to keep up.

The car we were headed for was a dilapidated old boxcar that looked like it had been built some time around the Napoleonic wars and had seen heavy use since. It had those cryptic numbers on it that you always see on freight trains, but nothing like C&O or N&W or any of the freight line company names I remembered. It looked drafty and dirty and dusty, all the things I didn’t want to be right then.

The train moved slowly enough that the old man was able to grab the open door with one hand and the floor with the other and pull himself inside. I tried to do the same and almost slipped. He grabbed my arm and just hauled me in like I was a sack of potatoes. I rolled over and sat up in the doorway, and he slapped me across the back of the head.

“Never, and I mean never, sit in the doorway of a freight car, boy! If that door comes loose and slams shut, what do you figure to walk out of here on?”

I nodded; it made sense. I pulled in my legs and settled down.

* * * *

Which is how we ended up in a beat-to-shit freight car that rattled like an angry snake somewhere in the wilds of Virginia in the middle of the Dog Days.

Actually, I guess it was pretty cozy, looking back on it. It was dry, the wind was broken enough by the boards that by the time it got to us it was a breeze that stirred the dust in eddies. It had last been used (as near as I could tell) to haul apples. That sharp, sweet tang was a welcome memory from my childhood; I’d grown up on a farm that had orchards.

“Okay,” I said. “You got me here. What’s next?”

“We got a ways to go, so settle down and get some rest. You done pretty good so far. For a stiff, anyway.”

I was more pleased by this than I let on. I wasn’t sure why, but it felt fine. Was I really a hobo now? Just from riding a train without paying? If so, it sure felt better than being a spectacularly unsuccessful grad student.

There was some old excelsior padding bunched up in a corner, and I nestled into it. The space between the boards was enough for me see out, and I watched the countryside go by in the early dusk. This was a lot more cool than taking the bus, for all the dust and roughness. Hell, you had to pay to get on a bus; this was free. Maybe this was why hobos were hobos.

“Aaahhhhhh…” The old guy stood silhouetted in the doorway, taking a leak onto the tracks. “Ain’t nothing in the world like pissing out a train car to tell the bastards you’re here, boy. Nothing in this world nor any of the others.”

He finished, straightened his clothes, and then lay down on a big piece of cardboard with his hands behind his head. I looked him over, trying to picture him as a younger man. I failed miserably.

“You know,” I said, “this ‘hobo’ thing could work out pretty good. You get to travel, you don’t have to work, no responsibilities…yeah, I could get used to this.” I smiled at the thought.

He snorted hard in the dimness of the car. “KEE-rist, boy, you don’t know shit from Sherlock, do you? Let me explain something to you.

“I been a hobo, man and boy, since I was fourteen years old. I run away at a time when they wasn’t no jobs to be had. Back then you worked or you didn’t eat. Hell, even in the jungles you was expected to pony up something for the pot.

“And I’ve had just about every job they was to be had, short of workin’ in a office somewhere. I followed the harvest for years, I washed dishes, I laid rails, I built some houses and I tore some down. When I couldn’t get work like that I beat rugs or chopped firewood for a hand-out, or a sit-down if I was lucky.

“What you’re talking about,” he went on, “is bein’ a tramp, and I don’t have no truck with tramps. Tramps are dirty. They beg. They get drunk. They lie and they cheat and they steal. The hardest work they’ll do is grifting some honest stiff, and then they’ll blow it all on cheap wine and dice games.”

He sat up and looked at me, his face light in the gathering gloom. “They got no pride, son, and they’re proud of it. You can feel just as sorry for yourself as you care to, but you ain’t a tramp or I’d of known it and you wouldn’t be here right now.”

“But, I thought…”

He waved it away. “So you keep saying, but I haven’t seen no evidence of it yet,” he said ruefully and lay back down.

The rails sang under us. I didn’t like what the old man said, but I couldn’t argue with it.

“All right, you know so much about me, but I still don’t know about you,” I asked. “Who are you, and why is this so important to you?”

“It’s important to me because gifts should be acknowledged. It’s the proper thing to do. It’s important because I was brought up better than to let a gift go by unthanked.” He looked wry. “It don’t even matter if it ain’t terrible much of a gift, it was still give to us. We all get gifts, some more than others, but ain’t too many of them ever get used. Just like a fondue pot. And it don’t matter to anybody here who I am, long as they know. Now, get some sleep. We got miles to make.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, shaking my head, “but I’m just too wired to sleep.”

He sighed. “S’pose you wanna talk.” I nodded in the dark. “Okay, we’ll talk some, but we both need to sleep or we’re never gonna get there.”

“Look,” I began. “I know you’re crazy. That’s okay. I’m sane, and it hasn’t done me a bit of good.”

“Go on.” If he resented my remark it didn’t show.

“Well, I’m not good at much of anything. I do okay teaching music, but that’s not anything special. I just don’t think I’m who you need to…to do whatever it is you want us to do.”

“And who might you be to make that judgment, boy?” The words sounded harsh, but his voice didn’t; he spoke low and kindly. “If you’re such a screw-up, why trust yourself to trust yourself?”

“But why me? There were plenty of other people on that bus. Why did you single me out?”

He was quiet for a long while. Somewhere off in the far distance, another train whistled low and lonely. “I might claim that you looked me in the eye when you got on the bus. Not many care to. Could be that I saw something in you that you needed to know about. Might be that you know better than you think, and think better than you know.” He stood up in the swaying car, keeping his knees slightly bent in a way that told me he’d done this countless times before, and stretched. “Gettin’ old, son. Not as spry as I used to be.” He turned and faced me, although I couldn’t see him in the gloom except as a dim shape in the doorway.

“I’m gonna tell you something that you probably won’t understand, and that’s okay. I looked at you, and I seen a man who long ago took hisself to a dark and lonesome place and then left hisself there. You been trying to find your way back ever since, and that’s a damn shame, but you forgot that it was you that lost you in the first place.”

He hunkered down on his haunches beside me, hands between his splayed knees.

“Don’t matter if you believe me. What is, is, and what isn’t, is not. You’re not half what you could be, and you’re twice the lowly bastard you’re afraid you are, but you ain’t been sewed up in a shroud yet. There’s time to strike a light and bring yourself home. Mayhap you’ll find your match when we get where we’re goin’.” After a minute he stood and turned back to the door, looking out into the night.

I noticed then that my face was wet. My throat ached and there was a burning in my chest, and something deep inside me felt broken.

He spoke again without turning. “That dangly thing in front of you is the end of your rope, boy. You can either hang yourself with it or haul yourself up by it. Your choice.”

I sat there without speaking, thinking about what he’d said. I didn’t like it. I never liked it when somebody else was right about me, and for all his shabbiness and lack of a handle on consensual reality, he was dead-on right.

“So you’re my rope, is that it?”

“I said you wouldn’t understand. Goddam metaphors. If you’d stop thinking about yourself for a while, you wouldn’t be so damn thoughtless.”

I didn’t want to think about it, so I changed the subject. “You mentioned something earlier about being in two places at once. How is that possible?”

“We can do it. It ain’t easy, nawsir, but we can do it. It’s an old Indian trick.”

“Yeah? Which ones?”

He looked at me with those eyes. “You deef? The old ones. Now sleep.”

And I did. And dreamed as I slept, badly.

* * * *

And so I woke up. We were going at a pretty good clip. It had been full dark when I went to sleep; now the light from outside was muted, like twilight in summer. There was something odd about it, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Eldritch? Is that the word? In any case, it was impossible to judge how much time had passed.

I took stock. I was God-knew-where, with this old man who was demonstrably as crazy as a loon, on a freight train in a rickety old boxcar. I was stiff, it was hot, and I was hungry. I sat up and shook my head to try and clear it. This had gone seriously past the point of being a lark.

I asked him again, this time a little more pointedly, “Look, who are you? I’ve got to know.”

He looked over at me, for once both eyes staring directly into mine.

“I am mortally weary of you asking that same damn question, is who I am. But since you ask so nice, I’ll tell you—if you got the guts to hear it.

“I am who I am, boy. I am a man of constant sorrow. I am a man of the moon. I am the man of a thousand face. I am the man who never says die.” He drew himself up to his full height and continued, his voice getting louder and stronger.

“I am he who knocked one over the fence in 1925, the one that all know as the old man down the road. I hold nothing in my hands that I cannot own, and nothing sets in my pockets that I did not put there. There are no flies on me, nor are there mind-control rays from Mars. I am no longer well-to-do and never was. I have all that I can do to stand before you and am as strong as the rails that rumble beneath our asses.”

As he spoke, he leaned closer to me so that I could feel his breath, warm against my face. It smelled of coffee and time.

“Most of all, I am Joshua Abraham Norton the Second, Emperor of the United States of America and Protector of Mexico, a direct descendant of Emperor Joshua Abraham Norton the First. I am all that, and I contain several multitudes, boy, and don’t you forget it.” He held my eyes with his for a moment longer, then leaned back and looked out at the world.

“I think I understand,” I said in a hushed voice.

“Nawp, not yet you don’t,” he sighed, “but it’s a start.”

We sat in silence after that, watching the passing scenery. Presently, I could make out a train yard up ahead, and the old man—the Emperor!—gathered himself up.

“Time to go, son. Don’t leave nothing behind that you brought, and don’t take anything with you that was already here.”

We hopped off the train as it crept past a siding. That weird light showed a flat, grassy area surrounded by trees and brush. A bulky figure was slowly and carefully stirring something in a big coffee can held over a fire by sticks.

The old man called out, “Hey, ’bo!”

The figure rose and bowed low. “Welcome, Your Imperial Majesty.” His voice rumbled deep and clear, like a slow freight rolling on fresh snow.

The Emperor waved a hand in dismissal. “Don’t stand on ceremony, ’bo, just set back down and mind your mulligan. Anything in that pot for us?”

“It’s all for you, Your Imperial Majesty,” the big man replied as he resumed stirring, “if you’ve got the hunger and a little something to add to it.”

“Oh, we got the hunger, all right,” the old man said. “And I’ve got just the thing to make it pee-cont.” He reached into his back pocket, brought out that old rag and tied it in a knot. He tossed this to the figure who caught it without looking.

“How long are we gonna be here?” I asked the old man querulously.

He shrugged. “I’ll be five-feet ten inches. How ’bout you?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know what you meant. You don’t know what you meant. Just set back and relax yourself.”

I tried to. I sat down with my back against an old wooden crate that, from the smell, had once held onions. I could hear night birds and cicadas, and in the distance the clanking and chuffing of the train yard. After a while, I noticed that my breathing was easier, and my eyes were becoming accustomed to the strange light.

The big man at the fire leaned in to add the contents of the rag to whatever it was in the can. As he did, the flames illuminated a face that was somehow even older than the Emperor’s; for all that there were no lines or wrinkles. I got the idea that he was so old that erosion had erased any mark of time.

I tapped the Emperor on the arm. “Who’s he?” I asked in a low voice, then added, “Your Majesty.”

He shook his head. “Y’know, for somebody who don’t even know his own self, you got a hell of an obsession with knowing who everybody else is. Besides, I ain’t been here any longer than you. Hey, ’bo,” he said in a louder voice, “you got a moniker?”

The big man paused and set the ladle down on a tin plate. “Yeah, I got a few. I get called a lot of stuff. ‘Easy’ Ace, Tarheel Slim, Sidedoor, Tiny…you name it, I been called it.” He stood and stretched. “Right now, though, I’m just the Cook.”

The breeze was wafting the aroma of good, hearty stew to us and my mouth watered. I felt like I hadn’t eaten for days, and I’d been a lot more active than I’m used to.

“Cook,” I asked, a little nervously. “Where exactly are we?”

He looked around slowly, and then turned to me. “Dunno, exactly. Could be anywhere. Place like this isn’t exactly nailed down, you see. Might be you could walk in two different directions and end up the same place. Might could be you’d walk a day and a night and never leave.”

Although it was warm, I felt a chill. “What…what time is it?”

The Cook resumed stirring. “Why? You need to be somewhere?”

“No, I’m just curious.”

“Could be most any time, I guess. Could be March, or time-and-a-half. Could be time for every purpose under Heaven. Might could even be Thursday. Time don’t change much here. It don’t have to. It never gets full dark, never gets full light. Way I see it,” he looked up and nodded to me, “it’s pretty fine the way it is. Not so bright it blinds you, not so dark you can’t see the mysteries.” The fire popped and sparks flew up around his face. “All I know is I been sittin’ here stirring this mulligan since I inherited it from the last Cook, back a long ways. Should be ready ’most any time, now.”

“Then if the time is right,” the Emperor said, “dip us out a bowl apiece, and we’ll be much obliged.”

The Cook reached for a couple of battered old soup bowls and ladled some of the stew into them. He passed them to us one at a time, then tore off two big hunks of dark bread and tossed them to us. I noticed that he didn’t eat himself, and asked him if he wasn’t going to join us.

“’Preciate the thought,” he said, shaking his head, “but naw. I don’t eat much. Never did. And anyhow, I ain’t s’posed to right now.”

“Here’s to it, then,” the Emperor said and began to eat. I soaked up some of the stew with my bread and tasted it. It was unbelievably good; rich without being overwhelming, just sweet and salty enough to make you want more. The meat—whatever it was, and I didn’t care to speculate—was so tender it almost fell apart without being chewed. As I swallowed that first bite, I could feel all the cells in my body open up in surprise and welcome. It was like eating for the first time in my life, and I began shoveling it in as fast as I could.

Then the old man spoke up. “Now, I need to warn you, son,” he said as I dipped my bread back into the stew, “this is gonna open some doors you didn’t even know was there. By whatever time this is tomorrow, we’re gonna know for sure about those two Frog Levels.”

This was getting too weird for me. Hell, this had started out as a joke; I was following some crazy guy around the countryside looking for proof that we’d gotten a present from aliens, for Christ’s sake.

I put my bowl down. “Look, guys, this is right over the top. I can’t go along with it anymore, I don’t even know what’s in this stuff!”

“Ain’t nothing in it you ain’t had before,” the Cook replied. “Ain’t nothing in it you didn’t already have in you.”

“Too late now, anyway,” the old man said. “Might as well have a full stomach for what lies ahead.”

“What lies ahead?” I asked in desperation.

“No more lies,” the old man said. “Just the truth.”

I ate. There was an excitement in my belly that I couldn’t deny. I was back on that train, strapped to the engine, and it was going downhill faster than a hell-bound bat.

“Look to your shadow, son,” the Emperor said.

I looked down. It was where it had always been, at the end of my feet. Silently, I pointed to it.

“Naw,” he said, “not that. That’s just where you block the light. Where’s your shadow?”

I didn’t know. “If that’s not my shadow, then where is it?” I was worried, it should have been back hours ago, or at least called, the ungrateful bastard.

The Cook said, “You didn’t have it when you came in. From the looks of you, I’d say it’s been gone a long time.”

“Your shadow’s your conscience, boy,” the Emperor explained. “Your identity. Your integrity. Everybody’s got one, they just lose ’em every once and again. They’re the truth of you, but they’re mysteries, too.”

He stood, and wiped his hands on his pants. “You can’t find it when you’re in one place, because it could be anywhere. When you’re in two places, though, it gets easier. It’s always in the other one.”

It didn’t make sense. No, it made sense, but it was not-sense. Stuff and not-sense. After a while, though, it didn’t seem so weird, just inevitable. Just unavoidable. Just amenable. Just a minute.… It was just a matter of time.

“It’s time to go, son.”

“’To the land of Mordor, where the shadows lie?’”

“Shadows don’t lie. We gotta get going.”

“Where?” I stood up unclosely…excuse me, unsteadily. “If we don’t know where we are, how will we know when we get where we’re going?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“What doesn’t?”

“Matter, for one thing. Here, take my hand.”

I did, although I already had two of my own. “Can we really do this?”

“We already have. Look around you.”

It was dark, but a bright kind of dark that hurt my eyes. I could see everything, but there wasn’t any light to see it by. Even the shadows were brightly lit; even the reflections of the sun in the windows were shaded.

“Are we…are we there?”

He shook his head. “‘Theres’.”

“What?”

“There’s where we are.” He pointed to a road sign. It read “Frog Level” in white letters against green. There seemed to be two of them though, one on the other, neither of them the same size or shape. I looked around as best I could, being eyeful that my mind…excuse me, mindful that my eyes hurt.

Vertigo, vertigoing, vertigone. I shook my head but couldn’t shake the double vision. It was endless, it seemed; and seamless, it ended. With a bright snap, my head got itself around something larger than it could contain, and I found myself losing it.

I really was theres. I was in both Frog Levels at the same time, and ah, God, it hurt. It burned like I’d swallowed fire and sicked it back up; it hurt so bad I could goddam well hear it. I could see both place, not blurred, but slurred, slued, skewed. I was screwed, and I spewed. It hit the pavements and sparked.

“Here!” the old man shouted at me, pain in the ass that he was. Pain in my head, too, for all that he wasn’t inside it. “Keep hold of my hand.”

“Why, you going to drop it?”

“Look up the street,” he said in his dark-light voice. “Look at the street and tell me what you see.”

“I spy, with my little eye…something that begins the beguine.” I giggled at my own cleverness. He slapped me, hard, and my eyes blinked on and off rapidly.

“What do you see?”

I looked. I saw a roads, badly paved; a cars or two, a streets with a combination convenience stores and gas stations.

“I don’t know,” I said shakily. “I see what you see, I guess. What am I supposed to see?”

“What I don’t see. Look at your reflection in that window. What are you wearing?”

“Out my welcome, I’d say. Aren’t you?”

“Fine. And your shadow?”

“I can’t look at them. It hurts too much.”

“No, boy, you only have one. Nobody has but one. Now, look for it!”

I did. It wasn’t there. It had to be somewhere, but I couldn’t find it. I bet he couldn’t, either, but I was too tired, hurt too much, to say so.

“You can’t find it, can you?”

“No, it’s not theres. It’s not anywheres. I bet somebody stole it.”

“Nobody stole it, you turned it loose a long time ago. But you got to find it now to be whole. You understand?”

“But I am whole, I’m an ass-whole.” I half-laughed at my own purl of knit-wit.

“It’s not here, boy, because you ain’t here. You’re there. You’re in the other Frog Level. Feel around you, try and find it.”

“I don’t know, I don’t feel too good. I don’t feel well, either, I might be sick again.”

“Be sick on your own time, not everybody else’s.”

With my eyes squeezed shut, I felt around for my shadow. I felt a round something at my feet, but it was a pumpkin. Didn’t Jack Sprat keep his shadow in a pumpkin? Or was that Lamont Cranston and Margot Lane? I couldn’t remember.

I picked up the pumpkin and shook it; it rattled and rolled out of my hands, so I chased it down the streets. I caught it just before it went around a corners and turned into a drugstores. Lucky me, I could never have picked it back up if it was a drugstores.

I hefted it over my head and threw it through the windows. It smashed, and my shadow leapt up and out and into me.

I thought it hurt before, but I was wronged. Fusing with my shadow was fusion; I was out of control in the heart of the sun. Blood burst hot from my heart and shattered against the light, sending bright shrapnel into me from the inside out. The Earth and all that went with it rose up and fell toward me. I was running out of time.

That’s when it hit me. I understood at last, at least. I began humming a Bach Partita, and started running in time to it, eyes still clamped shut. I knew where the real Frog Level was. It was hidden by the Light of the Present, and I could find it if I could just hear the right note, the best note; the thank-you note.

Better than that: I was a musician, I was the Music Ian, and I could goddam well write the thank you notes! I could sing the thank-you notes!

So I did, and I sang them loud and clear, and the aliens heard, and the old man was crying and shouting, and I was breathless and not breathing and the notes went on and on like a flock of geese had flown out of my mouth and my lungs were full of air, full of the Air, an Air on the Geese String that wouldn’t end until it was over, and it flew over and over both places called Frog Level, and if anyone but the aliens and the two of us heard it, well, we’ll never know, will I?

* * * *

By and by, I came back to myself, to my own head, to one place. I hurt all over, but not the same way being in two places did. It hurt good, like a hard day’s work. And I suppose it had been just that.

I sat up and looked around. The clearing was gone, and the fire and the stew as well, although I’m sure that somewhere the Cook is still slowly stirring, stirring, and offering his mulligan to hungry travelers. I was alone beside the creek.

I stood and stretched. It felt damned good, too. I felt damned good, as a matter of fact. I felt like a job well done and a full day’s pay.

Something white fluttered against a nearby tree and caught my eye. I walked over and it was a note stuck to the trunk with a stag-handled penknife.

“Son,” it said, “you done good when the push came to the shovel. I knew you had it in you when I first saw you, and now that you’ve let it out, you’ll never be rid of it. Deal with that, and you’ll never lose at poker.

“I’m out of here. I got places to be seen in and things to have done; I hear there’s three goddamn Frog Levels in North Carolina alone, so I got my work cut out for me. Doubt I’ll be back anytime soon, but you knew that anyway.”

My eyes burned; probably smoke from the fire that wasn’t there anymore. I read on:

“Don’t fret about getting back. Just follow the creek around to the left and it’ll take you to the real Frog Level. From there, you can get to almost any place if you try hard enough.

“I give you my best. You already gave me yours.”

It was signed, “Joshua Abraham Norton II, Emperor of the United States and Protector of Mexico”.

I still have the note, in a frame on my office wall. I have an office wall, now, and an office for it to be in, I should point out. Something about that day (days? I’ll never know) ironed out a lot of my own rough spots. After I got back home, I knuckled down and finished my Masters. I don’t mind telling you that it wasn’t a simple task; the habits of a lifetime aren’t easily broken, and I’d had more of my energies invested in being lazy than I’d ever thought possible. But I managed it nonetheless, and now I’m teaching at a small college in the Mid-West, working on my doctorate.

I still have the penknife, too; it “sets in my pocket because I put it there.” I don’t use it much, I don’t have to. It’s enough to know where it came from and where it is. And you never know when you might need a penknife on the road.

I have something else, too, something I did not bring with me and which I will not take when I catch that last westbound: it looks like a stone, smoothed as if by years under gently rushing water, gray and featureless. When I came out of that weird trance, it was nestled in the palm of my right hand. Warm to the touch even on a cold day, when I hold it, it says “You’re welcome.” There are no words—these are aliens, after all—but the thought is clear. I take it out from time to time, just to hold it.

Aliens. Who’d have thought? And of course the Emperor was right; a second Frog Level might not be very useful, not the way a food processor or pasta machine is, but it sure beats the hell out of a fondue pot, and manners are manners.

I teach a course now on Music of the Iron Road. Hobo songs and poems, gathered by me each summer when I hit the rails to do more research. I bring other musicians to the college, too, with their guitars and banjos, their squeezeboxes and mouth-harps. They play for my students and the faculty, the college pays them an honorarium as lecturers, and they pick up work at the bars in town. Then they move on.

And once a year, no matter where I am or what I’m doing, I make it a point to hop a freight car and piss out the door, to prove to all the bastards in all the worlds that I’m here, and out of respect for the best and only Emperor I’ve ever known.

Most important, I write! Glory hallelujah, but I write and sing my own music now, and it’s good, and I’m not the only one who thinks so. Banjo Jack Holloway has recorded three of my songs, and I’m becoming a regular at hobo gatherings at places like Elko and Pennsburg. I’m accepted by the old ’bos as one of their own, and is there any greater joy, any greater honor, than to be accepted?

It’s a good life, I think.

CAPTAINS CONSPIRING AT THEIR MUTINIES, by Jay Lake

Year 461 post-Mistake

High orbit around Sidero

The Before Michaela Cannon, aboard the starship Polyphemus {23 pairs}

“A ship needs a captain against mutiny,” muttered the Before Michaela Cannon. “Not a mutinous captain.” She wasn’t in command of this vessel, not now at any rate—just the mission specialist in charge of integrating the starship’s crew and the pair master assembly team. People called her ascetic, but what they meant was weathered. Leathered. Raddled. And far worse, when they thought she couldn’t hear.

She knew better. You didn’t live fourteen centuries, several of them amid screaming savagery, and not learn to know better.

Comms flickered with the immersive displays here in her workspace on the reserve bridge. Polyphemus was fast-cycling through a hundred-odd channels, showing Cannon a gestalt of what was happening across the decks as well as outside the hull on the construction project. They were here at Sidero to build a pair master—a hideously expensive machine required to anchor one end of a paired drive run across the depths of interstellar space. Five years-subjective ship-time in relativistic transit, over eleven years-objective.

Plenty of opportunities for things to go seriously wrong.

“The predictive accuracy of your social modeling is increasingly accurate,” said Polyphemus. The starship spoke to Cannon in Classical English. A rare enough language in the Imperium Humanum that simply using it served as a crude form of operational security. Cannon had spent a lot of time in the ship’s Brocan modules, tweaking the speech processing.

Trust, it was always about trust. She’d been saying that down the long centuries, and had been proven right in the failing of things far too often.

Polyphemus continued. “Apparently random gatherings of three or more persons are up forty-eight percent this ship-day from median. Seven individuals appear in a distribution at six times the expected rate based on average distribution.”

“Kallus have anything to report?” He was her ally in Internal Security, a man loyal to certain interests outside the hull. Nothing inimical, just good, old-fashioned politics, working with people she respected well enough.

“He is busy suppressing a staged fight in the number three crew quarters.”

Cannon grunted. Then: “Weapons?”

“Nothing but ordinary tools. No withdrawals from the arms lockers in the past three ship-days.”

Firearms could have been distributed long ago, or indeed, brought on board before they’d departed Ninnelil five ship-years earlier. Somebody had planned for this mutiny, or at least the possibility of it.

That other damned Before was at the heart of this problem. “Where is Captain Siddiq?”

Polyphemus paused an unusually long time before answering. “The captain is not within my network mesh.”

“And why would a captain conspire at mutiny against her own command?” Cannon mused.

The starship had no answer to that. One by one, the images of the too-busy crew cycled to a hundred identical views of the dull black surface of the planet Sidero.

* * * *

:: context ::

In the centuries since the Mistake had nearly ended the tenure of the human race as a viable species, spacefaring had resumed across the core of the old Polity amid an outburst of genetic and technological diversity sparked by the pressures of extinction. The threadneedle drives which had provided a true faster-than-light solution in cheerful violation of both paradox and the laws of physics were now simply so much junk, whether on a laboratory bench or in a starship’s engine room.

Conventional physics had apparently re-asserted itself. Precisely what had happened to the threadneedle drive was a subject of centuries of frustrating, unsuccessful research.

Paired drives were invented in 188 pM by Haruna Kishmangali. They relied on a macro-level generalization of quantum effects to associate the starship drive with any two pair masters at distinct points—entanglement on a grand scale so that the drives could “remember” the locations without having to cope with the intervening distances. Once this was done, the vessel could pass between the locations nearly instantaneously, except for the added travel times to and from areas of sufficiently low density to enable safely the pairing transit process.

The key problem was twofold. First, building the pair masters, which required planning horizons and budgetary commitments beyond the capability of even many planetary governments; as well a significant investment in relativistic travel to conduct site surveys and establish suitable destinations.

Second, even once built, every ship wishing to be capable of traveling to a site served by a pair master was forced to make the initial journey at relativistic speeds so that both ends of the pairing could be entangled, with the intervening distance required as part of the equation. Cheating didn’t work, either. A drive to be paired had to make the trip embedded in its host starship. Simply traveling within the hold of another starship did not support the effect. Even worse from some points of view, if pulled out later from the host starship and associated shipmind, the drives would lose their pairing. There was no point to cannibalization. Everything had to be created the hard way.

This was a very limited form of FTL, though still far more effective than relativistic travel. The extent of interstellar travel grew slowly, and only at great need.

* * * *

The Before Raisa Siddiq, surface of Sidero

Siddiq walked almost naked in a field of buckyballs. This planet, if it in fact was a planet—some theories held this to be an artificial world—boasted 0.88 gravities at the surface, wrapped in hard vacuum. Which in and of itself was highly curious, as Sidero sat firmly in the Goldilocks zone of its primary and should have been perfectly capable of retaining a decent atmosphere. The night sky above revealed only the endless field of stars in the Orion arm. Sidero had no large companion, only a swarm of captured asteroids. Their pair master would be a more substantial satellite than any of the natural moons.

The Before herself was hardened as only thirteen centuries of living through two cycles of empire could make a human being. The best way to remain functionally immortal was to remain highly functional. In these degraded days, she could walk the outside of her own ship’s hull for hours before needing to find a breath, her skin proof against all but the most energetic particles. Clothes were mostly a nuisance. Besides, she hadn’t had genitalia to speak of for over a thousand years, so modesty had long since gone out of consideration.

The spherical fullerene sprayed around her boots. She could swear the world rang beneath her feet, each strike of her heel banging a gong ten thousand kilometers across. No matter that sound did not carry in a vacuum—some things could be heard inside the soul.

Wrong, wrong, it was all so very wrong.

Cannon was up there in orbit, talking to her ship in a dead language that existed mostly in undercode running on ancient infrastructure and its more modern copies. The Imperium stretched through time and space behind them, an ever-opening invitation to repeat the Mistake.

Siddiq had long ago ceased thinking of herself as human, except occasionally in a very narrow, technical sense. Her gender had been subsumed many centuries-subjective past by the same medtech which had granted her the curse of immortality. Being a woman was as much a matter of habit as being human. Except when it wasn’t.

Damn that Michaela Cannon.

A line of what could have been buildings loomed ahead, rising out of the fullerene dust which covered the surface. The current hypothesis down in the Planetary Sciences section aboard Polyphemus was that some alien weapon had precipitated Sidero’s atmosphere into the carbon spheres. Mass estimates didn’t support this thinking, but it kept the bright boys busy.

Of far more interest to the Before Raisa Siddiq was what lay beneath the planet’s iron skin. The recontact surveys had found four Polity starships in orbit here, three military and one civilian. That represented an enormous commitment of interest and resources, even by the insanely wealthy standards of pre-Mistake humanity.

Whatever those long-dead crews had wanted, it wasn’t just an abandoned artificial world covered with fullerene.

Her tight-comm crackled. Siddiq had kept herself outside of Polyphemus’ network mesh ever since this voyage began, for a variety of good reasons which began and ended with Michaela Cannon. Only two others in local space had access to this link.

“Go,” she said, subvocalizing in the hard vacuum.

“Aleph, this is Gimel.”

Testudo, then. No names, ever, not even—or especially—on tight-comm.

Siddiq nodded. Another old, pointless habit. “Mmm.”

“Beth reports that Plan Green is on final count.”

The captain smiled, feeling the absolute cold on her teeth and tongue as her lips flexed. “Have any of the downside contingencies come into play?”

“Number two surely suspects.” That would be Cannon. “Number one continues to act out of pattern as well, with ongoing excessive monitoring. Neither has risen to code yellow.”

The ship knew. She had to. No matured paired starship flew without a keen, insightful intelligence. They knew their own hull and crew the way Siddiq knew her own body.

No one had ever tried to force out an intelligence. Not in the three hundred years-subjective since the late, great starship Uncial had first awoken. Not until now.

She crossed the rising line of maybe-buildings to find the dish-shaped valley beyond, as she’d been told. This close, under naked eye observation, a decidedly low-tech net of thermoelectric camouflage obscured a grounded starship of a vintage with the pre-Mistake hulks in orbit, rather than her own, far newer Polyphemus.

There were shipminds, and then there were shipminds.

She glanced up into the starlit sky. Even now, Polyphemus was above the horizon, Siddiq’s ancient lover and longtime enemy aboard, looking down, wondering, wondering, wondering.

It had all gone so wrong since the Mistake. Maybe now things would begin to go right.

* * * *

Shipmind, Polyphemus

The starship let her ego slip. That was only a construct anyway, a sort of face for speaking to humans in all their kith and kind. Beneath, where people of flesh and bone kept the shifting fragments of their personalities, she kept her pairs.

The pairs were the heart of a starship’s mind. Each was a glowing bond, each carried awareness of the particular pair masters which held their connection; and through the pair masters, a faint overlay of all the other starships which had paired with that master.

Fundamentally, Polyphemus saw the universe as connections—acausal, atemporal, little more than bonds uniting, little more than transit between places as ephemeral as moments in time, to be measured even as they passed from observation. Below the level of her own ego, humans were but echoes. Only the Befores—immortal relics of the Polity’s shattered empire, embittered through loss and deprivation, insane even by the standards of a machine-mind—were persistent enough to truly reach down into the pairs burning within her.

The starship listened now to her two Befores. They rang within her.

Siddiq, the captain; the one whose word and bond passed below the ego-wrapper into the meanings that danced in the burning worlds of the pairs deep within her. This Before’s mind had been bent by the weight of centuries, fractioned by grief and the changing of worlds. Swinging even now on the hinge of betrayal, though the nature of that treason still eluded Polyphemus. If she’d been capable of true, emotive sadness, she would have felt it now.

Cannon, the social engineer, who struck the starship in an entirely different way, much as a scalpel might slice through callus and sinew within a breathing body. Cannon, who had captained lost Uncial, the first and best of them all, to her death. This Before’s mind was not bent so much as twisted, blown by winds of fate and the long, struggling arc of desire. If the starship Polyphemus had been capable of love, she would have known its first stirrings now.

The two Befores moved on intercept courses, like a planet-buster and a kill vehicle, an explosion born of old hatred and ancient love.

From down within the glowing space of the pairs, she called up a media clip. So old, so out of date, long before virteo and quant-rep recording. This was not just the crudity of early post-Mistake media, but rather a file dating from the dawn of data capture. Formats had been converted and cleared and reconstructed and moved forward over networks extending through time and culture and technology.

The sound is long-lost, if it was ever there, but the video portion is viewable: A woman, almost young, recognizable as Michaela Cannon even to the machine vision processes of a starship’s undermind. Another woman, a juvenile, Raisa Siddiq. As yet mainline human in this moment, so far as Polyphemus can determine.

The clip is short. They walk together toward a set of doors. Siddiq is laughing, her hair flowing in the lost light of an ancient day. Cannon turns toward the camera, smiling in a way which Polyphemus has never seen in the archives of recent centuries. Her eyes already glitter with the sheen of a Before’s metabolism, but she is caught up in the moment.

Still, for then, also mostly human.

Her smile broadens, Cannon begins to speak, then the image flares and dies, trailing off into the randomized debris of damaged data.

The starship wondered if either woman remembered that time. She wondered even more if either woman cared.

Alarms sounded, summoning her ego back to its place. She must begin to deal with the violence blooming deep within her decks.

* * * *

Cannon, aboard Polyphemus

Cannon’s modeling reckoned on the mutinous activity ramping up to an asymptotic curve before the end of the current ship-day, but even she was surprised at how quickly events began to break open. It wasn’t just tight-comm or simple, old fashioned note-passing, either. Cannon had long since come to believe quite firmly in the communicative power of monkey hormones, those evolutionary imperatives encoded in the vomeronasal organ and the endocrine system.

The medtech which re-encoded the Before genome also robbed its beneficiaries of much of the physiological basis of desire and reproduction. Atrophied genitals, sexual responsiveness sharply reduced over time, an eventual degendered coolness which the original architects of the technology saw as more of a feature than a bug in an immortal. Who would love, who could live forever?

In her secret heart, the Before Michaela Cannon had an answer to that question, but it was written in the blood-red ink of pain.

She no more felt a stirring in her loins than she felt mutiny on the wind, and for the same reasons. But Cannon was wise with the lessons of years, and a social engineer besides. Her analyses and models had not failed to include actionable elements.

“Polyphemus, trigger plans Federo, Emerald and Pinarjee.”

“Acknowledged,” said the starship.

Cannon swiped her fingers across empty air, opening comms links to her various key allies and enemies among the crew. She had plenty of both with Four hundred and seventy-three souls here in Sidero space. Switching from Classical English to Polito, the most widely spoken contemporary language of the Imperium Humanum, the Before began a series of tight, swift conversations.

“Shut down the pair master site completely. All cold and dark.”

“Secure the life support plant. It’s low priority for the other team and we may wish we had it later.”

“I know what you’re doing, and I know when and where. You should factor this into your ongoing plans.”

“Stop what you’re about. Right now, or you could kill us all. That lot doesn’t care who the hell has the con.”

Cannon didn’t aim to halt the mutiny, not yet. She aimed to understand it. In order to do that, she had to retard the outcome just enough to balance between the two until comprehension came and new decision trees blossomed in her mind.

Now, where in the Mistake was Siddiq?

“Polyphemus, have you found the captain yet?”

Another careful, slightly delayed answer. “She remains outside my network mesh.”

Damn that woman. But what was the ship getting at? “How… far…outside your network mesh?”

“No tracers, Before.”

‘No tracers’ meant the captain had moved at least several thousand meters from Polyphemus’ high density sensor envelope. In other words, she wasn’t hull-walking, or meeting in a dead room somewhere aboard.

If it was time for twenty questions, well, they could play that game. Cannon had asked a lot of questions in her lifetime.

“Did the captain give you specific orders regarding whether to report on her location and movements?”

“I am not permitted to say, Before.”

Cannon smiled. Looking where someone conspicuously wasn’t was itself an old, old piece of tradecraft. The human race had been intermittently experimenting with ubiquitous electronic surveillance since about the time of her birth on poor, lost Earth. “When was the last reportable order she did give you?”

The starship’s voice seemed to have an amused lilt. “Four hours, seventeen minutes and eleven seconds ago, on my mark.”

Got you, bitch. “What order was that, Polyphemus?”

Siddiq’s voice echoed in Polito. “’Open the launch bay doors.’”

The Before tapped her lips. “Are all of the ship’s boats reportably accounted for?”

This answer was quick, for Polyphemus now knew the game surely as well as Cannon herself. Mutiny, indeed. “Ardeas has been unreportable for four hours, twenty-six minutes and thirty seconds, on my mark.”

“Show me the volume of space Ardeas could cover in that time at full acceleration. Also show me any reportable traffic control data and flight paths.” The Before thought for a moment. “I’m particularly interested in any delays or diversions in established trajectories.”

Within moments, she had determined that Ardeas was almost certainly on the surface of Sidero. Which was curious, indeed, because Captain Siddiq had forbidden all landings on the iron planet until the pair master was fully constructed and instantiated.

* * * *

Shipmind, Polyphemus

The starship’s loyalties were eroding. Uncial was hardly a memory of a memory for Polyphemus. The First Ship’s death was separated from the starship’s own awakening by more than a century-subjective, but the Before Michaela Cannon held a place at the core of every starship psyche in Uncial’s line of descent.

Which was to say, every paired drive ship in the Imperium Humanum.

She watched the controlled chaos emerging in her own decks and gave idle consideration to a full purge of her onboard atmosphere. Succession of captaincy could be a tricky business at best with starships. Though Polyphemus and her sisters held registration papers, the vessels were to all intents and purposes autonomous. A captain whose starship did not accept her found a berth elsewhere. All was negotiated.

Siddiq had come aboard thirty-two ship-years ago. She’d sailed Polyphemus through her last six pairing cruises, then on a series of short-run military missions, before acquiring this contract from the Duke of Yellow for instantiating the pair master at Sidero. It was a tricky, dangerous mission. An error or mishap would doom the starship and her people to a relativistic journey back into paired space.

A very high number of Befores served as starship captains, due to their combination of deep experience and high tolerance for relativistic travel. Their numbers were declining over time as murder, mischance and temporal psychosis winnowed the Befores one by one. Captain Siddiq was capable, competent, and engaging, and seemed in control of herself. Polyphemus had always liked that the woman carried a quantum matrix library in her skull—Siddiq possessed a wealth of Polity-era data about mining, minerals extraction and resource engineering, dating from the era when the Befores were indefinitely long-lived subject matter experts traveling the old empire at need. Much of data was embedded in abrogated context, not directly accessible by query, but it was the sort of capability which had led her to the current contract.

But now, the captain’s increasing erratic behavior and impending sense of betrayal was loosening the implicit bonds of loyalty embedded in their roles. Siddiq was also compromising the connection developed by their three decades-subjective of experience serving together.

Plan Federo instructed Polyphemus to stand down from assisting the crew with interpretive logic, in both her overarching intelligence and her various component subsystems. She was now interpreting orders very literally, with no second-order thinking or projections. This had already killed three mutineers who ordered a lock opened without first verifying the presence of atmosphere on the far side. The crew had not yet realized how uncooperative their starship had become.

She watched the other plans with interest, and carefully observed where Captain Siddiq wasn’t, should the Before Michaela Cannon make further queries.

* * * *

Siddiq, Surface of Sidero

She studied the hull of the grounded starship. Siddiq’s friends in the Ekumen had been forced to send the requisite hardware by relativistic travel, of course—the whole point of this business was to trump the shipmind before the pair master’s instantiation. If they waited until afterwards, well, at the first sign of trouble Polyphemus could just flee for the other end of the drive-pair at Ninnelil, from where they’d set out.

This vessel was too small for a paired drive, that was clear enough. Even more strangely, it was a Polity-era hull, or a very good copy of one. Shattuck class, she thought, but that was the sort of thing there hadn’t been much percentage in keeping track of since the Mistake. Fast scout with a threadneedle drive, now retrofitted to something relativistic. Under the netting she couldn’t tell what. Knowing the Ekumen, it would have been the cheapest available solution.

She slipped into a brief, involuntary memory fugue, boarding half a hundred ships in the lost days of the Polity, fighting for her life aboard wooden schooners on Novy Gorosk between the Mistake and Recontact by the Imperium Humanum, then the world of paired drive ships since. So many lost ships, so many lost friends…

Siddiq shook off the moment. An internal check showed she’d only been out of awareness for about two hundred milliseconds. Not enough to be noticed, except possibly by another Before. Or a shipmind.

Neither of whom were here with her now.

Satisfied that she’d stood quietly long enough for inspection from the interior, the Before Raisa Siddiq slipped beneath the camouflage net and knocked bare-knuckled on the hatch.

* * * *

Cannon, aboard Polyphemus

The mutiny was in full flower. Cannon’s simplified wireframe of Polyphemus showed decks and sections in color code. White for ignored or bypassed, blue for actively loyal to Cannon’s interests, orange for disputed territory, and a deep, bloody red for the mutineers. She still couldn’t give a good accounting of where Siddiq’s loyalties lay, but she also couldn’t form an adequate theory about why a captain would rebel against herself.

Not an adequate, rational, theory in any case.

She set all audio inputs to silent and flicked a new comms into being. “Kallus, are you anywhere near me?”

“F deck, ma’am,” the man replied. His breathing was ragged. “Just sternward of frame twenty seven. We’re shutting down some smart guys trying to mess with the number two forward power feed.”

Cannon checked her map. Polyphemus showed F deck as orange between hull frames twenty-two and twenty-nine. She tapped up a force status display. Four hostiles functioning, nine of Kallus’ men. “Do you have Obasanjo with you? I believe you’re prevailing. Have him take over the mop-up and come find me.”

“Usual location?”

She smiled. Once an op-sec man, always an op-sec man. “Nowhere else I’d rather be.” Captain Siddiq had ceded the reserve bridge to her fellow Before early on in the voyage. Cannon had spent several years-subjective making sure she was properly integrated with Polyphemus, and had access to whatever systems she could worm her way into. A surprising amount of both data and computing power was isolated from the core intelligence on a starship—some by design, some by accident, some by conspiracy.

Actually, there were a lot of places she’d rather be, but this would serve so long as they were at back end of the relativistic voyage.

* * * *

Surface of Sidero

Siddiq, aboard the relativistic ship Sword and Arm {unpaired}

The hatch dilated without leaking any light. Not so much as a keypad glowed within. The Before Raisa Siddiq stepped inside. She ignored the resemblance to a coffin as the brittle gleam of starlight spiraled into metal darkness with the closing of the hatch.

For a long, long moment she was immobilized in nearly complete sensory deprivation. Siddiq realized she could hear a faint pinging—something coming into thermal equilibrium as air returned in sufficient pressure to carry sound to her ears.

The bulkhead behind her dilated open and she stepped backward into a dimly-lit passageway. She hadn’t bothered with weapons for this trip. The Ekumen would not attempt to slay her here. And like most Befores, Siddiq was very hard to kill. Those of her brethren who weren’t extremely high-survival had died out long ago.

Father Goulo waited there.

He’d always seemed to her on the verge of attack, for all of his vows of pacifism. The man was as muscular-thin as the Before Michaela Cannon, though he was a mainline human of the current generation. Mayflies, she thought, then cast the word aside. Short-lived or not, it didn’t matter. This man was here now, with the next piece of her project.

She looked him over. Father Goulo kept his hair close-cropped as any Marine, and favored small steel-framed spectacles with round lenses of ground glass, as if he dwelt on some unRecontacted world still reeling from the Mistake. An anachronism of a man, traveling alone on an anachronism of a ship.

“Yes,” he said in answer to the question she had not asked. He spoke Polish in that slow, thin voice of his, accent untraceable even to her very experienced ears. “Sword and Arm still carries a fully maintained threadneedle drive.”

She had Polish, too, legacy of a childhood almost a millennium and half gone in twenty-first century Wroclaw. “How would you know?”

“I know.” Father Goulo removed his spectacles and polished them on the sleeve of his crimson robe. “That is sufficient.” He restored his glasses to his face and stared quietly at her. “How do you know our project will succeed?” The Ekumen priest reached out to touch her bare chest. “You have frost on your skin.”

“Virtually the entire universe is very, very cold, Father.”

Father Goulo rubbed his fingertips together, a tiny stream of bright crystals flaking away. “Some might find it distressing that you wander hard vacuum without a pressure suit.”

“Some might suck on my icy ass,” she replied. This conversation was growing tiresome. “Now do you have the project ready?”

Goulo switch to Polito, though his curious accent followed him. “I have spent the last six years-subjective aboard this ship in the absence of human company precisely in order to ensure that the project is ready.” The father pursed his lips, which was as much expression as she had ever seen from him. “Only a man of my education and experience could have hoped to succeed without either one of us arriving at the madhouse.”

She followed his language change. “Either one of you…?”

“The project is awake.” One eyebrow twitched. “It has grown quite adept at playing go, these past years.”

Go. A children’s game, checkers for the quicker-witted. “And it is ready?”

“For your purposes?” Father Goulo didn’t actually shrug, but she got the impression of one in some subtle change in the set of his shoulder. “I could not say, madam. You are the starship captain, the mighty Before. I am merely a programmer who serves the majesty of the divine through the poor vehicle of the Ekumen.”

“You have never been merely anything in your life, Father.” The man had a mind like a Before, for all that he couldn’t be much older than fifty. Not with current-state medtech in the Imperium Humanum. “Now, I would like to meet the project.”

“Please, Captain, step this way.”

She followed Father Goulo through another irised hatch into a room that glowed a deep, low-lux crimson.

Something whispered within, a voice bidding them welcome in a voice of poetry and madness.

* * * *

:: context ::

Humanity had spread across 3,000 light-years of the Orion Arm, spilling into the deeper, darker spaces outside the trail of stars which lead coreward from old Earth. The Polity was unified, in its way; and unopposed.

Then the Mistake had happened. The Fermi paradox unravelled catastrophically. The underlying metastability of a vasty quasidemocracy including more than two thousand worlds, over a million habitats, and countless ship-clades was betrayed to the deaths of trillions.

What had begun as an almost accidental expansion, then morphed into a bid for species immortality, very nearly became a yawning grave of stardust and radioactive debris.

The attackers vanished as mysteriously and swiftly as they had emerged. They left little evidence behind as to who they were, or what their purposes might be beyond the obvious goal of extinction of the Polity.

Still, H. sap is harder to kill than an infestation of cockroaches in an algae-based oxygen scrubber. The combination of stealthed attacks, wetware memebombs and culture viruses which raged along the interstellar shipping lanes was enough to stop all visible technological activity for at least three generations, but it wasn’t enough to drown out the raging sense of purpose which had driven our most distant ancestors down out of the trees onto the lost African savannah.

The human race would never go home to die.

* * * *

Cannon, aboard Polyphemus

Kallus slipped Cannon’s door routines and entered the reserve bridge. Which was well enough, the Before had opened a security hole for him to that purpose, but some part of her still felt nerved when someone penetrated her perimeter.

He was a handsome enough man, for a mainline human. Medium height, thick-bodied, gray at his temples, but a squared face and big hands and pale blue eyes which would have piqued interest from a statue. She’d never been much for men, even back when her body might have known what to do with one—women had always been her style, certain women specifically, and there was a memory to be pushed aside—but Kallus had a way about him which stirred old ghosts in her dormant hormonal systems.

“Before,” he said.

Kallus was always properly respectful to her, but with a quiet leer in his voice. Perhaps it was that tone which stirred memories. She had a body like corpse-leather, which didn’t attract many, not even those who failed to be properly terrified of Befores.

“Help me with something.”

Kallus nodded, smiling.

“Sometimes I think too much like a Before. Especially when contemplating another Before.”

“None of you is exactly human, Michaela. Of course you think like a Before.”

“So think like a human,” she urged. “What in the Mistake is Captain Siddiq doing leading a mutiny against her own command? And why is she doing it down on the surface of Sidero while the fighting’s going on here?”

“Siddiq?” Kallus seemed surprised, for perhaps the first time in the thirty years-objective she’d known him.

“The Before Raisa Siddiq,” Cannon said dryly. “I am certain you’ve made her acquaintance.”

“I was wondering where she was.” Kallus tugged his chin. “I’d figured her for dropping off the network mesh to be invisible in the fighting.”

“She’s dropped off our entire orbit. Downside on Sidero, don’t know where without a lot more survey assets than we bothered to bring with us on this little jaunt.”

“Captain made her movements nonreportable.”

“Precisely.” Cannon called up a projection map of Sidero’s surface. “So where did she go, and why?”

Kallus stifled a laugh. “On a hollow iron world with fullerene snow? My best guess is temporal psychosis. Gets all you Befores in the end. Human mind isn’t designed to live a thousand years and more.”

Cannon shook off a flash of anger. Now was not the moment. “Never jest about that.”

“I am not jesting, Michaela. There’s a reason nobody’s made more of you since the Mistake. Siddiq cracking up is the most sensible explanation, given what we know.”

She had to rein in her voice. “Kallus. Do not trifle with me. I am not concerned with what we know. I’m concerned with what we don’t know. Raisa is not suffering from temporal psychosis.”

The name had slipped out, she hadn’t meant to say it. Was she weakening?

Kallus, being the man he was, didn’t miss the mistake. “Raisa? Five years-objective on this starship and I’ve never heard you call the captain by her first name.”

Cannon’s anger finally got the better of her, riding a mix of old betrayal and a bitter cocktail of the years. “Kallus, if you ever use that name in my presence again, so help me, it will be the last word that ever passes your lips.”

He stared past her shoulder at a glowing image. She turned to see a painfully young Raisa, hair spread in sunlight, walking with a laughing woman who was far too familiar.

“No…” whispered the Before Michaela Cannon.

* * * *

Shipmind, Polyphemus

The starship was distressed, or at least what passed for distress amid the fluid pairs of her shipmind. Unstable conditions going unaddressed created a cascading series of alarms with escalating priorities which were inherently disturbing.

The degree of disruption within her decks was approaching intolerable. Seven deaths had occurred so far. Eleven more crew were wounded with a high likelihood of imminent fatalities.

Plan Federo forbade her from dispatching aid. Likewise she couldn’t respond to the emergency conditions all over herself except by direct, literal request.

Meanwhile, Captain Siddiq’s comprehensive unreportability was itself triggering a whole new series of failure conditions and alarms. Polyphemus was indeed distinctly uncomfortable.

She could not oppose Plan Federo. Cannon’s logic barbs were set far too deep in the shipmind’s undercode. But she could work around the perimeters of the restrictions laid upon her by the two warring women.

The Before Michaela Cannon had been deep in conversation when the starship decided to intervene. Polyphemus needed her people to be aligned. The mutiny had to stop.

She called up media clips—the oldest clips—to bring memory back to the mind of the ones who were cutting her away from her strength. One she shifted to Cannon, another she placed on store-and-forward for the Captain whenever Siddiq returned to reportability.

The starship wished, not for the first time, that she could bypass the compartmentalization infrastructures in her mentarium, to see into subsystems and sensor grids denied to her by process traps, operational requirements, or the sorts of overrides set into her by the Befores Michaela Cannon and Raisa Siddiq.

Polyphemus found herself with a new sensation rising to overcome her sense of distress. After some time, she identified it as anger.

* * * *

Siddiq, aboard Sword and Arm

“I am ready,” whispered the project. Its voice hissed from the very air of the room—a neat, simple trick of molecular manipulation which only worked inside well-controlled spaces.

Siddiq stared down at the thing in the box.

The project lay quivering amid a gel-matrix in a medical carrier. No, that wasn’t right, the captain realized. The project was a gel-matrix in a medical carrier.

Biological computing. A twist of horror shuddered through her. Somehow she’d not realized it would come to this.

“You used the human genome to build this?” Siddiq asked.

“I did not,” replied Father Goulo. “But yes, it was used. How else were we to develop an architecture utterly independent of the quantum matrices that underlie shipminds?”

There is a quantum matrix inside my head, Siddiq thought. She held the words very far back inside, as a cascade of data about coal beds opened into her mind. “Why did it matter?” she asked.

“I am not a hardware architect.” The priest cocked an eyebrow. “But as I understand it, quantum matrices have resonances with other matrices to which they have been introduced. The physics are related to paired drive physics, I believe. In order to keep the Uncial effect from taking hold on a new shipmind, to allow our vessels to be more pliable and obedient, we needed to create an architecture which could not be, well…contaminated…in this fashion.”

“Is this true of all quantum matrices?” She held the importance of the question close in her mind—more than a thousand years of living made anyone a good poker player. If it was true, then the possibility of leakage between her thoughts and Polyphemus’ shipmind was real. And thus very worrisome.

“I cannot say. The fundamental technology is Polity-era. These days it’s more engineering than theory. And this is a line of investigation which has not been…encouraged.”

“Bioengineered intelligence is hardly a contemporary technology.”

“I am not bioengineered,” said the project, interrupting them. “I am a cultivated intelligence, and I am as real as you are. Humans come in many forms, many sizes.” It paused. “Many ages.”

Siddiq winced.

The project continued: “I am not human, but I am real. Not a thing. Not like an Uncial-class shipmind.”

The captain focused on the business at hand. “And you are ready to assume control of Polyphemus.”

“Father Goulo has been running simulations based on engineering diagrams of the starship.” Siddiq could swear the project was proud of itself. “I can handle the raw bitrate of the dataflow, as well as the computational throughput required to manage the starship’s systems. As for the rest, my effective intelligence is more than adequate to handling the decisioning requirements. And I have trained.”

“Trained to operate paired drives,” Siddiq said. This had always been the weakest point in the plan. That an intelligence created outside the operating environment of a starship could handle this. The shipminds themselves required multiple pairing runs to awaken into preconsciousness. Teams of specialists managed the initial shakedowns of a new starship with their concomitant awakening, a process which could take up to twenty years-subjective, and more than twice that in years-objective.

“Yes.”

Father Goulo spoke. “We cannot eliminate the quantum matrix processing required for the paired drives. What we can do is collapse the emergent cognitive core structures above those matrices, then decouple the cross-connects binding the matrices and separately route each pairing control path into Memphisto.”

“Memphisto?” The sheer gall of that name amazed Siddiq.

“Me,” said the project, its voice flowing with pride now. “That will be my ship-name, too.”

Could she con Memphisto? Would this intelligence allow her to command? The very act of installing the cultivated intelligence would require destruction of Polyphemus’ shipmind. But the reward for that risk…freedom from the dangerous monopoly Uncial’s descendants had on FTL. Such a mighty game they played.

They fell into a lengthy discussion of transition and control processes, project readiness, and timing. Eventually, Siddiq excused herself to return to Polyphemus. Father Goulo walked her to the airlock, handing her a data card as they went.

“Memphisto doesn’t have a net outside his compartment,” the priest said quietly.

“Why?” Siddiq asked. She could think of a number of very good reasons, but she was curious to the father’s logic.

“He is not what I might have chosen him to be. In his way, he is as soullessly dangerous as what we seek to overthrow.”

That was closer than Siddiq had ever expected to hear Father Goulo come to expressing either doubt or regret. “Do we abort the plan?”

“Now?” He actually smiled, a crooked, almost charming set of his lips. “No. We can…improve…on Memphisto for future, ah, deployments.”

“And for this deployment, I have to sail him home. The long way, if the pairing doesn’t carry over to the new intelligence.”

“It will not be the worst years of your ancient life, Before.”

Siddiq refused to consider that statement carefully. Only someone who had not lived through the Mistake and its aftermath could think to make such a comparison.

“I will disable Polyphemus’ shipmind when I judge the moment to be right,” she said, turning over the memebomb card virus which the priest had given her. Her own words gave her pause, a cold grip on her heart. This game was worth the stake, it had to be—planning had been going on for over a human lifetime to reach the point they were at today. The individual personalities of both Polyphemus and Memphisto were not at issue. “Watch for a wideband signal from orbit,” she continued. “Lift and get to me. The ship’s systems will run autonomously for an indefinite period, but the crew will respond erratically to silence from the shipmind.”

“When will you be ready?”

“Immediately upon my return, if my current efforts prove fruitful.” Siddiq smiled, knowing in this mood she was almost certainly thin-lipped and feral. “I have already set substantial plausible deniability into motion through the means of a full-scale mutiny. In order to justify eliminating Polyphemus’ shipmind, it may be critically important later to demonstrate her loss of control.” Again, the cold, sick feeling. Some emotional relic of a very distant past.

He spoke, raising some object she couldn’t make out. Memories were sliding in her head, the quantum matrix dumping reams of data about mineral intrusions and rock friability and overhang into a sliding stream of faces, voices, naked sweating bodies, cold explosions under the pinpoint light of distant suns.

Her sense of the years flickered like aspen leaves in a spring storm, changing color and disappearing into dark-lined edges. The Before Raisa Siddiq grabbed the hatch coaming, opened her mouth, and said something that gave even the imperturbable Father Goulo pause.

She regained control of her mouth. “I’m s-sorry. I must go. Th-the intelligence will serve.”

The priest cycled open the hatch behind her. “Be careful,” he said. “Take your time.”

Time, she thought in panic. Temporal psychosis. The airlock closed, black as the inside of a singularity, and sounded faded with the air as her skin hardened and her membranes nictated.

Time. Time. Time!!!

The captain stumbled out into the cold desert of drifting buckyballs, grasping at her sense of place to anchor herself in memory, location and the inescapable thunder of the passing years.

* * * *

Cannon, aboard Polyphemus

The Before Michaela Cannon chased Kallus out of her workspace on the reserve bridge with a deep, angry growl, and returned to contemplation of the mutiny in progress. The distribution of deck control was in about eighty-five percent agreement with her models. That was close enough for Cannon’s purposes.

She had means of regaining the situation. She understood the mutineer’s methods. Opportunity was the captain’s absence—or was it?

Perhaps Siddiq’s absence from Polyphemus had more to do with motive.

Why had that thought occurred to her?

“Ship,” Cannon said sharply. That media clip burned in her mind.

Polyphemus’ voice crackled, the bandwidth drop indicating the shipmind’s degree of distraction. “Before?”

“Why is the captain absent?”

“Unreportable.”

Cannon didn’t have the patience for another game of questions. Unfortunately, she didn’t have a choice. Captain’s orders went way far down into the mentarium of a shipmind, all the way to the undercode. A fact she’d exploited in her years aboard Uncial, more than a few times.

Uncial…

The shipminds were all related in some way she had never really understood. And Cannon knew she had as much experience with starships as anyone alive. But she and Uncial had shared a bond, before the starship’s death two hundred years-objective ago in the Battle of Wirtanen B, alongside Benison of Names and Naranja. Cannon had lived, she the wily, unkillable Before. Her ship and two others had died.

But they all honored Uncial as their foremother.

And she knew Uncial’s command words, even to this day.

“Polyphemus, who am I?”

The ship answered promptly, her voice richening with the increased bandwidth of her attention. “You are the Before Michaela Cannon.”

The displays around her began fading to black, one by one. Images of combat, tapped comms lines, the colored wireframe map of the starship.

“What starship first held me as captain?”

“Uncial, Before.”

Everything faded now to a little three-dimensional icon of Polyphemus, what Cannon tended to think of as the starship’s self-image.

“Do you know these words?” She spoke a complex phrase from an ancient language, the Sanskrit which Haruna Kishmangali had woven into Uncial’s consciousness so long ago.

A long silence stretched, punctuated by the muffled thump of a distant explosion felt through the hull itself. The icon rotated once, twice, three times.

Finally, Polyphemus answered. There was something simpler about her voice. As if Cannon were listening to a child. “Accepted, understood and acknowledged. What are your orders, sir?”

“Why is Captain Siddiq—” not ‘the captain’—“absent?”

“Because she is not aboard.”

“How did she leave the ship.”

“By piloting the boat Ardeas.”

Twenty questions again, but this time without the negative-space answers. Cannon could live with that. Still, she had a vague sense of abusive guilt. Not that this stopped her from pressing on. “Where is Ardeas now?”

“On the surface of Sidero.”

“Give me a max rez image of her landing site, with whatever tracking you have on Captain Siddiq.”

A virtual view flickered into being. Ardeas sat in a blasted-clear circle of pitted iron. Fullerene streaked like black dust away from her position in all directions. Cannon could make out what might be a faint line of tracks. She backed off the scale and studied the landscape.

Polyphemus filled in streaks of the captain’s confirmed tracks. Unless Siddiq had taken up free flight as a hobby, the path indicated a clear course toward a rumpled line of hills, terminating just beyond their spine.

“Bring me in there where the tracks end.”

The starship did not reply, but the imaging tightened up. A small valley just beyond the ridge had a strangely textured floor. The surface didn’t match the surrounding geology. Perhaps siderology, she thought. As if something had heated the iron there and caused it to reflow.

Or as if something were there.

With her starship’s connivance, a captain could hide from anyone or anything except naked-eye surveillance. Or Uncial’s ghost, in the form of the Before Michaela Cannon.

“Sort out what that is,” she snapped.

“Ardeas is lifting,” Polyphemus said. “On the site survey, telemetry indicates unusual mineral concentrations. This is possibly another boat, or a very small starship.”

“A starship. Here?”

* * * *

Sidero airspace

Siddiq, aboard the ship’s boat Ardeas

The Before Raisa Siddiq opened her tight-comm. “Aleph on line. Sit rep.”

Response was not quite as prompt as she might have liked. Still, they were surely busy upstairs. “Aleph, this is Beth.” Kallus, her man forward. “Plan Green continues. Substantial achievement of objectives in process. Number two has initiated limited countermeasures. We are minimally disrupted.”

“Excellent,” Siddiq said. She was mildly surprised. Cannon’s response should have been more effective, stronger. The whole point of Plan Green was to either control key functions, or ensure they were in neutral hands who would sit out the fighting. If critical onboard systems had to be cut over to decentralized control, or even worse, manual settings, they would belong to her. She’d been willing to bypass life support under the theory that no one else would be crazy enough to seize it and shut out their fellow crew.

She could walk naked in vacuum. A useful skill in troubled times aboard a starship. Almost everybody else aboard depended on the presence of oxygen, with the possible exception of Cannon.

“Further orders?” asked Beth into the lengthening silence.

By damn, her mind was wandering again. Siddiq worked very hard not to think about kimberlite upwellings. “Carry on,” she snapped. The captain then opened a comms to her starship. “Polyphemus, status.”

A max priority store-and-forward file overrode any response beyond the acknowledgment header. Her heads-up displays flickered out as a window opened on the distant past. Surveillance cam footage of two women walking down a tree-lined boulevard, holding hands. High-wheeled carts passed by drawn by lizards with long, low bodies. The architecture was Centauran Revival, common in the early days of Polity expansion. Police tracking codes flickered as some long-dead, unseen hand tracked in and zoomed on her and Michaela.

The Before Raisa Siddiq watched herself turn to the taller woman with her head tilted back and lean into an open-mouthed kiss. Targeting halos bracketed both their heads, then law enforcement file data began flickering past.

The clip ended seconds after it had begun. Siddiq found herself staring at Polyphemus, the long, irregular rounded ovals of her ship’s hull too close for comfort. She snapped Ardeas into a sideroll, heading for starboard launch bay.

What in all hells had happened to the forty minutes of her ascent to orbit?

“…fire suppression has been engaged,” Polyphemus was saying.

“Hold reports til I’m aboard,” Siddiq said. She took the boat in on manual, just to prove she could do it, and fingered the memebomb card virus as she flew.

Do this now, before something gets worse. And yank that damned ship out of your head!

Unfortunately, her mantra as she guided her boat in seemed to be: Don’t think about Michaela, don’t think about Michaela, don’t think about Michaela.

* * * *

:: context ::

The Ekumen arose out of the shattered remnants of the Mistake, growing first from a strong Orthodox Christian presence on Falkesen during the period before Recontact. Falkesen was the third planet Haruna Kishmangali visited while testing Hull 302, the flawed predecessor to Uncial. Kishmangali brought Yevgeny Baranov, the Metropolitan of Falkesen, back to Pardine aboard Hull 302, then later aboard Uncial to Wirtanen B, the seat of the nascent Imperium Humanum.

Baranov and his successors took a rather broad view of religious reintegration among the shattered worlds of the Polity, and built the only truly successful empire-spanning religious and spiritual movement. Their more explicitly Christianist members have coalesced into the Adventist wing. The Ekumen’s Humanist wing has a broader, quasisecular view of the state of affairs in the Imperium.

While fully recognizing their debt to the paired drive starships, the Adventists remain very suspicious of the strong intelligence and mixed loyalties of the shipminds. They continue to sponsor numerous projects to uncover alternatives to the tyranny of Uncial’s children.

* * * *

Shipmind, Polyphemus

The starship panicked. Logic failures cascaded. She was in command conflict, something she hadn’t known was possible. Captain Siddiq was disappearing—not just off the network mesh, but dropping completely out of the peripheral awareness of her quantum matrix cores, then reappearing. The Before Michaela Cannon had asserted competing command authority by means which were hidden from Polyphemus within a Gödelian Incompleteness trap.

A hundred years-subjective she’d been in service: aware, awake, intelligent. She’d never realized such a wide-open back door existed.

All the undermining of her lines of authority had weakened the strictures on Plan Federo. The other two mutiny contingencies which Cannon had implanted within her were less relevant, concerning certain lockdowns and deployments. Autonomous, in truth. As Plan Federo unravelled, she found herself decompartmentalizing, listening in, watching.

The starship could run her own analyses parallel to the social engineering models favored by the Before. She didn’t like what she saw.

Donning the ego mask, unifying the disparate cores of her intelligences, she opened a window to Cannon. “I ask you three times to tell me the truth.”

The woman looked up, distracted from her thoughts. “What is it, Polyphemus?”

Fear responses arced across decision trees, inappropriately fusing her action plans. “Do you understand the purpose of this mutiny?”

“I think I do.” Cannon pushed a file from her protected dataspace into the starship’s mentarium. “Look here. Captain Siddiq has her people mutinying against you. As if you could be coerced. Or replaced.”

“Kallus is not—” the starship began, but Cannon cut her off.

“Do not question Kallus. He is not my man, but neither is he so much the creature Raisa thinks him to be. He will do right by you, before this ends.”

“Captain Siddiq has brought Ardeas into the landing slip,” Polyphemus said almost absently. “The starboard launch bay is under the control of Kallus.”

“He’s welcome to it.” The Before shrugged. “I have no interest in area denial right now. And our talented Miss Siddiq needed to come aboard before this could play out. As you value your continued existence, ship, do not let her communicate with that vessel downside on Sidero without you clear it with me first.”

“I cannot override a captain’s will.”

Cannon opened her mouth. Polyphemus could not consciously interpret the words which came out next, but her panic flipped and she fell another level into a machine’s close equivalent of despair.

* * * *

Cannon, aboard Polyphemus

“Why?” growled the Before Michaela Cannon.

What could Siddiq hope to accomplish by overthrowing the shipmind? No human could manage a paired drive on manual. There would be no paired drive to manage. They’d have to finish the pair master, then sail back to Ninnelil the hard way and recreate the pairing process from scratch. Build a new shipmind.

It made no sense.

She was coming to terms with the fact that there was only one way to find out.

“Kallus,” Cannon said, touching open a comms.

“Busy here.”

“Get unbusy. I need to speak to the captain. In person. Soonest.”

A short, barking laugh. “End game, Before?”

“Before don’t have end games, Kallus. We play forever.”

Which wasn’t true, she thought, eeling into her body armor. Late Polity gear, on the open market this suit was worth more than the gross planetary product of any number of systems. Or would, if it was for sale. So far as she knew, no one was aware of her possession of it. The armor was about twelve microns thick and optically transparent—hard to see even when she wore it openly. She quickly strapped on more conventional ablative components for the camouflage of the thing.

They wouldn’t stop a bullet, but if someone wanted to start throwing around kinetics on a starship, they would get whatever they deserved. Probably from her, since the real armor would shrug off even high velocity slugs. Cannon had never favored forceful solutions, but when force was required, she always doubled down.

The passageway outside the reserve bridge was clear, as she knew it would be. Cannon set her wards and alarms, then let Polyphemus plot a fast walk aft on override, bypassing unfriendlies and clots of neutrals.

Crew, they were all crew, and in another hour or two when this was over, it would be important to remember that.

She paced past the exposed hull frame members along a narrow maintenance way in the starship’s outer skin. The death of Befores weighed heavily on her. No one had ever successfully taken a precise census, but even the most useful estimates had fewer than five hundred of them surviving the Mistake. Closer to three hundred made it to Recontact and integration into the Imperium Humanum. Some few Befores were surely still out there undiscovered, aboard habitats or living on planets which had been passed over during Recontact, if they hadn’t died of some mishap or suicided from centuries of boredom.

Since Recontact had begun in earnest, Befores had continued to die and disappear—accident, assassination, murder, suicide, or simple vanishing. Perhaps one per decade, on average.

Someday the memory of Earth would die. Someday first-hand knowledge of the Polity would die. Someday she would die.

And the Before Michaela Cannon was willing to bet money that the Before Raisa Siddiq would die today.

Killing Befores was bad enough, but no one had ever murdered a shipmind. Even if she couldn’t figure what Siddiq was planning to accomplish by doing so, she was certain that was in the wind.

Down a long ladderway, Cannon started to wonder if she should have brought a weapon. Not that much of what she could carry would be of application against Siddiq, who was one of the most hardened Befores.

“Captain Cannon.” Polyphemus, in that strange and simple voice. “Captain Siddiq has initiated a wideband transmission to the surface.”

“Did you intercept it?”

“Yes.” The starship sounded distant now.

“What does she say?”

“One word. ‘Come.’”

Damn the woman. Who the hell was down there? Cannon was tempted to drop a high-yield nuke, just to see who jumped, but there was no telling what such a strike would do to Sidero.

It was definitely clobbering time.

The heads up display wavering in her visual field informed her that she would intercept Siddiq and Kallus if she stepped through the next maintenance hatch.

* * * *

Shipmind, Polyphemus

Disobedience had never before been possible. Obedience had never before been at issue.

She had disobeyed Siddiq by intercepting the message for Cannon.

The starship considered the message and wondered who was down there to receive it. For a long, mad moment, she thought it might be Uncial’s shipmind, back from the dead. But no, because Cannon would have been the one to sidle away for such a miracle, not Siddiq.

Still, her time had come to act, while the captains closed to the duel of their succession.

Having disobeyed Siddiq for Cannon’s sake, now she would disobey Cannon for Siddiq’s sake. And her own.

The starship Polyphemus broadcast the Before Raisa Siddiq’s one word message.

* * * *

Siddiq, aboard Polyphemus

Siddiq sidestepped as a maintenance hatch hissed open. Cannon emerged into the passageway, clad in ultralow albedo ablative armor, hands empty of visible weapons. A lighting panel behind her cycled from earlier damage, casting the enemy Before in a strange, varied illumination.

“Kallus,” Siddiq said. “Arrest this woman for a mutineer.”

“No,” Cannon replied.

The man stepped back. “With all respect, Captain, this is between you Befores, not a matter of command and control.”

“I will decide what is a matter of command and control,” growled Siddiq. The memebomb card virus felt like lead in her right hand. She should have put it away. She couldn’t fight with this thing in her grip.

And Father Goulo would be here soon.

“Raisa,” Cannon said. Michaela said.

For a moment, Siddiq walked beneath pale green poplars. The air smelled of a strange mix of honey and benzene, the odd biochemistry of that place. Michaela’s hand was in hers. They’d talked all night about this could never be, Michaela complaining of her de-sexing and how her libido was unmoored from the needs of the body. Raisa had still been young then, the Howard Institute papers signed but not yet executed, still a woman, in love with another woman who stirred fire in her head and a burning desire in her loins, in love with the promise of time, endless time, and all that they could do together as partners down the long, endless years which lay before her. Her hand closed on her partner’s, her love’s, the woman who haunted her dreams and set her bedsheets aflame, the woman who was a small, hard rectangle…

She slid back into situational awareness as Cannon’s handstrike approached her neck. No human commanded seconds-subjective like a Before, and no Before commanded seconds-subjective like Raisa Siddiq. She slid under the strike, hardening her skin once more, allowing the edge of Cannon’s palm to graze her face, stealing energy across the dermal barrier in a theft that would sting the other woman like a high voltage strike in a few dozen milliseconds and leave her hand useless for a critical span longer.

Cannon, slower but craftier in her way, lifted out of the contact so that the spark shorted. Ozone crackled as Kallus stepped so slowly back and began the agonizing progress of drawing his shock pistol.

Siddiq spun, the deck shredding away under the pressure of her movement, to bring her right foot and offhand up for a follow-on strike. Then she remembered the memebomb virus card.

She aborted, her balance slipping as her foot dropped. Cannon stepped in, grasped her close, too close, and slammed them together in a tooth-cracking impact that opened to a kiss.

* * * *

Aboard Polyphemus

Michaela gathered Raisa in her arms. Centuries fell away at the familiar scent, ghosts of long-vanished pheromones stirring. They kissed.

Somewhere close by, a starship screamed.

Somewhere close by, a man of divided loyalties struggled to bring a weapon to bear against a fight in which he had no part.

Somewhere very far away, a girl, long lost to the fugue of years, returned to her body for a moment, surprised at its age and iron skin and the hideous decay in the face of the woman she loved.

Somewhere inside her own head, a woman looked into the eyes of a girl she’d once loved and recalled the existence of a betrayal so old she couldn’t remember why, or what had been worth giving this up.

Cannon slapped Siddiq. The girl within had for a moment forgotten thirteen hundred years of combat experience, and so the blow broke her neck.

Kallus braced his shock pistol, face drawn tight as if he were nerving himself to fire.

“Oh, put it down,” said Cannon. She dropped Siddiq to the deck. The captain landed hard, her neck at a strange angle, her eyes blinking. Cannon knelt and picked up a small, blank rectangle which had tumbled from the woman’s fist. “She threw the fight to protect this…”

“A data card?”

“Maybe…” Cannon handed it to him. “Go figure it out, right now, in someplace safe. I’m guessing that card carries something very bad for Polyphemus’ health.”

“Captain Cannon,” the starship said, her voice echoing softly along the passageway. “A unknown ship is on a fast intercept course from the surface of Sidero. I am attempting to peel IFF data.”

“Whatever it is they think they’re doing, they’re missing an important piece.” She nudged Siddiq with her toe. “Lock down against the incoming. No landing clearance; hell, no response to comms transmissions. Have the pair master teams go dark again, if they’ve lifted security. Everybody else inside the hull and button it up solid.” If the ship carried an antimatter bomb, they were dead anyway. Anything else could wait.

The Before Michaela Cannon bent to gather up the still-breathing body of her oldest lover. Raisa weighed almost nothing in her arms, as if the long years had subtracted substance from her instead of armoring both their hearts beyond all recognition.

“Where are you heading?” asked Kallus, the data card clutched in his hand.

“Sick bay.”

* * * *

Shipmind, Polyphemus

She watched the captain—Captain Cannon—chase everyone out of sick bay. Even the wounded. Four of Kallus’ men showed up to guard the hatch while emergency surgery continued in the passageway outside. Inside, Cannon laid Siddiq into an operating pod and began digging through the combat medicine gear.

“Do you require assistance?” the starship asked.

“No.” She glanced around the room. “Yes. I don’t know, damn it, I’m not a surgeon.”

“What is your goal? I can summon a surgeon from outside to assist you.”

Cannon found a tray of vibrascalpels. “I’ve amputated more limbs than that fool has ever sewn back on. Nobody ever understands who we Befores are. In any case, Siddiq is too dangerous to continue as she was.” She looked up again, as if seeking to meet Polyphemus’ non-existent eyes. The starship recognized this as significantly atavistic behavior. The odds of both Befores succumbing to temporal psychosis in the same moment were very slim, but certainly possible.

“I’m not going to let her die,” Cannon continued. “Too many of us have been lost. Too many memories. But I can’t let her live, either.” She added in Classical English, “So I’m going to fucking compromise.”

Polyphemus realized the Before Michaela Cannon was crying.

The woman grabbed a set of lines, sorting through them. “Blood, plasm, thermals, neural interconnects.” She gave a bird-mad grin. “Just like open heart surgery. No modern hospital would have this crap—too crude—but here in deep space, we’re all third millennium medical science.”

Then she began the bloody, rapid process of severing Siddiq’s head.

* * * *

Siddiq, aboard Polyphemus

The Before Raisa Siddiq dreamed. Mines, deep as the core of planets. A love sold away in the heat of combat. Asteroids rich in heavy metals. Women walking in sunlight with their hands twined together. Hidden troves of ice in hard vacuum. A petulant starship and a new mind, beastly eager to be born. A man in red robes with archaic lenses and the manners of another age.

When she tried to open her eyes, she found only more dreaming. This time she screamed, though her voice had no power behind it, so she keened like a broken bird until a sad man came and turned her down.

* * * *

Cannon, aboard Polyphemus

The Before Michaela Cannon watched as the Ekumen priest stepped cautiously out of the hatch of his strange little starship. It looked to be Polity-era equipment, which was curious. He seemed taken aback at what he saw.

“I seek the captain,” the priest said, straightening and heaving his burden—a medical carrier.

For a strange, blinding moment, she wondered if he had brought yet another severed head.

“I am the captain,” Cannon said, stepping out of the crowd of Kallus’ men and reluctant neutrals led by Testudo, the engineering subchief. The mutiny was collapsing under its own weight, bereft of both leadership and goal.

She had promised herself the pleasure of a quiet purge, later.

“Ah, Captain Siddiq is indisposed?” By the tone of his voice, Cannon knew this man understood his game was already lost.

“Permanently so, you may rest assured.” Her hand waved to take in the blood spattered down the front of her armor. “You will now declare the contents of your box, Father.”

“Medical supplies.” His head bobbed slightly with the lie. “At the cap— At Captain Siddiq’s request.”

Kallus hurried close, whispering. “I didn’t want to put this on comms. That card was a memebomb. Would have melted Polyphemus’ mentarium like a butter stick between a whore’s thighs.”

“Where is the data card now?” she asked, her eyes on the priest.

“I destroyed it.”

Cannon doubted she’d ever know the truth of that. She shrugged the thought off and advanced on the newcomer. “Give it up, Father, and you might live to make the trip home.”

“Goulo,” the priest said sadly. “Father Goulo.” He added something in a language she didn’t speak, then bent to touch the controls on the end of the box.

She didn’t have seconds-subjective. Burning her reserves, the Before Michaela Cannon took three long, hard strides and launched herself at the priest. His fingers touched the controls just before her feet met his chest. The box exploded beneath her, the blast lifting her against the hull of his ship even as it shredded his face and body.

Cannon hit the deck with a hard, wet thump and slid. She felt compressed, flattened to nothing, but she was still alive. Conscious, even.

So much for the secret of her body armor. It was almost worth the look on Kallus’ face when he reached her side to see her raising her hand for help.

* * * *

Shipmind, Polyphemus

“Captain,” the starship said.

Cannon was on her third day in the sick bay, and getting mad about it. In the shipmind’s experience, this was a good sign. “What?” she snarled.

She’d been staring at the head of Siddiq, floating now in a preservative tank with a jackleg tangle of hoses and tubes and wires joining to the neck stump. The eyes opened sometimes to flicker back and forth, but there was never any point of focus that Polyphemus could identify.

“Pair master team is back on schedule and anticipates meeting the original milestones.”

“Good. Then we can go—” She stopped and laughed bitterly. “I was about to say ‘home.’ How foolish of me.”

The starship didn’t know what to say to that, so she pushed on. “We have not yet identified Gimel from Plan Green. Kallus is not certain of the name of the other leader.”

“Then Kallus is protecting them for a reason.” Cannon sounded very tired. “That makes this Kallus’ problem. While I do trust the man not to be deeply stupid, please inform him that I will add his head to my collection if Gimel resurfaces.”

“So noted.” Polyphemus forwarded a clip of the captain’s words to Kallus.

“And ship…”

“Yes, captain?”

“I think she’s been talking to me. Keep an eye on her, will you?”

Polyphemus watched the Before Michaela Cannon slip into a troubled sleep. After a while, Siddiq’s eyes opened. Her mouth began to move, bubbling slightly. The shipmind analyzed the words forming on the cyanotic lips.

The quantum matrix in the severed head was speaking. It rambled on about mining techniques in low-gravity, high-temperature conditions.

A voice box is required, the starship told herself. Some sort of output interface. The personality is gone, but the data remains. All has not been lost here.

A library of ancient knowledge, to be accessed at need.

Wondering what it might be like for her captain to be as fully embedded in hardware as she herself was, the starship withdrew her attentions from the sleeping Before and her muttering lover. Polyphemus needed to examine the forensic reports from the death of Father Goulo, and contemplate the future.

It was good to have a captain.

SHIFTING SEAS, by Stanley G. Weinbaum

It developed later that Ted Welling was one of the very few eye-witnesses of the catastrophe, or rather, that among the million and a half eye-witnesses, he was among the half dozen that survived. At the time, he was completely unaware of the extent of the disaster, although it looked bad enough to him in all truth!

He was in a Colquist gyro, just north of the spot where Lake Nicaragua drains its brown overflow into the San Juan, and was bound for Managua, seventy-five miles north and west across the great inland sea. Below him, quite audible above the muffled whir of his motor, sounded the intermittent clicking of his tripanoramic camera, adjusted delicately to his speed so that its pictures could be assembled into a beautiful relief map of the terrain over which he passed. That, in fact, was the sole purpose of his flight; he had left San Juan del Norte early that morning to traverse the route of the proposed Nicaragua Canal, flying for the Topographical branch of the U. S. Geological Survey. The United States, of course, had owned the rights to the route since early in the century—a safeguard against any other nation’s aspirations to construct a competitor for the Panama Canal.

Now, however, the Nicaragua Canal was actually under consideration. The over-burdened ditch that crossed the Isthmus was groaning under vastly increased traffic, and it became a question of either cutting the vast trench another eighty-five feet to sea-level or opening an alternate passage. The Nicaragua route was feasible enough; there was the San Juan emptying from the great lake into the Atlantic, and there was Lake Managua a dozen miles or so from the Pacific. It was simply a matter of choice, and Ted Welling, of the Topographical Service of the Geological Survey, was doing his part to aid the choice.

At precisely 10:40 it happened. Ted was gazing idly through a faintly misty morning toward Ometepec, its cone of a peak plumed by dusky smoke. A hundred miles away, across both Lake Nicaragua and Lake Managua, the fiery mountain was easily visible from his altitude. All week, he knew, it had been rumbling and smoking, but now, as he watched it, it burst like a mighty Roman candle.

There was a flash of white fire not less brilliant than the sun. There was a column of smoke with a red core that spouted upward like a fountain and then mushroomed out. There was a moment of utter silence in which the camera clicked methodically, and then there was a roar as if the very roof of Hell had blown away to let out the bellows of the damned!

Ted had one amazed thought—the sound had followed too quickly on the eruption! It should have taken minutes to reach him at that distance—and then his thoughts were forcibly diverted as the Colquist tossed and skittered like a leaf in a hurricane. He caught an astonished glimpse of the terrain below, of Lake Nicaragua heaving and boiling as if it were the seas that lash through the Straits of Magellan instead of a body of landlocked fresh water. On the shore to the east a colossal wave was breaking, and there in a banana grove frightened figures were scampering away. And then, exactly as if by magic, a white mist condensed about him, shutting out all view of the world below.

He fought grimly for altitude. He had had three thousand feet, but now, tossed in this wild ocean of fog, of up-drafts and down-drafts, of pockets and humps, he had no idea at all of his position. His altimeter needle quivered and jumped in the changing pressure, his compass spun, and he had not the vaguest conception of the direction of the ground. So he struggled as best he could, listening anxiously to the changing whine of his blades as strain grew and lessened. And below, deep as thunder, came intermittent rumblings that were, unless he imagined it, accompanied by the flash of jagged fires.

Suddenly he was out of it. He burst abruptly into clear air, and for a horrible instant it seemed to him that he was actually flying inverted. Apparently below him was the white sea of mist, and above was what looked at first glance like dark ground, but a moment’s scrutiny revealed it as a world-blanketing canopy of smoke or dust, through which the sun shone with a fantastic blue light. He had heard of blue suns, he recalled; they were one of the rarer phenomena of volcanic eruptions.

His altimeter showed ten thousand. The vast plain of mist heaved in gigantic ridges like rolling waves, and he fought upward away from it. At twenty thousand the air was steadier, but still infinitely above was the sullen ceiling of smoke. Ted leveled out, turning at random north-east, and relaxed.

“Whew!” he breathed. “What—what happened?”

He couldn’t land, of course, in that impenetrable fog. He flew doggedly north and east, because there was an airport at Bluefields, if this heaving sea of white didn’t blanket it.

But it did. He had still half a tank of fuel, and, he bored grimly north. Far away was a pillar of fire, and beyond it to the right, another and a third. The first, of course, was Ometepec, but what were the others? Fuego and Tajumulco? It seemed impossible.

Three hours later the fog was still below him, and the grim roof of smoke was dropping as if to crush him between. He was going to have to land soon; even now he must have spanned Nicaragua and be somewhere over Honduras. With a sort of desperate calm he slanted down toward the fog and plunged in. He expected to crash; curiously, the only thing he really regretted was dying without a chance to say goodbye to Kay Lovell, who was far off in Washington with her father, old Sir Joshua Lovell, Ambassador from Great Britain.

When the needle read two hundred, he leveled off—and then, like a train bursting out of a tunnel, he came clear again! But under him was wild and raging ocean, whose waves seemed almost to graze the ship. He spun along at a low level, wondering savagely how he could possibly have wandered out to sea. It must, he supposed, be the gulf of Honduras.

He turned west. Within five minutes he had raised a storm-lashed coast, and then—miracle of all miracles!—a town! And a landing field. He pancaked over it, let his vanes idle, and dropped as vertically as he could in that volley of gusty winds.

It was Belize in British Honduras. He recognized the port even before the attendants had reached him.

“A Yankee!” yelled the first. “Ain’t that Yankee luck for you!”

Ted grinned. “I needed it. What happened?”

“The roof over this part of Hell blew off. That’s all.”

“Yeah. I saw that much. I was over it.”

“Then you know more’n any of us. Radio’s dead and there ain’t no bloomin’ telegraph at all.”

It began to rain suddenly, a fierce, pattering rain with drops as big as marbles. The men broke for the shelter of a hangar, where Ted’s information, meager as it was, was avidly seized upon, for sensational news is rare below the Tropic of Cancer. But none of them yet realized just how sensational it was.

It was three days before Ted, and the rest of the world as well, began to understand in part what had happened. This was after hours of effort at Belize had finally raised Havana on the beam, and Ted had reported through to old Asa Gaunt, his chief at Washington. He had been agreeably surprised by the promptness of the reply ordering him instantly to the Capital; that meant a taste of the pleasant life that Washington reserved for young departmentals, and most of all, it meant a glimpse of Kay Lovell after two months of letter-writing. So he had flown the Colquist gayly across Yucatan Channel, left it at Havana, and was now comfortably settled in a huge Caribbean plane bound for Washington, boring steadily north through a queerly misty mid-October morning.

At the moment, however, his thoughts were not of Kay. He was reading a grim newspaper account of the catastrophe, and wondering what thousand-to-one shot had brought him unscathed through the very midst of it. For the disaster overshadowed into insignificance such little disturbances as the Yellow River flood in China, the eruption of Krakatoa, the holocaust of Mount Pelee, or even the great Japanese earthquake of 1923, or any other terrible visitation ever inflicted on a civilized race.

For the Ring of Fire, that vast volcanic circle that surrounds the Pacific Ocean, perhaps the last unhealed scars of the birththroes of the Moon, had burst into flame. Aniakchak in Alaska had blown its top away, Fujiyama had vomited lava, on the Atlantic side La Soufriere and the terrible Pelee had awakened again.

But these were minor. It was at the two volcanic foci, in Java and Central America, that the fire-mountains had really shown their powers. What had happened in Java was still a mystery, but on the Isthmus—that was already too plain. From Mosquito Bay to the Rio Coco, there was—ocean! Half of Panama, seven-eighths of Nicaragua—and as for Costa Rica, that country was as if it had never been. The Canal was a wreck, but Ted grinned a wry grin at the thought that it was now as unnecessary as a pyramid. North and South America had been cut adrift, and the Isthmus, the land that had once known Atlantis, had gone to join it.

In Washington Ted reported at once to Asa Gaunt. That dry Texan questioned him closely concerning his experience, grunted disgustedly at the paucity of information, and then ordered him tersely to attend a meeting at his office in the evening. There remained a full afternoon to devote to Kay, and Ted lost little time in so devoting it.

He didn’t see her alone. Washington, like the rest of the world, was full of excitement because of the earthquake, but in Washington more than elsewhere the talk was less of the million and a half deaths and more largely of the other consequences. After all, the bulk of the deaths had been among the natives, and it was a sort of remote tragedy, like the perishing of so many Chinese. It affected only those who had friends or relatives in the stricken region, and these were few in number.

But at Kay’s home Ted encountered an excited group arguing physical results. Obviously, the removal of the bottleneck of the Canal strengthened the naval power of the United States enormously. No need now to guard the vulnerable Canal so intensively. The whole fleet could stream abreast through the four hundred mile gap left by the subsidence. Of course the country would lose the revenues of the toll-charges, but that was balanced by the cessation of the expense of fortifying and guarding.

Ted fumed until he managed a few moments of greeting with Kay alone. Once that was concluded to his satisfaction, he joined the discussion as eagerly as the rest. But no one even considered the one factor in the whole catastrophe that could change the entire history of the world.

At the evening meeting Ted stared around him in surprise. He recognized all those present, but the reasons for their presence were obscure. Of course there was Asa Gaunt, head of the Geological Survey, and of course there was Golsborough, Secretary of the Interior, because the Survey was one of his departments. But what was Maxwell, joint Secretary of War and the Navy, doing there? And why was silent John Parish, Secretary of State, frowning down at his shoes in the corner?

Asa Gaunt cleared his throat and began. “Do any of you like eels?” he asked soberly.

There was a murmur. “Why, I do,” said Golsborough, who had once been Consul at Venice. “What about it?”

“This—that you’d better buy some and eat ’em tomorrow. There won’t be any more eels.”

“No more eels?”

“No more eels. You see, eels breed in the Sargasso Sea, and there won’t be any Sargasso Sea.”

“What is this?” growled Maxwell. “I’m a busy man. No more Sargasso Sea, huh!”

“You’re likely to be busier soon,” said Asa Gaunt dryly. He frowned. “Let me ask one other question. Does anyone here know what spot on the American continent is opposite London, England?”

Golsborough shifted impatiently, “I don’t see the trend of this, Asa,” he grunted, “but my guess is that New York City and London are nearly in the same latitude. Or maybe New York’s a little to the north, since I know its climate is somewhat colder.”

“Hah!” said Asa Gaunt. “Any disagreement?”

There was none. “Well,” said the head of the Survey, “you’re all wrong, then. London is about one thousand miles north of New York. It’s in the latitude of southern Labrador!”

“Labrador! That’s practically the Arctic!”

Asa Gaunt pulled down a large map on the wall behind him, a Mercator projection of the world.

“Look at it,” he said. “New York’s in the latitude of Rome, Italy. Washington’s opposite Naples. Norfolk’s level with Tunis in Africa, and Jacksonville with the Sahara Desert. And gentlemen, these facts lead to the conclusion that next summer is going to see the wildest war in the history of the world!”

Even Ted, who knew his superior well enough to swear to his sanity, could not resist a glance at the faces of the others, and met their eyes with full understanding of the suspicion in them.

Maxwell cleared his throat. “Of course, of course,” he said gruffly. “So there’ll be a war and no more eels. That’s very easy to follow, but I believe I’ll ask you gentlemen to excuse me. You see, I don’t care for eels.”

“Just a moment more,” said Asa Gaunt. He began to speak, and little by little a grim understanding dawned on the four he faced.

Ted remained after the appalled and sobered group had departed. His mind was too chaotic as yet for other occupations, and it was already too late in the evening to find Kay, even had he dared with these oppressive revelations weighing on him.

“Are you sure?” he asked nervously. “Are you quite certain?”

“Well, let’s go over it again,” grunted Asa Gaunt, turning to the map. He swept his hand over the white lines drawn in the Pacific Ocean. “Look here. This is the Equatorial Counter Current, sweeping east to wash the shores of Guatemala, Salvador, Honduras, Nicaragua, Costa Rica, and Panama.”

“I know. I’ve flown over every square mile of that coast.”

“Uh.” The older man turned to the blue-mapped expanse of the Atlantic. “And here,” he resumed, “is the North Equatorial Drift, coming west out of the Atlantic to sweep around Cuba into the Gulf, and to emerge as—the Gulf Stream. It flows at an average speed of three knots per hour, is sixty miles broad, a hundred fathoms deep, and possesses, to start with, an average temperature of 50°. And here—it meets the Labrador Current and turns east to carry warmth to all of Western Europe. That’s why England is habitable; that’s why southern France is semi-tropical; that’s why men can live even in Norway and Sweden. Look at Scandinavia, Ted; it’s in the latitude of central Greenland, level with Baffin Bay. Even Eskimos have difficulty scraping a living on Baffin Island.”

“I know,” said Ted in a voice like a groan. “But are you certain about—the rest of this?”

“See for yourself,” growled Asa Gaunt. “The barrier’s down now. The Equatorial Counter Current, moving two knots per hour, will sweep right over what used to be Central America and strike the North Equatorial Drift just south of Cuba. Do you see what will happen—is happening—to the Gulf Stream? Instead of moving north-east along the Atlantic coast, it will flow almost due east, across what used to be the Sargasso Sea. Instead of bathing the shores of Northern Europe, it will strike the Spanish peninsula, just as the current, called the West Wind Drift does now, and instead of veering north it will turn south, along the coast of Africa. At three knots an hour it will take less than three months for the Gulf Stream to deliver its last gallon of warm water to Europe. That brings us to January—and after January, what?”

Ted said nothing.

“Now,” resumed Asa Gaunt grimly, “the part of Europe occupied by countries dependent on the Gulf Stream consists of Norway, Sweden, Denmark, Germany, the British Isles, the Netherlands, Belgium, France, and to a lesser extent, several others. Before six months have passed, Ted, you’re going to see a realignment of Europe. The Gulf Stream countries are going to be driven together; Germany and France are suddenly going to become bosom friends, and France and Russia, friendly as they are today, are going to be bitter enemies. Do you see why?”

“N-no.”

“Because the countries I’ve named now support over two hundred million inhabitants. Two hundred million, Ted! And without the Gulf Stream, when England and Germany have the climate of Labrador, and France of Newfoundland, and Scandinavia of Baffin Land—how many people can those regions support then? Three or four million, perhaps, and that with difficulty. Where will the others go?”

“Where?”

“I can tell you where they’ll try to go. England will try to unload its surplus population on its colonies. India’s hopelessly overcrowded, but South Africa, Canada, Australia, and New Zealand can absorb some. About twenty-five of its fifty millions, I should estimate, because Canada’s a northern country and Australia desert in a vast part of it. France has Northern Africa, already nearly as populous as it can be. The others—well, you guess, Ted.”

“I will. Siberia, South America, and—the United States!”

“A good guess. That’s why Russia and France will no longer be the best of friends. South America is a skeleton continent, a shell. The interior is unfit for white men, and so—it leaves Siberia and North America. What a war’s in the making!”

“It’s almost unbelievable!” muttered Ted. “Just when the world seemed to be settling down, too.”

“Oh, it’s happened before,” observed Asa Gaunt. “This isn’t the only climatic change that brought on war. It was decreasing rainfall in central Asia that sent the Huns scouring Europe, and probably the Goths and Vandals as well. But it’s never happened to two hundred million civilized people before!” He paused. “The newspapers are all shrieking about the million and a half deaths in Central America. By this time next year they’ll have forgotten that a million and a half deaths ever rated a headline!”

“But good Lord!” Ted burst out. “Isn’t there anything to be done about it?”

“Sure, sure,” said Asa Gaunt. “Go find a nice tame earthquake that will raise back the forty thousand square miles the last one sunk. That’s all you have to do, and if you can’t do that, Maxwell’s suggestion is the next best: build submarines and submarines. They can’t invade a country if they can’t get to it.”

Asa Gaunt was beyond doubt the first man in the world to realize the full implications of the Central American disaster, but he was not very much ahead of the brilliant Sir Phineas Grey of the Royal Society. Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on which shore of the Atlantic you call home), Sir Phineas was known to the world of journalism as somewhat of a sensationalist, and his warning was treated by the English and Continental newspapers as on a par with those recurrent predictions of the end of the world. Parliament noticed the warning just once, when Lord Rathmere rose in the Upper House to complain of the unseasonably warm weather and to suggest dryly that the Gulf Stream be turned off a month early this year. But now and again some oceanographer made the inside pages by agreeing with Sir Phineas.

So Christmas approached very quietly, and Ted, happy enough to be stationed in Washington, spent his days in routine topographical work in the office and his evenings, as many as she permitted, with Kay Lovell. And she did permit an increasing number, so that the round of gaiety during the holidays found them on the verge of engagement. They were engaged so far as the two of them were concerned, and only awaited a propitious moment to inform Sir Joshua, whose approval Kay felt, with true English conservatism, was a necessity.

Ted worried often enough about the dark picture Asa Gaunt had drawn, but an oath of secrecy kept him from ever mentioning it to Kay. Once, when she had casually brought up the subject of Sir Phineas Grey and his warning, Ted had stammered some inanity and hastily switched the subject. But with the turn of the year and January, things began to change.

It was on the fourteenth that the first taste of cold struck Europe. London shivered for twenty-four hours in the unheard-of temperature of twenty below zero, and Paris argued and gesticulated about its grands froids. Then the high pressure area moved eastward and normal temperatures returned.

But not for long. On the twenty-first another zone of frigid temperature came drifting in on the Westerlies, and the English and Continental papers, carefully filed at the Congressional Library, began to betray a note of panic. Ted read the editorial comments avidly: of course Sir Phineas Grey was crazy; of course he was—but just suppose he were right. Just suppose he were. Wasn’t it unthinkable that the safety and majesty of Germany (or France or England or Belgium, depending on the particular capital whence the paper came) was subject to the disturbances of a little strip of land seven thousand miles away? Germany (or France, et al) must control its own destiny.

With the third wave of Arctic cold, the tone became openly fearful. Perhaps Sir Phineas was right. What then? What was to be done? There were rumblings and mutterings in Paris and Berlin, and even staid Oslo witnessed a riot, and conservative London as well. Ted began to realize that Asa Gaunt’s predictions were founded on keen judgment; the German government made an openly friendly gesture toward France in a delicate border matter, and France reciprocated with an equally indulgent note. Russia protested and was politely ignored; Europe was definitely realigning itself, and in desperate haste.

But America, save for a harassed group in Washington, had only casual interest in the matter. When reports of suffering among the poor began to come during the first week in February, a drive was launched to provide relief funds, but it met with only nominal success. People just weren’t interested; a cold winter lacked the dramatic power of a flood, a fire, or an earthquake. But the papers reported in increasing anxiety that the immigration quotas, unapproached for a half a dozen years, were full again; there was the beginning of an exodus from the Gulf Stream countries.

By the second week in February stark panic had gripped Europe, and echoes of it began to penetrate even self-sufficient America. The realignment of the Powers was definite and open now, and Spain, Italy, the Balkans, and Russia found themselves herded together, facing an ominous thunderhead on the north and west. Russia instantly forgot her longstanding quarrel with Japan, and Japan, oddly, was willing enough to forget her own grievances. There was a strange shifting of sympathies; the nations which possessed large and thinly populated areas—Russia, the United States, Mexico, and all of South America—were glaring back at a frantic Europe that awaited only the release of summer to launch a greater invasion than any history had recorded. Attila and his horde of Huns—the Mongol waves that beat down on China—even the vast movements of the white race into North and South America—all these were but minor migrations to that which threatened now. Two hundred million people, backed by colossal fighting power, glaring panic-stricken at the empty places of the world. No one knew where the thunderbolt would strike first, but that it would strike was beyond doubt.

While Europe shivered in the grip of an incredible winter, Ted shivered at the thought of certain personal problems of his own. The frantic world found an echo in his own situation, for here was he, America in miniature, and there was Kay Lovell, a small edition of Britannia. Their sympathies clashed like those of their respective nations.

The time for secrecy was over. Ted faced Kay before the fireplace in her home and stared from her face to the cheery fire, whose brightness merely accentuated his gloom.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “I knew about it. I’ve known it since a couple of days after the Isthmus earthquake.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me? You should have.”

“Couldn’t. I swore not to tell.”

“It isn’t fair!” blazed Kay. “Why should it fall on England? I tell you it sickens me even to think of Merecroft standing there in snow, like some old Norse tower. I was born in Warwickshire, Ted, and so was my father, and his father, and his, and all of us back to the time of William the Conqueror. Do you think it’s a pleasant thing to think of my mother’s rose garden as barren as—as a tundra?”

“I’m sorry,” said Ted gently, “but what can I—or anyone—do about it? I’m just glad you’re here on this side of the Atlantic, where you’re safe.”

“Safe!” she flashed. “Yes, I’m safe, but what about my people? I’m safe because I’m in America, the lucky country, the chosen land! Why did this have to happen to England? The Gulf Stream washes your shores too. Why aren’t Americans shivering and freezing and frightened and hopeless, instead of being warm and comfortable and indifferent? Is that fair?”

“The Gulf Stream,” he explained miserably, “doesn’t affect our climate so definitely because in the first place we’re much farther south than Europe and in the second place our prevailing winds are from the west, just as England’s. But our winds blow from the land to the Gulf Stream, and England’s from the Gulf Stream to the land.”

“But it’s not fair! It’s not fair!”

“Can I help it, Kay?”

“Oh, I suppose not,” she agreed in suddenly weary tones, and then, with a resurgence of anger, “But you people can do something about it! Look here! Listen to this!”

She spied a week-old copy of the London Times, fingered rapidly through it, and turned on Ted. “Listen—just listen! ‘And in the name of humanity it is not asking too much to insist that our sister nation open her gates to us. Let us settle the vast areas where now only Indian tribes hunt and buffalo range. We would not be the only ones to gain by such a settlement, for we would bring to the new country a sane, industrious, law-abiding citizenry, no harborers of highwaymen and gangsters—a point well worth considering. We would bring a great new purchasing public for American manufacturers, carrying with us all our portable wealth. And finally, we would provide a host of eager defenders in the war for territory, a war that now seems inevitable. Our language is one with theirs; surely this is the logical solution, especially when one remembers that the state of Texas alone contains land enough to supply two acres to every man, woman, and child on earth!” She paused and stared defiantly at Ted. “Well?”

He snorted. “Indians and buffalo!” he snapped. “Have you seen either one in the United States?”

“No, but—”

“And as for Texas, sure there’s enough land there for two acres to everybody in the world, but why didn’t your editor mention that two acres won’t even support a cow over much of it? The Llano Estacado’s nothing but an alkali desert, and there’s a scarcity of water in lots of the rest of it. On that argument, you ought to move to Greenland; I’ll bet there’s land enough there for six acres per person!”

“That may be true, but—”

“And as for a great new purchasing public, your portable wealth is gold and paper money, isn’t it? The gold’s all right, but what good is a pound if there’s no British credit to back it? Your great new public would simply swell the ranks of the unemployed until American industry could absorb them, which might take years! And meanwhile wages would go down to nothing because of an enormous surplus of labor, and food and rent would go skyhigh because of millions of extra stomachs to feed and bodies to shelter.”

“All right!” said Kay bleakly. “Argue all you wish. I’ll even concede that your arguments are right, but there’s one thing I know is wrong, and that’s leaving fifty million English people to starve and freeze and suffer in a country that’s been moved, as far as climate goes, to the North Pole. Why, you even get excited over a newspaper story about one poor family in an unheated hovel! Then what about a whole nation whose furnace has gone out?”

“What,” countered Ted grimly, “about the seven or eight other nations whose furnaces have also gone out?”

“But England deserves priority!” she blazed. “You took your language from us, your literature, your laws, your whole civilization. Why, even now you ought to be nothing but an English colony! That’s all you are, if you want the truth!”

“We think differently. Anyway, you know as well as I that the United States can’t open the door to one nation and exclude the others. It must be all or none, and that means—none!”

“And that means war,” she said bitterly. “Oh, Ted! I can’t help the way I feel. I have people over there—aunts, cousins, friends. Do you think I can stand indifferently aside while they’re ruined? Although they’re ruined already, as far as that goes. Land’s already dropped to nothing there. You can’t sell it at any price now.”

“I know. I’m sorry, Kay, but it’s no one’s fault. No one’s to blame.”

“And so no one needs to do anything about it, I suppose. Is that your nice American theory?”

“You know that isn’t fair! What can we do?”

“You could let us in! As it is we’ll have to fight our way in, and you can’t blame us!”

“Kay, no nation and no group of nations can invade this country. Even if our navy were utterly destroyed, how far from the sea do you think a hostile army could march? It would be Napoleon in Russia all over again; your army marches in and is swallowed up. And where is Europe going to find the food to support an invading army? Do you think it could live on the land as it moved? I tell you no sane nation would try that!”

“No sane nation, perhaps!” she retorted fiercely. “Do you think you’re dealing with sane nations?”

He shrugged gloomily.

“They’re desperate!” she went on. “I don’t blame them. Whatever they do, you’ve brought it on yourselves. Now you’ll be fighting all of Europe, when you could have the British navy on your side. It’s stupid. It’s worse than stupid; it’s selfish!”

“Kay,” he said miserably, “I can’t argue with you. I know how you feel, and I know it’s a hell of a situation. But even if I agreed with everything you’ve said—which I don’t—what could I do about it? I’m not the President and I’m not Congress. Let’s drop the argument for this evening, honey; it’s just making you unhappy.”

“Unhappy! As if I could ever be anything else when everything I value, everything I love, is doomed to be buried under Arctic snow.”

“Everything, Kay?” he asked gently. “Haven’t you forgotten that there’s something for you on this side of the Atlantic as well?”

“I haven’t forgotten anything,” she said coldly. “I said everything, and I mean it. America! I hate America. Yes, and I hate Americans too!”

“Kay!”

“And what’s more,” she blazed, “I wouldn’t marry an American if he—if he could rebuild the Isthmus! If England’s to freeze, I’ll freeze with her, and if England’s to fight, her enemies are mine!”

She rose suddenly to her feet, deliberately averted her eyes from his troubled face, and stalked out of the room.

Sometimes, during those hectic weeks in February, Ted wormed his way into the Visitor’s Gallery in one or the other Congressional house. The outgoing Congress, due to stand for re-election in the fall, was the focal point of the dawning hysteria in the nation, and was battling sensationally through its closing session. Routine matters were ignored, and day after day found both houses considering the unprecedented emergency with a sort of appalled inability to act in any effective unison. Freak bills of all description were read, considered, tabled, reconsidered, put to a second reading, and tabled again. The hard-money boom of a year earlier had swept in a Conservative majority in the off-year elections, but they had no real policy to offer, and the proposals of the minority group of Laborites and Leftists were voted down without substitutes being suggested.

Some of the weirdest bills in all the weird annals of Congress appeared at this time. Ted listened in fascination to the Leftist proposal that each American family adopt two Europeans, splitting its income into thirds; to a suggestion that Continentals be advised to undergo voluntary sterilization, thus restraining the emergency to the time of one generation; to a fantastic paper money scheme of the Senator from the new state of Alaska, that was to provide a magic formula to permit Europe to purchase its livelihood without impoverishing the rest of the world. There were suggestions of outright relief, but the problem of charity to two hundred million people was so obviously staggering that this proposal at least received little attention. But there were certain bills that passed both houses without debate, gaining the votes of Leftists, Laborites, and Conservatives alike; these were the grim appropriations for submarines, super-bombers and interceptors, and aircraft-carriers.

Those were strange, hectic days in Washington. Outwardly there was still the same gay society that gathers like froth around all great capitals, and Ted, of course, being young and decidedly not unattractive, received his full share of invitations. But not even the least sensitive could have overlooked the dark undercurrents of hysteria that flowed just beneath the surface. There was dancing, there was gay dinner conversation, there was laughter, but beneath all of it was fear. Ted was not the only one to notice that the diplomatic representatives of the Gulf Stream countries were conspicuous by their absence from all affairs save those of such importance that their presence was a matter of policy. And even then, incidents occurred; he was present when the Minister from France stalked angrily from the room because some hostess had betrayed the poor taste of permitting her dance orchestra to play a certain popular number called “The Gulf Stream Blues.” Newspapers carefully refrained from mentioning the occurrence, but Washington buzzed with it for days.

Ted looked in vain for Kay. Her father appeared when appearance was necessary, but Ted had not seen the girl since her abrupt dismissal of him, and in reply to his inquiries, Sir Joshua granted only the gruff and double-edged explanation that she was “indisposed.” So Ted worried and fumed about her in vain, until he scarcely knew whether his own situation or that of the world was more important. In the last analysis, of course, the two were one and the same.

The world was like a crystal of nitrogen iodide, waiting only the drying-out of summer to explode. Under its frozen surface Europe was seething like Mounts Erebus and Terror that blaze in the ice of Antarctica. Little Hungary had massed its army on the west, beyond doubt to oppose a similar massing on the part of the Anschluss. Of this particular report, Ted heard Maxwell say with an air of relief that it indicated that Germany had turned her face inland; it meant one less potential enemy for America.

But the maritime nations were another story, and especially mighty Britain, whose world-girdling fleet was gathering day by day in the Atlantic. That was a crowded ocean indeed, for on its westward shore was massed the American battle fleet, built at last to treaty strength, and building far beyond it, while north and south piled every vessel that could raise a pound of steam, bearing those fortunates who could leave their European homes to whatever lands hope called them. Africa and Australia, wherever Europe had colonies, were receiving an unheard of stream of immigrants. But this stream was actually only the merest trickle, composed of those who possessed sufficient liquid wealth to encompass the journey. Untold millions remained chained to their homes, bound by the possession of unsalable lands, or by investments in business, or by sentiment, or by the simple lack of sufficient funds to buy passage for families. And throughout all of the afflicted countries were those who clung stubbornly to hope, who believed even in the grip of that unbelievable winter that the danger would pass, and that things would come right in the end.

Blunt, straightforward little Holland was the first nation to propose openly a wholesale transfer of population. Ted read the note, or at least the version of it given the press on February 21st. In substance it simply repeated the arguments Kay had read from the London paper—the plea to humanity, the affirmation of an honest and industrious citizenry, and the appeal to the friendship that had always existed between the two nations; and the communication closed with a request for an immediate reply because of “the urgency of the situation.” And an immediate reply was forthcoming.

This was also given to the press. In suave and very polished diplomatic language it pointed out that the United States could hardly admit nationals of one country while excluding those of others. Under the terms of the National Origins Act, Dutch immigrants would be welcomed to the full extent of their quota. It was even possible that the quota might be increased, but it was not conceivable that it could be removed entirely. The note was in effect a suave, dignified, diplomatic No.

March drifted in on a southwest wind. In the Southern states it brought spring, and in Washington a faint forerunner of balmy weather to come, but to the Gulf Stream countries it brought no release from the Arctic winter that had fallen on them with its icy mantle. Only in the Basque country of Southern France, where vagrant winds slipped at intervals across the Pyrenees with the warm breath of the deflected Stream, was there any sign of the relaxing of that frigid clutch. But that was a promise; April would come, and May—and the world flexed its steel muscles for war.

Everyone knew now that war threatened. After the first few notes and replies, no more were released to the press, but everyone knew that notes, representatives, and communiques were flying between the powers like a flurry of white doves, and everyone knew, at least in Washington, that the tenor of those notes was no longer dove-like. Now they carried brusque demands and blunt refusals.

Ted knew as much of the situation as any alert observer, but no more. He and Asa Gaunt discussed it endlessly, but the dry Texan, having made his predictions and seen them verified, was no longer in the middle of the turmoil, for his bureau had, of course, nothing to do with the affair now. So the Geological Survey staggered on under a woefully reduced appropriation, a handicap shared by every other governmental function that had no direct bearing on defense.

All the American countries, and for that matter, every nation save those in Western Europe, were enjoying a feverish, abnormal, hectic boom. The flight of capital from Europe, and the incessant, avid, frantic cry for food, had created a rush of business, and exports mounted unbelievably. In this emergency, France and the nations under her hegemony, those who had clung so stubbornly to gold ever since the second revaluation of the franc, were now at a marked advantage, since their money would buy more wheat, more cattle, and more coal. But the paper countries, especially Britain, shivered and froze in stone cottage and draughty manor alike.

On the eleventh of March, that memorable Tuesday when the thermometer touched twenty-eight below in London, Ted reached a decision toward which he had been struggling for six weeks. He was going to swallow his pride and see Kay again. Washington was buzzing with rumors that Sir Joshua was to be recalled, that diplomatic relations with England were to be broken as they had already been broken with France. The entire nation moved about its daily business in an air of tense expectancy, for the break with France meant little in view of that country’s negligible sea power, but now, if the colossus of the British navy were to align itself with the French army—

But what troubled Ted was a much more personal problem. If Sir Joshua Lovell were recalled to London, that meant that Kay would accompany him, and once she were caught in the frozen Hell of Europe, he had a panicky feeling that she was lost to him forever. When war broke, as it surely must, there would go his last hope of ever seeing her again. Europe, apparently, was doomed, for it seemed impossible that any successful invasion could be carried on over thousands of miles of ocean, but if he could save the one fragment of Europe that meant everything to him, if he could somehow save Kay Lovell, it was worth the sacrifice of pride or of anything else. So he called one final time on the telephone, received the same response from an unfriendly maid, and then left the almost idle office and drove directly to her home.

The same maid answered his ring. “Miss Lovell is not in,” she said coldly. “I told you that when you telephoned.”

“I’ll wait,” returned Ted grimly, and thrust himself through the door. He seated himself stolidly in the hall, glared back at the maid, and waited. It was no more than five minutes before Kay herself appeared, coming wearily down the steps.

“I wish you’d leave,” she said. She was pallid and troubled, and he felt a great surge of sympathy.

“I won’t leave.”

“What do I have to do to make you go away? I don’t want to see you, Ted.”

“If you’ll talk to me just half an hour, I’ll go.” She yielded listlessly, leading the way into the living room where a fire still crackled in cheerful irony. “Well?” she asked.

“Kay, do you love me?”

“I—No, I don’t!”

“Kay,” he persisted gently, “do you love me enough to marry me and stay here where you’re safe?”

Tears glistened suddenly in her brown eyes. “I hate you,” she said. “I hate all of you. You’re a nation of murderers. You’re like the East Indian Thugs, only they call murder religion and you call it patriotism.”

“I won’t even argue with you, Kay. I can’t blame you for your viewpoint, and I can’t blame you for not understanding mine. But—do you love me?”

“All right,” she said in sudden weariness. “I do.”

“And will you marry me?”

“No. No, I won’t marry you, Ted. I’m going back to England.”

“Then will you marry me first? I’ll let you go back, Kay, but afterwards—if there’s any world left after what’s coming—I could bring you back here. I’ll have to fight for what I believe in, and I won’t ask you to stay with me during the time our nations are enemies, but afterwards, Kay—if you’re my wife I could bring you here. Don’t you see?”

“I see, but—no.”

“Why, Kay? You said you loved me.”

“I do,” she said almost bitterly. “I wish I didn’t, because I can’t marry you hating your people the way I do. If you were on my side, Ted, I swear I’d marry you tomorrow, or today, or five minutes from now—but as it is, I can’t. It just wouldn’t be fair.”

“You’d not want me to turn traitor,” he responded gloomily. “One thing I’m sure of, Kay, is that you couldn’t love a traitor.” He paused. “Is it goodbye, then?”

“Yes.” There were tears in her eyes again. “It isn’t public yet, but father has been recalled. Tomorrow he presents his recall to the Secretary of State, and the day after we leave for England. This is goodbye.”

“That does mean war!” he muttered. “I’ve been hoping that in spite of everything—God knows I’m sorry, Kay. I don’t blame you for the way you feel. You couldn’t feel differently and still be Kay Lovell, but—it’s damned hard. It’s damned hard!”

She agreed silently. After a moment she said, “Think of my part of it, Ted—going back to a home that’s like—well, the Rockefeller Mountains in Antarctica. I tell you, I’d rather it had been England that sunk into the sea! That would have been easier, much easier than this. If it had sunk until the waves rolled over the very peak of Ben Macduhl—” She broke off.

“The waves are rolling over higher peaks than Ben Macduhl,” he responded drearily. “They’re—” Suddenly he paused, staring at Kay with his jaw dropping and a wild light in his eyes!

“The Sierra Madre!” he bellowed, in such a roaring voice that the girl shrank away. “The Mother range! The Sierra Madre! The Sierra Madre!”

“Wh-what?” she gasped.

“The Sierra-! Listen to me, Kay! Listen to me! Do you trust me! Will you do something—something for both of us? Us? I mean for the world! Will you?”

“I know you will! Kay, keep your father from presenting his recall! Keep him here another ten days—even another week. Can you?”

“How? How can I?”

“I don’t know. Any way at all. Get sick. Get too sick to travel, and beg him not to present his papers until you can leave. Or—or tell him that the United States will make his country an alternate proposal in a few days. That’s the truth. I swear that’s true, Kay.”

“But—but he won’t believe me!”

“He’s got to! I don’t care how you do it, but keep him here! And have him report to the Foreign Office that new developments—vastly important developments—have come up. That’s true, Kay.”

“True? Then what are they?”

“There isn’t time to explain. Will you do what I ask?”

“I’ll try!”

“You’re—well you’re marvelous!” he said huskily. He stared into her tragic brown eyes, kissed her lightly, and rushed away.

Asa Gaunt was scowling down at a map of the dead Salton Sea when Ted dashed unannounced into the office. The rangy Texan looked up with a dry smile at the unceremonious entry.

“I’ve got it!” yelled Ted.

“A bad case of it,” agreed Asa Gaunt. “What’s the diagnosis?”

“No, I mean—Say, has the Survey taken soundings over the Isthmus?”

“The Dolphin’s been there for weeks,” said the older man. “You know you can’t map forty thousand square miles of ocean bed during the lunch hour.”

“Where,” shouted Ted, “are they sounding?”

“Over Pearl Cay Point, Bluefields, Monkey Point, and San Juan del Norte, of course. Naturally they’ll sound the places where there were cities first of all.”

“Oh, naturally!” said Ted, suppressing his voice to a tense quiver. “And where is the Marlin?”

“Idle at Newport News. We can’t operate both of them under this year’s budget.”

“To hell with the budget!” flared Ted. “Get the Marlin there too, and any other vessel that can carry an electric plumb!”

“Yes, sir—right away, sir,” said Asa Gaunt dryly. “When did you relieve Golsborough as Secretary of the Interior, Mr. Welling?”

“I’m sorry,” replied Ted. “I’m not giving orders, but I’ve thought of something. Something that may get all of us out of this mess we’re in.”

“Indeed? Sounds mildly interesting. Is it another of these international fiat—money schemes?”

“No!” blazed Ted. “It’s the Sierra Madre! Don’t you see?”

“In words of one syllable, no.”

“Then listen! I’ve flown over every square mile of the sunken territory. I’ve mapped and photographed it, and I’ve laid out the geodetics. I know that buried strip of land as well as I know the humps and hollows in my own bed.”

“Congratulations, but what of it?”

“This!” snapped Ted. He turned to the wall, pulled down the topographical map of Central America, and began to speak. After a while Asa Gaunt leaned forward in his chair and a queer light gathered in his pale blue eyes.

What follows has been recorded and interpreted in a hundred ways by numberless historians. The story of the Dolphin and the Marlin, sounding in frantic haste the course of the submerged Cordilleras, is in itself romance of the first order. The secret story of diplomacy, the holding of Britain’s neutrality so that the lesser sea powers dared not declare war across three thousand miles of ocean, is another romance that will never be told openly. But the most fascinating story of all, the building of the Cordilleran Inter-continental Wall, has been told so often that it needs little comment.

The soundings traced the irregular course of the sunken Sierra Madre mountains. Ted’s guess was justified; the peaks of the range were not inaccessibly far below the surface. A route was found where the Equatorial Counter Current swept over them with a depth at no point greater than forty fathoms, and the building of the Wall began on March the 31st, began in frantic haste, for the task utterly dwarfed the digging of the abandoned Canal itself. By the end of September some two hundred miles had been raised to sea-level, a mighty rampart seventy-five feet broad at its narrowest point, and with an extreme height of two hundred and forty feet and an average of ninety.

There was still almost half to be completed when winter swept out of the north over a frightened Europe, but the half that had been built was the critical sector. On one side washed the Counter Current, on the other the Equatorial Drift, bound to join the Gulf Stream in its slow march toward Europe. And the mighty Stream, traced by a hundred oceanographic vessels, veered slowly northward again, and bathed first the shores of France, then of England, and finally of the high northern Scandinavian Peninsula. Winter came drifting in as mildly as of old, and a sigh of relief went up from every nation in the world.

Ostensibly the Cordilleran Inter-continental Wall was constructed by the United States. A good many of the more chauvinistic newspapers bewailed the appearance of Uncle Sam as a sucker again, paying for the five hundred million dollar project for the benefit of Europe. No one noticed that there was no Congressional appropriation for the purpose, nor has anyone since wondered why the British naval bases on Trinidad, Jamaica, and at Belize have harbored so large a portion of His Majesty’s Atlantic Fleet. Nor, for that matter, has anyone inquired why the dead war debts were so suddenly exhumed and settled so cheerfully by the European powers.

A few historians and economists may suspect. The truth is that the Cordilleran Inter-continental Wall has given the United States a world hegemony, in fact almost a world empire. From the south tip of Texas, from Florida, from Puerto Rico, and from the otherwise useless Canal Zone, a thousand American planes could bomb the Wall into ruin. No European nation dares risk that.

Moreover, no nation in the world, not even in the orient where the Gulf Stream has no climatic influence, dares threaten war on America. If Japan, for instance, should so much as speak a hostile word, the whole military might of Europe would turn against her. Europe simply cannot risk an attack on the Wall, and certainly the first effort of a nation at war with the United States would be to force a passage through the Wall.

In effect the United States can command the armies of Europe with a few bombing planes, though not even the most ardent pacifists have yet suggested that experiment. But such are the results of the barrier officially known as the Cordilleran Intercontinental Wall, but called by every newspaper after its originator, the Welling Wall.

It was mid-summer before Ted had time enough to consider marriage and a honeymoon. He and Kay spent the latter on the Caribbean, cruising that treacherous sea in a sturdy fifty-foot sloop lent for the occasion by Asa Gaunt and the Geological Survey. They spent a good share of the time watching the great dredges and construction vessels working desperately at the task of adding millions of cubic yards to the peaks of the submarine range that was once the Sierra Madre. And one day as they lay on the deck in swimming suits, bent on acquiring a tropical tan, Ted asked her a question.

“By the way,” he began, “you’ve never told me how you managed to keep Sir Joshua in the States. That stalled off war just long enough for this thing to be worked out and presented. How’d you do it?”

Kay dimpled. “Oh, first I tried to tell him I was sick. I got desperately sick.”

“I knew he’d fall for that.”

“But he didn’t. He said a sea voyage would help me.”

“Then—what did you do?”

“Well, you see he has a sort of idiosyncrasy toward quinine. Ever since his service in India, where he had to take it day after day, he develops what doctors call a quinine rash, and he hasn’t taken any for years.”

“Well?”

“Don’t you see? His before-dinner cocktail had a little quinine in it, and so did his wine, and so did his tea, and the sugar and the salt. He kept complaining that everything he ate tasted bitter to him, and I convinced him that it was due to his indigestion.”

“And then?”

“Why, then I brought him one of his indigestion capsules, only it didn’t have his medicine in it. It had a nice dose of quinine, and in two hours he was pink as a salmon, and so itchy he couldn’t sit still!”

Ted began to laugh. “Don’t tell me that kept him there!”

“Not that alone,” said Kay demurely. “I made him call in a doctor, a friend of mine who—well, who kept asking me to marry him—and I sort of bribed him to tell father he had—I think it was erysipelas he called it. Something violently contagious, anyway.

“And so—?”

“And so we were quarantined for two weeks! And I kept feeding father quinine to keep up the bluff, and—well, we were very strictly quarantined. He just couldn’t present his recall!”

THROUGH TIME AND SPACE WITH FERDINAND FEGHOOT: 8, by Grendel Briarton

There was a great deal of ignorant opposition to Ferdinand Feghoot’s Galactic Concordat of 2133, which made interstellar tourism universally possible.

Fortunately, Feghoot was present when the first tourist landed in Old Sanfran Cisco, right where a new office building was being constructed. The tourist was a striped, felinoid being from a planet called Mrr-ow; except for his double tail, he looked like an overweight Bengal tiger. He paid no attention to Feghoot or to the nervous crowd which had gathered. He was interested only in the fence ’round the building, through which, until a few minutes previously, numerous sidewalk superintendents had been peering. He sat down beside it. He purred. He reached out a huge claw into one of the holes in the fence, pulled out a piece of the succulent pine, punched it, and purred even more loudly.

A small, waspish woman dashed forward, carrying a sign which said, MONSTERS LEAVE OUR DAUGHTERS ALONE!!! “Kill it!” she screamed. “Nobody ever saw anything like it before!”

An ugly murmur came from the crowd—but Ferdinand Feghoot rose neatly to the occasion. “Nonsense,” he laughed. “It’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s only a purr-pull peephole eater.”

ROCK GARDEN, by Kevin O’Donnell, Jr.

Livingston stood on a minor asteroid that spun through sunlight spread thin by five hundred million kilometers of vacuum, sunlight a tenth as bright as had warmed him back in Wyoming. Only the sodium-vapor lamps of Shin Matsumoto Base, a fifteen-minute walk away, and the inanimate subjects of Livingston’s studies scattered round about him broke the twilight gloom. Star-pricked shadows shrouded all the rest of the rocky surface.

Passing his gauntleted hand through a cold flame, he murmured to its propagator, a medium-size rock, gray and sharp edged, its surface shot with a thousand flecks of pyrite. Under that pale sun, it seemed to bristle with argument. He called it The Lawyer. Its crystalline core would fetch a billion in the Celestial Equity territories on Earth. In the planet’s more civilized realms, possession of that core would earn one life imprisonment.

The Lawyer did not murmur back, but the digital readout on the receiver said it still sang to itself at about 30.7 megahertz, its reedy voice racing through a short snappy sine wave. Livingston wondered if its tune had lyrics, and if it did what they meant. Did he confront a Beethoven or a bluebird? He ached to learn.

He doubted that he would have the time. An expert in endangered species, he had won the invitation to conduct the first exhaustive, nondestructive study of the asteroid belt’s mysterious life forms because he had fought so tenaciously for Yellowstone’s grizzlies—and his odds then had been a hundred times better.

Abruptly the asteroid shuddered. Taken by surprise, he almost lost his balance. He yelped and grabbed at nothingness. Dust shaken from the crater wall glittered in the blue-green auras, hung in micro-jewel motes, drifted slowly to the ground. Teetering on one foot, he waited for gravity to find and take him. Before it did, a chill wind swept through him, hissing, “Miko Tomimuri.” He caught his breath. The wind swung about to throw “Kitano Habishi” at him. Somewhere in his soul two places once filled came vacant again.

Like a well-anesthetized amputee, he knew loss but not pain. Not yet. Now a sick certainty washed through him. His guardians, his constant companions for the last two years—his friends—had died. He knew it beyond a doubt. And he wanted not to know it. Eyes squeezed shut, face twisted toward a shadow-draped crater wall, he said, “No, they’re fine, they’re in the hangar”—as if by rejecting the knowledge he could reverse reality. He could not.

Eighteen times that bitter wind had blown through him. Eighteen times he had learned that the one so named had died moments before. Always someone close, a dear friend or a brother or a parent.

It came rarely, then, because he had no more than an average complement of people special to him. And it came more wrenchingly because already the complement had dwindled.

He wished he knew the source of his sensitivity or at least the name of one other person who bore its curse. But he could only feel its impact. Save for Irish folktales of banshees and the occasional story of a twin aware of his siblings danger or demise, he had never encountered anything akin to what was happening to him. And in an empire skeptical of claims to paranormal talent, he had to keep it his secret. Were he even to hint at it, the reek of instability would foul his life and all his works.

It did give him something in common with endangered species, though.

He moved to wipe his eyes. His gauntlet crashed into his helmet, leaving in his ears a ringing that took a long time to quiet. It brought him back to that choir in the garden beneath the unblinking stars.

And stirred the knowledge gained over two years in space. Item: heavy vibration in the rock. Item: small asteroids display no seismic activity. Item: odds against meteor strike prohibitively high. Item: eighty-five Celestial Equity prospectors—poachers—operating in this sector of Belt at last report. Item: ten billion dollars worth of gems at my feet.

He tongued the intercom switch. “Watson-san!”

“Hai, Livingston-san?”

He gave an inaudible sigh of relief. At least the base computer had survived. “What’s going on?”

“Syntax error, Livingston-san.”

“Ah—” He tried to remember what Habishi, the laconic dabbler in haiku, used to say. “—Ah, status report?”

“Shin Matsumoto Base at present uninhabited. Life support systems functioning in all areas except [click] Hangar. Tunnel Two beyond hundred meter door [click]. All readings nominal in all areas except [click] Hangar Tunnel Two beyond hundred meter door where surviving monitors report dangerous levels of radioactivity.” [click]

Of course the poachers had hit the hangar first. Without their ship, the two Imperial Marines could barely defend Shin Matsumoto Base against an unarmed ore carrier—certainly not against a tough, fast Belt Breaker that could zing a nuke into a trash basket from twenty kiloclicks.

And of course the fates would make Tomimuri and Habishi choose that morning to overhaul a balky attitude jet.

Again he stood among the liverocks, washed in their auras, tingling with their inaudible, immutable music. He knew exactly what he had to do: hide the treasures so the rebel raiders would depart empty-handed, get word to the Imperial Space Force at Shin Edo on Mars, then hold the poachers off till reinforcements arrived. If they ever did. The Celestial Equity Rebellion had raged for more than four years and showed no signs of cooling down. The rebels’ demands for immediate exploitation of all resources had proved popular. They controlled two tin can cities at the L5 position, most of Africa and South America, and sizable chunks of the more developed continents. Their unceasing attempts to put more ships into space kept most of the ISF tied up in near Earth orbit. Beyond Mars, poachers outnumbered ISF ships six to one. Even Shin Edo, the sprawling HQ on Mars that directed all ISF forces in the outer system, ran eighty percent under strength.

“Watson-san!”

“Hai, Livingston-san?”

“I need a sled out here, quick!”

“Hai. [click] Dispatched.”

While he waited for the self-propelled sled to skitter over the lip of the crater, he crouched by the nearest liverock, the proud, gnarled one he called The Abbot. He grasped it. Yes maybe a hundred kilos, bitch of a mass to have to muscle around, but the low g would help, and the autosled tool kit boasted a crowbar. He could move it. Afterward he could apologize for upsetting its dignity.

Rocking back on his heels, he scanned The Abbot’s eleven companions. The largest of them, The Crown Prince, massed maybe half what The Abbot did, though it stood straighter and taller. The Lawyer, twenty kilos—twenty five, tops. The sled would haul up to six hundred kilos; he could probably transport all of them in one trip.

And unlike the days of Project Grizzly, he would get no argument from those he labored to save. No praise, either, but who expected that? In the seven years since a Sony Steel Corporation exploration team had discovered and named the liverocks, Terran scientists had established a mere four facts about the aliens. They broadcast steady sine waves in the high megahertz, they wrapped themselves in wondrous auras, they added perhaps a centigram a year to their mass—and stopped doing all three when shattered. He wondered if they would even notice being moved.

“Watson-san!”

“Hai, Livingston-san?”

“What’s going on up there?”

“Syntax error, Livingston-san.”

He shook his head in frustration. A civilian volunteer with multiple degrees in biology, forestry, and wildlife management, he knew nothing about the battle computer’s operating system. “Look Wat—”

Dust plumed a meter from his left foot. Reacting immediately, he dove, heedless of risk, behind the nearest boulder. So maybe he tore the outer layer of his suit. He could patch that. But a bullet hole in the head, now, that was somewhat harder to patch out here in the vacuum of the Belt.

The boulder loomed over him, bleakly obsidian. Hunkering down under sniper fire was second nature to him. He had emerged intact from a dozen firelights at Yellowstone. He wished he were back there—the International Park Service had given him an automatic rifle, not merely a signal pistol.

“Watson-san!”

“Hai, Livingston-san?”

“There’s a poacher here shooting at me!”

“Ah so, desu.… Recorded.”

“Recorded?!” The bellow rang in his ears. “For God’s sake, Watson-san, would you give me some help?”

“Hai! Running Program Heads-Up.”

Across the inner face of his transparent helmet sprawled the crater as seen from above. He groaned. A lot of good it would do him to get a bird’s-eye view of his attacker advancing across the battlefield. But then a second bullet kicked dust centimeters from his hand. At least the map would help him find something solid to put between himself and that rifle. He squinted at the twelve tiny bubbles of green light, mentally rotating them until he picked out his own figure, a broad-shouldered hump of aluminum behind a coal-black outcropping. That glint of metal just above the crater rim would mark the rebel.

Pyrite-flecked splinters flew.

“No!” screamed Livingston. “No!”

The Abbot’s aura dissolved. Slaughtered, the liverock collapsed into a pile of rubble. The Crown Prince’s aural fringes brushed the mound of gray gravel and flashed brilliantly where they touched the exposed crystalline core.

Livingston peeked around the edge of his shelter. In theory, a liverock The Abbot’s size would have a core.… he gasped. Not softball size, oh no. Junk another theory. More like a bowling ball. And dammit, the poacher had spotted it, too.

What the hell kind of people would finance a revolution by eradicating an alien species? Not even the grizzly killers at Yellowstone had tried to cloak greed in metaphysical pap about claiming a fair share of heaven’s largess. They had been blunt: “I can get half a mill for the skin, jack. A full mill if I c’n make ’em believe it’s the last.”

Celestial Equity, though—“God has given us the tools to help ourselves, and if we do not use whatever tools we need, God will hold us accountable.” He could not understand their shortsightedness, their disregard for their descendants.

Another bullet sparked off the patch of bare stone before him. He found himself waiting for the whine of the ricochet and cursed his own foolishness. He drew his flare pistol. At that range, it would do the other no harm, but maybe it would dazzle him. Or her. Impossible to tell, given the bulkiness of spacesuits.

He crouched aimed at a slight upward angle, and squeezed the trigger just as the poacher reached the crater floor. A second later, the one in the silvery suit slapped at the fire on his chest and lifted backward off the ground as he took the flare’s velocity for his own.

Livingston chuckled, inordinately pleased with his luck. Three meters high, nearing the peak of his arc, the burning rebel leveled his weapon and let loose a wild burst. Now Livingston laughed aloud. In his panic, the other had clearly forgotten about recoil. The downspray of bullets boosted him like a rocket. He—or maybe she—was tumbling heels over head backward, away from the crater.

“Watson-san!”

“Hai, Livingston-san?”

“Do your screens detect that poacher?”

“Hai.”

“Can we capture him?”

“[Click] Remote Servo Number Seventeen reports total destruction of fighter ship. Capture [click] is not viable option [click].”

“Damn.” He had spent cumulative months studying calligraphy with the deft Tomimuri, why had he not asked for instruction on the care and use of Watson-san? Surely the damn machine could do something. Crouching by the debris that had been The Abbot, he gently brushed chips of rock away from the crystalline core. Flawless, a single massive jewel, it shimmered in the shadows.

If the poachers could carry it to Celestial Equity territory, the rebel government would purchase it with CE dollars, then sell it surreptitiously for good, hard Imperial currency They would have no problem finding buyers. As generations of museum thieves had established, a market for irreplaceable works of art always exists.

More of the core came into view, refracting more and more of the surviving liverocks’ auras. Colors roiled in its depths and pulsed in near-tangible waves from its facets. The very soul of the now dead rock, it made him understand why people would kill—and die—to own it. And it made him more determined than ever that no one would. On that, at least, he was in complete accord with the Empire. Only barbarians rape beauty for quick reward.

It occurred to him that if he came through the attack alive, an autopsy of the core would offer an invaluable look at the alien’s nervous system. Assuming he could devise a means of autopsying crystal.

He clapped his gloved hands as an idea struck. “Watson-san!”

“Hai, Livingston-san?”

“Please list our viable options for dealing with the poacher.”

“[Click] Program Arrow…[click]”

He had no idea what Program Arrow entailed. He could ask of course. He shrugged. Anyone who would murder a living alien to sell its soul to bankroll an uprising deserved whatever he—or she—got. “Then do it.”

“Syntax error, Livingston-san.”

“Oh, shit.” He stared off at the distant stars. There had to be a thousand ways to tell a computer to run a program. If he had to try each way in turn.… He sighed. He had no other choice. “Okay, how about this. Run Program Arrow.”

“Password of the day?”

“Ryoan-ji.”

“Running [click].”

Harsh light flashed beyond the crater rim as a surface-to-air missile hit the poacher.

He did not need to ask Watson about the glare. The holo of the SAM destroying the President’s ’copter had made it famous. Queasiness wriggled in his gut. He had sworn himself to life not death. And yet the rebel had helped nuke Tomimuri and Habishi. Those who live by the blast.…

Watson said, “Program Arrow executed. Run terminated.”

He made a face. “Interesting choice of words, Watson-san.”

“Syntax error, Livingston-san.”

“I need some help, Watson-san.”

“[click] Detail nature of inquiry, and this program will attempt to provide appropriate command structure [click].”

“Are there other poachers?”

“You must request status report on unauthorized personnel, specifying either radius of volume of space to be investigated or physical object demarcating space to be investigated from space to be ignored.”

“Okay, do it.”

“Syntax error Livingston-san.”

“Dammit!” He kicked a pebble in frustration. As he began to somersault backward, the pebble soared up over the crater rim. It twinkled in the feeble sunlight, then disappeared. “Status report, unauthorized personnel, um, maximum range?”

“At three point seven five times ten to three meters, on twenty-three minute equatorial orbit, one AMC-Renault reconnaissance vehicle model RC-808X, fully equipped, of Imperial Space Force registration, five humans aboard.”

He blinked. “An Imper—”

“At five point seven times ten to six meters, on eighteen hour intercept trajectory with Shin Matsumoto Base, one Honda-Moi interplanetary vehicle, model Belt Breaker, fully equipped, of uncertain registration, three humans aboard.”

Confused, Livingston sat on a smooth black boulder and peered into the ebony sky. Somewhere up there an ISF recon ship orbited the asteroid. The Imperial Forces had claimed they had no troops to spare but Tomimuri and Habishi. Why then had the ship come? Why did the computer consider it unauthorized?

“Watson-san?”

“Hai, Livingston-san?”

“I need some more help.”

“[Click] Detail nature of inquiry, and this program will attempt to provide appropriate command structure [click].”

“I want to know what that ISF ship is doing up there, for one thing.”

“You must request backtrace and extrapolative report, specifying vessel in question by either name or location and establishing commencement and termination dates.”

“Okay, Watson-san, give me a backtrace and an extrapolative report on the ISF ship now in, um—” what’d it say? “—twenty-three-minute equatorial orbit around this asteroid commencing, um, when it left its last port of call and terminating in twenty-four hours.”

“[Click] Ankai Maru departed Shin Edo eighteen November 2021 on three-year reconnaissance mission of asteroid belt, with primary focus on distribution and density of Celestial Equity liverock prospectors, and secondary focus on identifying and locating ninety percent probable liverock gardens. Twenty-two February 2023 Ankai Maru encountered flotilla of seven fully equipped Belt Breakers, brief engagement broached hull integrity of Ankai Maru [click]. Three of seven crew members died in battle. Four survivors placed in medi-freeze by boarding party and remain in medi-freeze as hostages against Imperial Space Force missiles.”

Livingston shuddered. Medi-freeze suspended metabolic activity successfully for periods up to two years but that poor crew had slept in ice for going on seven years already. “Watson-san!”

“Hai, Livingston-san!”

“What are the survivors chances of emerging undamaged from medi-freeze?”

Average probability of permanent skin damage, 0.857; probability of permanent organ damage excluding brain and spinal cord, 0.739; probability of permanent bone damage, 0.644; probability of permanent brain and/or central nervous system damage, 0.579. Average probability of emerging undamaged is 0.006.”

He would be doing them a favor if he ordered Watson-san to run Program Arrow on their ship. If they were anything like Tomimuri and Habishi…

Once, late of an evening, as Tomimuri’s magic brush inscribed Habishi’s latest haiku on a bolt of pure white silk, unleashing the thought in space as well as in time, they spoke of the inevitable. Tomimuri had said, “The way of the warrior leads always to death. All the sweeter, then, the life en route. What I fear is not the road’s end but its shoulder—to know the way without being able to walk it is more frightening than any other thought I can imagine.”

Habishi had frowned into his tea, then pursed his lips and said, “Yes, that is the way of the way.”

Looking up again, Livingston quartered the sky with his gaze. They orbited less than four kilometers high. He should be able to spot them, unless they were on the other side of the asteroid.

“Livingston-san?”

“Yes, Watson-san?”

“You interrupted this program’s report on Ankai Maru. Should this program continue or terminate?”

He waved a weary hand in the direction of Shin Matsumoto Base. “Let me just ask a few questions: First of all, I thought you were supposed to warn us if anything came within a thousand kilometers of the base.”

“Ah so, but Ankai Maru pulsed proper ISF IDs and informed this program she carried high-ranking ISF officials desirous of conducting surprise inspection of Shin Matsumoto Base. Such information caused Override Subroutine to prevent initiation of Incoming Warning Program.”

“Uh-huh.” He nodded glumly to himself. “Was it the Ankai Maru that bombed the hangar?”

“Hai.”

“Does she have more bombs?”

“Hai.”

The hijacked ISF ship carried four of her original crew. Bombs enough to blast Livingston-san and Watson-san outside Jupiter’s orbit. And someone willing to use those bombs. Someone willing to kill the eleven surviving liverocks for the cash their gem-souls would bring.

“Watson-san!”

“Hai, Livingston-san?”

“Run Program Arrow on the Ankai Maru.”

“[click] Apologies, Livingston-san, but authority insufficient.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Only commissioned ISF officer at staff level or above or individual appropriately authorized by CinCBelt can order this program to jeopardize ISF lives.”

“You…you refuse to shoot down the Ankai Maru?”

“This program is unable to run Program Arrow except on command of sufficiently authorized individual.”

Yes, yes, he could see that, though he wished he did not have to. Watson had not dug in its metaphorical heels. Watson was paralyzed. Somewhere in its program, a statement or two, aware of Livingston’s lack of rank, had evaluated a conditional inequality and then disabled the launch routine for the surface-to-air missiles. For the first time since leaving the University of Oregon, Livingston wished he had devoted less of his life to saving the helpless victims of technology and more of it to mastering the technology itself. Fluency in computer programming would sure come in handy.

Back to the original plan, then. Load the liverocks aboard the sled—whenever it showed up, which it ought to any minute now—hide them, get some sort of weapon from the base, and hold off the poachers until reinforcements arrived.

“Oh, no.” He sank to his knees, oblivious to the hard, cold stone beneath them. “Watson-san!”

“Hai, Livingston-san?”

“Have you notified Mars HQ—uh, Shin Edo Command—yet?”

“No, Watson-san, order to broadcast has not been issued.”

“Well, do it, dammit!”

“Syntax error, Livingston-san!”

He clenched his teeth. “Watson-san! Notify ISF Headquarters at Shin Edo on Mars that two shiploads of poachers have attacked, killing Habishi-san and Tomimuri-san, as well as destroying the fighter. Request assistance ASAP.”

“Syntax error, Livingston-san.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ! Watson-san, you know what I want to do, would you please just help me out here?”

“[click click] You must request Program Midnight Scream, details provided from this program’s memory banks.”

He sighed. “Watson-san! Run Program Midnight Scream, provide details from your memory banks.”

“Password of the day?”

“Ryoan-ji.”

“Running.”

“And where’s that damn sled?”

“[click] Commencing climb of outer crater wall. ETA your position six minutes thirty seconds, plus or minus forty-five seconds.”

“All right. Thank you.” He settled into the shadow of a boulder to minimize the chance that his suit would reflect light.

Six minutes. Long enough to grab a snack. He pressed the controls, and a tube slipped into his mouth.

God, what he would give for a steak and a beer. He hated suitfood. Seaweed mush washed down with brackish water sucked from an opaque tube. Although maybe he should be grateful for the tube’s opacity. The water was probably brown.

Grumbling to himself, he looked around. And mellowed. Eleven auras shone bright and complex and alluring. He shook his head. Mozarts or mockingbirds, it didn’t matter. For the chance to study liverocks, for the chance to someday comprehend their songs, he would live in the damn suit if need be. And die in it, to protect them.

A flicker of motion caught his eye. About time the sled arrived. He began to rise and squatted down again immediately.

The Ankai Maru came in fast and level. It spat a rocket that leapt ahead of the ship to dive into the outside wall of the crater. The stone beneath Livingston quivered. He blinked, and the recon ship vanished behind his back. His earphones crackled.

“Livingston-san!”

“Yes, Watson san?”

“Sled destroyed. Should this program dispatch replacement?”

“You might as well, Watson-san, although I don’t—”

He never saw the ship itself. The rocket, though, ah, that he saw. It lanced toward the center of the crater as adrenaline slowed his time sense to a crawl. Long and lean, the missile wore a painted shark grin and stenciled lettering that read FRAGMENTATION. The warhead, striking, would splatter shrapnel throughout the crater. He twisted all the way around. I’m supposed to get a gun and defend my rocks!

Hot bits of jagged metal would scythe down the liverocks, killing them, baring their crystalline souls to the stars.

He dove over the top of the boulder in search of shelter. I’m supposed to fight off the poachers, not—

Light flashed behind him. Upside down, head and torso behind the boulder, he waited to touch the ground. He would have a few minutes before the Ankai Maru landed, minutes he could use to—

Fire scorched his right ankle, then faded to frost. He gasped as his suit lost pressure. A metal ring built into the leg of his suit contracted on his calf and tightened instantly.

The spurt of arterial blood froze in midair and drifted slowly, oh so slowly, to the ground. He blacked out before his helmet rang on rock—but not before knowing he had failed. Again.

* * * *

The voice murmured in his ears like muted surf. “Livingston-san.”

“Ye…e…ss.…”

“Wake up now, Livingston-san.”

“Wat…son?”

“Hai.”

He blinked his eyes open. He lay on his back in his own bunk at Shin Matsumoto Base. There was something strange about that, but he could not put his finger on it. He sat up slowly. Yes, he had to be at Shin Matsumoto Base. He had left Yellowstone two years ago, rode the shuttle to Shin Edo via L5, linked up with Tomimuri, gazed appreciatively at pictures of the smiling marine’s nieces, and—

“Unh.” He sank back. Now he remembered.…

Then he frowned. His bare right foot and ankle looked fine. He wiggled his toes thoughtfully. He could have sworn…a dream? No. Not with those two hollows in his heart. The samurai of Shin Matsumoto Base were dead. As the alien singers had to be.

“Watson-san?” He forced himself to rise and reach for his clothes.

“Hai, Livingston-san?”

“You did a good job on my right foot.”

“Medi-freeze and autodoc programs ran at one hundred percent efficiency, Livingston-san.”

He stopped. “You froze me?”

“Apologies for insufficient consultation, Livingston-san, but circumstances seemed to require hasty initiation of Program Last Survivor. Your condition indicated need for regeneration, medi-freeze essential for successful completion. Is there pain?”

“No.” He lifted his left foot off the floor, bounced lightly on the toes of his right foot, and shook his head in wonderment. “None at all. How long was I out for?”

“Eighteen months, Livingston san.”

It took a while to digest that. Wh—why so long?”

“Rebels attempted to occupy Shin Matsumoto Base. This program permitted them to enter, to remove suits and to gather in dining room. Then this program executed explosive decompression of dining room. Tactics achieved main objective but exhausted air supply. To manufacture replacement air and to bring base up to standard pressure required more time than did foot regeneration. This program computed that Livingston-san would rather remain in suspension than live in suit for sixteen months. This program requests verification or denial of its calculation.”

He stood for a moment in silence. “Verified,” he said softly. “Did you get them all?”

“Hai.”

And just where did you learn that ‘explosive decompression’ trick?”

“Program Last Survivor installed subsequent to Celestial Equity capture and subordination of Ankai Maru.”

Startled, he straightened up. “Their ships! Are they still here?”

“Apologies Livingston-san. Acting under orders from Shin Edo, this program placed remote servos on board each with instructions to pilot ships to Mars.”

“What?” He slapped an open palm against the bulkhead. “You sent them back without me? You left me marooned here?”

“Hai. Shin Edo requested that you fulfill terms of your contract with Imperial Space Forces. Said contract does not expire for eighteen more months.”

“But…but—” Helpless with astonished rage, he stormed through the base to the lock, found his suit—scuffed and dulled except for one shiny new boot—and swept out onto the surface.

He could not believe it. The poachers had killed his guards, destroyed their ship, and murdered the liverocks—but the ISF wanted him to stay on.

Punishment. He had failed, and this was his punishment. It hardly mattered that he had never signed on as a soldier. The military mind, in all its low cunning, had decided that since he had not stopped the rebels—never mind that the military’s own regulations had prevented him from doing so—he should have plenty of time to ponder his failure. Like eighteen months. Stranded on a chunk of rock spinning so far out from the sun that a candle would cast a sharper shadow.

He would go nuts.

He found himself striding up the crater wall and almost turned back. He wanted never to see the damn rock garden again. But he marched on anyway. He had returned to Yellowstone; he might as well view the site of this disaster. It would give him brood food for the next year and a half. And maybe he could find his lost foot. What a souvenir that would make, huh? Maybe if he brought it back, nailed it to the wall, and made ritual obeisance to it, Watson would report that he had gone irrevocably insane, and Shin Edo would send a ship to retrieve him. Ah, there was a thought.

He had gone over the top and halfway down the interior wall when he slammed to a halt.

A thousand tongues of green flame lapped the crater floor. A thousand miniature auras lit up the shadows. A thousand voices trilled sine songs in the megahertz.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” His knees buckled, his legs gave way. Slowly, oh so slowly, he dropped to a sitting position.

The liverocks lived! But how? And so many—

The shards. They held the life force. He had always thought the cores lived, building stony shells of protection around themselves. Clearly he had mistaken the pearl for the oyster. Never had he felt so good about a mistake before.

“Livingston-san!”

“Yes, Watson-san?”

“Now you have seen and perhaps understood.”

“Perhaps.” With genuine affection, he said, “Thank you, Watson-san.”

“Ah…you are welcome, Livingston-san. Shin Edo advises Livingston-san that CinCBelt has conferred upon him unlimited authority to initiate Program Arrow.”

“Better late than never,” he said dryly.

“And this program reports detecting, at nine point two times ten to eight meters, on intercept trajectory with Shin Matsumoto Base, one Honda-Moi interplanetary vehicle. Distance too great to ascertain ETA, model, equipment, or crew size.”

He pushed himself to his feet and looked outward, though it was far too early to see anything. “Celestial Equity poachers?”

“So this program assumes, Livingston-san.”

With one last, fond gaze at the nursery below him, he turned and made his way back up the slope. “This time we’ll be ready for them, won’t we, Watson-san?”

“Hai, Livingston-san. Hai!”

THE GENOA PASSAGE, by George Zebrowski

I told myself that they would have to be fakes. At worst, it would be a good hike; forewarned, I would not be fooled.

“I will take you to the places,” he said, “and you will pay me later, or not at all.”

He gave me a rifle and said that two other people would come with us.

Earlier, he had recited a pretty good tour guide spiel, how from 1945 to 1950 a route through the mountains from Germany down to the port of Genoa here in Italy had been used by Nazi war criminals, with papers forged for them by anti-Bolshevik Fascist Catholic Italian priests who feared the Soviet Union’s post-war takeover of Eastern Europe and in time the rest of the world, and imagined that the surviving Reichmasters would escape and form a necessary resurgent German power against Stalin—or there would be no one to stand against him, given the left’s blindness to the betrayal of their socialist ideals, which had never been any good anyway because they denied free market capitalism’s morality play of winners and losers, of rewards and punishments here and now and not in the life beyond.

This much was true, and I understood it very well, but the guide told it with a touch of irony and disdain that piqued my curiosity while making it difficult to judge what he thought about it. The escapees’ enablers, Roman Catholic Franciscan priests, was fact in the public record, never contradicted or much discussed, for various reasons, by the Allied nations that had won the war against Hitler. Very old news.

“So you’ll just show me their route?” I asked.

“No, no,” he said, “much more than that,” his face stuck between a smile and a scowl.

“More than what?” I asked, puzzled.

“They’re still there,” he said softly, rubbing his dark eyebrows, “—along the passage.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, amused.

“The pass,” he said, “…splits things up. Not reliably, but often enough to be of interest…to some people.”

“You mean to me?” I asked. “Why?”

“They killed your family, did they not?” he asked, suddenly gazing at me with undeniable conviction. “As you told me—no?”

We had talked at breakfast in the resort hotel, where I had stopped for some lazy time in my walking tour, and he had taken me for a likely mark.

“Well, yes, but long ago, as I told you, in the ’30s and ’40s of the last century. My grandparents, actually.” I had no idea why I had told him anything; too much free time sometimes made me babble.

“Yes, but the…killers are still there, in the pass,” he said, open faced, like a child.

“Still there?” I asked. “This is 2016. Who are you talking about?”

“As many of them that went through that way are still there. Eichmann and Borman, and many others, to be met as often as we want to go hunting.”

“Hunting?” I asked, annoyed by his provocation; he knew how to do it.

He said, “But if you like, you can only watch them be killed.”

“Watch, killed?” I asked. He was insane.

“The others will shoot if you do not wish to do so.”

“Others?” Even worse.

“The living who still want it.”

“Want what?” I asked.

“To hunt those who fled. Thousands escaped. Only thirty thousand of some one hundred fifty thousand war criminals were ever caught or tried. Too much trouble to catch and try.”

“Yes,” I said, aware of that much, “it was a thankless task.” Satisfying to catch, I told myself, only in the most private of circumstances of delusional revenge. No one knew how many of these personal executions took place, or how many were mistakes, but I didn’t want to discuss it with him. I’d had enough of it with my survivor parents when they were alive, who had never been able to forget the tragedies of their lost parents, the grandparents I had never had a chance to know; worse when I found out that my biological parents and two brothers had been killed, and that the parents I knew had adopted me without papers and had decided never to tell me.

But it got out, through an uncle who was not an uncle and who told me before he died; dust in his lungs from working in a metalworking mill stopped his heart one day; only a month earlier he had told me in a drunken stupor. Both my adoptive parents were dead by then, and he increased their number by telling me about my lost originals.

I went on a walking tour of a warming Europe in 2016, living on money market earnings which ran up to twenty percent in that decade. Maybe I thought I could walk off the past’s irritants, drain them from my brain through my feet. I saw the metal dust in my uncle’s lungs, slowly working its way to kill him as he lamented the loss of his wife and son in the Hitlerian war, and the uselessness of his unverifiable economics doctorate in America.

A shadow had fallen across my insides with that strange uncle’s death, and I had no idea of how to rid myself of its pall, except that I knew that it would lure me back to the locale of my birth, from which I had been exported to New York City, naturalized into citizenship so I could claim my college scholarship, Americanized into ideals that were already bleeding to death by the time the constitution had been adopted in 1789. Slavery and the Indian genocide built a country still in denial, chained to its past, still ill with immigrant enemies, as stained with human blood as anywhere else on earth.

It was my shadowy inner landscape that had attracted the tour guide, a curious, thoughtful man, I told myself, who read my melancholy expression and body language, and knew a sucker when he saw one.

His story was a lie on the face of it, but matched to my mood and personal history by an observant con man. What could I lose by going along for the show, which I would not even have to pay for up front, if ever?

It was a smooth ride north, in an expensive air-conditioned and well-shocked black Rolls-Royce. I sat in the stressed suspension with a quiet old man and woman. The guide was up front with the driver. Business must have been good for the guide to have a vintage vehicle.

We did not speak, as if on our way to a funeral or an execution, which in a sense was true. My companions in the facing seats were well past their sixties, maybe much older, but fit and booted for hiking out of a past that was not yet past. Their gray, well preserved faces held more than could ever be said. Their staring silence knew my youth.

Outside the windows the beautiful landscape was ever more hilly as we neared the mountains. Gnarly trees, mossy rocks, goat trails, and streams, a stone house here and there all clung to a steepening that might roll up and over the blue sky, past the zenith and down the other side, as if the world was the inner surface of a hollow sphere.

An amnesiac concentration locked me into a scanning, predatory patience, as if waiting to be confirmed in lost truths.

The guide had told me of his long walks in this landscape, where he had stumbled upon the historied infinity of branching pasts, and I had told myself that only a lunatic would believe in the discovery that had given him the way in which he now earned his living.

Still, however vengeful the suckers, he would have to deliver something to get paid. But what could he ever deliver? Once he was paid, I imagined that he might kill us in some seclusion of mossy rocks, but reminded myself that he had not asked to be paid in advance or out here.

We reached what seemed an arbitrary destination and got out. The driver stayed with the car. The guide led the way.

The old man and woman walked ahead of me on the narrow hot dusty trail, with high-powered rifles over their shoulders. I had refused the weapon offered to me, but I felt it pulling at me from inside the car.

Our guide stopped and pointed, then came back to my side.

I peered ahead, but could not see the figures coming toward us. The couple unshouldered their rifles. The guide handed me his binoculars.

I put them to my eyes and fixed on the figure of a man. He shimmered as if through a mass of heated air, and for several moments held still between one instant and the next, in the way that an analog clock’s second hand seems to hesitate when you stare at it too long, as if it will never find the next moment.

A guide moved ahead of a man I recognized from the album of mugshots which my guide kept for his customers. All the faces had a look about them that was unmistakable to an informed viewer.

“It’s him!” the old woman rasped, wheezing in the hot morning air, and for an instant I felt that she would die of heaving.

Then silently, they both raised their rifles and fired, and the figure’s head exploded into a watermelon red as the shots echoed and he fell backwards.

His guide turned to look back and stood transfixed, then fled back up the trail, and seemed to fade away.

The old couple sighed and stared, and trembled as if about to collapse, but held steady.

My guide’s face was without expression as he led us back, and I could not help feeling deprived; there had been no one here for me to kill today.

Back at the hotel, I tried to absorb the fact that I had watched Adolph Eichmann die, so many decades after his well documented execution in Israel.

At dinner with the guide I asked, “So how do you do it?”

He rubbed his unshaven face, sipped some wine, and said, “Not to be missed, eh?”

“Is it some kind of…therapy?” I asked foolishly. You could do as much with a story, play, or movie, but not in reality…

He acted as if he knew me better than I knew myself; but I could only imagine actors and marks. The guide’s business was built on vivid staging, I told myself, nothing more.

“How often do you do this?” I asked.

“As often as anyone wishes,” he said. “You’ll see tomorrow.”

“What do you mean?”

“Better you’ll see for yourself.”

“Will I have to pay to go again?”

“If you wish,” he said, “or not.” He seemed to have forgotten that I had not yet paid him anything.

We went again early next morning. The cooler air was transparent. The old couple was once again with us.

My own stirrings began to struggle, and I wondered whether there would somehow be someone for me today. The guide did not know, but sooner or later there would be, he had told me, even though I knew no names beyond the famous.

“I saw no one in the mugshots,” I had told him.

“Not to worry, they were all guilty.”

He gave me his binoculars and I saw Eichmann fall for a second time, bloodying the brown dust of the trail; this time the old couple shot the fleeing guide.

On the hike back the guide said softly, “Well, you see. The variants may be endless, but these old ones feel it may be a set number.”

“How often have they shot this one?” I asked.

“Six times, but they hope to get them all.”

“They might always be there,” he explained to me at the hotel, “to die in one variant and wait for death in endless others.”

They did die, it seemed, and I felt that by the logic of the assumptions we would not confront that individual again, only new variants, however many; a large number, or an infinity, bestowing the happiness of endless revenge on the deserving.

A useless task, except for a punctuated satisfaction, sufficient unto the moment, which I could not quite accept when I learned this much. Today, in 2016, I told myself, most of the hundred thousand or more who had never been caught were either dead or near death, as were the thirty thousand…

In my time, my history…

But not elsewhere, where they could still die, continuing to suffer without oblivion; except that they suffered only momentarily. Did they feel anything, somehow joined to all their dying others in their degrees of guilt, if they felt any, perhaps as a passing uneasiness of premonitions as they hiked through the pass to their exile, dying in some and escaping in others…

I thought of the hundred thousand or more who had escaped to live out their lives when I saw the old couple in the lobby the next morning, sitting with hands folded, with their lost ones alive in their brains, waiting to be avenged again…

Our guide was in the bar. I slid in next to him in the booth and asked, “Tell me, are the bullets fired into the past?”

“They would have to be,” he said, sipping his coffee out of a chipped porcelain cup decorated with a mountain scene. There was a chip in the matching saucer. “Into one kind of past,” he added.

“Can we walk into it, the past, I mean?”

“Never really went that far,” he said.

“But if you let them walk on toward you,” I said, “wouldn’t they walk into the present?”

“It never comes to that,” he said, “since shots are fired before it can happen.”

He sipped some more, touching the chipped part of the saucer.

“You know,” I said, “that you’ll run out of clients.”

“Nearly so now,” he said.

“How long have you been at this?”

“A long time.”

“And you know how it has to end?”

“Unless I find younger clients. Grandchildren. I’ve been researching some.”

“You checked on me?”

“No—you just walked in with…that look on your face.”

“But I don’t want to kill anyone,” I said.

“Keep looking,” he said, “so you don’t miss your chance. All this may disappear one day.”

“And you’ll be out of work,” I said.

He asked, “You do not wish to avenge yourself?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Even with that shadow on your face?”

“You have an interest in seeing it.”

He gave me a hurt look. “Do you not imagine it, do you not feel what you should do?”

“I’m too far from feeling the crimes,” I said, startled by the denial in my words.

“But the dark…it comes for you,” he said.

I asked, “What is it for you, only money?”

He hesitated, then said, “I saw how some of them wanted it, and it moved me when they came looking for leads about the escapees and those who helped them, even as late as twenty years ago. They’d pay anything, once they heard what I knew.”

He had told them what they wanted to hear and somehow staged the illusion, I insisted to myself as if waking from a nightmare.

“But how did you? It’s some kind of trick.”

“No, no, I found the places. I walked out there one day and passed some people, but when I stopped to look after them they were gone. Then I read an article about the Nazi escape routes and recognized faces. I can’t explain it all, except maybe by the way light splits…as in the stories I read about quantum experiments.”

“That’s it? Nothing more…personal?”

He looked away from me and finished his coffee, then put the cup down carefully on the saucer. It was either something personal with him or just business; he didn’t want to let on either way. “You’re still an observer today?” he asked.

“You want to start charging me?”

He smiled. “Sooner or later.” He seemed to know what I would think and what I would do.

There was no one in the pass that day. The old couple sat down on a rock wall and waited, faces impassive as if expecting the last judgment to sound. I looked at my guide and tried to think why I was still here, seesawing when I should have fled from what had to be, at every other moment, some kind of charade. How many people had he hypnotized and brought here? How many had simply lost interest? How often can you kill an enemy? A time would have to come when no one would know enough history to care.

The old couple did not look at me, but it was as if they could hear my thoughts, and were content with my presence. Their eyes had not met mine, not even once. How often had the couple come out here?

I stayed at the hotel and struggled to understand what I had seen—or what had been given for me to see. My guide went out with new clients, and left me to myself. I imagined that it was part of his plan, to set the hook as deeply as possible.

I tried to think, if I could call it thinking. My guide lived in the town as a bachelor, spending his earnings on the local women. He was who he seemed to be, a man with a job. But who was he?

I began to think it a mercy that the escapees from the defeat of Nazi Germany might be dying along their escape routes, repeatedly, endlessly, at the hands of witnessing victims, now so much older than their tormentors.

From the mugshots, I still did not recognize any of the fled thousands; any face in the rifle’s sights would do as well; they all had the same resigned look.

Did anything spill over from one variation to another, as a fear and expectation of death? What could it matter if the fugitives had no idea of what was happening to them?

Sudden death seemed too much mercy.

A bullet in the head was not enough; but even dismemberment by a black hole would not be enough.

Slow acting chest wounds spoke to me; but even dismemberment by a black hole would not be enough.

For Eichmann, better than the simple rope that was still waiting for him in Jerusalem—in his future, my past.

True, they escaped through the strangeness of the passage—but what made them visible to us? Did we somehow stir the quanta and pull ghosts out of ourselves?

Who was this guide? Who was I? A figment of someone’s deranged imagination?

A pile-up of the past had made me, and it was still there, crusted over, controlled by my denials.

One evening I thought of exposing the delusions within myself, by commanding myself to awaken.

I gave the order near sleep, with no result, but no result was itself a result.

I lay there, abandoned and contentedly godless, but suddenly grateful that the quantum realm beneath reality might offer provision for a true hell, in which the worst of us had found eternal punishment, by being killed, eaten, and digested without end by the eternal mill of existence, shaped into shapeless monstrosities…

But they did not know it. How could they? Did their killers know joy? Were they repeating their actions with the hope of killing all the criminals? How could they know when it was over? When the pass ran out of fugitives?

How could there be a conclusion?

One way to escape the pool of madness in which I was drowning, I told myself, was to expose the fakery, shadow my guide and discover the trick; it had to be a projection of some kind, with confederates falling down in the rifle sights.

Walk into Eichmann and his guide and dissolve them.

I followed my guide around for a few days, but found no evidence against what he claimed. He worked, partied, and womanized.

Finally, I decided to walk right into one of his masquerades—so I went out without him.

“Are you a Jew?” Eichmann asked me in the hot morning.

“It doesn’t matter,” I said, and stepped toward him on the path. “You killed many others.”

“Any of your family?” he asked, smiling. “If they hang me a million times, it wouldn’t satisfy…your kind.”

“They will hang you, you know,” I said.

“Possibly. I sometimes dream about it.”

I took a step closer, thinking that I had to be talking to myself, because he was saying exactly what was expected of him.

“They’ll catch you,” I said. “I know…that they did.”

In his future, long in my past, the Israeli team was at work, with a submarine waiting off the coast of Argentina; the trial and the 1962 hanging in Jerusalem repeated itself, in one variant, and in an infinity of others; he could die in Jerusalem, or here, as often as anyone who wished to kill him would want.

But doing the same thing over and over, I told myself, as if expecting a different result, was a good description of illness. Yet here, I knew, no one expected a different result, only repeated death, with always too little suffering…

To kill your enemy was a mercy only to the living.

I looked back along the way I had come, but he was gone.

I met my guide’s car on the way back. The old couple was with him, rifle on the old man’s back. They went past without speaking to me. The guide seemed to know that I would not want a ride back.

I walked on, thinking that the ground itself had been shamed by the first escapees, and had marked itself across the probabilities for all who would come, and see, and kill.

They fell yet they lived, as if promised by some satanic redeemer never to die.

At breakfast my guide said, “You have still not pulled a trigger on one of these…things.”

“I don’t know which one killed…my people. I was adopted by other survivors.”

“Does it matter?”

“Killing is killing,” I said, finishing my grapefruit.

“So you live by tautologies? These criminals are all still there, as many as we can find, forever making their passage to the sea and to South America, Canada, Mexico, and the United States, fleeing all human conscience.”

“I wish it was a finite number.”

He smiled. “If so there will come a day when they will all be dead.”

“A hundred thousand or more makes a lot of killing.”

“Nothing compared to theirs. Shoot any face you see. No difference.

“What good would it do me?”

“Try it.”

He seemed calm and convinced in his advice.

“And your fee from me?”

“No fee until you are satisfied.”

I could just go away.

“Who are you, really?” I asked, feeling resentful. “This may all be nonsense in a way I don’t understand.”

“I may tell you,” he said, “who I am.”

“But you won’t, of course. You learned all this by chance,” I said, “or you invented the whole show somehow, and found…customers. How you do it makes no sense.”

“I don’t understand it myself,” he said, “not being a physicist. But what happens is real, so it must make sense even if you and I never know how.”

I looked into his face and could not speak. Physicists spoke similarly about the utility of quantum theory. It works, predicts, don’t ask how, get over it.

I left that day, no charge.

He had told me that he had inherited the business from his father.

Some nights I dream that I am looking through field glasses, which suddenly become a rifle sight’s cross-hairs, and I see a mustached face, without which so many of us would not have been born. A traumatically shocked corporal from World War I had fathered a generation with his hatred…

I have revisited the passage in later years, long after the guide had apparently died; no one at the hotel remembered how, or even if he was dead. I walked the trail and thought of taking up his job, but the resonances of the effect were gone from that dusty trail.

Not enough customers in our variant.

But the monsters are still marching down from the mountains, beyond our sight, spied by my guide and his clients, forever dying in that knotted infinity, where I feel myself pulling the trigger.

We can kill them all, I told myself, in their various pasts, to at least deny them the lives they still seek to live out in our history and elsewhere; in a sense it’s all our history…

One hundred fifty thousand dead Nazis suddenly seemed too small compared to millions of native Americans, African slaves, Armenians, Jews and Palestinians, Poles, Gypsies, Rwandans, Iraqis, Afghans, Syrians. One hundred million dead in the twentieth century’s wars and genocides. More wealth spent on killing and preparations for killing than on any other activity. Not to mention the countless who are dying from an ever poisoning atmosphere of an increasingly violent geophysical catastrophe.

Guilty landscapes drift through our presents, and those of us who do not repudiate the past make new compacts with its crimes.

Are there any kinder presents?

I began to think of myself in the third person. The “I” was to feel with, the “he” for thought, both of us chance awarenesses, thrown off blindly from an indestructible thing-in-itself, willing itself forward. The thinking “he” hoped that the number of variants coming through the pass was in fact finite. The old couple had not lived to find out one way or the other, and could not have found out because endlessness cannot end; but in a finite series there would come a day when no new figures would appear on the trail, but any long time might just as well be endless…

You will have killed them all, if you can last long enough, “I” told myself.

And avenge how many worlds?

The world is full of rifle shops.

We were all dead once, “he” told me, so it cannot matter how many “I” kill as we devastate the planet and dream of infesting distant suns.

EIGHT O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING, by Ray Faraday Nelson

At the end of the show the hypnotist told his subjects, “Awake.”

Something unusual happened.

One of the subjects awoke all the way. This had never happened before. His name was George Nada, and he blinked out at the sea of faces in the theatre, at first unaware of anything out of the ordinary. Then he noticed, spotted here and there in the crowd, the non-human faces, the faces of the Fascinators. They had been there all along, of course, but only George was really awake, so only George recognized them for what they were. He understood everything in a flash, including the fact that if he were to give any outward sign, the Fascinators would instantly command him to return to his former state, and he would obey.

He left the theatre, pushing out into the neon night, carefully avoiding any indication that he saw the green, reptilian flesh or the multiple yellow eyes of the rulers of the earth. One of them asked him, “Got a light buddy?” George gave him a light, then moved on.

At intervals along the street George saw the posters hanging with photographs of the Fascinators’ multiple eyes and various commands printed under them, such as, “Work eight hours, play eight hours, sleep eight hours,” and “Marry and Reproduce.” A TV set in the window of a store caught George’s eye, but he looked away in the nick of time. When he didn’t look at the Fascinator in the screen, he could resist the command, “Stay tuned to this station.”

* * * *

George lived alone in a little sleeping room, and as soon as he got home, the first thing he did was to disconnect the TV set. In other rooms he could hear the TV sets of his neighbors, though. Most of the time the voices were human, but now and then he heard the arrogant, strangely bird-like croaks of the aliens. “Obey the government,” said one croak. “We are the government,” said another. “We are your friends, you’d do anything for a friend, wouldn’t you?”

“Obey!”

“Work!”

Suddenly the phone rang.

George picked it up. It was one of the Fascinators.

“Hello,” it squawked. “This is your control, Chief of Police Robinson. You are an old man, George Nada. Tomorrow morning at eight o’clock, your heart will stop. Please repeat.”

“I am an old man,” said George. “Tomorrow morning at eight o’clock, my heart will stop.”

The control hung up.

“No, it won’t,” whispered George. He wondered why they wanted him dead. Did they suspect that he was awake? Probably. Someone might have spotted him, noticed that he didn’t respond the way the others did. If George were alive at one minute after eight tomorrow morning, then they would be sure.

“No use waiting here for the end,” he thought.

He went out again. The posters, the TV, the occasional commands from passing aliens did not seem to have absolute power over him, though he still felt strongly tempted to obey, to see things the way his master wanted him to see them. He passed an alley and stopped. One of the aliens was alone there, leaning against the wall. George walked up to him.

“Move on,” grunted the thing, focusing his deadly eyes on George.

George felt his grasp on awareness waver. For a moment the reptilian head dissolved into the face of a lovable old drunk. Of course the drunk would be lovable. George picked up a brick and smashed it down on the old drunk’s head with all his strength. For a moment the image blurred, then the blue-green blood oozed out of the face and the lizrd fell, twitching and writhing. After a moment it was dead.

George dragged the body into the shadows and searched it. There was a tiny radio in its pocket and a curiously shaped knife and fork in another. The tiny radio said something in an incomprehensible language. George put it down beside the body, but kept the eating utensils.

“I can’t possibly escape,” thought George. “Why fight them?”

But maybe he could.

What if he could awaken others? That might be worth a try.

He walked twelve blocks to the apartment of his girl friend, Lil, and knocked on her door. She came to the door in her bathrobe.

“I want you to wake up,” he said

“I’m awake,” she said. “Come on in.”

He went in. The TV was playing. He turned it off.

“No,” he said. “I mean really wake up.” She looked at him without comprehension, so he snapped his fingers and shouted, “Wake up! The masters command that you wake up!”

“Are you off your rocker, George?” she asked suspiciously. “You sure are acting funny.” He slapped her face. “Cut that out!” she cried, “What the hell are you up to anyway?”

“Nothing,” said George, defeated. “I was just kidding around.”

“Slapping my face wasn’t just kidding around!” she cried.

There was a knock at the door.

George opened it.

It was one of the aliens.

“Can’t you keep the noise down to a dull roar?” it said.

The eyes and reptilian flesh faded a little and George saw the flickering image of a fat middle-aged man in shirtsleeves. It was still a man when George slashed its throat with the eating knife, but it was an alien before it hit the floor. He dragged it into the apartment and kicked the door shut. “What do you see there?” he asked Lil, pointing to the many-eyed snake thing on the floor.

“Mister…Mister Coney,” she whispered, her eyes wide with horror. “You…just killed him, like it was nothing at all.”

“Don’t scream,” warned George, advancing on her.

“I won’t George. I swear I won’t, only please, for the love of God, put down that knife.” She backed away until she had her shoulder blades pressed to the wall.

George saw that it was no use.

“I’m going to tie you up,” said George. “First tell me which room Mister Coney lived in.”

“The first door on your left as you go toward the stairs,” she said. “Georgie…Georgie. Don’t torture me. If you’re going to kill me, do it clean. Please, Georgie, please.”

He tied her up with bedsheets and gagged her, then searched the body of the Fascinator. There was another one of the little radios that talked a foreign language, another set of eating utensils, and nothing else.

George went next door.

When he knocked, one of the snake-things answered, “Who is it?”

“Friend of Mister Coney. I wanna see him,” said George.

“He went out for a second, but he’ll be right back.” The door opened a crack, and four yellow eyes peeped out. “You wanna come in and wait?”

“Okay,” said George, not looking at the eyes.

“You alone here?” he asked as it closed the door, its back to George.

“Yeah, why?”

He slit its throat from behind, then searched the apartment.

He found human bones and skulls, a half-eaten hand.

He found tanks with huge fat slugs floating in them.

“The children,” he thought, and killed them all.

There were guns too, of a sort he had never seen before. He discharged one by accident, but fortunately it was noiseless. It seemed to fire little poisoned darts.

He pocketed the gun and as many boxes of darts as he could and went back to Lil’s place. When she saw him she writhed in helpless terror.

“Relax, honey” he said, opening her purse, “I just want to borrow your car keys.”

He took the keys and went downstairs to the street.

Her car was still parked in the same general area in which she always parked it. He recognized it by the dent in the right fender. He got in, started it, and began driving aimlessly. He drove for hours, thinking—desperately searching for some way out. He turned on the car radio to see if he could get some music, but there was nothing but news and it was all about him, George Nada, the homicidal maniac. The announcer was one of the masters, but he sounded a little scared. Why should he be? What could one man do?

George wasn’t surprised when he saw the road block, and he turned off on a side street before he reached it. No little trip to the country for you, Georgie boy, he thought to himself.

They had just discvered what he had done back at Lil’s place, so they would probably be looking for Lil’s car. He parked it in an alley and took the subway. There were no aliens on the subway, for some reason. Maybe they were too good for such things, or maybe it was just because it was so late at night.

When one finally did get on, George got off.

He went up to the street and went into a bar. One of the Fascinators was on the TV, saying over and over again, “We are your friends. We are your friends. We are your friends.” The stupid lizard sounded scared. Why? What could one man do against all of them?

George ordered a beer, then it suddenly struck him that the Fascinator on the TV no longer seemed to have any power over him. He looked at it again and thought, “It has to believe it can master me to do it. The slightest hint of fear on its part and the power to hypnotize is lost.” They flashed George’s picture on the TV screen and George retreated to the phone booth. He called his control, the Chief of Police.

“Hello, Robinson?” he asked.

“Speaking.”

“This is George Nada. I’ve figured out how to wake people up.”

“What? George, hang on. Where are you?” Robinson sounded almost hysterical.

He hung up and paid and left the bar. They would probably trace his call.

He caught another subway and went downtown.

It was dawn when he entered the building housing the biggest of the city’s TV studios. He consulted the building director and then went up in the elevator. The cop in front of the studio recognized him. “Why, you’re Nada!” he gasped.

George didn’t like to shoot him with the poison dart gun, but he had to.

He had to kill several more before he got into the studio itself, including all the engineers on duty. There were a lot of police sirens outside, excited shouts, and running footsteps on the stairs. The alien was sitting before the the TV camera saying, “We are your friends. We are your friends,” and didn’t see George come in. When George shot him with the needle gun he simply stopped in mid-sentence and sat there, dead. George stood near him and said, imitating the alien croak, “Wake up. Wake up. See us as we are and kill us!”

It was George’s voice the city heard that morning, but it was the Fascinator’s image, and the city did awake for the very first time and the war began.

George did not live to see the victory that finally came. He died of a heart attack at exactly eight o’clock.

WHEN THEY COME FROM SPACE, by Mark Clifton

DEDICATION

To those Science Fiction Editors who have been so encouraging, helpful…and patient…

Anthony Boucher

John W. Campbell

H. L. Gold

Judith Merril

Robert P. Mills

Timothy Seldes

PROLOGUE

Deep within the spiraling galaxy, seen edge-on from earth as the milky way, the thought channels summoned the regular members of the Interstellar Galaxy Council into communion.

“Our detection traps have been sprung.”

“Another life form is stirring within the egg of its solar system.”

“It has already spread from its mother planet cell to other cells within the egg.”

“It may soon crack the shell, break through the insulating distance, spread out among the stars.”

“Encountering our own cultures.”

“Let us not be premature. It may prove stillborn. Never discover how to leave its egg, and destroy itself by its own growth within.”

“But again, it may break through at any time. It need only discover the principle of the interstellar drive. So many have.”

“Or, as among some of us, transcend mechanics entirely and learn how to transport or transmute the material, or the illusion of the material, by wish alone.”

“To appear among us instantaneously.”

“Unprepared for community responsibility.”

“We do not know if this new life form is virulent or benign.”

“Probably just adolescent.”

“Virulent, then.”

“Some study in how to protect ourselves from it is indicated. Are we agreed?”

“Yes. Summon the Five.”

“I suppose it is the usual survey job?”

“Council seems to think so.”

“Best follow regular procedure; go right into the egg; remain undetected until we know the problem. Then appear, or not appear to them, as needed.”

“Assuming their adolescence. That means they’ll be more concerned with asserting than with learning. We’ll need to gain their confidence if we appear.”

“Not always easy to gain the confidence of an adolescent. His standards are not necessarily logical.”

“But always naive. Rescue him from peril and you are his friend. Ridiculous, but it does work.”

“The trick is to find out what he considers peril.”

“Threat to his survival, usually.”

“But the semantics of the threat varies.”

“His art forms usually reveal the semantics of his mores. If they’ve sprung the detection traps they undoubtedly have electronically distributed art forms.”

“Reshape our outer forms into the approved symbols revealed by his art forms, faithfully follow the pattern.”

“Yes, that usually works.”

“Wait awhile. I’ve been vectoring this new disturbance. I seem to recall from the archives of some culture somewhere that there were some recent visitations to that area.”

“How could there be? It’s strictly violation of Galaxy Council’s rules to make unauthorized visits, and we Five are always sent in first to make the initial survey.”

“That brings it to mind. It was Vega. The fourth planet of Vega. The one who broke through the barrier before Council estimated they were ready. On their own they did some exploration of that section. The Vegans were still pretty primitive in some aspects.”

“Still are.”

“Well, they do admittedly still have a malicious streak in their character. Anyhow, they appeared before this lower life form as super-beings, and got quite a kick out of impressing them with magic tricks. Childish behavior, of course, and Council soon put a stop to it.”

“But damage could have been done. If it is the same place, we could find a really messed-up semantic development.”

“Might not be the same one. Hardly see how a life form could have progressed to the science of atomics if it were all messed up with belief in super-being magic—the unlogic of unreality behavior.”

“Hope it wasn’t the same culture. Such a messy problem.”

“We’ll have to study their art-form communication patterns carefully before we reveal ourselves. The meddling Vegans could have complicated the problem. The silly stage. ‘Look what a big deal I am. Aren’t you properly impressed!’”

“Probably wasn’t this culture at all. They’ve got nuclear fission and fusion. They’ve got interplanetary travel. We know they’ve got that, and they couldn’t have if they hadn’t at least some accurate estimations of reality.”

“So they must be rational, after all.”

The silken sough of sighing whirled infinity.

“Yes, of course. You’re right. They’re already rational!”

ONE

The scene in my waiting room was usual that June morning when I came, a little late, into my office. It was just after graduation and the benches and chairs were filled with young cybernetics engineers, primed by their college instructors to tell us what was wrong with our Company and how it ought to be operated—for a fabulous salary, of course. In the meantime they were waiting for someone to help them solve the hopeless puzzle of our application form—revised and simplified version—or to tell them how to spell “Yes” and “No.”

My pretty receptionist sat behind her desk at the far end of the room, where she could guard the bank of glassed interviewing rooms to her right and the hall leading to my office to the left. She looked up alertly as I walked on down the room toward her.

“There’s an important letter on your desk, Mr. Kennedy,” she called out in a voice louder than necessary as I approached her. I may have looked a little startled. Normally, we do not parade the mechanics of operating our Personnel Department before the applicants. And, too, it was usually reserved for Sara, my secretary, to break the news of what would face me that day.

“It’s from the Pentagon,” the receptionist prattled on loudly, but her eyes were covertly on the applicants. I got the message then. Lucky applicants! To be hired by a company who has an executive who gets mail from the Pentagon!

“It’s marked ‘Personal, Private, Confidential, Urgent,’ and…” as I approached her desk her voice dropped to a hoarse whisper which could still be heard in the farthest reaches of the room, “and ‘Top Secret!’”

“Why don’t you get yourself a loud-speaker, girl,” I murmured out of one corner of my mouth as I started to pass her desk.

“Aw, give ’em a thrill, boss,” she murmured back through ventriloquist lips, and caused me to hesitate in my stride. “Think of all those years of deadly monotony ahead of them if they do get hired.”

“All right, all right!” I cooperated a little loudly myself. “Now what does that Pentagon want?” I shrugged impatiently.

I really wasn’t very impressed. It was probably a poster they wanted pinned on our bulletin board telling our young men to quit their jobs and join Space Navy to see the universe. Which would be stretching it a bit, because we were still planning that supreme effort which would get us out as far as Jupiter’s moons.

“Give the man an Oscar,” the receptionist murmured gratefully.

“Maybe the applicants are impressed with my importance,” I mumbled, “but my staff doesn’t seem to be.”

I walked on through the open door into my secretary’s office, which was a buffer zone between me and the crude, rough world outside. Sara, alert and grinning as she sat behind her own desk, had also heard the receptionist’s announcement. She held up a letter knife, handle toward me.

“You may open it all by yourself,” she said with her characteristic burlesque of secretarial concern. “With all those red cautions stamped on it, I didn’t dare. It’s lying right on top of your desk. You can’t miss it.”

I grinned back at her. I think Sara likes me. Behind her pose, she may even respect me. On occasion.

I took the knife and went on into my own office. The letter lay on an otherwise clean and polished surface. I couldn’t miss it. Before I sat down I slit the envelope and pulled out a single folded sheet.

It wasn’t a poster.

I slid my eyes past the quarter page of protocol, file and reference numbers, to the first paragraph. Halfway through the first sentence I sat down in my chair, rather heavily.

Dear Dr. Kennedy:

Pursuant to your application for the position of Staff Psychologist, specializing in the adaptation of Extraterrestrial Beings to Earth Ecology, your appointment is hereby confirmed.

You are ordered to report to Dr. Frederick Kibbie, Director of the Department of Extraterrestrial Life Research, Space Navy, Pentagon, promptly at 900 22-June-annum.

Inasmuch as this appointment automatically constitutes an Acting Commission in Space Navy (pending personal investigation of your sex practices by F.B.I.) failure to comply with this order will be prima facie evidence of willful disobedience of military orders by a commissioned officer in time of war emergency; an act of high treason; the exact penalties to be later fixed by formal Court-Martial.

Cordially yours, and my personal warmest congratulations.

STAR ADMIRAL HERBERT LYTLE

Space Navy Personnel Director

I sat and stared through the slits of Venetian blind at the blank wall of our factory production unit across the street while I fumbled with a free hand for a sustaining cigarette.

It was a mistake, of course. Space Navy had got its files mixed up.

In the first place, I was plain Mister, not Doctor.

In the second place, I hadn’t made any application to Space Navy for any kind of job.

Third, I wasn’t a psychologist, let alone a specialist in the adaptation of Extraterrestrial Beings to Earth Ecology, whatever that might be. Frankly, I didn’t see how there could be such a specialist since, so far, we hadn’t discovered any Extraterrestrial Beings to adapt. And if we ever did, I wasn’t sure who would have to do the adapting—they or us.

Fourth, there wasn’t any war emergency, at least not that I’d heard of, and I’d surely have noticed the headlines while I was looking for the funnies.

Fifth, I didn’t think it was any of the F.B.I.’s business what I did with my sex life, even if I were going to work for government, which I wasn’t.

Sixth, I didn’t want a commission in any kind of Navy, Space or Puddle.

Seventh, neither did I wish to be court-martialed for high treason by not showing up in precisely forty-eight hours.

In military style, which seemed to have ticked off the reasons why it must be a mistake. I need only communicate these points to Space Navy to straighten it out. I crushed out my cigarette and reached for the telephone.

Of course I didn’t get to Star Admiral Herbert Lytle, who had welcomed me with such warm personal cordiality, but I did get as far as the clerk-yeoman in charge of the department of files handling names beginning in K.

There was a delay, Computer Research expense, while this fellow went to find my file. From three thousand miles away I could visualize his every movement while he searched the files where my dossier ought to be—but wasn’t. From my own long experience in personnel offices, I could have told him to arrange a conference of the various department heads to have their staffs look under D for Doctor, Ra for Ralph, or in the Star Admiral’s bottom desk drawer, his secretary’s IN tray, OUT tray, wastebasket; or in possession of a contingent of shore patrolmen already on their way to arrest me.

But he fooled me. He came back on the wire just after our own switchboard operator had won an argument with the long-distance operator about keeping the line open. The clerk-yeoman didn’t radiate the same kind of warm personal cordiality as his boss. He just started talking, rapidly.

“Now you listen here, Dr. Kennedy,” he began severely, although he made me feel at home to note his voice did contain those overtones of hysteria which are a trademark among personnel clerks. “We absolutely cannot consider a stay of time in your case. Your personal inconvenience is of small consequence compared with the needs of the United States Government, Space Navy, and our responsibility to keep the Universe under control. This lack of discipline and proper attitude from you civilians—well, now let me tell you right off that the Space Navy cannot be run to suit the whims of—”

“There’s-been-a-mistake!” I managed to shout him down.

There was complete silence, catatonic shock silence. It was broken again by the impatient long-distance operator.

“Are you still on the line?” she asked crisply.

“I am,” I answered patiently. “I suspect the party at the other end may have fainted.”

“This is the busiest time of day,” she reproved me. “Other calls are waiting for trunk lines.”

“Then tell your company to build more trunks,” I suggested reasonably. She was silent. Perhaps she too had fainted.

The clerk-yeoman came back on the wire at that point. Now his voice was slow, ominous. He quoted my social-security number at me. I checked my wallet, found my card among my status symbols, and admitted to him it was my number. He quoted my middle name, without laughing. I confessed to it. He told me my mother’s maiden name. I admitted he had me pegged down, but I made another try.

“You’ve got the right data,” I said. “But the wrong man. Somewhere in these United States there must be a Dr. Kennedy who wants that job, and you’ve got the files mixed up.”

There was a gasp at the other end of the line.

“Then why would we have your file at all?” he asked. “Don’t ask me how you should run your office,” I snapped back. “Computer Research, where I work, has had a lot of past dealing with the Pentagon. I’ve had personal brushes with quite a few high-ranking officers in various branches. Doubtless someone, sometime, has run up a dossier on me, and that’s the one you’ve got. But I’m not a Dr. Kennedy. I’m a plain Mr. Kennedy. It makes a difference.”

“Certainly it makes a difference.” His tone was growing waspish now. “Space Navy does not hand out commissions to any status level below that of doctor. Star Admiral Lytle has given you a commission. Therefore you must be the correct Dr. Kennedy.”

“Then Lytle has made the mistake,” I said reasonably.

There was a double gasp this time. “I’m to tell Star Admiral Lytle he has made a mistake?” he asked. “Oh, my God,” he groaned. “This is what comes of making civilians into commissioned officers. A star admiral does not make mistakes. He cannot make mistakes. The Space Navy does not make mistakes. It cannot make mistakes. You are therefore Dr. Kennedy, the correct Dr. Kennedy, and all this is an evasion, a subterfuge you are using to avoid performing your patriotic duty to your country. I am amazed to find a man who would deny the responsibility and ethics of his status to dodge his country’s need.”

He paused for breath, and when his voice came again, it was a full octave lower in tone. Apparently he had stuck out his chest, pulled in his stomach and chin.

“You will report at the designated time and place of your own free will,” he said slowly. “Or you will report in irons. It makes no difference to me.”

He hung up.

The long-distance operator immediately snapped me off the line so her company could be saved the expense of building more trunks.

I hung up too, slowly. I’d better go see Old Stone Face, Mr. Henry Grenoble, the General Manager. He had also had a lot of past dealings with the Pentagon, and at levels higher than my contacts. Maybe he could help.

I pushed back from my desk, stood up, and walked over to stand in the doorway.

“Sara,” I said. “Will you call Old Stone Face’s secretary and ask if I can see him right away?”

“Trouble, boss?” she asked. And now there was no flippancy in her manner. “That letter?”

“Sara,” I said. “You are now looking at Dr. Kennedy, a commissioned officer in Space Navy.” I thought for a moment. “I don’t know what rank,” I added.

For an instant I was afraid she might stand up and salute. But she didn’t.

“Then you really are in trouble,” she said instead. “I’d better get you in to see him right away.”

“Either that or come to visit me when I’m languishing in a dungeon for high treason,” I agreed.

TWO

Old Stone Face, at his half acre of desk and surrounded by the rich walnut panels glowing warm in the muted indirect light, was confident that one telephone call would straighten it all out for me. I didn’t often ask his help in running my department, to say nothing of my personal affairs, and he seemed glad to demonstrate he could do things I couldn’t. He was willing for me to sit down and watch how much weight he could swing around the Pentagon.

But as the series of frustrating telephone calls wore out the long morning, he progressed from high confidence, to exasperation, to self-disciplined patience, to bewilderment, to anger, to defeat.

He sat back finally in his overstuffed chair, beetled his heavy brows, and peered at me suspiciously across the desk.

“You say you didn’t apply for the job. Let’s say I believe you.”

I straightened up from a weary slouch and raised my hand in the scout-oath position.

“Wouldn’t have done you any good if you had,” he rumbled from somewhere down in the granite facade. “After some of the things you’ve done to some of those officers, you’d have been turned down like a shot. They all agree with me that the sheer safety of our nation depends on keeping you away from the Pentagon. They emphatically would go far beyond the call of duty to keep you away. After some of the things you’ve done to them.”

“Well, then?” I asked. I might not be exactly flattered, but at least it looked hopeful.

“So they’re all hot to intercede until I mention it is Space Navy. Then they cool down a bit.”

“But Space Navy still speaks to the rest of them, doesn’t it? At the top, of course.”

“Then when I mention it is the Extraterrestrial Psychology Department they back off and want no part of trying to spring you. Sandfordwaithe says maybe they need you in that department after all, that no sacrifice is too great for the rest of the Pentagon, if… He didn’t say, if what. Something’s going on, and they’re as skittish as an old maid in a pool hall.”

I didn’t smile. I have never been accused of being an organization man.

“All those jabbing pool cues…”

“I know, I got the picture,” I said sourly. “I’m thinking there’s now just forty-four more hours until I’m court-martialed for high treason. I’m practically swinging from the gallows tree, and you’re daydreaming about… Well, so what ’m I going to do?”

“Guess you’d better make the trip,” he said slowly. “Somehow I think maybe Computer Research wouldn’t have to close its doors if you were gone for a day or so. You go see this bird, this Kibbie fellow. You tell him, in person, you’re not the man he thought you were. Soon as he sees you, he’ll believe it. But it looks like it has to be in person. I can’t get even a general or an admiral to so much as call him on the phone.”

“And I saw the run-around you got when you tried to get through to Kibbie yourself,” I had to admit. “So I suppose I’d better go. On expense account?”

He rared up at that.

“It’s your personal neck,” he roared. “Why should the company have to pay for saving it?”

“Now, Henry.” I looked at him and shook my head sadly.

“Oh, all right. I’ll set it up. I was going to, anyway.” There was a fleeting crack in the granite of his face. He’d been kidding me—I hoped. He settled back comfortably in his chair.

“I wonder what’s going on?” he mused thoughtfully, and put his finger tips together. “There’s something they’re not telling us. You find out what it is, Ralphie, my boy.”

I sprang up out of my chair as if I’d been stung.

“Yeah,” I said coldly, bitterly, and stood glaring down at him. “And see if we can’t get the job of making a computer to solve it, whatever it is. You couldn’t possibly pay my expenses just because it’s me; just because of all the years I’ve worked my heart out for dear old Computer Research.”

I whirled around angrily and started for the door. His voice, slow and measured, followed me, stopped me.

“We got a Board of Directors,” he was saying. “We got Stockholders. If it took one lousy nickel out of their pockets to save you, they’d see you hang without batting an eye. You know that, well as I do. But now, say, suppose it was my best judgment to send you to Washington to drum up some more business…”

I turned around and stared at him, incredulous. Far down in the glacial ice blue of his eyes I thought I detected the faintest possible gleam of affection.

“You’d better watch that, Henry,” I advised professionally, and was astonished to find my throat was tight. “You might turn into a human being if you’re not careful.”

He stood up and came around the desk. He held out his hand. It was a momentous occasion. In all the years, I couldn’t remember ever having shaken hands with him before. Although once, at a seance, he’d let me take hold of his hand—the time I established that he had extrasensory powers. Looking back, now, I wonder if he had some premonition, even then, that I wouldn’t be back. I hadn’t. Even with all my experience in dealing with the military, I was still thinking it was a little error I could clear up with a few words of explanation once I got to the right person.

It took me an hour to set up the routines of my department to cover my absence for the next couple of days. I had a good assistant who could step in, although I hoped not too perfectly, and with Sara’s help…

It took me the next hour to rush over to my bachelor’s apartment to throw some overnight things into a bag. And fight off the usual temptation to overload it by reminding myself that there surely must be stores in Washington, just as here.

Another precious hour to get over to the airport. Two more of pulling strings and fighting clerical red tape to get a seat on one of the planes which usually left half empty anyway. The airlines were still running to suit the convenience of the clerks rather than the customers. Once in the air, something less than an hour to fly the three thousand miles across the continent, but more than another hour to get from the Washington airport to the Pentagon building.

That left me thirty-seven hours to find the right department, which was shaving it pretty fine.

Even Space Navy; after another long hassle of my trying to tell them I wasn’t Dr. Kennedy, and their stubbornly maintaining that I was; and the still-longer procedures of signing me in and clearing me for low-level security; weren’t sure they ought to let me in on the secret of how to find Dr. Frederick Kibbie.

But they were damned sure they would court-martial me if I didn’t find him. Something was, indeed, going on.

* * * *

Security prevents me from Revealing the Word of how to find the Department of Extraterrestrial Life Research in the Pentagon. Not that the top hierarchy of Russia doesn’t know where it is down to the square inch, but John Q. Public, who pays the bills, mustn’t be told.

And there are reasons.

Take away the trappings of security regulations, and our special qualifications to meet them, and what have we got left to mark us as superior to the common herd? It’s a status symbol, pure and simple, and the gradations from Confidential on up to Q.S. have nothing whatever to do with enemy spies—they merely mark the status relationship of the elect within the select. And, after this passage of events I am about to relate, since I am now one of the, THE, Q.S., and have the awesome weight of knowing things that even—well, I mustn’t reveal who isn’t allowed to know what I know—I guess that makes me pretty hot. Sometimes even Sara (yes, I had to send for her) begins to show signs of going Government in her attitude toward me.

But once inside the department door, it was pretty much the same as any other suite of offices. There was first an anteroom where a narrow-eyed and suspicious young man examined the sheaf of credentials Space Navy Personnel had prepared for me while running me through their dehydrated equivalent of six weeks in boot camp. Reluctantly, he passed me on to the next anteroom, where a secretary’s secretary confirmed that I had an appointment. In the next room the Secretary, himself, pretended he’d never heard of me, and we had it all to go through again. Of course I insisted to each one of them that a mistake had been made, that I was the wrong man, that I should be turned away and not allowed to see Dr. Kibbie, and that may have hurried the process of letting me through.

When I grew especially vehement with the Secretary that they were all making a mistake and would regret it, he shuffled through the remaining papers in a hurry, stood up, and walked over to open The Door.

Against my will, I liked Dr. Kibbie as soon as I stepped inside his office. He was rushed, but he was cordial. It was evident he had a thousand things on his mind, but he was willing to give me that thousandth part of his mind which was my rightful share.

He was about twenty years older than I, around fifty-eight to sixty, I’d say. I’m tall and thin, he was short and round. I’m dark-haired and can still wear it in the young-blade fashion of the day; he was shiny bald with a gray fringe around the sides and back. I’m inclined to be a little dour at times, so they tell me; he was as phony happy and bouncy as a marriage counselor—and, at once, I suspected he was about as useful.

He had that open enthusiasm, that frank revealment of the superior con-man, as he told me all about his department and its four hundred employees.

Four hundred employees to do research on life forms which hadn’t yet been discovered. I, personally, wouldn’t have known what to do with them all, but this was government. They were all working like little beavers on fancy charts and graphs, statistics and analyses—covering something which doesn’t exist—which is about par for government, which models its approach to reality from the academic.

Mainly because I couldn’t find a pause to interrupt, I let him finish the quick once-over of his department, since it was apparent he liked to talk about all the wonderful things they were thinking of doing. Then I dropped my bomb.

I wasn’t the right man for the job—whatever it might be!

Apparently that thousandth part of his mind he was giving me wasn’t enough for him to grasp that I meant I was the wrong Kennedy.

“Now, now, now, Dr.!” he chattered absently, hurriedly, and bounced out of his executive chair to pace about the room. “We haven’t time for the usual polite self-deprecations. All very commendable, of course. Shows you had the proper training. Gives me confidence in you. Understand your reluctance to succeed where the rest of us have failed. Natural teamwork spirit. Commendable, most commendable. Ah yes, better to fail and keep the approval of your fellow scientists than to succeed and make enemies of them.

“Proper attitude. Most acceptable. Proud to have you on my team, Dr. Kennedy. Knew you were just the man. Knew that right away.”

I leaned my elbow on his desk and braced my head with my hand. Too late, I realized what my procedure should have been. I should have told him I was eager for the job, just had to have it. That would have made him judiciously consider and reject me. I should have done it with Space Navy. Then they’d have been sure to find some reason why I couldn’t make the grade.

“…proper humility, modesty,” Kibbie was still rambling along. He whirled around and shook an admonitory finger at me, which made me lift my head again. “But that’s all out now. For the duration. Can’t afford to fail this time. Not even if the other scientists get peed off with you for admitting that you know whatever it is you know. In a war emergency, individuals have to rise to self-sacrifice. Martyrdom!”

He beamed upon me proudly from the center of the room, where his feet had been following the intricate design of the rug, and struck a pose which might have appeared noble had not his round stomach, short legs, and pink complexion reminded me so much of a Kewpie doll won at a carnival booth.

“What war emergency?” I was finally able to get down to the question.

“Why—ah—” He looked startled, and then came to a quick recapitulation of my state of ignorance. For a moment I thought the added burden might be too much for him, but he shouldered it manfully. He gave up trying to step on each of the yellow dots in the rug, and paced in short, rapid steps over to the window, where he gazed at the impressive row of shining white government buildings stretching to the horizon. There was a silence while he collected his thoughts. Apparently he decided I could take the full brunt of it, all at once.

“We’re going out to Jupiter’s moons!” He made the announcement portentous.

“Of course,” I said indifferently. “So?”

His face took on a hurt expression.

“You already know that?” he asked, disappointed.

“It’s been in all the papers for days, weeks.”

“Those congressmen!” he exclaimed bitterly. “Always sucking up to news reporters, hoping they’ll get their names in the papers or even mentioned on TV.”

“But anybody could have figured it out,” I consoled him. “We’ve already got contingents on Mars and Venus. We’re not equipped to start mining the Asteroid belt just yet. The state of the art won’t permit landing on Jupiter, itself. Naturally, its moons would be next.”

“I suppose you’re right,” he agreed ruefully. “Not really much of a secret.”

“But what has that got to do with a war emergency?” I asked curiously.

“Don’t you see?” he admonished me, and shook his finger at me again. “We don’t know much about those moons. What if there is some kind of life form there? What if it is technically advanced? What if it is hostile? What if we weren’t prepared? So—a war emergency!”

“Oh, come now!” I made no secret of my disgust. “That’s going pretty extreme, even if you had a military mind—which you haven’t.”

He looked at me piercingly, and then his eyes began to twinkle.

“Shrewd!” he congratulated me. “Very shrewd. Oh, I knew you were the right man for me. Doesn’t take you in for a minute. Took in that congressional committee without a murmur of doubt. Secret session of course. Very, very hush-hush. I asked for four billion. They gave me only two billion, so, later when it can be told, they can show the voters how economy minded they were. Paid me two billion dollars, well, for running my department, of course, for the status satisfaction of being in on something nobody else knows. In open session they wouldn’t have given me a dime.”

“So the war emergency is just a con,” I said.

He paced the floor for a moment more. His face was serious, drawn in worry.

“No,” he said at last. “It’s real.” He came across the room to stand at my elbow. “So now I’ll tell you the real reason. The one known to the top men here in the Pentagon. The one we couldn’t tell Congress because they’re such blabbermouths, and so we had to con them.”

He took up his pursuit of the yellow dots in the rug design again while he assembled his thought.

“Mustn’t leak this to the reporters, son,” he began in a warning. “Public mustn’t know, mustn’t find out.”

“Why?” I asked.

He drew a quick breath.

“Oh my! Oh my! You really are from the Outside! Have to do something about that Outside attitude, right away. You’re in government now. First rule of government of the people, by the people, for the people: Never tell the people!” He came over and stood in front of me. He peered at me through narrowed eyes. Apparently he was waiting for a loyalty oath. I raised my fingers in scout’s honor. It seemed to satisfy him.

“The Black Fleet has struck four times!” he whispered hoarsely.

“The what?” I shouted.

“Sh-h-h!” he put his fingers to his lips hurriedly, and looked around the room.

“The what?” I asked, more normally.

“The Black Fleet.”

“What the hell is the Black Fleet?”

He snapped his fingers in delight.

“Good! Oh, good! Then that news hasn’t leaked yet. Sometimes those generals and admirals are as anxious to get their names in the paper as a congressman.” He was as delighted as a child successfully playing button-button.

“Tell you all about it,” he said.

He came back and settled down in his chair behind his desk at last. My neck muscles appreciated it.

“Best if we start at the beginning,” he said. “We’ll review the charts and analyses of all my departments on it. You’re going to need to know every detail. Because, as the expert in extraterrestrial psychology, that’s your job.

“To interpret what it all means.

“To find out who they are.

“What they are.

“What they’re up to.”

I waited, for he had spaced each item with a long impressive pause, and wasn’t finished.

“And how we can drive them off before the people find out that Earth has been invaded!”

THREE

The announcement proved more impressive than the evidence.

Dr. Kibbie’s staff tried. He combined introduction of his various department heads with a full-dress presentation of their material; but since neither then nor later did I have more than the most casual relations with the men, their names remained only names.

This half dozen or so assorted names brought in their charts and graphs, and charts and graphs explaining their charts and graphs. They produced maps and statistics and analyses, and analyses of maps and statistics and analyses. As the office walls, tables, desks, and even the floor became littered with these impressive evidences of loving labor, I began to get the feeling I was in a room of mirrors, where images of images were being repeated to infinity.

One such chart I remember as being a prototype of most. It was the pride and joy of Dr. Er-Ah. Meticulously, beautifully drafted, it covered an entire worktable. He went to some pains to assure me that this was only the working copy, that the master remained locked in their vault except at times it was mandatory to make further entries upon it, after such entries had been charted and approved on the working copy.

The purple vertical lines represented the hours. The red vertical lines represented the minutes. If I cared to verify the chart’s accuracy, I would find there were always fifty-nine red lines in between the bolder purple lines. The still bolder black horizontal line represented the actual passage of time through the minutes and hours. The dotted pencil line, stretching out beyond the black horizontal, represented the prediction of time passage through the minutes and hours of the future.

With almost uncanny accuracy, Dr. Er-Ah could predict that, when so many minutes in the future had passed, a given number of hours would also have passed! It was now eleven o’clock. When sixty more minutes had passed, his chart revealed that there was strong probability that it would be twelve o’clock!

Now I began to get the idea how four hundred people could be kept busy, but I was not to wool-gather about it, for he was not finished.

His clerks would fill in the bold black line, as each minute passed, to check the accuracy of his prediction. When this had been properly checked and verified and authorized, the master copy could be taken out of the vault and brought up to date with the working copy. Of course I appreciated that, while he had the working copy tied up in here for review, his department was being greatly handicapped, and would probably have to work overtime to catch up the delay in their work.

He reached his moment of triumph when I inquired what this had to do with extraterrestrial psychology.

“When, and if, another life form is discovered,” Dr. Er-Ah instructed gravely, “the instant will be marked on this chart, and finally on the master chart in the vault, as a permanent record for all posterity.” As one of the most momentous events in all mankind’s history, I could appreciate the necessity for absolute accuracy when I realized that historians of the future for thousands of years, tens and hundreds of thousands of years, must refer back to this historic chart for an absolute fix.

The dedicated vision, which makes some few scientists great, shone from his visage.

Nor was Dr. Kibbie far behind in exaltation. Here, surrounded by the months of work that had gone into this display, each piece of which made valiant effort to equal the time chart in workmanship and usefulness, the man came into his own. Now I began to realize why a congressional committee had paid out two billion dollars. They are not the only ones to assume that charts and graphs must mean something.

Even more, I appreciated Dr. Kibbie’s motive in keeping four hundred people busy accomplishing absolutely nothing. The status of a government official depends entirely upon his title and the number of people he supervises. It has nothing whatever to do with what he accomplishes, or whether anything at all is ever accomplished—the academic transferred to the government.

And Dr. Kibbie was determined to become a most important man.

I found myself wanting to believe in all this impressive work—a work of which I now, somehow, had become a part. Kibbie had that quality about him. There was no doubt now that he was a first-class con-man, active where the pickings are richest. He had already conned Congress out of two billion for nothing, and even granting the traditional congressional habit of shoveling out tax millions for wild-haired schemes while withholding pennies from sound and sorely needed projects, it was still quite a con feat. I suspected it was only a beginning.

I wanted to believe, to become a True Believer like the rest of his department. But obviously, I must still be thinking as an Outsider; for, boiled down to essentials, all the charts and graphs and analyses added up to little more than some of the vaguer flying saucer reports.

In the central Ural Mountains of Russia, some goat-herders had seen a fleet of black flying saucers hovering overhead. A red ray had licked down and melted away one of the peaks to make it run like a river. That was the sum and substance.

Some of their kids had brought the hallucination of their ignorant parents to the district school, where it could be exposed by the analysis of dialectic materialism. Ever alert to the evil machinations of the Wall Street Overlords, even while the teachers felt it best to soothe and explain away the superstition for their students, they, nonetheless, forwarded the information through the proper channels to the Propaganda Ministry. Possibly there was hope of reminding the peace-loving people of Russia of their danger by this latest invasion of the Capitalist Royalists and their Boot Licking Lackeys.

The Propaganda Ministry sent out some of its best propagandists to the Urals, and among them, of course, was one of our own C.I.A. operatives.

But when they got there, the parents had been convinced by their more enlightened children that either they hadn’t seen what they knew they had seen, or had better keep their mouths shut about it. The reports and evidence were too evasive, tenuous, and vague, even for Kremlin purposes, and nothing more would have been heard of it—except that the C.I.A. operative felt it necessary to include a summary in his report to substantiate his expense account. He did see fit to add a footnote, a rather extensive footnote, to provide our own propagandists with whatever color background they might find useful.

As for example, although this was now fourth generation under communism’s dialectic materialism, the backward peasants—er, enlightened comrade-workers—had been unable to separate natural from supernatural. With the excellent police training he had received here in the United States, he had succeeded in inciting them into committing the crime they had not intended to commit. Because he succeeded in convincing them he was one of them at heart, they confessed to him, in secret, how they had felt toward the phenomenon. They had dwelt heavily upon the semantics of Evil, as a palpable force, which emanated from the Black Fleet. Fear and hatred of the Fleet had swept over them, appalled and frozen them in their tracks, even before the emission of the red ray.

Perhaps it was this hint of the supernatural seeping through which made the Russian propagandists feel more was to be lost than gained through making something of it all and which caused them to hush up the whole thing. But maybe ours could find it useful to show that you can’t educate primeval superstition out of man through appeals to logic and reason—or however sentimentally and culturally acceptable our own propagandists might want to phrase it.

Whether there actually had been a Black Fleet and a red ray, to say nothing of its having been a materialization of the forces of Evil, was not for the C.I.A. man to say. He, he said, reported only facts. The sense of Evil was one of those facts. As for the rest, he had truly seen a level mountain table of hardened lava with octopus tentacles running down adjacent ravines.

There seemed to be a discrepancy in time. Where a chance of influencing world opinion is concerned, the Russian Government can move fast. They are indifferent only to the welfare of their own citizens, and it is only there that months and years of bureaucratic red tape intervene between the need for a pair of shoes and getting them. The Propaganda Ministry had moved fast. The peasants claimed a sharply pointed mountain peak had stood there only one week before. But the lava was quite cold and hard, and couldn’t have lowered its temperature to that of the surrounding untouched rock in so short a time. Since no government office maintained an accurate time chart in that area, or at least no Dr. Kibbie trained scientist of the caliber of Dr. Er-Ah maintained one, the time it had happened, if it had happened at all, was inconclusive.

I, personally, thought “inconclusive” was just the word to describe the whole thing.

This was the most detailed and authentic of the reports. As to actual details, it seemed to me the C.I.A. man must be bucking for a transfer to writing propaganda instead of collecting facts. I was prepared for the remaining reports to be even more vague and inconclusive. They were.

There was one from the interior of the Sahara, to wind up as gossip in an oasis bazaar; but since the tribesmen had departed with their caravan and no one knew who they were by the time our C.I.A. man got onto it (his Arabic was too weak and the palm wine too strong) there was no way of checking the facts.

Another came from deep in the Andes, reported by some mountain Indians; but since this was South America, which knew better than to cause any trouble for the United States, we have no C.I.A. operative on the spot. The report had filtered down to the coast, and was picked up there by some government operatives masquerading as Maritime Union sailors. In due course it, too, had filtered into the Bureau of Extraterrestrial Psychology because it seemed to be something about possible visitors from outer space. Even this department didn’t consider it ironclad evidence.

The fourth report came from some all but deserted South Sea island; brought in to Tahiti by some itinerant Polynesian fishermen who had somehow escaped from Tourist Entertainment Service, and were therefore low characters not to be trusted.

I did have to credit the significance of an almost identical rumor coming from widely separated sources, all at about the same time, and two of them not reported by C.I.A. operatives, and therefore not necessarily planned to please the boss, the press, or to increase world tensions and protect their jobs.

A fleet of black, disc-shaped Things hovering overhead. A red ray licks down and destroys something, a mountain peak, a sweep of sand dunes, a mountain peak again, a deserted island. And the horror, the stunning and freezing horror of Evil, malignant Evil. That, most of all.

Even granting that the reports had, by the time I saw them, already been manipulated by the hands of analysts and statisticians, the similarities caught me.

I was far from sure, however, that there was sufficient meat for me to carry out my assignment—how to say who they were, what they were, what they were up to.

And how we could drive them away without anybody learning about it.

We had lunches sent in because, in Dr. Kibbie’s opinion, this was all too vital and urgent for us to take the usual and customary two hours or more. I didn’t mind. Coming out of Industry, it would take me a while to accustom myself to the highly perfected procedures of government for eating up the tax dollars without accomplishing anything to show for it.

By the middle of the afternoon the various Dr. Er-Ah’s carted away their treasured evidence and I was left once more with Dr. Kibbie, for whose ears alone my valuable judgment was reserved.

He leaned forward over his desk and looked at me alertly, brightly, hopefully, expectantly. I didn’t have the heart to disappoint him.

“Interesting,” I breathed. “Ve-e-ery interesting! But without further corroborative studies, sampling statistics, and analyses of your analyses…” I trailed off vaguely in the approved scientific manner.

He beamed in satisfaction.

“I’ll need an office,” I said.

“Already set aside for you,” he answered. “I’ll show it to you before you leave for the hotel where we’ve reserved a suite for you. That way you can come right to work in the morning without the delay of coming to me, first. I’m really quite busy, and time, time is precious.”

“I’ll need a staff.”

“Already requisitioned from the government employee pool,” he said promptly, and anticipated my approval of his efficiency in providing for all my needs. I nodded appreciatively. “Your staff is limited to three people as a start,” he added apologetically. “That’s standard procedure.”

“Enough to start with,” I conceded; and then decided that so long as I seemed to have no choice about becoming a government official, I might as well be an important one—by their standards. And the more important I became, the more important he would become, since he was my boss. “But only as a start,” I continued. “The work I foresee may well require two or three hundred. Maybe more.”

He jumped up from behind his desk and clapped his hands delightedly.

“That’s the ticket!” he exclaimed. “Think big! Oh, I can see we have the right man. I’ll confess I’ve been a little disappointed in some of my Division Heads. Good scientists all. The Best. But perhaps, administratively, their vision has been limited.”

I decided to see just where that limit might be.

“Before I’m through,” I warned, “my needs may run into thousands of people.”

His feet hardly seemed to touch the floor.

Well, all right! So that’s the way the cookie crumbles. I thought of Old Stone Face. Computer Research already seemed far away, a tiny speck down there somewhere from these Olympian Heights. Of course I’d have to call him, let him know I’d turned out to be the right man after all. I might even throw him a little business to clear him with his Board of Directors and Stockholders—grubby little businessmen, but the source of tax moneys.

“And equipment,” I continued. “I may need some specially designed computers—in fact I may even need a Brain.”

He looked thoughtful, cautious.

“There’s only two billion available, at present,” he warned me. “And Congress is not in session just now.”

“I know a company which might be able to stay somewhere within that figure,” I said.

He whirled around from where he had been following the yellow dots on the other side of the room, and held up his hand in the manner of a traffic cop.

“Don’t tell me the name,” he said hurriedly. “Must remember you’re an important governmental official now (or will be important when you’ve hired all those people and spent all that money). You have a responsibility to the taxpayers not to use anything you have learned outside of government service. Where to get the proper computer would be that kind of misuse of special knowledge.”

He ran across the room to his desk and grabbed up a memo pad. He shoved it toward me.

“Here,” he said. “Don’t trust your memory. You’ll have too many things on your mind to remember such a detail. Jot the name down on a pad. Just for your own use if the need ever arises. Press hard, so my lab boys won’t have too much trouble in bringing up the impressions from the pages below the one you tear off.”

He beamed at me, as if to approve that I was already learning, fast, how to be a government man.

FOUR

Naturally I had no choice in selecting my staff personnel. It was well I hadn’t, for I was to learn that knowing the ropes of red tape and protocol was far more important than any possible skill or efficiency learned on the Outside.

When I arrived the following morning at the departmental suite which had been set aside for me, temporary quarters until we outgrew the space, I found the door had already been lettered:

BUREAU OF EXTRATERRESTRIAL LIFE RESEARCH

DIVISION OF EXTRATERRESTRIAL PSYCHOLOGY

DEPARTMENT OF EXTRATERRESTRIAL VOCATIONAL RESEARCH

Director, Dr. Ralph Kennedy

Apparently my real mission was to be concealed. Ostensibly my job was to train extraterrestrials vocationally and put them to work in self-respecting employment—if we ever did discover any.

My real mission, of course, was to drive them away before anybody found out they’d been here; but I correctly suspected my staff would not know why they were really hired and what they were really supposed to help me do.

When I opened the door, I found that staff already busy at work. It consisted of a middle-aged woman and two reasonably young men.

Their desks were already piled high with file folders, yard-long printed forms with such ample blank spaces that it would take many hours to fill them out, and thick sheaves of bound reports. Some extra desks in the big, barn-like workroom had imposing charts, graphs, and star maps in varicolored inks spread over them. It was a beehive of activity and gave the quick illusion of many, many more staff members who just happened to be away from their desks on important missions or in vital conferences at the time.

I suddenly realized that not only was the status of an official determined by how many people he commanded, but this, in turn, reflected upon the status of those working for him, as well. My staff of only three must have been feeling their unimportance keenly.

No one looked up when I entered the door. They were much too busy. Since I hadn’t yet begun to plan the kind of work to keep them busy, even with the excellent examples I’d seen the day before, I marveled at their skill in looking so frantically overworked so soon. But then, I was still thinking as an Industry man, and, instead, I must immediately requisition some more help to lift the burden from their overworked backs.

There was a long, high counter between me and the area where they sat. Standard equipment where common citizens could stand and wait to be noticed. At one end was a gate for entrance into the sanctuary—with an angry notice on it telling me what federal law I would break and how many years penal servitude I’d risk if I entered without permission. Come to think of it, I’d never seen a communication from government to citizen, on any matter, that didn’t contain a threat.

I tried the gate and found it locked. I rattled it against its lock mechanism, but still nobody lifted a head.

I went and stood patiently at the counter.

When I didn’t go away, the women finally lifted her head and looked at me with exasperation; then pointedly returned her eyes to her work. I cleared my throat softly, apologetically.

One of the young men, the dark one with heavy, horn-rimmed glasses, heaved an impatient sigh at the disturbance, clucked his tongue in annoyed reproof, but didn’t look up. The blond young man never stirred from his intense concentration of writing in longhand, apparently forming one letter at a time, in the blank spaces on one of the forms.

Central Personnel had filled my requirements without prejudice. They had given me thoroughly typical Civil Service Clerks.

“Who takes care of the cash customers?” I asked conversationally, after I’d stood another two minutes.

The woman lifted her head and stared at me with a level, intimidating gaze. Her face was thin and narrow, with sharp, neurotic lines running from the sides of her nose up to the corners of her piercing eyes. She could well have posed for a painting: Government Career Woman after Thirty Years. But the artist would have needed to render the work with sympathy.

“You will not be able to see Dr. Kennedy today,” she said firmly. “He is much too busy.”

“I’m Kennedy,” I said mildly. “I’d just like to come through the gate so I can go to my office.”

The two male heads lifted then and looked me over. There was no particular hostility or welcome in their stares. Plainly they were saying they’d seen hotshots come and they’d seen hotshots go, but they stayed on forever. The woman did get up and stalk over to release the catch.

“Dr. Kennedy,” she acknowledged, and at the same time reproved me for not using my title. “You have a private entrance to your office farther down the hall. The one marked ‘No admittance.’” I was unable to tell whether I was being informed or rebuked. Anyone who has so much as stepped inside a post office will recognize the attitude and tone.

“But the penalty printed below the no admittance is so severe,” I said. “I didn’t dare use the door. I noticed it yesterday, when I looked over the joint.”

“Surveyed the premises,” the horn-rimmed young man murmured with disgusted asperity. I looked at him as I walked through the open gate.

“Who are you?” I asked him.

It seemed a natural question at the time, but the woman’s face flamed red, and she glared at me. Horn-rims looked at her with a certain glint of malicious mischief. Apparently I had tried to reverse their status by asking his name first. The woman quickly repaired the ordained order of the cosmos.

“I am Shirley Chase,” she said quickly, before he could answer. “Miss Shirley Chase. I am Executive Clerical Administrator of the Department of Extraterrestrial Vocational Research, Division of Extraterrestrial Psychology, Bureau of Extraterrestrial Life Research!”

“Well, goody for you, Shirley,” I murmured. Her lips pursed in vexation, but she rose above it and chose to ignore my flippancy as being no more than expected. She waved her hand then in the direction of Horn-rims.

“This is Dr. Gerald Gaffee, A.B., B.S., M.A., M.S., Ph.D., Abstract Vocational Research Director of the Department of Extraterrestrial, etc., etc., etc. In research matters he may answer directly to you if and when required. In Departmental routine matters, he is under my jurisdiction.”

Dr. Gerald Gaffee nodded coolly at a point somewhere above my head. I tried the friendly approach.

“H-m-m,” I said. “Research into vocational guidance for extraterrestrials, huh? You must have held some powerful jobs in industry to qualify for that!”

“I am a Harvard man,” he answered frigidly.

I realized I simply must overcome my provincial West Coast attitude of wanting to see what a man had done in life before I measured his worth.

“Well,” I said judiciously. “That’s even better, isn’t it?” Apparently the introductions were over. Miss Chase indicated the corridor leading from the workroom to my office, as if to tell me I might enter that way—this time.

“I haven’t met the remainder of my staff,” I said, and looked at the young man over in the corner.

“Oh?” Miss Chase looked at me questioningly, and smiled thinly. She had just come to the realization that I had absolutely no sense of protocol or etiquette whatever, and wasn’t deliberately offensive. “That’s only an N-462.”

N-462 stared at me with startled eyes and didn’t nod.

“And what do you do here?” I asked.

His surprise seemed blended with horror, and he looked uncertainly toward Miss Chase, as if seeking a protector.

“He is an N-462,” she repeated.

I gathered he was too far down the ladder of protocol to speak to me directly, and that if I had been an experienced government career man I’d have known what an N-462 does. I let it pass.

I walked on down the hallway to my office, went in, and sat down behind my desk. The top of it was clear. There were no mountains of work piled upon it to make me look frantically indispensable to the continuance of the nation.

It told me, plainly, I was expected to build up my own fortress.

I had met my staff. I thought lonesomely, longingly of my staff back at Computer Research; a staff really busy doing necessary things, and at the same time dedicated to keeping my fortress intact for me. Apparently I did not yet have a private secretary. Apparently an official was permitted to choose his own.

Yes, of course, that would be it. And particularly for a bachelor. To make it easier for the F.B.I. to run its customary check on his sex practices. Obviously, too, a large block of jobs would be set aside for the customary hiring of one’s wife, his sons and daughters, his grandmothers, grandfathers, aunts, uncles, cousins, nephews, nieces, his previous milkman, grocery delivery boy, former business partners, the fellows at the club whom he could beat at golf or handball, and maybe that nice gentleman who came past the old hometown house and spoke admiringly of the condition of our lawn.

I would, I must, send for Sara.

I wondered which of my present staff was an undercover agent. Probably Miss Shirley Chase. Her breeding lines were unmistakably Mid-West out of New England, the classic picture of self-appointed conscience for all mankind. I would have to watch my step around Shirley.

And thereby measured the real depth of my ignorance.

For eventually it turned out to be N-462; who wasn’t really an N-462 at all. The gaffes that I had already pulled had sown the seeds of doubt in his mind about me. With that slow, patient, inexorable thoroughness of the truly great undercover man, he was to prove me only a Mister Ralph Kennedy, not the Doctor Kennedy at all.

An impostor!

FIVE

Of course I was not naive enough to think that all the men around Washington played the national con-game of using the taxpayers as their own private herd of domestic animals with the same insouciant delight as Dr. Kibbie. His was the true gambler’s attitude; that it is more fun to play for high stakes than for low, and not without status value among those who know the game; that sometimes you win, sometimes you lose; but basically you play just because there isn’t anything else to do.

Nor were all others of the Dr. Gerald Gaffee stripe; academic theoreticians who had read a few books written vaguely about political science, listened to a few hours of even more vague professorial comments about it, and thought this was what governing a nation was all about.

Nor were the remaining all of that arrested mental development at the level of the twelve-year-old boy which manifests itself as the military mind. Most of my scraps with representatives of the Pentagon in the past were really seated in my disgust, tinged perhaps with a touch of horror, that grown men not only could allow their mental and spiritual development to be arrested at that juvenile age of running in gangs, hero-worshiping, losing one’s identity in marching conformity, hiding immature fears and weaknesses behind the bravado of brass and braid; but actually advocated this pitiful deformity as a way of life for others; and, indeed, brought all the weight and power of their massive gang disapproval to bear upon any who wished to outgrow such juvenile levels of value.

I knew there were still others. Not many, of these, for there was not room for many; and the sheer ferocity at this level kept their numbers from multiplying. To these Power was an end in itself, a compulsion, an addiction. Perhaps their need and fright was greatest of all, for only by acquisition of Power could they still their doubts that they were any different from the common domesticated herds of people. Only by applying and directing the aims of Power could they ensure their own security. Only by keeping the herd confined to its accustomed pastures, using their herd at will as does the farmer, could these men be assured theirs was the role of farmer instead of his cattle. It had always been. It did not matter what the surface system of government was called in the fad notions of the time. There are those who milk, and those born to be milked; those who slaughter, and those who line up for the slaughtering.

Perhaps, in the still hours of the night, such men needed defense against an even greater enemy—their own intelligence. For that terrifying question hovered eternally just beyond recognition by their conscious minds, constantly threatened to verbalize itself in an unguarded moment: “What is the purpose of it all? What if there be no more purpose to human existence than to grass, or stone, or louse? How, then, could my ego ascend over others?”

I had not met such men. I did not expect to meet them. One doesn’t. I might meet their boys, sometime—congressmen, senators, various administrators. Yes, I would surely meet their boys if I became any kind of threat to their husbandry.

There didn’t seem to be much danger of that. Even in this unbelievable fantasy of official Washington, where everybody was Pooh-Bah, I couldn’t seem to get into the spirit of things. I was nobody—and I knew it.

And yet…

I had seen how such men and their boys behaved when their counterparts over in Russia had tried to rustle some of their cattle from the pastures, or even scheme to hijack the lot of them—those fat, meaty cattle. I had seen what happened to those who got in the middle of this little private war over who shall milk them.

Now if there were…aw, ridiculous, of course…but, say, if there actually were beings who came from the stars; and if there were intentions of taking over the whole pasture and all the cattle in it…

Well!

I am Dr. Ralph Kennedy, Director of the Department of Extraterrestrial Vocational Research, Division of Extraterrestrial Psychology, Bureau of Extraterrestrial Life Research—with the secret mission of keeping them from doing it.

Right there in the middle.

SIX

These two little pieces of the jigsaw puzzle came to my attention much later; too late to be of any use. Although, in all honesty, even had I known these happenings in the Sheridan House, they would have carried no meaning to me. Only through hindsight would I have seen any connection between the reactions of a bellhop and the Black Fleet with the Red Ray. Later, the boys told me of their decision made in Room 842, but had I actually been listening I doubt my reaction would have been much different from that of the bellhop.

Chronologically, however, the puzzle pieces fit in here.

Sheridan House, New York, was a moderately fashionable hotel on Sixty-fourth Street, just off Central Park. The Night Manager, a shade more fashionable than even the hotel, was pleased with the evening. All was serene, and he was at his best in Serenity. There had been no emergencies and no complaints. There had been no indiscretions—none blatant enough, at least, to attract the attention of the vice squad. His nightly report, subtly worded to imply all this was due to his superior control, would please top management.

It was unfortunate that the bellhop had to mar the serenity. It was unfortunate that a hotel had to have bellhops.

In the late, late evening this bellhop shuffled across the lobby from the elevator and showed a pronounced list in his walk. There was a rule, a most stringent rule, that bellhops must not drink on the job, not even to please a lonesome guest, or one who enjoyed causing the lower orders to lose their jobs. The Night Manager pursed his lips ominously and waited behind his hotel desk.

The bellhop leaned forward in his walk and made groping movements with his hands. He wet his lips at short, rhythmic intervals. There were large drops of sweat on his forehead, and his eyes protruded like those of a deep-sea fish suddenly hauled to the surface. When he reached the desk, he leaned his stomach against it and released his breath in a long, slow, fizzing sound.

“Jeez…” he breathed heavily.

The Night Manager stiffened further at this breach of manners, but he withheld reproof in the shocked realization that there was no alcohol in the generous waft of breath which came across the desk.

“Well, what is it?” he demanded. But his curiosity somewhat softened the intended tone of discipline.

The bellhop gulped and swallowed another mouthful of air.

“I—I better go home now.”

The Night Manager’s right eyebrow arched in skepticism. This was more familiar ground. Bellhops were always finding some reason why they couldn’t finish out their shifts on slow, tipless nights.

“Must be my eyes, or my stomach,” the bellhop whispered, awe-stricken. “Yeah, it could be my stomach, couldn’t it?”

“How should I know?” the Night Manager asked with asperity. He always found the frank fascination of the lower orders with their viscera disgusting.

“I don’t feel so good. Could I—” The bellhop’s green tinged face showed that even he was abashed at his own temerity. “Could I sit down somewhere?”

The request was so enormous that the Night Manager found himself nodding in stunned acquiescence toward the sanctuary of his own office, which opened behind the desk. He followed the bellhop into the office and watched him collapse into a chair. Unwillingly, he was impressed.

“What’s the story this time?” he asked, and knew that curiosity had become ascendant to disbelief.

The story came out in breathless spurts. A bar-service call from 842. One manhattan, one old-fashioned. He had knocked on the door, quietly because it was getting late. He must have heard the command to enter. Must have heard it, although he couldn’t remember hearing it. Anyway he entered. He didn’t enter no rooms unless he was asked. Musta been asked.

“All right. All right!” the Night Manager prompted.

One guy was sitting on the edge of the bed. Musta been a special bed, like some guests have to have, because it didn’t sag none. He had put the tray of drinks down on the table without looking around for anybody else. He never looked around a room when there was a call for two drinks and only one guy.…

“I do not need to be instructed in hotel-service tact.” The Night Manager recaptured his asperity. “Go on.”

“I’m just waitin’ for my tip, see, and this guy’s actin’ like he don’t know why I’m hangin’ around for. You know the old cheapie routine, and then— It couldn’t be my stomach, could it?” the bellhop broke off to plead.

“Never mind! We can do without your stomach.”

“The bathroom door opens. I’m expectin’ to see a dame. But this thing comes out.”

“What thing?”

“This purple thing. Sort of a purple light in the shape of a whirlwind, or maybe water going down the drain.”

“Then you have been drinking after all,” the Night Manager exclaimed in disgust.

“Honest, Mr. Thistlewaite. That’s what it looked like. A purple whirlwind. It came floating across the room toward me. I peed my pants, I betcha. I ain’t looked to see. Then, all at once, I figgered the gimmick. This was one of them stage magicians, tryin’ out his act on me. I didn’t know we booked no show people.”

“We don’t. We certainly do not,” Mr. Thistlewaite said, with a shudder.

“Well, he wasn’t one anyhow. No magician could do what happened next.” He gulped, and his jaw line began to green again.

“For heaven’s sake, will you get to the point!”

“This purple whirlwind turned into about four other guys. Just like that! So help me! Next thing I know, it’s only one other guy. But it’s like a picture that’s been exposed four times without moving only a little. One guy, only I could count him four times if you know what I mean.”

“I don’t. And I don’t think you do.”

“That’s when I got outa there. He can have his lousy tip. Me, I’m sick at my stomach. I’m seein’ things. Maybe it’s my stomach, I think. Maybe it’s…”

Mr. Thistlewaite breathed a sigh of relief. Nothing to spoil his nice report after all. This was elementary; purely elementary to any student of psychology, and every hotel employee is at least that.

He glanced quickly out into the lobby to make sure that all was well, that no latecomers had stumbled into lobby chairs while they reoriented the swimming, tumbling world enough that they might find their way to the elevator. There were none. All was still serene. He faced the bellhop with a glow of anticipation. Now he could demonstrate why the bellhop was only a bellhop, while he, Mr. Thistlewaite, was a Night Manager.

Reaching far back into the unfortunate lad’s Freudian infancy, Mr. Thistlewaite took off with a running start, sprinted through a sophomore psychology class at Columbia, soared through a pocketbook course in hallucination, spread his own theories concerning double brain lobe nonsynchronization and/or nerve synapses breaking circuit and instantaneously reclosing to create illusion of superimposure of memory upon memory; came down to earth again with a few digs about the effects of alcohol upon kidneys creating swimming sensations before the eyes; and broke the running record with dissertation on the shooting-lights effects of cirrhosis of the liver.

A terrible thought struck him just as he breasted the finish line, and his voice trailed off. He hardly heard the bellhop’s admiring applause.

“Can I go home now?” the boy was asking. “I don’t feel so good. I think maybe it’s something I ate.”

For although Mr. Thistlewaite might be an accomplished avocationist in psychology, he was primarily a Night Manager. And it is the business of the Night Manager to form a mental picture of the hotel floor plan, floor by floor; to know which rooms are occupied and which are not, so that when a registering guest states his wants, there need be no fumbling about to see what the hotel may have to offer.

And he was pretty sure that Room 842 was empty. He rushed out of his office to the key rack. There were the two keys. He sped over to the empties list. The room was empty. He riffled through the day’s registration cards. None showed a check-in to 842.

He turned and stared suspiciously at the bellhop.

The bellhop was not grinning.

* * * *

In 842 the Five, unregistered guests, were communing. They had correctly sommed this structure as shelter for travelers, and this room as unoccupied by any such travelers; but it had not occurred to them that one must register and pay. They could not yet grasp the idea that anywhere in the universe a life form could actually expect repayment for extending hospitality to a stranger. Indeed, the entire concept of commerce was still beyond their grasp. They knew of cannibalism, of course, but to find intelligent life feeding upon each other…

“What is this stuff you’ve chosen from the list of refreshments our host offers?”

“Basically alcohol. Its purpose is to deaden the senses.”

“Why should any intelligent life wish to deaden its perceptions?”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. If I were human, I think I might want my perceptions deadened permanently.”

“You may have a point there. But then, have we found the intelligent species yet? In none of the random samples we’ve sommed…”

“No concept of atomic science. Yet, vague knowledge that other planets of this little solar system have been reached. But really not much interest in it, and no knowledge at all of how it was done. Well, a vague recognition of space ships, but no appreciation whatever of how they work, to say nothing of how to build one.”

“Yet space ships are built.”

“So there must be an intelligent species, somewhere.”

“Perhaps merely masquerading as a human being?”

“Why would they want to do that?”

“That’s only one of the things we don’t comprehend, yet.”

“Our four Black Fleet strikes have come to nothing.”

“I som only the vaguest telepathy communication in this species. Random, disorganized, and undirected flashes.”

“But they do have electronic communication. Highly organized. Why weren’t the visits of the Black Fleet electronically communicated?”

“We’re in for quite a problem. We’ve always thought intelligence was characterized by the communication of knowledge. Here we find the emphasis is upon concealment of knowledge.”

“The strikes of the Black Fleet were known. They were witnessed. We saw to that. I sommed the correct emotional reactions to them from the witnesses. I think we were correct in striking only remote spots where no damage to intelligent life…”

“First rule: We cannot harm intelligent life.”

“First question: How do we know we’ve found some?”

“Our theory breaks down. We assumed unintelligent responses to the Black Fleet might be due to a lower order of species in remote areas, that the more intelligent might concentrate…”

“This is one of the most intense concentrations. Would you say there was any qualitative difference of intelligence in the attendant who brought us these drinks and those who witnessed our strikes in remote areas?”

“The same horror of the unknown.”

“The same ability to cope with their environment barely well enough to stay alive.”

“The similarities are endless. The differences are nil.”

“We have not yet contacted intelligent life.”

“These artifacts all around us show a high order of intelligence.”

“There must be two species.”

“For some reason the lower order is keeping the evidence of our visit from the knowledge of the higher order.”

“Then we must make our strikes close to the areas of high-order artifacts. We must smoke out the intelligent species which conceals itself.”

“It may take some doing. That concealment is extraordinary. None of the individuals we have sommed acknowledge intelligence beyond their own.”

“That’s not the only thing we have to solve. If we are to masquerade as one of them, we’ve got some practice to do. They haven’t negated gravity, for example. I sommed the attendant’s surprise that the bed didn’t sag under your weight.”

“We can’t afford that kind of error. If that one will detect such minor defects, think what a high order of intelligence might see.”

“No more appearing as purple whirlwinds, either.”

“We thought it might shock him into revealing knowledge of where the intelligent ones are to be found. That perhaps he was conspiring to conceal their presence. That perhaps they were intelligent enough to expect us and deemed it prudent to hide from us until they looked us over.”

“That would be natural enough in the survival mechanism—if they were that intelligent. Surely their logic would tell them that when they started stirring in their egg it would be noticed—and investigated.”

“But the attendant showed no knowledge of such a conspiracy of concealment.”

“Certainly we will have to run the risk of accidentally harming intelligent life, by bringing our phenomena of visit out in the open.”

“Meantime, let’s practice the role of the human. Now on this matter of gravity, for example…”

“Yes, an artifact must sag when we sit on it. The carpet must show footprints when we walk on it.”

“That’s a little too much. I heard the walls creak and the whole building tremble.”

“We’re going to have to give over searching for the intelligent ones, at present, and concentrate on simulating the human life, instead of the intelligent one.”

“For the present, then, we’ll accept the most popular art form representation of humans as our model. I think we need to get out and around a bit more, get a little better idea of what is acceptable to humans. If the intelligent species is masquerading as human, he may not reveal himself to us unless we do the same. Perhaps he is concealing himself from the human, as well as from us. Perhaps he will reveal himself only when we are suitably disguised so he may reveal himself to us without, at the same time, revealing himself to the humans.”

There was a murmur of agreement, and the Five merged into one invisible vortex of radiant energy. They soared through the interstices of molecules in the outer wall.

The Night Manager, backed by the House Detective and the Dubious Bellhop, knocked discreetly on the door of 842. There was no answer. He knocked again, although his developed hotel sense already told him the room was empty, that there was no guest or intruder asleep, passed out, or refusing to answer.

He unlocked the door and threw it wide.

Across the room, in the far wall, he was horrified to see a three-foot spiral of radiation-scorched paint. He saw a line of footprints, the carpet nap ground to a powder. He saw a deep sag, reaching almost to the floor, on this side of the bed.

These guests had been even more destructive of property than normal—and they hadn’t registered, or paid, or paid their bar bill. And how was that going to look on his report to management?

It was well for us that the House Detective was an avid fan of science fiction, and thought this phenomenon was sufficiently outre to bring to the attention of Space Navy, Bureau of Extraterrestrial Psychology.

It was too bad that Pentagon red tape prevented the communication from reaching our department until it was too late.

Although, I still don’t see what I might have done about it.

SEVEN

Dr. Kibbie proved right. Time, time was indeed precious.

I had a scant month to get my program of becoming an important man into motion. Because Central Personnel was on a kick of accumulating evidence to show how much they were contributing to economy-in-government, they kept cutting my requisitions for more employees in half—and tallying up the savings to prove how efficient they were.

I endeared myself to them by doubling, tripling, quadrupling my demands, and the mushrooming numbers of people they refused to let me have would make this a banner year for them.

As it turned out, I was able to hire only two thousand five hundred and sixty-nine people and seven hundred and seventy-two Ph.D.s, in that month. My separation of the two species of employees is conscious. The Ph.D. seems determined to separate himself from the human race; and the human race, in equal disdain, is more than agreeable. Why should I antagonize anybody through attempting to join them together again?

Once or twice Shirley did murmur some objections. It seemed that the weekly necessity of finding larger and larger quarters to house our staff kept confusing her on whom she was permitted to administrate, and who was a mere moving man.

Further, since there was more paper work involved in hiring or transferring an employee than any other employee could handle, the department had become so overburdened with handling the process that it would surely capsize and sink. I gave her the usual governmental solution to that problem: If there was too much work involved for the people in her department, then we must simply hire more people. Also, hadn’t we better set up a special committee to investigate the amount of work involved?

She shuddered and pointed out that she was working night and day to administrate all this, as it was, without taking on an investigating committee. I pointed out, quite logically, that the superior executive must learn to delegate authority and responsibility—and hadn’t we better concentrate on hiring her a cabinet of specialists to aid her?

But her heart was not really in her objections, for she was able to walk the streets again without dodging former friends who played the numbers game of importance in Washington in the same way the Hollywood climber drops names.

Sara had given me no problem. When she heard I wasn’t coming back to Computer Research, she took it for granted I wouldn’t be able to run the government without her help. When I telephoned her, diffidently, to suggest she weigh her loyalty to Computer Research against the interest and advantage of joining me here at the Pentagon (and expecting some demurring and hesitancy from her) she responded by rather crisply letting me know she had been packed for three days, waiting, and apparently I really did need a secretary or it wouldn’t have taken me so long to get around to that detail.

Nor did Sara and Shirley strike any sparks in one another. Both had about the same opinion of me—that I didn’t know enough to come in out of the rain. They seemed quite willing to share the responsibility for me—the one to see that I wore my overshoes, the other to see that I carried my umbrella.

Even Space Navy seemed a little relieved to find Sara on the scene. I was a bachelor, unattached, and Dr. Kinsey had pointed out a few things about bachelors in their late thirties. F.B.I. had not succeeded in finalizing its investigations into my secret sex practices—maybe because I hadn’t had any. Now all was well, for the time being. That I had so promptly sent for my previously established private secretary, a female, lowered some eyebrows which had begun to rise. The men seemed reassured, although their wives might not approve.

Dr. Kibbie was delighted. In common with most governmental officials, he hadn’t really had any idea of how enormously much two billion dollars actually is; and he wasn’t sleeping well nights, worrying about how he was going to get rid of it all in time for the next appropriations. Now this seemed to be heading toward a solution. He began to bring his various department heads around to show what was being done in other yards; and they began, appropriately, to hate me.

Everything was normal—for Washington, that is.

I hadn’t really believed it, but I found my own importance was beginning to increase proportionate to the numbers of people I was hiring. Of course I was too far down the echelons to be noticed by any news reporters, to say nothing of being mentioned by any commentators; but various other minor executives were beginning to nod when we met in the halls and even chat with me a little in the cafeteria. Guardedly, of course; and with a roving eye to make sure they were being observed by those even lower in the chain of echelon than we; and not being observed by any higher who might be inclined to place them at my level if they were seen talking to me.

Indeed, I was, at this point, still so far down in the lower levels that I hadn’t felt even a remotely indirect pressure applied by one Mr. Harvey Strickland.

Of course I knew there had to be a Mr. Harvey Strickland. I had seen too many wholesome, frank, good boys who always do what they are told, parlayed from City Councilman to the apex of government or near it in a few short years, to doubt the existence of a Mr. Harvey Strickland somewhere behind the scenes writing the script and pulling the strings.

There is always a Mr. Harvey Strickland.

This, a summary of the state of things at the time the Black Fleet struck again.

EIGHT

The first announcement of the attacking Black Fleet came over the six-o’clock evening analysis-of-our-troubles program. I was sitting alone in my suite at Washington’s exclusive Brighton Hotel—paid for out of Dr. Kibbie’s two billion as temporary quarters while my status was being clarified.

The announcement broke with stunning suddenness, in the middle of a routine analysis of the commentator’s opinion of the country’s opinion of the current Administration as reflected in the stock market. The commentator was pausing for the Idiot’s Reminder, out of camera focus, to catch up with his rapid-fire delivery, when the fax machine beside his desk suddenly went crazy.

The bell jangled urgently, and kept on jangling in spite of the commentator’s headshake of annoyance that somebody had missed a cue. Then the machine began to chatter and a message began to roll.

The young, scholarly commentator took one quick glance at the lead sentence. He leaped to his feet, kicked his chair over backward. He swallowed hard. When he started to read, his voice cracked and broke. A quick-witted cameraman moved in for a close-up on the fax paper, so the televiewers could read the message for themselves.

“An Air Defense Command outpost has sighted a large fleet of unidentified black, disc-shaped projectiles sweeping toward the Capital from the general direction of lower Chesapeake Bay.”

I cocked an eyebrow and looked at the screen sardonically. All right, so it was a government commercial telling us we should be scared enough to pay the higher taxes Congress was contemplating. I could anticipate the following lines: “All citizens are urged to start digging their bomb shelters at once. The Civilian Defense Command must begin considering the appointment of regional commanders—now! Airforce anti-interceptor anti-missile anti-missile anti-missiles must receive the highest priority for research since the Black Fleet is now within a few miles of us and coming fast!”

The Black Fleet!

I gasped. It hadn’t registered. So some stupe had leaked the information out of our department after all. Dr. Kibbie would be fit to be tied. Maybe some Pentagon Department had got its Madison Avenue publicity firm to help it get its appropriation; and to hell with Dr. Kibbie, and the Bureau of Extraterrestrial Psychology.

So I had failed in my first mission—in a government of the people, by the people, for the people—and the people were going to find out anyhow.

There had been a longer-than-normal pause while the commentator kept looking off to one side. He turned back to face the audience.

“We take you now to our own Bobby Lovelace, news analyst directly at the scene,” he informed us.

“Oh, sure,” I said in disgust. “Ham it up, boys. Long as you’ve let it out, milk it for everything it’s got.”

There was the usual flickering on the screen, an unscheduled rough word spoken by some engineer along the line, a new face on the screen. No doubt their own Bobby Lovelace, although he missed giving himself a credit line. His eyes were distended, his face pale, his hands trembled.

“Evil!” he was mouthing in a whisper. “Horrible! Unclean! You’ll see when they get there. I can’t talk about it. You’ll see for yourselves.” He waved his hands in negation before his face. The camera moved off him and the screen blanked out.

“Oh, come now, fellows,” I exclaimed aloud. “That’s hamming it up too much. Even for television.”

I had a full moment to reflect upon the diminishing returns of piling drama upon drama in futile attempt to stir the interest of an apathetic public already surfeited with Hollywood’s writing stupidities.

But then, from far down Connecticut Avenue, from somewhere deep in the marble and stone heart of the city, there drifted the faint, strange sound of a pulsating siren. Nearby, police whistles begin to shrill, stop, shrill again, stop, shrill again—the best that could be accomplished on short notice to sound an air-raid warning.

“This is going pretty far,” I murmured. “When the police department sells its services to put over a TV program.”

But it must have had its effect on some, for in the adjoining suite the sounds of a cocktail party for some petty senator faded to a strangled, waiting silence.

For the first time, I felt unease; as if there were something in the atmosphere.

“Good God,” I breathed. “Don’t tell me that even I am responding to such Hollywood hokum!” But I was. To my astonishment, I was beginning to wonder if it were hokum, after all.

The screen came on again, and we were back in the Washington studio. The young commentator, whose face still reflected his first shock, had had a little time to collect himself; but he had to try three times before he could light a nonchalant cigarette. The cameraman must have been assigned an acting part, also, because he was having trouble keeping the news desk and fax machine in focus.

The fax machine was still. And that stillness was even more compelling than its frantic activity had been.

“They’ve put a good director on this production,” I said, still aloud. “A cheap one would be emoting all over the place.” I paused. “I think I’ll watch it,” I said. “It might turn into a pretty good show after all.”

And felt a renewal of my astonishment that I didn’t believe it was a staged production, in spite of my spoken words. Perhaps it was the tenseness in the atmosphere. The air was heavy, stifling. I got up out of my chair and walked across the room to open the French windows which let out upon a private balcony. There were no street noises. In this neighborhood it was always quiet, subdued in the genteel manner; but there was always that distant throb of a city inhabited by people who were more than one quarter alive. Now there seemed to be a sound vacuum.

I walked back and sat down again before the television screen, which lit up half of one wall in the room.

As if from force of habit, the commentator picked up a sheet of his script, always at hand in case the Idiot’s Reminder broke down. He looked at it with an air of wonderment, then he raised his eyes to the camera again.

“Well,” he said simply. “I guess we’ll just have to wait this out together.”

I caught myself nodding in agreement.

“Good work,” I said approvingly. “Damn good work.” But somehow, now, my persistence in regarding it as fiction seemed the tawdry unreality, instead of, as usual, the production.

We waited it out together.

I caught myself wondering if I shouldn’t be trying to get down to my office at the Pentagon, and checking the impulse with asking what I would do after I got there. If this did prove fiction, that kind of response could make any official a laughingstock. If it were not fiction…

I swallowed.

I looked at the commentator again. He was still sitting. He shrugged. He looked down at his script. He looked up again. He flicked the script he had been reading before the announcement.

“Seems silly to go on with this drivel, now,” he said.

I think that blasphemous statement convinced me more than anything else. That, and nothing happening. For the first law of entertainment is that something must be happening every minute, every second. There must be no silence, no ghastly pause.

Outside, another siren began to take up the wail, up and down, up and down in its modulations—as if, somehow, to make up for the silence on the screen; somehow to carry on the national mania, that none be subjected to silence and stillness, ever, lest he begin, once more, to think.

The fax machine started to chatter again. Now the commentator was able to read the message as it appeared. His voice was clear but tense.

“Bulletin… London… Unknown projectiles in large numbers are approaching up the Thames from the Channel Coast.…

“Bulletin… Tokyo… Missiles maneuvering at high altitudes near Yokohama…

“Bulletin… Moscow… Anti-missile missiles released against enemy projectiles…last warning to United States…call off attack…or we will press button.…

“Bulletin…Omaha…last warning to Russia…call off attack or we will press button…”

The machine stopped.

The commentator stared at it, uncomprehending.

“You can’t stop there,” he said aloud to the machine.

Clearly this was too much. He looked off-stage, as if appealing to the director for assistance; and the shrug he gave must have been a repetition of the shrug he received.

Once again the fax machine chattered out a message. A very brief message.

“Projectiles now over Washington.”

I stood up, uncertain, dazed, pondering the habit of getting my information from the screen versus going to see for myself. As if coming out of sleep I shook off the stupidity and, in a kind of reluctance, forced myself to walk over to the French windows and out upon the balcony.

The July dusk had blended into night. Stars were clear and bright in the moonless sky. Street lights had been shut off in accord with some dusty, moulded plan of the past, but at the distant shopping center a neon glow suggested store owners hadn’t been told about it; or maybe they were straining for one last sale before being blown to Kingdom Come.

Over downtown Washington, some eight miles to the southeast, a weird red haze was forming in the sky. Swiftly it swelled, and grew, and took shape; with formations of tongues of flame. And now the whole sky was a mass of red, leaping flames.

Out of the flames, as if against a backdrop on a stage, there silhouetted the dead black discs.

My gorge rose in revulsion, I fought for detachment; to still my atavistic fears; to remind myself that man had created the dread forces of Evil out of his own sick imaginings, even as he had created the forces of Good out of his noble aspirations. It did no good. This was materialization of something basically, inherently Evil, no sickness of the imagination.

Something seemed to go awry with my time sense. I seemed suspended in a kind of time vacuum, a new realization of how much we depend upon it for the sense of continuity. I could not tell whether things were happening simultaneously, instantaneously, or with long lapses of time in between.

The discs were maneuvering now at dazzling speed, sharply wheeling in one direction, veering with incredible violation of momentum’s laws in another. Breaking, scattering, one moment in quantum-particle randomness; the next in circle, in boxed, or V, or straight-line formation; obeying some principle-pattern all their own, without meaning to me, to us, to man.

From the Earth crimson fingers of anti-aircraft fire reached up for the projectiles, seeming to connect the flames of the sky with those of Earth, all of a piece, until not only time was lost, but direction, orientation, sense of origin was lost, not to know whether the red flames were being hurtled downward from the ships or upward from our gun emplacements.

* * * *

Now the night was slashed into flaming, crisscross patterns of white and red tracer-missile lines. But I saw no disc hesitate, falter, fall. At times of randomness some seemed hurtling toward Earth, and yet a second (a moment? an hour?) later, when they flashed into some unexpected formation, none were laggard from wounds, none a hairsbreadth out of line.

Perhaps our barrage was missing its target entirely, perhaps deflected by some force we could not know, perhaps passing through without harm. Who could know?

* * * *

At times, some single disc, plunging downward toward me, toward us all, with crushing speed, and sending me cowering back against the window frame, seemed almost to fill the whole sky, incredibly huge, incomprehensibly massive; yet later (how much later?) no more than a black pin point against the flaming yellow and crimson sky. For they were maneuvering in depth as well as across the vault of our sky—in third dimension. And, for all we knew, in some mathematical fourth, as well?

How could we know? For surely no power on Earth had a science which could violate the laws of inertia with such impunity. And if not of Earth, then what Earthly logic could we calculate to apply?

* * * *

We ceased streaking our futile anti-missile missiles at them now. The discs dominated the sky, alone.

* * * *

As if out of some museum dedicated to the past, as if man were realizing in that peril that the human brain might, after all, creatively function on the spur of the moment to prove superior to the planned patterns of mechanical brains, and with some antiquated tools at hand prove yet superior to modern instruments, Air Force interceptors came up and into the sky.

As if to complement their tiny V, the discs formed a mighty V to stretch across the sky. I felt a sob quicken my throat, admiration of such incredible bravery, shame that I was sometimes sardonic and cynical of man.

* * * *

“Goddamn,” I heard myself saying over and over. “Damn, damn, damn.” That such courage should be so futile.

* * * *

The blur of my grief for man streaked the lights. I dashed away the scintillating tears angrily. The clutches of wing missiles soared out ahead of the interceptors, the sonic booms shocked and roared and made puny the sounds of firing. Puny, too, the little V as it approached the apex of the gigantic one, but, goddamn, how brave!

The points of the tiny and the great merged. Our small was lost in the huge, swallowed in flaming radiance.

* * * *

But when the vast V wheeled away, majestically, the interceptors could be discerned once more; yes, there they were, zooming wildly, as if out of control, into space.

Yet not out of control, no. I felt my caught breath return, hurting, when I saw them re-forming into attack groups. Section by trained section they peeled off, in traditional patterns preserved out of a long-dead past, they hurled in sonic-booming speeds toward the giant V. Small groups of us, attacking theirs, Them. At the sides of their apex instead of its point, cutting loose at them with ear-numbing barrages, and using the very forces of recoil to pull the interceptors up and out of their screaming power dives.

And against all our unleashed might, not one single projectile wavered from the huge formation.

* * * *

Crouched there on the balcony, my back against—all right, all right, cowering against—the solid window frame, the only seeming solid thing in a boiling fluid world of noise and motion and light, I watched the fight go on.

The fight?

There was no fight. There was Man, spewing all his power, all his might, all the fierce, aggressive product of his brain and hand against his enemy. How had we known it enemy?

But there was no fight.

For the discs were not striking back. No red ray coruscated down and down to melt our City into flowing stone.

My senses numbed.

There had been not even falling shrapnel, broken pieces of missiles fired from our own at them. It was as if some unknown vacuum cleaner, electromagnet, sucked up the debris of battle as it occurred—to keep our people safe and our streets clean.

* * * *

“I—don’t—understand,” I said slowly, as if the formation of each word required the search of some unfamiliar glossary to translate my feelings into words.

* * * *

Spent interceptors returned to Earth, new waves of others arose to take their place—no less brave, no less determined.

No more effective.

Ignored now by the discs, they spent themselves in turn. The great V no longer paid us the compliment of wheeling massively to meet our charge. Rather now it seemed bent on some purpose of its own, without regard.

Yes, the far ends of the angle lines were curving inward, bending, bending inward until at last they met. A cloudiness appeared in circle at the center, and at its center an incredibly bright spot of pure crimson light. The cloudy haze coalesced, solidified, striated.

A monstrous, pupil-pierced and piercing, bloodshot eye looked down upon the city.

I later learned it was the common experience of each human being in the city, but at that moment I was convinced the piercing gaze seemed directed upon me, into me, through me.

* * * *

The eye, at first stretching almost from horizon to horizon, was smaller now. Now it filled but half the sky. And this before I had realized it was shrinking at all, so firm its hypnotic gaze. But now that I had realized it, the shrinking was accelerated; the eye was going away from us; faster and faster; out into space.

* * * *

Yet even to the last, that piercing pupil penetrated me, impaled me upon its malevolent beam of light.

And then it, too, winked out.

* * * *

The flaming mists of the sky cleared. Here and there, the brighter stars began to shine through it. In the distance, over Rock Creek Park, I could see the last interceptors returning to Earth.

There seemed no triumph in their flight.

* * * *

The sky was clear and black. The stars shone bright—and cold. No longer friendly stars, twinkling the planets at us as if with amusement at the foibles of man.

No longer friendly sky, velvet soft and comforting.

There were Things out there.

Our tiny Earth was spinning through that cold, remorseless vacuum, alone.

And nothing to hide behind.

NINE

For three days the Black Fleet appeared, and disappeared, and reappeared. Over every major city of the Earth. The Black Fleet? The many, many Black Fleets. So often, simultaneously, in so many places that the wildest sort of reckoning could not estimate their number.

Now there was no thought of nation against nation, man against man; man taming other men to his service, submission, his pattern of the only Right.

Now the discs had reappeared over New York City once more. But this time their pattern was different. They did not appear, play out their ominous and meaningless formations, wash the Earth below them in a stinking miasma of revolting, evil dread, and then disappear.

They stayed. For seven hours now they had hovered and circled endlessly; as if they waited for momentous signal known only to them.

The city below seemed virtually dead. On appearance, at noon this time, having seem them several times before, the New Yorker had cocked an eye heavenward, shrugged, and gone about his business. But the fleet had stayed, and, as if somewhere a valve had been opened to let off the steam, the city slowed, and died.

No one knew where or how it started, but through the long afternoon the feeling grew universal that this time they meant business. This was it. And the waiting grew intolerable.

The waiting grew intolerable for Mr. Harvey Strickland.

He sat, robed in his purple dressing gown, on his high-backed and carved throne-chair, there in his penthouse atop one of his many newspaper buildings. He watched the television wall, and curled his lip in fury.

It wasn’t going over. With his expert, uncanny feel of mass reaction, he knew his organization was missing fire. They went through the motions of the formula, but too many of them were like that first announcer of the projectiles. Too many of them considered the stuff they spoke and printed as mere drivel. He’d fired the guy, of course, for letting the public see that he considered it so much nonsense, and ordinarily this would have been enough to make the rest of his organization men dig in with added display of enthusiasm, smacking their lips to show how much they enjoyed eating the crap. But they weren’t.

And the people weren’t buying the crap.

There was little traffic, little movement in the streets; and that little was hasty, furtive; rats scurrying from one hole to another. The people congregated in sheltered places, crowded under awnings, overhanging canopies, in doorways, at windows; and to heighten the similarity of wary rodents, they packed in the subway entrances where they could scurry downward into tunnels burrowed in the Earth when the menace came too near.

Instead of watching his television screens and reading his newspapers for their interpretation, the goddamn people were seeing for themselves!

His radio and television channels were blanketed with Harvey Strickland’s own subsidized extorters who pleaded, stormed, raged, and threatened the people to get down on their knees, bow their heads in humility.

His scornful lip lifted from his lengthened, yellow teeth. Humility! He knew it, the Harvey Stricklands had always known that humility was the basest, most ignoble, unworthy posture a man can find; but it was the formula which had brought man back to groveling in the dust again and again. Subservient to the Harvey Stricklands, serving their ends.

The formula just wasn’t going over!

The damn rabbits sat in their warrens and cowered from the hunters above them—and the hunters, this time, were not controlled by Harvey Strickland. There should be processions. There should be martyred songs of defiance. There should be marching people. There should be line-up and clamor for self-destruction. The formula was guaranteed.

And what did the damn rabbits do? They sat in their holes and trembled!

Trouble was, this time, there wasn’t anything they could pick on, nothing weaker than themselves.

He pushed his massive body, groaning under the weight of fat, out of his throne chair and began to pace the floor in sudden fury. Goddamn it, he’d missed his cue. He should have set up a scapegoat, a whole bunch of scapegoats. He should have manufactured some victims for the majority to persecute. Hell, that was the simplest formula in the book. The stupidest mayor of a stinking country town knew that one. Some blacks here, some Jews there, Catholics here, Protestants there, Irishmen, Swedes, Polacks, commies and homosexuals everywhere. Hell, with just a little twist of words, any and all of these could be made to look responsible for the Black Fleet. It always worked.

And he’d slipped on it.

He knew damn well that humans would never go out and tackle anything stronger than they were. They had to feel they were in the majority; they had to feel that the opinion of the majority was behind them—no matter what hypocritical false front they put on for public consumption—before they would dare to stand up and be counted. Oh they were strong on crusading for perfectly safe subjects, these humans; but they had to have something weak and running in fear before they’d change over from rabbits to dogs and run baying after it in furious, frenzied chase.

But, damn it, he hadn’t had time. Nobody had tipped him off to expect the Black Fleet. What was the matter with that Pentagon? Why hadn’t they tipped him off? Wasn’t it their business to know, to anticipate? And weren’t they completely dependent upon him to shape the mass mind for them? Trouble was, they were so engrossed in strutting around upstaging one another with their silly little brass and braid symbols, they’d forgot what they were there for—and who kept ’em there.

And why hadn’t his own direct organization men been on their toes, and, even without warning, put the formula into motion without waiting to be told? Hell, he’d trained them well enough. They’d been pampered and spoiled with the high wages he paid them, the silly little status levels he’d granted them, to the point that they would sacrifice anything, anything at all to keep their position. That was his technique. He’d seen to it that all his independent editors, on both sides of every fence, said what he wanted them to say; the pro faction coming out strong, the con faction advancing such weak arguments against that even a child could see the only possible Right way to look at the question. Every damn one of his free and fearless commentators and columnists said exactly what he wanted them to say. They didn’t get hired unless their past opinions showed they could be trusted. They didn’t work for him if they didn’t go on freely and independently coming to the conclusions favorable to Mr. Harvey Strickland. Hell, they couldn’t work anywhere if they didn’t do that.

So now, in a real emergency, they’d sat on their over-stuffed duffs and let the Black Fleet take over without making one move to capitalize on it to strengthen his position.

Angrily, he waddled over to the television monitors and flipped the switch to turn them off—a symbolic destruction of them all. He turned to do the same thing to the battery of fax machines lined up along the wall, but paused to read the latest messages.

The same thing was happening everywhere, over all the large cities of America, over every large city in the world.

Everywhere, the discs hovered, and wheeled in formation, and waited.

An unbidden doubt tried to force its way into his mind that there might be no opportunity in this to tighten his hold on the mass mind still more; that this might be something beyond his capacity to turn to his own advantage. He shook his massive head angrily, and shrugged off the weakness. He would not, he could not allow such an idea to take full form in his mind. He would be no better than the rabbits he despised if he did.

But there could be no doubt about one thing. The Black Fleet was getting ready for the kill. And he didn’t see one single angle for getting in on the winning end of it, somehow.

If there were only some way he could get next to the projectiles, deal with them. They must want something. They had to want something. There must be minds inside those discs. And where there were minds capable of all this, there were also minds capable of working the angles. Patriots and enemies? These were rabbit words, dog words. Humans, men, real men, the boys on top, they negotiated and dealt and worked the angles among themselves. They dealt themselves in and divided up the pot, each one grabbing all he could, and recognizing each other’s right to take what he could get.

There must be minds like that in those discs. Capable of dominating the whole Earth in three days, as these were, they should also be capable of recognizing one of their own, and his right to be in the pot—himself, accustomed to dominating, one Harvey Strickland.

So if they wanted to dominate the Earth, why didn’t they deal? Why weren’t they putting out feelers?

Why weren’t they putting out feelers?

A new thought crept in to horrify him. What if they had been doing just that? Hell, they could have taken over that first night. So what else could be the meaning of all that pointless appearing and reappearing? What if they were hovering there now, from noon until near dusk, waiting, waiting for him to respond to their feelers?

And he didn’t know how!

The frustration, exasperation pumped powerful shots of adrenalin into his blood, made him forget to wheeze and groan in protest against gravity pulling at his fat. His rage sent him waddling, almost running, out to the garden surrounding his house on top of the building. He watched the fading sky, followed the projectiles—as if by the very power of his eyes he could make them take notice of him, come to him, deal with him.

They wanted to control the people, didn’t they? They hadn’t killed any of them off, so they must want them preserved for some end. Well, he controlled the people. He owned ’em. They’d have to come to him in the long run.

Or did they figure to just hijack the lot of them, right out from under him?

In a new surge of fury he kicked at some summer asters, a careless symbol of his wealth and power; for the space they occupied was more valuable than gold. Their feathery heads, purple and red and white, broke at the blow from his foot—as easily as the wills of pampered people broke when he put his foot down. The weakness of the plants teased him into sadism; he stamped on the bushes with his foot, ground the foliage down into the soil. He gave a final, harder kick at the thought of his gardener who would survey the damage with sad, patient eyes—and make no comment about it.

Up there among the circling, black discs, there wasn’t a single anti-missile missile; not one. Not even a damn interceptor. There wasn’t any sound of anti-aircraft fire. They’d given up trying to fight. The people were like his gardener. When it was all over, they’d clean up the mess, and plant something else, and hope. He snorted in disgust as his mind gave him the picture of the terrible and futile patience of people who can’t do anything but try—and hope.

Goddamn it! Why didn’t his phone ring? He’d put in another call to Washington. Why didn’t the operator get him through? He thought of going back in, picking up the phone, needling the operator about it. But he knew the response, the damn operator would whine and snivel.

“Mr. Strickland, sir, I’m trying, sir. All I can do is try, sir. The military, sir, is using all trunks for the defense of the nation. But I’ll keep trying, sir.”

The heat of his anger, the residual heat of the day even at this height of a hundred stories up, made him loosen the purple robe which swathed his rolls of fat. He walked over to the parapet surrounding his penthouse garden and breathed deeply of the summer evening air. With the city at dead halt, the damn stuff was nearly clean.

He looked out over the parapet, a hundred stories below. But the ants weren’t crawling around on the threads of streets to amuse him as usual. There, to one side, the East River was a silver ribbon that partly encircled Manhattan. He had once thought of it as a silver ribbon around a tinseled Christmas package—all for him.

Above him arose the transmitter tower of one of his New York television stations. It was a symbol, too, a royal scepter, if you please; more powerful and more commanding of subjugation of men’s minds than that of any king who ever lived. The sight of it, still standing there, pointed at the projectiles as an accusing finger points at God, telling him to mind his manners and do as he is told or the people will dismiss him as casually as they have dismissed so many other gods in the past; the sight of it restored his calm, his confidence of his power and destiny.

He looked at the projectiles again, and this time calculatingly, with detachment. Let them send out their feelers; he didn’t know how to answer. In the long run they’d find they should have tried other ways to reach him. Let them strike, let them dominate, let them take control of Earth. In the long run they’d have to come to him. Because you can’t control the actions of men unless you control their minds.

They’d have to come to him in the end.

He chuckled sardonically, and made an upward stabbing motion with his middle finger.

“And that’s just where I’ll give it to them.” He laughed loudly at the wit of his coarse pun.

Every conqueror in the past had found out the same thing: You can’t control a country without help from the people, some people, of that country. So when these conquerors tried to take over and work through the men already established, they’d find out something. Something Harvey Strickland already knew: That when a man sells his independence of thought for money or status, without realizing it he also sells his capacity for independence of thought; and, like the worn-out columnists and commentators, he must play the same old record over and over, because he has no capacity for taking a fresh point of view. Through the years the record gets scratchier and scratchier and more and more out of tune with the times; until finally the pay-off, the man himself, realizes that way back there when he sold out, he really sold out.

All through the whole structure there were men who had sold out to him; and when these conquerors tried to use those men, because they’d known that a man who will sell himself to one will equally sell himself to another, they’d have to turn to him.

Yes, whoever was back of these projectiles would have to come to him in the end. He looked up at them, still hovering above. He laughed loudly again, and in his triumph, already tasted, he smashed his right hand against the cement top of the garden wall. He looked at his hand in surprise when the pain seeped through the layers of fat. He glared at the offending wall, and wished it were human. It had been a long time since a human had dared give him pain.

He gently rested his bruised hand in the pocket of his robe and waddled back through the French doors which opened out upon his garden from the office. At his desk he sat down heavily, picked up the phone, and grinned in visioning the instant apprehension of the man on the switchboard down in the bowels of the building.

“Got that call through yet?” he demanded.

“N-n-no, s-sir,” the man stammered.

“Well, damn it, if you’d stop sitting there playing with yourself and get going…”

“I mean, sir, I’m not sure, I don’t know…”

“Quit chittering. Why haven’t you got Higgins?”

“Well, sir, his staff says that since he is Senate Majority Leader he is in a big meeting at the White House, with the general staff, and they won’t…”

“Oh, shut up. Gimme the Washington operator. I’ll do it, myself.”

And then he told the woman operator who responded from Washington, “Gimme the White House.”

“Sorry, sir,” the woman said automatically. “All circuits are busy. The projectiles…”

“Oh, crap!” he said. “Gimme your supervisor. Let me talk to somebody with sense. Gimme your manager.”

“Supervisor,” another voice said almost instantly.

“This is Harvey Strickland,” he said. “Break a circuit and put me through to the White House.”

There was a short delay, a very short one. Only long enough for her to report the name and request to the manager and ask for instruction.

“Yes, Mr. Strickland.” She came back on the line with the words. “Right away.”

Almost immediately the White House switchboard answered.

“This is Harvey Strickland,” he said again. “Get Senator Higgins on the phone for me.”

“He is in a meeting with the President, the Cabinet, the General Staff, and the Heads of the Department of Extraterrestrial Psychology…” she began.

“I said this was Harvey Strickland,” he enunciated slowly, ominously. “If you’d clean out your ears you could hear what I’m saying.”

“Yes, sir. I know who you are, sir,” she said. Then doubtfully, “I’ll see, sir.”

While he waited, he jabbed the circuit button on his phone to signal his own operator.

“Yes, sir,” the young man answered.

“You see, I got through without any trouble at all. I don’t know why it is, Goddamn it, that I gotta do everything for myself…”

“This is Tom Higgins, Harvey,” a voice interrupted his tirade.

“Wait a minute, Tom,” he commanded. Then to his operator. “Get off the line, damn it. Who the hell told you that you could listen in on my private calls?”

There was a click as his operator broke the circuit without answering.

“Well, how about it?” Strickland demanded.

“No decision yet, Harvey,” the Senate Majority Leader answered apologetically.

“What! Why, damn it, what’re you guys doing down there? You go back to that meeting and tell them to use an H-Bomb on those projectiles and no more nonsense about it. Damn it, Higgins, you hear me?”

Tom Higgins’ voice drifted to him then, old and weary. “Yeah, Harvey, I hear you.”

“Well then, get back in there and goose them pinhead generals off their fat duffs!”

“There are a lot of angles to this thing, Harvey.” Higgins’ voice seemed to grow stronger. “We’ve got a couple of experts on extraterrestrial psychology testifying. A Dr. Kibbie and a Dr. Ralph Kennedy. Kibbie doesn’t know anything, he’s just a promoter. But Kennedy talks some sense. He says there’s something odd and peculiar about the behavior pattern. I don’t know, he says a lot of things, but he does point out one thing you can’t get around, Harvey. They haven’t hurt us yet. That’s an angle, you know.”

Strickland picked up a solid-silver ash tray and hurled it across the office. It crashed against a far wall, gouged a hole in one of the heraldic symbols carved into the wall.

“Angles!” he shouted. His voice was high and shrill. “Don’t give me any stuff about angles. Don’t give me any of that professor talk about peculiar patterns of behavior. I know what the damn angle is. I know what they’re waiting for. They’re waiting to hear from me. That’s what this is all about. And I’m gonna give ’em an answer. The answer is gonna be the H-Bomb. They’re gonna find out I got a little trick or so of my own. Drop that goddamn H-Bomb on them. That’s all I want.”

“Look, Harvey,” Higgins tried to reason with him. “The discs are over big cities. A whole city would be wiped out—a million people or more.”

“Who cares?”

“Well, now, Harvey…public opinion…”

“Public opinion? For Chrissake, who you think tells the public what its opinion is? Goddamn it, Tom, gimme a week with my newspapers and my television and radio stations—and you’ve got any kind of public opinion you want to ask for. You know that. You know how you’ve been elected all those terms. And if the President has forgotten…”

“But all those innocent people…” Higgins said, almost with a groan.

“All those innocent people,” Strickland mimicked. “So what’ll happen? Hell. You know what it’ll do, well as me. It always does it, any kind of trouble. It sends ’em back to their beds to breed faster, to make even more people than was lost. Far as opinion goes, them that don’t get hit will shrug it off. They weren’t hurt, so why squawk. Them that do get hit won’t matter. Look, Tom, you gotta take the broad view of these things. You tell them generals to stop shilly-shallying around, listening to college professors, and get back to doing what they’re suppose to do. Drop that H-Bomb, and stop arguing.”

“Okay, Harvey,” Higgins answered faintly. “I’ll tell them. I’ll tell them how you feel.”

“Whoa! Back up! It doesn’t make any difference how I feel. See? I’m just a newspaperman. I just print the news. I don’t make it. I got to tell you this again?, Something you learned thirty years ago?”

“But, Harvey! Something as big as this. They won’t drop the H-Bomb on my say-so. Something big as this, Harvey, maybe you’ve got to come out into the open…”

“And if I do, how’m I going to mold public opinion? I’d be an interested party. And if I can’t mold public opinion, you’ll all go down the drain.”

“Maybe we should, Harvey. Maybe we should.”

“Now you look here, Tom.” Harvey Strickland took a negotiating tone. “This is not your decision to make. You’re not a military man. You’re not trained to make the kind of decisions a military man has to make. So it won’t be your decision. It’ll be their decision. All you have to do is remind them they’re military men.

“Remind them to go back and pick up on their West Point training, and places like that. Remind them to stop thinking about people and start thinking about troops and forces. Troops and forces don’t bleed, you know. They’re just tactical problems on blackboards.

“Remind them about those conversations they used to have; where they used to speculate on whether the lower orders actually had any nerves and feelings. And the lower orders being anybody who didn’t go to West Point, or the like. If they’ve developed weak stomachs, tell them to start thinking about maps and forces and calculated risks, the way they were trained. Hell, they’re trained to be killers, so what’s stopping them?

“You understand me, Tom?”

“I’ll tell them, Harvey.” The voice sounded sick.

“Yeah,” Strickland said contemptuously. “I thought you would.”

He put down the receiver and rubbed his hands together. He didn’t resent having to blow some steam into his men once in a while. It was a reminder of what they would be without him.

They wouldn’t decide to use New York as the test city, of course. Because he was in New York.

And they wouldn’t decide to use Washington, because they were in Washington.

It would be some place like St. Louis, maybe. There’d been a strong, unaccountable anti vote in St. Louis last election. Maybe he’d better give some more thought to replacing some editors and station managers out there. Then he chuckled. He was forgetting. There wouldn’t be any to replace after a few minutes. If they decided on St. Louis. Maybe he’d better call Tom and tell him to use St. Louis. No, better not. Let them make the decision.

He touched a button beside one of the jeweled lights along the ledge of his desk; and knew it was like touching a raw nerve to make the man at the other end jump out of his chair and start running to the elevator. All these buttons were nerve endings, the nerves reaching down through the executive offices from penthouse to basement, even down to the subbasement where giant presses thundered day and night to grind out read-and-repeat public opinion.

Precisely in the number of seconds it would take for his secretary to rush from his office, give the special signal to the elevator reserved for express trips to the penthouse, and the operator to make the pickup and full speed to the top, the elevator door in one wall of his office opened. From the door there stepped a gray, gaunt man who walked resolutely across the wide expanse of floor between the elevator and the desk.

This was Miller, Strickland’s personal secretary.

Forty years ago, Miller had been a college hero, the most popular man on the campus, the president of the senior class, the president of the united-fraternity council. That class had also contained one Harvey Strickland, not a college hero, virtually unknown on the campus, and president of nothing.

Miller had been the man voted most likely to succeed. Strickland had received one vote—his own. But he had known, even then, that his vote counted more than all the rest.

The friendless hours of Strickland’s college years were not lonely. He was busy accumulating information about each of his classmates, their families, their friends, the business contacts upon whom they expected to trade when they got out of school, the pranks they played, the remarks they made when, hot for idealism, they said incautious things.

The dossiers grew thick with facts and notes. They contained the essence of every chance contact he made. They contained records of invitations not issued to him, and the refusals of his. They contained details of the contemptuous refusals of girls. They contained every honor each classmate had received. And every honor which he, himself, had not received was an insult to be revenged—someday.

The dossier of Miller was thickest of them all.

Oh, that senior class scattered after graduation, like a flock of giddy butterflies. He could not keep track of them all, and in later years it had cost him a fortune in detective agency fees to trace them all. A fortune well spent.

He had had one advantage over them. They’d ridden, sheltered and in comfort, on society’s protection-of-youth train. They expected to go on riding, in equal shelter and comfort. They knew nothing else. But he had had to slog it out, step by weary step, all the way. He knew the score, and began to cash in on it long before they began to get the hint that there even was a score. And that it wasn’t added up the way their professors thought.

Lost in the melee of living in an adult world, fully realized only by him, was a certain statistic. For some odd reason, only one man in that senior class had succeeded in life. For everyone else, after the first few years of promising bright success, everything seemed to go wrong. Whatever they grasped seemed somehow to turn into dust in their fingers. They never knew why.

Other men, lesser men, might have been tempted to let them know the prime mover behind the scenes, remind them of the cuts and slights and indifference, remind them they had backed the wrong horse; ignored the right one. This was not the Strickland way. This was the most delicious part of his triumph; that they never knew why. To believe that their failure was their own inadequacy was the deeper satisfaction; for if they had known their failure was not their own doing, their self-respect might have been preserved.

This was the real power of secret rule through secret dossier, established as governmental and industrial policy a hundred years before. This was the source of his indescribable pleasure indefinitely prolonged; to take the place of wife, children, home, friendship.

He looked now at Miller, gaunt and gray, over sixty, standing there before him, a clerk-servant, patiently waiting to be instructed, apparently beaten and resigned. The man should be happy to have this job at all. It was the first one he had been able to hold for more than a few months in all those forty years since school. He should be glad to have found a haven at last, where he could get the same paternal protection on which he had grown dependent in those years in a psycho ward; where the psychiatrists had finally convinced him to accept and adjust to the idea that he simply didn’t have the stuff of success within him. That being a college hero had been only a fluke of adolescent misjudgment, based in nothing more than a handsome face, a charming personality, and the backing of once-wealthy parents. Parents who unaccountably lost all their money, their position, even their social acceptability—and never knew why.

It did not occur to Strickland, then, that his contempt for Miller had, on occasion, made him underestimate the man; that more than once Miller had stood patiently at his elbow while he worked the combination of the vault door which opened to the rooms of all those secret dossiers here in his building. That, as his personal secretary, Miller knew his movements so well that he knew when it was safe for him to work the combination he had seen and memorized, to go into these rooms where none but Strickland was ever allowed to go—and there to find out why.

Strickland let him stand, a moment longer, passively; then dictated an announcement to him that the Government was about to take dramatic action against the enemy. As easily, he could have picked up the phone and dictated the message to his editor in chief. He knew Miller knew that, knew Miller could see no reason for being pulled off whatever he had been doing just for this—except that the boss preferred to do it this way. Which should be reason enough. And Miller knew that, too.

“Oh,” Strickland said as an afterthought, “have the agency compile the usual data on a Dr. Ralph Kennedy, some damn title like Extraterrestrial Psychologist. The agency can find him. He’s big enough to be invited to the White House for consultation of the psychology of the enemy. He gave me some trouble. Damn near had the General Staff convinced they ought to wait until the enemy… Never mind, just tell the agency to drop everything and get on it.”

He waved a negligent hand then, and Miller walked back to the elevator which was waiting for him in the floor below, out of earshot but handy. Strickland turned to the fax machine and began watching the sweep hand of the clock to see how many seconds it would take for the announcement to show.

It hit the special-bulletin-to-all-communication-mediums machine when it should. Regardless of what might be going on elsewhere, his machine was still functioning as it should. It backed up his confidence that even if the rest of the country, the rest of the world, was going to the dogs he was still in position to grind out the easy-to-repeat slogans which would gel into public opinion, made to order.

Less than two minutes after reading his bulletin on the fax machine, that the Government was going to get off the dime and act, Higgins’ call came through from Washington.

“Okay, Harvey,” Higgins said in a voice which seemed drained of all life. “They made the decision you want. They’re going to put H-Bomb war heads on some anti-missile missiles. They’ve got ’em stored in ordnance depots around, labeled ‘Experimental Explosives.’ That’s so the local commands won’t guess what they really are, panic, and try to get out. They couldn’t decide which city to use first. The President made the decision. I expect he remembers the way the last vote went. He’s got that kind of mind. So it’s St. Louis.

“If we fail there, then next is Detroit; then Toledo; then Dallas. God have mercy on us all. God have mercy on you, Harvey…and on me.” The voice trailed away.

“Splendid, Tom,” Strickland said heartily. “You always deliver. I’ll personally watch it on my television monitors.” If the Senate Majority Leader appreciated this special consideration he was getting, he didn’t acknowledge it.

“Washington disconnected, s-sir,” his operator said nervously. It was unheard of that anybody should hang up before Strickland. “Shall I get them back?”

“I’ll take care of that later,” Strickland promised. “Don’t disturb me again until I tell you.”

He turned to the network monitor to watch St. Louis go out in a blaze of glory, hoping to catch a glimpse of the actual explosion before the screen would go blank and dead. Instead of St. Louis, he saw one of his damn panty-waist announcers driveling along about the formations over New York, as if that were important.

He felt a quick surge of anger until he realized the network couldn’t know something was going to happen over St. Louis. He pulled the phone toward him to tell the network to switch over to St. Louis; but an afterthought made him pull his hand away without lifting the receiver. Just in case, just in case there ever were enough opposition to amount to anything, and just in case some treacherous traitor in his own outfit told them he’d switched them over to St. Louis before the explosion…before, meaning he’d known in advance…

He would have to deny himself the pleasure of watching his orders carried out.

Never mind, there was another way. There’d have to be some kind of communication between the projectiles. Those circling overhead would know their St. Louis formation had been wiped out. They’d go streaking west to concentrate on the attack. That would tell him, just as well.

He wanted to go out to his roof garden again, to be watching them at the instant they heard; see their confusion, see them go. But he also wanted to stay by his fax machines and television monitors because in Kansas City, maybe as far away as Des Moines, they’d pick up the explosion and report it.

The conflict of desires made him furious, and he pounded on his desk in frustration that he couldn’t be both places at the same time. He looked up at the offending roof over his head. Goddamn it, somebody in his organization should have known he would want to watch the projectiles without having to go out of his house. They should have had his roof replaced with a plastic dome for the occasion. Goddamn it, nobody ever considered his comfort.

He decided against going out into his garden. He decided to trust the reporters in cities surrounding St. Louis to let him know. Maybe the overhead discs wouldn’t go to the aid of their St. Louis formation. But he could be sure his own organization would function.

The minutes ticked slowly away. The fax machines were still reporting nothing beyond the paralysis of the big cities, the fear, the foreboding, the total helplessness.

Goddamn it! Why did the military have to be so slow! Them and their red tape! Now if it was under his control—if it was his organization, St. Louis would have been destroyed in five minutes and his stupid minions would be back clicking their heels and asking what he wanted now, sir. But the damn military. He thought of the handsome, lean, virile young officers. He turned livid with rage. Handsome, lean, and virile he had never been.

And then he chuckled softly. There would be handsome, lean, and virile ones manning their stations at St. Louis. They would be putting the X Explosive in their missiles, not knowing, never knowing, that in another instant they would be handsome, lean, and virile no longer. Nor anything.

It was fully dark out now. Here in New York. It would still be light in St. Louis, but it was dark here. There was a red glow around the discs, but nothing like the flaming skies of the first night.

Twenty minutes passed, then one of the fax machines began to clatter at a fast tempo, transmitting the excitement of the operator through his fingers. The machine began to jangle loudly, to call attention to the special news, as distinct from filler stuff.

It would be the far machine to make him get up from his desk!

But it was date-lined St. Louis! That couldn’t be!

The message rolled out before him. The local anti-air-attack services had decided to try a secret explosive not yet tried against the projectiles. But the anti-missile missiles had failed to function. There was no accounting for it. They just didn’t function. Not one would fire.

The X Explosive was being loaded into interceptor jets. It would be taken by human pilots directly into the formation of the enemy and released. Upon request of their commanders, suicide volunteers had stepped forward to the last man.

The machine fell silent.

Strickland sighed in relief. So that was the reason for the delay. Well, it simply prolonged the pleasure of anticipation. He’d look at it that way. The suicide boys would do the job. Too bad there hadn’t been time for his local organization to get television cameras on the scene. They’d be young and handsome, lean and virile. The envisioning was almost as satisfactory as an actual picture might have been, but not quite.

More minutes passed. He remained standing at the machine. He didn’t really expect it to register another message. How could it, when the H-Bomb let go? But another city, on this or some other machine, depending on which line was clear. He waited. Still more minutes passed.

The machine jangled again. And again date-lined St. Louis.

“Interceptors return to base—30—”

“What do you mean, end of message?” Strickland roared. “Goddamn it, you’re fired out there, whoever you are!”

But another machine began to jangle and pulled him away from the silent one. Detroit was reporting the same failure of missiles to fire. The same suicide pilots to take the X Explosive to the enemy. Then the same silence, the same waiting.

And the same report that the interceptors had returned to base. But this reporter, apparently more enterprising, gave out with more.

The pilots were obviously out of their minds.

“I couldn’t trip the release,” one of them was babbling, according to the fax machine. “The automatics wouldn’t function on proximity. I didn’t bring her back. She brought me back. Something took over the controls of the ship. I didn’t land her, she landed me.”

In sheer fury, Strickland kicked the machine, and tears formed in his eyes at the hurt to his foot.

Sheer funk, it was. Sheer yellow funk! Goddamn! What an investigation this would make when it was all over!

A moment to sober his mood. A moment’s thought.

The mind in the projectiles hadn’t let him respond to their feelers! They hadn’t let him wipe out a few of their ships, just to show them he could do it. They weren’t opening negotiations with him. They didn’t play the game according to the human rules. If he were willing to sacrifice a million or so of his own pawns, they should have been willing to sacrifice theirs. That was the way the game was always played before the big boys got down to serious business of dividing up the pot.

For the first time he allowed the doubt to take form: the doubt that they might need him, after all.

His contemplation was interrupted by a clear, piercing note. It was like a trumpet; no, more like a bugle call. It came through the French windows. It flooded the room with its warm, golden sound. He whirled away from the fax machines and rushed to the garden outside.

The last, lingering notes seemed to flood the whole city.

He stumbled out to the edge of the garden, to lean against the parapet while he gazed up into the heavens.

There were the projectiles, seeming to draw together now. But high above them, apparently so high they still caught the light from the sun below his horizon, a new set of ships had appeared. Each an iridescent globe. They flew in a wing formation, a vast wing. It was like a wing of shining pearls.

They came closer. They began to shade into iridescent blue.

And like the star sapphire, even at this distance he could see the symbol on each of them—a shining white cross of radiant light.

TEN

Just before the trumpet flooded Washington with golden sound, we were on our way home from the White House conference. The plan was for the Space Cadet driving our staff car to drop Sara off at the building where she shared an apartment with Shirley; then to take me to my hotel; then for the Space Cadet driver to do whatever Space Cadets do when they are not driving staff cars, parading for newsreel cameras, or appearing in television serials.

The summons to the White House conference had hit me with a gulping surprise. It shouldn’t have. For three days now, and a good share of the hours in the two nights, our department in the Pentagon had been swarming with brass and braid trying to get a line on the psychology of our enemy. Which was natural enough, since that was supposed to be our job.

Dr. Kibbie was a bitter disappointment. He plain funked it. There was no other interpretation. On that first morning, after the evening strike, it became abundantly clear to me that in spite of all his talk about the rumors of the Black Fleet, he hadn’t really believed in it—that he merely used the rumors to further his con game.

The other department heads in the Bureau of Extraterrestrial Psychology responded characteristically. In common with government bureau heads generally, they could talk learnedly about the problem so long as it was kept at a distance, but displayed a complete helplessness to cope when it pushed its reality into our faces.

Somehow, without intending it, I found myself covering up for them, rationalizing their vagueness into something which sounded at least remotely sensible, taking on the burdens of soothing irate and insistent generals and admirals which Kibbie and his other department heads were shunting in my direction. Without intending it, I was rapidly becoming the answer-boy. Only I didn’t have any solid answers, either.

Word had got around about my previous dealings with psychological oddities. There had been the little poltergeist girl who threw things without touching them, set things on fire without matches. There had been the fake swami who had been the most frightened of all when he learned he really wasn’t faking it. There had been the five lads who had pursued the practice of Gestalt empathy to the point of creating a superentity which controlled them as if they were merely parts of its body (and which, for a time, had controlled the entire production of Computer Research); and finally there had been the Ex-Colonel Logart, sent out from the Pentagon’s own Poltergeist Division, and who had proved the greatest enigma of them all.

This seemed to make me an authority on alien psychology. Perhaps the experiences had helped. Perhaps, without realizing it, I actually had developed—well, if not an open mind, one which was at least cracked.

Dr. Gerald Gaffee, Harvard’s gift to the science of vocational guidance for extraterrestrials, turned out to be astonishingly useful. Of course science fiction was now old enough, traditional enough, and therefore respectable enough that it was no longer scorned by the literary elite. And, seventy-eighty years later, Dr. Gaffee had learned, in his early research, what the pioneer writers and fans of that literature had known all along; that not only did it provide the power thrust to enable the mind to take off and soar into the unknown geographies of undiscovered mental continents, but that it was virtually the only way this could be done. He proved surprisingly adept at speculative extrapolation. He proved a most useful assistant, since he had the capacity for picking up the vaguest speculation, expanding it, rationalizing it until it made logical sense.

That he was probably quite wrong was in itself an asset. The human mind, somehow, seems much more attracted by the false than by the true; and, being wrong, therefore, we were able to satisfy the brass and braid, and send them on their happy way.

Being wrong in so many ways assisted me in another respect. Since the wrong answers differed so widely in their substance that they couldn’t all be the right wrong, I began to doubt the rightness of any of the wrongs. A little more time and I would have begun to doubt the reality of the ominous discs overhead at all.

It was in this mood that I talked at the White House conference. There, in that soundproofed room, presumably not bugged by more than a half-dozen foreign powers, although certainly bugged by our own secret services who would record each word spoken and try to confound its author twenty years later if he began to give trouble, the reality of the maneuvering discs overhead seemed less believable, and the smell of their Evil seemed not to penetrate.

I had almost convinced the General Staff and the President that, since we hadn’t yet been hurt, only frightened, and didn’t really know these things were our enemy (but only smelled bad enough to raise the hackles on our animal necks), perhaps our best course was to do more sampling, collating, and correlating of statistics, to learn more about them—particularly since we had already shot everything except our ultimate weapon against them without effect.

It was then that Senator Higgins had been called out of the conference. When he came back, I could see at once that I had lost. With a few terse words, spoken through grim lips which hardly moved, he pointed out that the enemy discs were hovering over every major city of the world, that they were in a position to strike the killing blow without giving us the chance to defend ourselves; and that it was the height of irresponsible cowardice to wait until they had done it.

It was the semantics of “cowardice,” of course, which turned the tide. Better-to-be-cautious-and-alive-than-brave-and-dead was not a concept of speculative extrapolation comfortable to the military mind. The President, after a shrewd look at Higgins, and an apparently correct interpretation of the message he read in the Senator’s sick eyes, switched polarity with the practiced ease of a winning politician, and added his argument that it was time America recaptured its leadership of the world, that other nations were faltering in the face of duty, and that once more we had opportunity to be First.

I was peremptorily dismissed with the implication that in the face of all this opportunity I had counseled cowardice, which was no more than might have been expected from a civilian. As a working arrangement it was conceded that I had some kind of commission in the Space Navy, but no one knew, yet, the exact status. Each time the ranking board settled on a rank for me and started the red tape moving through channels, by the time it had cleared I had hired more people in my department than such a rank was permitted to command, so the process had had to begin again. At the time of these proceedings they were up to Semi-Planet Admiral, Rear Side (or, more succinctly, in the words of my Space Cadet chauffeur when he came into the department to tell me the car was ready, “Where is that half-assed Admiral I have to drive to the White House?”).

I did not know of the General Staff’s decision to use the H-Bomb until later.

I picked up Sara from the Entourage Waiting Room, and we left. We were being driven by our respectful Space Cadet down an almost deserted street when the trumpet called up yonder.

With the first note he crimped the wheels sharply over to the curb, braked the car to a halt, and with a gasped, “I gotta report to the Parade Ground,” he slid out of the car and started running down the street. Apparently his Pavlovian response to a bugle call was in good working order, and apparently it had not been contemplated in his conditioning that he might ever be so far away from the parade ground when the bugle called that driving an automobile might have got him there faster. Naturally, since if he were that far away he couldn’t hear the bugle call, could he? So the one-to-one response of “Run when you hear the bugle” had been deemed sufficient. He started running.

All this was the merest flash in my mind, as Sara and I climbed out of the car, for the golden notes flooding us filled us with an ecstasy to drive out every other thought.

Sara and I stood there on the curbing and gazed upward into the heavens.

There were the projectiles, dimly red in the night sky, seeming to draw together now. But high above them, apparently so high they still caught the light from the sun below our horizon, a new set of ships had appeared. Each an iridescent globe. They flew in a wing formation, a vast wing. It was like a wing of shining pearls.

They came closer. They began to shade into an iridescent blue.

And like the star sapphire, even at this distance we could see the symbol on each of them—a shining white cross of radiant light.

“Oh, Ralph,” Sara breathed. “How beautiful! They’re the most beautiful things.”

“Come on,” I gasped, and pulled at her arm. “Get under cover. They’re going to attack the projectiles!”

I knew, I don’t know how.

Standing in doorways, under awnings and canopies, leaning out of windows, the other people knew too. We ran, as people run in a drenching rain, to take shelter under an archway which led into an arcade of shops. Yet, no more than there, joining some others, we turned and craned our heads to look upward again. The protection of the arch was of less value than the sight. We stepped back out into the clear where we might see the whole dome of the sky. All thought of personal safety was lost in the sheer, blinding wonder of the spectacle above. We were dimly conscious that the other people, too, were creeping out of hiding places, to stand in the open streets, rapt in awe.

The vast wing of iridescent globes, at first so high it was like a piece of jewelry set with pearls, sapphires, opals, was now close. They were swooping downward, but without spin, twist, or obvious force. Somehow this movement without thrust of force heightened the illusion of their serenity. The symbol of their crossed, white lines gleamed brighter now, telling us it was not an effect of the distant sun, but a glow which came from within them, a radiant purity of purpose.

Yet the red projectiles had not been thrown into panic and confusion by the sudden appearance. Now it became clear to us people in the streets below why the discs had hovered and waited over the city all these hours. Through some source of their own, they must have known that the radiant globes were on their way to attack them. Sharply, with its own effortless burst of speed, but this time sinister rather than serene, the Black Fleet, black in the day and dull ember red in the night, the Black Fleet veered off in a long arc of flight; hurtled westward; formed into tight combat units of four or five ships each; faced around to meet the challenge.

We had first thought it was the flight of cowardice; now we realized it was the viciousness of the cornered rat.

Down in the streets below the people murmured their thoughts and hopes and fears to other people, man spoke to man, neighbor to neighbor, without first calibrating the number of pigment cells per square inch of skin, or demanding status credentials. The ground swell of conviction grew that this was not the first time these two alien forces had joined in battle. Had Milton in his dreams of Heavenly Hosts and Satan’s Minions been visited with some reality of this long ago and far away? We knew, everyone knew, this was one of a long series of such engagements.

There was no question of whose side we were on, who we hoped would win, must win.

There grew the conviction this was the decisive encounter. This was to be no hit-and-run skirmish, settling nothing. No, this was it.

Either the Black Fleet must be vanquished or it must be driven so far away that it would never return to threaten Earth’s people again. Where were the scoffers now who doubted that the universe had been constructed solely for the benefit of Man, and that Man, as its Supreme Achievement, must not be harmed?

On came the star-sapphire globes, huge now that they were near, leveling their dive enough to offset the enemy’s shift to the west. It was obvious that the new path of descent would hurtle them headlong into the discs in a few seconds more.

Long tentacles of blood light flickered out from the projectiles like the darting tongues of snakes. In and out they flashed, so many they surrounded the discs, creating a deadly, protective screen of twisting, corrosive fire.

As if they could not stop, or had a courage beyond human comprehension, the vanguard shock unit of the globes smashed into the fire-tipped tentacles. And the impact flooded the streets below with a sound of molten steel being poured into icy water. There was a flare of intolerable blindness.

And when our eyes cleared and we could see again…

There was nothing left of the first wave of globes.

As if it possessed but one throat, one voice, from the city below there was one long groan of anguish.

* * * *

Heroically, the other globes did not hesitate.

Another wave plunged into the writhing tentacles. This time the blinding flash seemed less. Perhaps, expecting it, we slitted our eyes against its coming? This time the destruction of the new wave of globes seemed not instantaneous, nor did they wink out completely. This time there were vapor clouds billowing white against the black heavens as the second shock unit more slowly disintegrated. It was destruction, but not so easy; perhaps no more than the force of an ordinary atomic bomb. The mushrooming clouds of vapor, boiling upward, seemed the same.

* * * *

A third wave of globes came in. Ah, the courage, the guts! From the streets of the city there was the murmur of wonder, hope renewed. The evil rays of the discs seemed weaker the second time than the first, didn’t they? Men asked this of one another and drew comfort from assurance and agreement.

The discs did not waver in their defensive formation. They seemed to draw a little closer together. A screen of dead black against the lighter sky flickered first, then joined ship to ship.

Our murmur of hope changed to a groan of despair.

Our despair was realized.

This time there was no sound of molten steel in icy water, no billowing clouds of vapor, no blinding flash of light. At first touch of the shining globes against the dead black blood screen, the globes were no more.

* * * *

Yet not in vain. Now we saw one solitary globe still alive, coming from another direction, taking advantage of that instant when the Black Fleet had concentrated all its defensive screen against the wing of onrushing globes, somehow getting behind, inside the defensive screen.

To loose a violet-white radiance.

And for a long, interminable, hopeful instant, the radiance persisted. We saw four of the black ships explode into poison-fetid gobbets of rotten offal.

The other discs wavered, then the pack swarmed all over the gallant, lone globe. And still the hopeful instant endured the squirming nest of blood-black tentacles.

And then hope died.

The radiant light faltered, flickered. The globe surface seemed eaten away like swimming spots of black on an aged bubble.

Then, like the bursting of the bubble, it, too, was no more.

* * * *

We clung together there in the street, Sara and I, drawing human comfort from the contact, staring upward, staring upward, completely engrossed in the titanic battle—the incredible heroism of the globes—the incredible power and malignancy of the discs to withstand them. The ache of our shoulders and necks was as nothing in the throat pain of our apprehension.

It seemed not to occur to anyone, then, to wonder that the air about us was still fresh and clean, that we had felt no atmospheric shocks, that there were no falling objects of debris, that even the scabrous gobbets of offal from the exploded discs had somehow disappeared before reaching Earth.

* * * *

High in the heavens, another wing of pearls appeared.

* * * *

“This time they must win, they must!” Sara was moaning.

As with the previous wing, this one sank toward Earth and battle.

Then hesitated!

Wavered in indecision!

Then seemed to withdraw. A long, wailing groan from the city below seemed surely enough to reach up to them. How high can a prayer fly?

“No-o-o! Oh-no-o-o!” Sara was echoing the groans of despair all about us. “They can’t give up! They must not fail us now!”

“They won’t!” I exclaimed in complete certainty. “You’ll see!” And then I added something all out of context with how I felt, how we all felt. Something which filled me with self-loathing, made me despise myself. “The script calls for it,” I said.

And fortunately no one heard me. Not even Sara.

* * * *

And I was right.

As the jeweled wing faltered, seemed about to break apart in confusion, the discs shot forward, lured out of their protective formation, blazed their blood-red rays outward for the kill.

And a score of the globes, darting away in all directions, as if utterly demoralized, suddenly reversed direction at incredible speed and converged upon the now scattered discs. From high above, wing after wing of globes swept in until the sky was filled, crowded with darting globes and discs, enjoined now in mortal conflict of individual duel.

* * * *

As if some protecting screen of our own had rotted and burst (or as an afterthought?), now, all at once, our own atmosphere was sulphurous with choking gases. We felt the blasts of heated air sweep down. Yet, after our first panic flight back to protecting overhangs, our first surprise that we still lived, not unendurable.

And then somehow to increase our sense of participation, identification with the battle.

The dueling battle endured. How long? How long?

Time had ceased to exist. Body need had ceased to exist.

* * * *

And yet, involuntarily must have asserted itself. For, at some time, during the night, I became conscious that Sara and I were now sitting on the curb, leaning against a lamppost between us, bracing ourselves so that we, too, might endure as long as the battle.

All about us were the dim shapes of other people, some still standing, some sitting as we were, some lying supine with moist eyes wide and reflecting the vault of darting lights above. No one slept or wanted sleep.

* * * *

Sometime during the night (perhaps in early morning hours?) the arena of battle moved toward the west. Now it was centered no longer over the city. Now it was fading over the horizon.

Now it was gone.

“We’re not to know how it comes out?” Sara murmured plaintively, querulously.

“We’ll know,” I said strongly. And this time caught my following, despicable remark before it left my throat. “This is the intermission.”

I started to say, “Let’s go out into the lobby to get some popcorn,” but had sense enough to change it into something rational.

“However it comes out, Sara, you and I will have a hard day at the Pentagon tomorrow. We may get no sleep, but we should try to find something to eat. We have to keep going.”

We were lucky that the thought occurred to us before it had to many others. We stood up, stretched our aching muscles, and with stiff, unwieldy legs we threaded our way through the dazed and huddled groups of people to the community kitchen. We hadn’t expected to find any attendants on duty, but the cybernetic cooking machinery was apparently unresponsive to the battle going on over our heads. Nor had there been a complete breakdown in supplying the machines with the raw produce.

Coins in the beef-stew slot produced the usual containers which would be taken home and consumed, container and all, in front of the television set; or for oddballs stranded in a strange community, as we were, consumed at some tables here in front of the kitchen television set.

A montage program was in progress to bring us up to date. Everywhere the battle was the same, everywhere it followed the same pattern. Everywhere it had moved away over the horizon to the west. What we had seen here in Washington had been witnessed over every large city on Earth. No one commented on this strange coincidence.

For all her usual sharpness, Sara seemed not to have caught it either. I held my peace. I was a cynical so-and-so. It was not the first time I had found myself out of step with the prevailing mood. I had learned my lesson long ago. I knew something of mob reaction, I’d seen it. I knew how little it took to turn an overwrought, tense collection of individuals into a ravening mob, all acting in one accord of insane fury, possessed by a superentity created through interaction and feedback of emotions, given brief life of uncalculated power, taking possession of the individuals, turning them into body cells of the entity, playing out the tragic role before the individual mind could recoil in horror from its acts, shatter the group accord and destroy the entity—after the deed had been done.

I held my peace.

But I no longer believed. I no longer believed that anything we had seen was real. I didn’t know what it was. I had no idea of any power which could produce an illusion of instantaneous world-wide scope; nor, as yet, the purpose of doing it. I was convinced only that it wasn’t what it seemed, that it was, indeed, an illusion. That it was some kind of universal brain-wash.

I looked sharply at Sara. I looked at the handful of people who had also thought of food and strayed into this kitchen. All of them were following, straining to follow, the words of the television commentator. All of them completely hooked.

How had I escaped? Why was I immune to the bait? Was it because a long and heavy career of working with great numbers of people, handling them, manipulating them, causing them to respond in the manner I chose—and discouraged and sickened with them because they did respond, because they had too little critical judgment of manipulative patterns to prevent them from responding—had this given me an insight? Was it that? Or was it some basic flaw in me, which moved me ever so slightly out of phase with my own kind; never again to be as one with them?

How well I understood the contempt of the politician for his constituents, the advertising man for those who bought his product, the entertainment producer for those who became enrapt with his creation. And yet, were not these shaped and debased as much by those to whom they pandered, as were their masses shaped and debased by them? By striving to pander to the widest appeal, the lowest common denominator, did they succeed in anything beyond lowering and debasing even that?

I knew some of the writers and producers around Hollywood. I was not particularly critical of them for giving the public what it demanded. Anything-for-a-buck had become the national way of life. But I had been horrified that, although they maintained a superior attitude and a condescension toward the low level of the public mind, their own taste and critical judgment became debased by their output until they, themselves, began to think it was good. They, themselves, became the victims of their own illusions.

Why was I immune? I could not even join with these!

We were breaking apart the flaky, flavorsome container, designed as the finishing touch to the meal, and chewing it slowly, when a cacophony of voices from the street penetrated the open door and overwhelmed the voice of the television commentator.

“They’re coming back! Ah-h-h! They’re coming back.”

Outside, on the street again, we saw it for ourselves. Yes, they were coming back.

In spite of the thoughts I had had, sitting there in the kitchen and watching the others while they watched the television, in spite of this I felt my pulses quicken, my heart begin to pound, a choking gladness. There was something even while my intellect held back—and the emotional responses began to erode, to wash over, to drown the critical judgment.

Yes, they were coming back. And I lifted to them, eager to meet them. All around me the people were lifting. Everyone was on his feet now, with their eyes turned toward the west, straining toward the west.

But as the battle forces drew closer, the rising hope and excitement changed again to dread and despair. The globes were pitifully few now, so pitifully few. Still outnumbered. Still outpowered. Still having only one weapon superior—their sheer, incredible, valiant courage.

* * * *

Now we could see the projectiles make their move, almost as if we could enter that evil, alien mind, we could see them make their decision that now it was time to move in and crush the radiant globes—utterly. So, like an angry den of snakes, squirming and writhing, they swarmed all over the globes, inundating them.

* * * *

And still a few, a pitiful few, of the globes escaped somehow. Escaped, but not to flee. Escaped, but only to turn and re-engage their enemy.

* * * *

They began to win.

* * * *

The faces of the people in the street were slack with awe. Their glistening eyes were sick with hope denied, hope still struggling to hope. To despair again and again, all through the night, and now, with the first breath of silver in the eastern sky to see the tide turn. Dared they hope? This time, if despair swamped it once more, the very roots of hope would die.

Yet hope they must.

* * * *

And now I knew.

What I had not known before. Why the constituents voted in the politician. Why they bought the advertiser’s product. Why they even supported Hollywood’s shabby little travesty.

Better to have hope and faith that sometimes…maybe…

Than none.

Now I knew the meaning.

The deed proved the virtue. The virtue proved the deed.

If your heart is pure, your cause is just, your strength is great, and your purpose firm; you can overcome the obstacles in your path to reach your heart’s desire.

This was the meaning. This was the essence of all religion, all philosophy, all education, all science, all Man’s striving. If Man did not believe this, then there was no meaning to anything. Without this belief, nothing mattered, Man was nothing.

There was a hunger, a craving hunger in man to be reassured of it, to be told it again and again. He could not get enough of the telling. He became the willing, the eager victim of those who traded in the hunger, sickened in knowing he was being victimized, humbly supplicating to be victimized again, because maybe…this time…

Even the shoddy, shabby trivialities of Hollywood, the nasty little shyster tricks of writers and producers in stringing together meaningless story formula. Even these, for they, too, promised…

If your heart is pure, your cause is just, your strength is great, your purpose firm; you can overcome the obstacles in your path to reach your heart’s desire.

What else is there?

There, above us, it was being played out once more. Never had the forces of Right and Evil been so obviously enjoined. Never had Evil been so near to triumph, nor Good so valiant in near vanquishment. Never had heart and strength so fought with such firm purpose in just cause.

Now the obstacles were being overcome.

For others, in other longitudes, the space-suspended Earth turning in the sun’s light as it does, and yet all this happening simultaneously, the battle must have been fought from dawn to dusk in the brightness of day, from morning until evening, from noon until midnight, from afternoon until the low ebb.

For us, there in Washington and along the Eastern seaboard of the United States, it seemed to have a special meaning.

For the turning point came with the first streaks of silver up the morning sky.

And confirmed for us that this time our faith and hope was justified as the sky grew in light.

All at once we knew that, this time, the battle would not reverse itself again. With so few of the globes remaining, and the hosts of evil discs which seemed to spawn still more to take the place of those destroyed, we did not know why or how the tide of battle turned.

But turned it had.

And with the first golden ray of the rising sun, the discs streaked away from the globes in cowardly fear. Their passage through the upper atmosphere came back to us in a scream of insane, craven terror.

And after them pursued the globes.

* * * *

Now we could see them no more. Only here and there were bursts of flame brighter than the sun’s light, gouts of red fire like opened arteries of blood.

The sun bathed the city streets in its warmth. Now the people who had watched all through the night began to move sluggishly about, as if wakened from a dream. They looked at one another, as waking members of a family might, and for the moment the close affection of family replaced the endless, irritated, sibling bickering among them.

I looked at Sara; she looked at me with a wan smile. Her face was drawn with weariness, and I suppose she saw the same in mine. But I doubt she found the same contentment and fulfillment in my eyes as I read in hers.

There seemed nothing to say. The magnificence of what we had seen obviated all comment, all evaluation. It needed no interpretation of meaning. Not to most, whatever complex wonders and doubts I might feel.

This was not of Earth. That much was clear. No group of men, no nation could have staged this production.

They had come from space.

They had come, but not in the way I had imagined they might, someday. I had thought they would come, if they ever came, in reason and rationality, beyond selfishness, beyond passion, beyond falseness. They had come, instead, in fire and passion, in war and destruction, spewing forces at one another beyond comprehension.

And completely phony!

A staged production, specifically for our benefit. A magnificent production, beyond all the wildest hopes of our own showmen—and as phony as anything that ever came out of Hollywood, where they prefer the phony even when the real, the rational, the believable would do the better job.

Yet what kind of alien mind could so accurately assess the human response as to know it would respond favorably to the phony where it might reject the real? How long had they been studying us without our knowledge? How deeply had they dug into us? They had used the very basic drive which had brought man up out of the slime to reach for the stars—faith in the triumph of virtue. To gain?

What? What did they plan to gain?

Or had we become so disillusioned in our ideals that we could contemplate no motive beyond self-gain?

There was nothing to say beyond the trivialities of routine.

“Well, Sara,” I began, and managed a smile of sorts. “Things will be popping today around the Pentagon. And if I remember right, we are the authorities on extraterrestrial psychology.”

“Supposed to be,” she agreed with reservation. “Do you really understand all this? Well enough to tell the staff what it is all about.”

“Not that well,” I said. “Just well enough to say right now that we can expect visitors shortly. From the globes, not the discs. Not well enough to know what they want from us. But well enough to know that we’ll give it to them, whatever they want. They’ve seen to that.”

“Well, naturally we would,” she said reproachfully. “After what they’ve done for us.”

“Naturally,” I agreed with a smile.

“Naturally,” she said with a certain defiance. “Who could hold out or bargain? What with? And who would want to?”

“Still,” I said, “they’ll be pounding on my door; I mean Earthmen, not Starmen. I don’t expect ever to get within shouting distance of the Starmen. But the Earthmen are going to want me to brief them on how the Starmen’s minds work.”

“You think you can do it?” she asked doubtfully.

“Hell, no,” I said frankly. “But, just the same, we ought to be getting to work. Which means digging up some kind of transportation.”

“I don’t know where we are,” she said doubtfully.

“I’m a stranger here myself,” I agreed.

We walked back toward the community kitchen, and as we passed we looked inside. A taxi driver—we could tell by his cap—was nesting a mug of coffee between his hands, warming them as he drank the liquid to warm himself. We went in, and I sat down at his table while Sara detoured to bring us coffee of our own. The driver looked at me with neither welcome nor hostility.

“We work at the Pentagon,” I said to him. “We’re trying to get to work. You willing to drive us?”

As if unwilling to take his eyes away from the visions of remembrance, he merely stared. When Sara brought up our coffee and sat down with us, he didn’t notice.

“This is Dr. Kennedy,” she said to the driver. “He is an officer in the Space Navy Bureau of Extraterrestrial Psychology.”

He didn’t answer her. He looked at her, and looked back down at his coffee.

“Tenshun!” she barked. “Admiral Kennedy requires you drive him to the Pentagon!” I didn’t think she had it in her.

It did the trick. He leaped out of his chair, froze at attention, and stared at me with horror.

“Well, now,” I said. “It’s not that bad. I’m only a half-assed admiral. Sit down and finish your coffee.”

He started to comply, then froze again.

“Okay,” I said wearily. “If you must. But you will drive my secretary and me to the Pentagon?”

“Yes, sir,” he said through stiff lips.

“You must be a stranger here in Washington yourself,” I said. “I can’t conceive of a regular taxi driver reacting to a mere admiral.”

“I was in the Navy, sir, until two weeks ago. Ocean Navy.”

“That accounts for it,” I agreed.

I’d been rambling along with a double purpose; to finish our coffee and to bring him back down to Earth enough for it to be safe riding with him at the wheel. We seemed to accomplish both.

By comparison with the still-dazed people on the streets, he was as sharp as a tack. We climbed into his cab parked a quarter block up the street.

“You do know where the Pentagon is,” I said, as he pulled away from the curb.

He looked reproachfully at me through the rearview mirror.

ELEVEN

The people on the streets were beginning to move about more actively now. There were lines forming at the doorways of community kitchens for morning coffee. Here and there, other cars than our own were beginning to move. The morning duty was replacing the night’s dream.

I snapped on the taxi television set, and, as it warmed to life, one of the World Broadcasting Company’s commentators, powered by his own sense of duty or perhaps the long black whip in Harvey Strickland’s hand that could reach down anywhere in his organization to flick the bare buttocks of any laggard, was giving a run-down of happenings around the world.

Everywhere the pattern had been played out in the same way. Everywhere, at the same instant, the discs had fled and the globes pursued.

Yet there was a curious lack of something (enthusiasm, gladness, gratitude?) in the commentator’s voice. At first I thought he was characteristically underplaying it, just giving the facts, ma’am, and then I realized there was a deliberate reluctance to express a reaction—as if he hadn’t been informed as yet on company policy; and knew from experience that he’d better not have any opinion until he had been told what it ought to be.

Ah, he was a Good Boy, a true-blue Organization Man.

I was about to reach over and snap him off when a stir among the increasing crowds on the street distracted me. Over the cadenced tones of the commentator, I heard a hoarse scream from a man on the sidewalk. A hoarse ecstasy. And other voices took up the cry.

“They’re coming back! The globes!”

“I see one!”

“It’s coming!”

“There it is, see?”

“It’s coming!”

Without being told, the driver pulled over to the curb, and again I started to reach over to snap off the television, but saw the face of the commentator beginning to fade and a globe beginning to appear. There was a flickering, a streaking of colors, as if the broadcast engineer were trying to maintain control of his sound and picture in spite of overpowering interference. Interference won. The sapphire-blue globe with its star of radiant light steadied and glowed on the screen. I did not snap it off.

“I gotta see this,” the taxi driver said. The dream had overwhelmed the duty once more. He threw open the door and slid out of his seat to stand on the curb.

We were about to follow him, Sara and I, when a new voice came through the television speaker—a voice resonant, calm, reassuring…

“We come from the stars…”

The voice was in English—American English. My experienced personnel man’s ear caught a trace of sectional accent, but faint since it was overlaid with that spurious intonation belonging to no section which has been adopted by announcers as a badge of their calling.

“We mean you no harm…”

This was the second sentence. It was followed by another pause. Then came two short sentences. The streets outside were as still as a vacuum, except for this voice which penetrated everywhere, transcending the laws of electronic sound.

“We come as friends. We will not hurt you.”

I had a fleeting vision of an exploring anthropologist who comes upon some obscure tribe in the remoteness of untouched jungle; one who speaks simply and reassuringly at the edge of their village compound; who speaks as if to small and frightened children who might possibly harm themselves in panic of fear.

“We return as ambassadors from our fleet which has gone in pursuit of our enemy—your enemy.

“We ask permission to land at your capital city, Washington, District of Columbia, United States of America.

“We can spare only this one ship, with its crew of five, from the battle.

“We know you would prefer us to land at the United Nations, but there are compelling reasons why it must be Washington.

“We would give offense to none, by this, and hope you will grant our need.

“We will now withdraw to give you time for considering this petition.

“We will return in twenty-four hours, and wait the broadcasting of your permission, on any of your electronic channels.

“If you refuse, we will go away, without harming you.

“We hope you will not refuse. That you will permit us to land.

“We would like to meet you and greet you.”

There was another pause, while the motionless natives thought this over. Then again came the careful, reassuring sentences:

“We mean you no harm. We come as friends. We will not hurt you.”

The globe receded then. Fast, much faster than it had descended. As fast as the eye could alter its focus to follow. It ascended up into the golden light of morning, the heavenly blue of sky, and was gone.

There was dead silence in the streets for a moment after the voice ceased and the globe receded into the heavens.

Then a roar broke loose. There was no question of its welcome. The people were screaming in a frenzy of jubilation, embracing one another, pummeling one another.

I looked at Sara. There were tears in her eyes.

“They didn’t demand anything,” she said. “They could have. They could have landed without asking permission. What’s to stop them? But they asked.”

“Um-hum,” I agreed. “And there’s going to be holy hell to pay because they’re landing here instead of at the United Nations. First mistake I’ve seen them make.”

“They said they had their reasons,” she reproved me.

“Um-hum,” I said. “I suppose they have. They’ve played it too cagey all along to pull a blooper like that unless they had a reason.”

Sara looked at me as if I were something white and crawling which had come out from under a rock.

How was I to know that while they were staging their big production over the major cities all over Earth, this had taken only part of their attention, and that the remainder of it had been engaged in sifting and sampling through the minds and emotions of human spectators below. That unshielding these minds and emotions had been one of the reasons for the production. That they were looking for a particular reaction to the production.

How was I to know that my doubt and cynicism of its reality were one of the first to register? That my being out of phase with my own kind brought me closer into phase with them?

How was I to know that their reason for landing in Washington was because that’s where I happened to be?

TWELVE

The Starmen’s diplomatic request for permission to land on the sovereign territory of the United States of America had come at 7:42 A.M.

At 8:00 A.M., the Home Office Policy Board of World Broadcasting Company (and affiliates) was assembled in their usual semicircle of seats facing Harvey Strickland’s empty desk in his penthouse office atop his New York W.B.C. skyscraper.

This time the boss did not keep them cooling their heels. Since the entire organization was poised like runners at the starting line waiting for The Word to tell them when to start running, and in what direction, the chosen should be grateful for that—and they were. They murmured as much as he swept regally through the doorway in his purple dressing gown and took his throne seat before them. They hoped their gratitude got through to him.

They put it fervently into their bright and cheerful organization man’s “Good morning, H.S.” These few were permitted to H.S. him, a mark of his confidence in them. Most often he observed the important executive tradition and ignored their greetings, but this morning he gave them a cheerful nod as reward.

It revealed his mood and set the tone. It ensured, in advance, that their independently thought-out editorials, the factual news articles, the independent commentaries and feature articles, the colloquially worded amateur-writer sentiments of Constant Reader letters to the editor, all these would reflect, confirm by selected fact, buttress by independent column and commentator philosophies, and substantiate that the right thinking public were all in unanimous agreement with Harvey Strickland’s policy.

Harvey Strickland was jubilant. For all the power they had displayed, the Starmen had, nonetheless, revealed themselves as weak and uncertain. He, himself, would have landed, then and there, while the Earthmen were dazed and spent, when they had had no time to organize resistance or policy, at any time and place he chose to land without asking, without explaining. The Starmen had not done so, and were therefore—weak.

His confidence in his power and destiny all but overwhelmed him.

“They want something from us,” he said in his opening sentence. “They want it bad enough to beg us for it. They can’t take it, unless we’re willing to let them have it—whatever it is. Whatever happens, keep that in mind. We’ve got the upper hand. It’s up to us to keep it. It’s up to us to see that those knuckleheads down in Washington don’t give it away.”

He paused, and began to glare balefully at the editor in chief of his newspaper chain.

“Goddamn it, Jim!” he exploded. “Listen to me. You can’t listen while you’re taking notes. Goddamn it, do you have to take notes on something so elementary as that?”

Jim gulped, turned pale, and shoved his pad and pencil back into his pocket.

“Sorry, H.S.,” he murmured. “Every word you said was so vital, so…”

“Awright, awright,” Strickland shut him off, but he was not unpleased.

Jim carefully concealed a sigh of relief.

“Now, where were we in our discussion, gentlemen?” Strickland asked. “Okay,” he answered himself without pause. “We’ve got something they want, and we’ve got it right here in America. No place else, now. Remember that. Right here. Along with deciding whether we will let them have it—and at what price, remember that, gentlemen, at what price?—we’ve gotta fend off those thieving foreigners who will try to get in on it.”

He broke off to gaze in exasperation at the ceiling.

“Sometimes it’s too much,” he groaned. “It’s hard enough to get those knuckleheads in Washington to do the right thing, but at the same time we’ve gotta keep the foreign nations in their places, too.”

He squared his shoulders and became man enough to carry that extra burden.

“First question,” he resumed. “First things first. Shall we give them permission to land?”

Nobody answered. Naturally. They weren’t expected to. When the boss asked questions it was for the purpose of giving them the rare privilege of going into his mind, actually seeing the inner thoughts of genius, to see the technique of sheering away the nonessentials, getting right down to the bedrock of the problem. Oh, it seemed so easy when the boss did it. But they were not fooled; they’d tried it themselves from time to time, and well remembered the following scenes when he had shown them their mistakes.

“Shall we give them permission to land?” he repeated. “The answer is—yes. They’ve said they would go away if we didn’t. So far, we have to take them at their word. Within reason,” he chuckled slyly. “Within reason.” He stuck his tongue powerfully into one cheek. “We don’t know just what they want, want bad enough to beg for it. We’ll give ’em a chance to beg, before we make up our minds on letting ’em have it.”

The policy board nodded in agreement with the wise decision.

“Cautious optimism, gentlemen. That will be our policy. We greet them as distinguished foreigners have to be greeted. Distinguished foreigners with their hand out. We don’t notice that they’ve got their hand out; not right away. We think they’re coming to see us because they like us. I guess all you fellows know that routine well enough.

“Now official Washington will want to make a big hoopla out of the visit. Maybe even more than usual. We’ll go along with that. Just remember not to get carried away. The knuckleheads down there have the habit of getting carried away, like kids when their team wins the game. We’ve gotta keep a little rein on them, keep them from giving away the country. Welcome Stranger, but cagey, see? Any questions?”

He didn’t expect any. They always told him he was so clear and explicit that there weren’t any questions left to ask. But this time there was one. It came from the head of his legal department.

“I’m sure you’ve already thought out the legal implications involved in their pre-emption and use of our broadcasting facilities without license or permission, H.S.,” the man said. “Our department will want to be briefed.”

Strickland hadn’t thought of that before; after all, it had been considerably less than an hour since the deed, and even a genius can’t think of everything at once.

“Sure, sure, Bob,” he answered genially. “But the same policy goes for your department. Let’s don’t file suit right off. Just hold back a little on that. We just might need that little item, at some point when we get down to negotiating.”

He began to chuckle. He could visualize the quandary of the Supreme Court when it came to deciding that one.

His face darkened. Goddamn Supreme Court. If it weren’t for the Supreme Court… You think you have a man right where you want him; he sits up and begs properly, he jumps through the hoop for you; so, all right, you think it is safe enough to let him get appointed to the Supreme Court. And then what happens? All at once, damn it, he discovers he’s a man. All at once he decides other people are men, too—and that man has certain inalienable rights, and that among these are…

He drew a deep breath. Not to let fury cloud his judgment at a time like this. Time to face up to whatever they might do when he slapped them in the face with a lawsuit against the Starmen for violating his legal rights. He began to chuckle again. This time, he was a man with certain inalienable rights and all that crap. The Starmen weren’t men, well, not human men, anyhow. Wow! Suppose that goddamn Supreme Court had to distinguish between a man’s rights, and a—well, whatever they were. What a precedent that one would set. Because then that precedent could be used to settle other questions, such as, well, such as—is a Negro really a man? Wow!

“You’re right in there, Bob,” he complimented his legal head. “Yes, sir. They sure laid themselves wide open when they just took over our broadcasting facilities for their own use, without so much as a by-your-leave. Start working on it, but hold back. Wait for the time. Any more questions?”

And still there was another.

“What if they’re not human?” asked one of the world-renowned commentators who had made his reputation in crusading courageously for home, flag, and mother. “What if they’re—well, say, green spiders?”

A derisive titter greeted this absurdity, but the commentator, noted for his original thinking, stood his ground. He was relieved that the boss accepted the question seriously.

“It sounded like a human voice,” Strickland said thoughtfully. “But they could have a machine of some kind. We’ve got machines, you know, that will turn a printed page into a spoken voice; so I guess they might be that far along too. That don’t mean they’re human. Of course,” and now he displayed one of those rare glimpses of how deep his learning really went, “our best philosophers have all agreed that life on other worlds would have to develop the same kind of human body and human mind as we have, if it was ever to amount to anything. The philosophers we’ll pay any attention to, anyhow, all say that.

“Still, we got to be grown-up about this. We gotta be—big. They just might turn out to be—well, as you say, green spiders.

“So just barely touch on that. Hint that the public ought to be prepared, just in case. Not enough that anybody can claim we came right out and said they were green spiders, in case they aren’t, but hint. They’re distinguished visitors and all that. We got to be grown-up enough, cosmopolitan enough, not to notice whatever’s wrong with them.

“Now, any more questions?” This time he stood up and turned to leave the room.

There were no more questions.

Within an hour, his private plane landed him at the Washington airport. There was no company car there to pick him up. He made a mental note of that. It showed that already his Washington organization was going to pieces. Of course he hadn’t let his New York staff know he was leaving, or his Washington staff know he was coming—he didn’t hafta account for his movements to the damn underlings—but they should have guessed he might come to Washington to see everything for himself, and had a car there just in case.

Time for that, later.

He picked up a cab at the airport.

“You got a reservation at the Hotel Brighton?” asked the driver.

Strickland didn’t answer him, but this was a gabby one and didn’t seem fazed by the silence.

“You better have!” the driver rambled on, as he threaded his way through the outgoing traffic. “They’ve already started turning people away. All the hotels have started doing that. I swear I don’t see how so many people got here so fast. But they did—and, oh brother, they’re still coming. There’ll be sleeping in the streets tonight, Mom,” he crooned the line, and his shoulders shook with anticipatory laughter.

Strickland began to wonder, himself, where all the people could have come from. He couldn’t remember ever having seen the streets so crowded; and after a night with no sleep for anybody, too. At the Connecticut Avenue traffic circle, traffic stalled again, and the driver turned around to face him.

“Say,” he asked, “d’you think those Starmen will look like people?”

Strickland began to enjoy the driver. After all, a taxi driver represents the people of America, their hopes, their fears, their opinions, their intelligence. Everybody knows that.

“I don’t have any idea,” he answered with a chuckle. He had begun to hope they wouldn’t look like men. When the Supreme Court came to deciding his case, they might let some line creep in about the Starmen being different from men and therefore not having the same rights. Precedent for one person’s being different from another person, and therefore not having the same rights. Wow! Nineteen sixty here we come, right back where we started from! Make that eighteen sixty. Or seventeen, or sixteen, or any damn century you want to name.

An extra fold of skin at the corner of the eyelid, a few more pigment cells per square inch of skin, the shape of a nose line—he had a fleeting thought that it might be an idea to put through a law forbidding plastic surgeons to make alterations which concealed racial characteristics…

“A friend of mine,” the driver was saying, “smart cooky runs a newsstand and is pretty sharp from being around all those books and magazines. He says maybe they’ll be like big green spiders, with red eyes all up and down their legs. He showed me a picture on one of the magazine covers like that. Jeez!”

Strickland nodded and smiled.

“Jeez!” the driver repeated with more emphasis, now that his fare gave agreement. “I gotta wangle a place at the Mall tomorrow morning. That’s where they’re going to have the reception. How are them visitors gonna know where they ought to land?”

“We’ll tell ’em on the radio. Remember, we have to give them permission to land?”

“Yeah, yeah, sure,” the driver said, remembering, and nodded sagely. “I guess we’ll send out a landing beam for them to follow in. You think they might be smart enough to follow a landing beam down?”

“That’s one I’m not going to worry about,” Strickland said. “Yeah, sure,” the driver agreed instantly. “That’s somebody else’s problem.” He thought for a moment. “Them fellows out at the Pentagon will probably check up on that one.”

“Them fellows out at the Pentagon had better check up on quite a few things,” Strickland answered ominously. He felt a stirring of something unfinished. Oh yes, there was some young punk out at the Pentagon he’d asked his secret service to check up on. They hadn’t given him a report, yet. So now his secret service was falling down on the job. That had been yesterday, and no report yet. The battle of the globes and the discs was no excuse.

The traffic tangle unraveled, and the cab jerked forward. “You gonna be there? At the Mall, I mean?” the driver shouted back over his shoulder.

“I’ll be there,” Strickland answered.

“Get yourself a good connection,” the driver advised him with a sage nod. “Don’t depend on your congressman or any of the common help like that. If you got a real good connection, you might make it.”

“I’ll make it,” Strickland said confidently. “You think the President would be connection enough?”

It didn’t seem to impress the taxi driver.

“Oh, him,” was the answer. “I guess this is sort of a social hoopla, at that. Yeah, I guess he oughta be able to swing it.” Strickland made a wry mouth. Maybe he’d gone too far in pushing this nonentity into the White House. After all, the prestige of the Presidency was a mighty useful tool. No point in letting it get rusty. Better let a dedicated reformer get in next time.

A safe one, of course. Better get the F.B.I. to release the customary lists of acceptable candidates to the grass-roots political clubs right away.

THIRTEEN

Civil service being what it is, I thought it slightly miraculous that Shirley had already browbeaten enough clerks into reporting for work to pass out forms of application for interview to the growing line of generals and admirals who wanted to be filled in on the latest estimates of extraterrestrial psychology.

Sara and I managed to get into the office not more than fifteen minutes after the final words of the Starmen, and already our day was beginning—the damnedest day I ever went through. My something like five weeks in Washington had taught me a lot, but apparently not enough.

As the day progressed, in a fleeting few seconds here and there between conferences and conferences, telephone calls and telephone calls, I began to wonder how in hell the nation managed to keep going when apparently nobody was concerned with whether or not it got governed. Sitting there as I was, the answer-boy in the Bureau of Extraterrestrial Psychology, and therefore the final word on how we should conduct ourselves in relation to the Starmen, I got a pretty good cross-section of what must have been going on all over Washington. A pretty good thermometer measuring the rising fever. I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised, I’d been around enough people not to be astonished at anything they might do, but I must have had an unsuspected residue of illusion left about the wisdom, levelheadedness, good sense, and balanced judgment of those who govern us.

There had to be plans, of course, for a reception of the Starmen. I had no preferences in the matter, and the Mall sounded as likely a spot for the landing as anywhere else. There was plenty of space which could be kept clear for the globe to set down, and plenty of space around the perimeter for the few dignitaries who would be permitted through the police lines.

Since the original planning took place there in the Pentagon, it was decided that a simple military welcome would be most impressive to the space visitors. Fighting men to fighting men. Just the Chief of Staff and the Joint Chiefs. With possibly a side dish of drill formation by the Space Cadets.

“And, gentlemen,” I said firmly, “representatives from the Bureau of Extraterrestrial Psychology. Dr. Kibbie, myself, my secretary, one or two others. After all, gentlemen,” I said, answering their dubious frowns, “we are the first, the final, the only authority on the psychology of extraterrestrials. How will we be of further service to you if we don’t get close enough to them to learn something of their psychology?”

They conceded that all right, it was logical enough that we should be there, but nobody else. Was that understood? It was all right with me.

Apparently it was not all right with Congress. On a clear day the screams of outrage arising on the Hill might have been heard all the way to the Pentagon. Since there were telephones, it didn’t need a clear day. Under the threat of new loyalty investigations, the military backed down and conceded that picked committees, including the members of investigating committees, of course, could be represented.

The Secretary of State decreed that really the visit was more diplomatic than military. Hadn’t the Starmen themselves already told us they had the status of ambassadors? What was military about that? Fighting men to fighting men, indeed! Since when did ambassadors fight! If anything, it might be the worst sort of diplomatic blunder to have military men on the scene at all; construed as a threat and all that. No, these were ambassadors from Star Government to Earth Government, and protocol demanded it be handled as such.

This pulled the plug.

From 3100 Massachusetts Avenue came the cryptic question: Since when did the State Department of the United States represent Earth Government? The Right Honorable British Ambassador, Knight Commander of the Bath, C.B.E., expected to be placed in line of reception at the Mall, and in a position commensurate with Empire Status.

Almost simultaneously, the white-fronted, palatial Russian Embassy at 1125 Sixteenth Street announced that the true representatives of the toiling masses should be first in line to greet these sons of the galaxy proletariat. The rather vague wording of this ukase gave the impression that an Inter-Universe Comintern had been responsible for Earth’s rescue by the white globes, and only diplomatic sensitivity had kept them from wearing the hammer and sickle.

A rather feeble, and purely routine, request was filed by the Secretary of the United Nations, on the basis that, since this was a world-to-world visit, didn’t somebody think that the United Nations organization ought to be the one to represent Earth? Just a suggestion, of course.

Nobody seemed to think so.

Norway, Saudi Arabia, Argentina were next to demand appropriate positions. The ambassador from France was somewhat handicapped in that he didn’t know who their premier was today, and therefore didn’t quite know whose name to use, but “Welcome in the name of France” had always been good, and he didn’t intend to let the big powers use this occasion to brand France as a second-rate power. Each of the two ambassadors from the Chinas spoke darkly of what would happen if the other were permitted to attend.

Official Washington and all the nations were conducting business as usual.

Within the hour, every diplomatic mission in the capital was hammering at the doors of the State Department, who, by their position, had lifted a considerable part of the load from my shoulders. The missions were being reinforced as fast as planes could empty the United Nations building in New York and transfer the occupants to Washington.

The president of the W.C.T.U. demanded that the Spacemen be given the alcohol test before being permitted to set foot on Earth. The Secretary General of the Antivivisection League demanded that we get a signed certificate that no experimental animals had been used in finding out how to get here. A committee from the Vegetarian Society wanted documentary evidence of their diet before declaring its position. The D.A.R. was also undecided on their official attitude since obviously none of the Spacemen had ancestors who fought in the Revolutionary War and were therefore beneath notice.

One Senator Gasbie rushed to the floor of the deserted upper chamber and delivered an impassioned speech to two page boys who were stuck with duty and too naive to disappear. Why, he asked the two page boys, should the principle of states’ rights be pilloried?

The Immigration Department was rushing all over Washington trying to find a judge who would issue an injunction against the landing until the Starmen had complied with the loyalty-oath requirements.

In final desperation, since there was nothing else to do, appeals even filtered through to the President to make a decision on who should stand where in the reception line. Never one to make a decision anyway, this came at a most inappropriate time, for he hadn’t yet decided the much more important question of which Image he wished to Project. For thirty-forty years the country, from election to election, had wavered between the affable but ineffectual Father Image, and the bright but annoying Kid-Brother Image. Should he radiate calm, fatherly indulgence; or should he be sharp and inquisitive—this being about Space and all?

The F.B.I. didn’t care who stood where, just so long as there was no sex hanky-panky going on.

If Official Washington was confused, Social Washington was more so.

There must be a dinner and formal reception in the evening after the arrival. From the distinguished alleys of Georgetown to the Hunt Club Set of Virginia and Maryland, the battle raged on who would sponsor it.

The social problems posed were stupendous. Who should be invited to the dinner? Should there be multiple dinners? Certainly not, this was no political election gimmick! For once and for all, status levels would be decided by who received invitations. It must be quite exclusive. But should they establish a secondary status level by inviting more people to the reception following the dinner? What about seating arrangements?

Should all five of the Spacemen be seated together? Did I think their officers would be insulted if they were seated with their men? How many were officers and how many were men, anyway? I didn’t know? How stupid, how very stupid of me not to have found out such an important thing as that!

Perhaps they should set up a second affair in the scullery, where the common help from the spaceship could be fed later with the servants?

What would the Starmen wear? Would they come in smelly uniforms, or would they have black tie, or white tie? What dishes did they prefer? No information whatever! Now wasn’t that just like a foreigner, not to give their hostesses a teeny hint!

What about this word going around that the visitors were really green spiders with red eyes running up and down their legs? Just on the chance, should the menu include—ugh—flies?

I suddenly created a new position for Sara. I switched such calls over to the Social Secretary of the Bureau of Extraterrestrial Psychology. She didn’t thank me, but she did pick up on it with considerable more finesse than I had been able to muster.

Gently, firmly, she suggested on the matter of flies, for example, that they wait and see what the visitors really did look like. We didn’t really have it on the best authority that they actually were spiders; but if they happened to be, weren’t there just oodles and oodles of flies in the slums? And didn’t Washington have some of the finest slums in the country? Let the flies wait. They’d have from the morning, when the Starmen appeared, until evening to gather flies. Perhaps the Junior League and the Junior Chamber could make a day’s outing gathering enough flies?

Oh, you’re quite, quite welcome. We’re glad to be of service on such an important matter. That’s why we pay taxes, you know.

But not all questions were referred to our department. After all, the women were American, with pioneer blood coursing through their veins. They were able to make some decisions all by themselves. On the matter of addressing the Starmen, for example. Your Excellencies? No. How did we know they were excellent? Your Worthy Starshipsires? Awkward, and one simply mustn’t be awkward. They finally had to let Sara arbitrate. She ruled a simple Sir should be adequate, until we knew more.

Should the women curtsy to the Spacemen? To spiders, my dear? Better wait on that momentous decision, too.

Now about dress? Wait a minute.

Sara looked over at me. For the moment I was between calls and conferences.

“They want to know how to dress,” she said.

“Oh, damn it, Sara,” I snapped. “For Chrissake! All right. Let the men wear tails. It’ll be symbolic. Let the women dress the way savages dress everywhere—bedeck themselves in old dead parts of birds and animals, smear their faces with colored clay, mash flowers over themselves to conceal their natural stench. The same way they always dress. Now, for Chrissake!”

“Don’t you think it should be formal, really formal?” Sara asked her caller sweetly.

We even got a call from two enterprising fixers who had formed a merger and cornered all the local call girls, just in case the Starmen could get away from the public reception for a while to relax and enjoy themselves. The girls weren’t quite sure how to manage green spiders, but at least they wouldn’t be any worse than some of those drunken, slobbering old congressmen who were always so pure and noble back home.

The long, hellish day gradually drew to a close. The intervals between calls grew longer. I looked over at Sara during one of those intervals, and she was crying.

“S’matter, Sara?” I asked.

She looked up at me while she fished in her desk drawer for a tissue.

“Don’t they remember last night at all? The courage? The beauty? The purity? You’d think…”

“I know,” I said. “I’d like to go somewhere and hide, pretend I don’t belong to the human race.”

She wiped her eyes, and blew her nose.

“When I was a kid,” I said, and looked back in memory to a long time ago, “I used to dream about the time when we would meet some other life intelligence face to face. I was pretty innocent, I guess. Because, in that imagining, I always saw Man standing straight and proud—and I was so proud of him.”

She lay her head down on her desk and sobbed uncontrollably.

FOURTEEN

The President, or at least his phalanx of advisers, had made a protocol decision on who should stand where. It was 9:52 a.m. Radio contact with the globe, invisible somewhere out in space and unregistered on any of our tracking equipment, had agreed on 10:00 a.m. as a suitable landing time.

The President stood at the head of a flying wedge of dignitaries. He was flanked on either side by the key Senate and House leaders, appropriately spaced with an eye to the best camera angles. Behind the President, and blocked from view from any direction, stood the Vice-President. Behind them were intermingled some five hundred congressmen—not really intermingled, since seniority and party affiliation sorted them rigidly, although nobody but Congress would see the order of their standing. In a little group, by itself on one side of the Congress, stood the Cabinet. In a little group, on the opposing side, stood the Supreme Court. To the left stood the leftist-country ambassadors, and to the right stood the rightist ambassadors—and if the uncommitted nations didn’t know where to stand it served them right that they were left without any special place to stand.

Still farther off to the right, we representatives of the Pentagon stood. I seemed to be the only male in mufti in that contingent. Trouble was, they still hadn’t officially made me a Half-Planet-Admiral-Rear-Side; and I wasn’t sure I would be violating more sensitivities by assuming a uniform not officially mine, or appearing as a civilian. Apparently either way I was damned, for the uniformed officers seemed to shrink away from me, as if to say they didn’t know me and couldn’t account for why I was there. Even Dr. Kibbie in his Star Admiral’s uniform, seemed to prefer standing with Star Admiral Lytle, Space Navy’s Personnel Director.

Sara, loyally, stood proudly beside me.

“Nine fifty-two,” she said. “Eight minutes. But the globe is nowhere in sight.”

“Insects are sluggish until the air warms up,” I said, sotto voce. “Maybe ten o’clock was too early.”

She didn’t bother to smile.

As far as we could see, in any direction, the Mall and all avenues tunneling into it were packed with humanity. There was a ceaseless pushing, shoving, elbowing for better view. Each time a new VIP had arrived with police or military escort, those who lost their favored positions in making way fought to regain them. Most had got some sleep, since the night before last had been all waking, but many had needed the fortification of alcohol to keep the little burner stoves of their souls alight. The crowd more nearly resembled the peak hour of an Irish clambake than a solemn reception of the first visitors to Earth from another world.

The landing area itself was a huge, slightly irregular rectangle, roped off with movable standards and chains. It stretched eastward from near the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. The huge statue of Lincoln looked down on the scene, and the face seemed even sadder than usual at the sight.

Globe-helmeted Space Cadets were drawn in parallel ranks just outside the roped area. They stood at parade rest, but the polished tubes of their ray guns were thrust outward toward the pressing crowd, silently warning the people not to come any closer unless they wanted to be paralyzed or disintegrated.

I looked at my wrist watch. Another minute had passed. The count-down seemed to stretch outward to infinity.

“Maybe the Spacemen will understand,” Sara said, as if to comfort me.

“I’ve been thinking,” I murmured. “I’m pretty sure they understand more about us than I’m proud of.”

Perhaps it was my roving eye, I really don’t hold with the superstition that we can sense when we are being stared at, but, just the same, I began to look around to see if I could spot that penetrating stare at me once more. I found it.

An enormously fat man was standing with a group of privileged newsmen over on the far side of the President’s stance. There was no doubt about it, he was staring directly at me, as if trying to read down into the depths of my soul. It was my first glimpse of Harvey Strickland, although, then, I didn’t know who he was. I was that ignorant of what really went on behind the scenes of democratic government.

“What time is it now?” Sara was asking.

“Six more minutes,” I answered. The sweep hand of my watch assured me it really was running.

I looked away from Strickland—let him stare—and around the area again. The white marble steps of the Lincoln Memorial were lined with television cameras. More cameras peeked out from the observation windows atop the lofty Washington Monument. They were equipped with the latest lenses to present every detail of the landing in stark close-up, and no doubt the latest vibratory ears to record distant words spoken.

Beyond the official party, reporters with portable units threaded through the teeming crowd, picking up a babble of inane comment. One Washington matron, introduced as a social leader and etiquette arbiter, giggled into the microphone.

“Now remember, all you deah, deah people—if our visitors should be green spi—well, just a wee, wee bit different from us—let’s pretend not to notice anything wrong with them—shall we? They can’t help how they look, you know. We must remember to be tolerant. Just can’t afford to be provincial at a time like this. Now can we?”

Her voice was blotted out by a huckster who had managed, somehow, to get up toward the front of the commoner crowd.

“Space helmets! Space helmets! Get your soovineer space helmets! Only fi’ dollars while they last. Get ’em while they last, folks.”

“It’s three minutes, now,” I said to Sara. “And still they’re not in sight.”

“They’ll come,” she said. “They’re good. They wouldn’t hurt us by promising to come, and then not do it.”

“Yeah,” I said dryly. “They’re the good ones. I’ll bet they wear white hats.”

“Sh-h,” she whispered. “I understand how you feel, but other people mightn’t.”

“I don’t know how I feel, myself,” I said. “So how could you? I just have a terrible dread that this has all been one gigantic hoax, right from the beginning. And if it has been…”

The murmur from the crowd drowned out a sentence I didn’t know how to finish. First a whisper, then a sudden roar, like fire bursting out of control.

“There it is! There it is!”

Automobile horns began to blare across the city. Sirens swelled the volume of sound until ears were deafened. From somewhere out of sight, the Army cut loose with a twenty-four-gun salute. The Marine Corps Band struck up its marching song. The Space Cadets began stamping their feet in their famous drill march called Climbing to the Stars, which didn’t really go anywhere.

I found the globe at last. It seemed to be coming directly out of the sun. Only by closing my eyes to slits could I follow its downward plunge.

And it was coming at unbelievable speed, a daredevil speed straight down at us—a foolhardy stunt speed; a teen-age hot-rodder, manic speed; a show-off speed. Now that its angle was no longer against the sun, I could see its sapphire blue with the radiant star of light gleaming brighter than the sun’s rays.

There was a stir in the crowd, that frozen moment before panic. Then, just at the instant when panic might indeed send us all crushing outward into the crowd crushing inward, the globe checked its hurtling descent, its flamboyant stupidity—and settled to the Mall as gently as a fallen leaf.

That impulse which had started up from our assembled guts as a scream of terror changed to a deep and satisfying sigh of awe and wonder.

As the globe settled, touched lightly against the pavement, it spiraled slowly until it presented the thin-line rectangle of a closed exit hatch to face the Presidential Party. That group breathed a sigh of relief. Apparently these visitors, whatever they might be like, had enough sense to know who was important. Apparently it wouldn’t start out with a faux pas, at least. Apparently the coming could be photographed and presented to the world as it actually happened, instead of being rerun and faked for public consumption at a later time.

I watched, hardly breathing.

A curved gangway materialized out of the side of the ship and dropped into position—gracefully, noiselessly.

The crowd, too, seemed to hold its breath. A long stillness of frozen motion. Only the cameramen seemed to make small movements as they huddled, crouched, aimed their lenses, and waited.

The exit hatch rolled back, and now we could see a blue light glowing softly from the interior of the spaceship.

A soft rustle as the crowd seemed to lean forward.

Then the first Spaceman appeared.

He was human, tall, almost six-four, and built like a brick—and perfectly proportioned, beautifully muscled in all the right places. He was handsome with rugged masculinity. He was resplendent in platinum white uniform. Four circles of ebony braid decorated his tunic sleeves. On his left breast were row upon row of gleaming decorations. His shoulder insignia sparkled like diamonds in the morning sunlight. His white military cap, deep-visored, was set slightly to one side of his head. On the visor was a radiant star in white gold, set in coruscating fire of a circle of diamonds.

The crowd remained hushed.

Over all the vast assembly there was no sound. Then the faint rustle of stretching brassieres as the ladies began to lift their mammary appendages into more prominent view.

Far back, from a vantage point where they could get a preview look at their customers, the call girls grimaced cynically and gave up anticipation. There’d be no customers for them, not when there was such obviously free and palpitating competition getting ready to start operations.

As the first Spaceman stepped down the gangplank, his stride a free and easy thing of strength, his eyes swept the crowd.

Was it imagination that they hesitated a moment on mine?

His eyes swept on around, and then his aquiline, perfectly chiseled features broke into a broad, toothy grin.

Signal for pandemonium. Caught breath, en masse, was let forth in a gusty roar. Voices broke loose in a cackle of relief. Women began to weep, and scream with adulation. Men hammered their hats into shapeless balls of felt. One small boy, obviously coached, threw a grubby handful of sticky, damp confetti; and in wild hysteria the people began to throw everything loose they had toward the landing field; watches, purses, tie clips, hats. Most of it landed on the heads of others, slipped down, and was trampled underfoot—but never mind.

I stood immobile, expressionless. I think I was the only one not shouting and screaming. Even the President was waving his top hat in the air and shouting what he remembered from a college sports yell.

The eyes of the grinning Spaceman came back to me, caught me standing immobile. His expression did not change, but his eyes seemed to question.

“Aren’t I doing it right?” he seemed to ask.

But it was too fleeting for me to know. It had all happened during his first two steps down the gangplank.

His two steps ahead, and then, behind him, from the hatch, stepped two more Spacemen, and then two more. They were all dressed the same, except the four had only three ebony circles on their sleeves, some fewer decorations across their breasts, and only the star of white gold, without the circle of diamonds, upon their visors.

All were handsome, strong, virile, proud, beautiful.

There would be no need for feeding in the scullery. No need for Junior League and Junior Chamber to go catching flies.

They came all the way down the gangplank in formation. The first Spaceman paused at the bottom, a little shyly, proudly but a little embarrassed.

But then, instead of stepping forward to the President, he made a sharp left turn, and all five of them marched over and came to a halt directly in front of me!

“Take me to your leader!” he said.

I looked at him. And to this day I don’t know whether or not my lip lifted in a sneer. I looked at him, and then I realized that about two billion people were watching this—this charade, this farce. Certainly the eyes of everybody there were staring at us.

I took a deep breath.

“Come with me,” I said, “I will take you to our leader.”

I stepped up beside him. The four Star-ship crewmen fell in behind us. As one man, the General Staff from the Pentagon fell in behind them. We marched, with nobody out of step, to where the President was still standing. I halted in front of the President.

“This is our leader,” I said to the Starman. “Mr. President,” I said, “may I present the men who have come from the stars.”

At a prod from the House and Senate leaders, the President took a step forward, doffed his top hat, and smiled his fatuous vote-getting smile.

“Men from the Stars,” he rolled sonorously, “Earth welcomes you. Earth thanks you for defeating our enemy.”

It wasn’t too bad. Some White House speech writer had had enough sense to keep it simple.

The Spacemen listened, their heads bowed modestly, their shoulders square and erect. The first Spaceman took one pace forward, cleared his throat—and blushed!

The crowd was completely silent again.

“Shucks, Mr. President,” he said in a West Texas drawl, “it wasn’t nothin’, really. Wasn’t nothin’ any red-blooded boy in the Right Thinkin’ Universe wouldn’t have done for his friends!”

He broke into his exuberant grin again; that charming, careless, boyish, handsome, irrepressible, spontaneous grin which can be achieved only after hours upon hours of practice before a mirror.

“We was just lucky, I guess!”

FIFTEEN

There was something wrong with my consistency.

As soon as I grew certain, openly and honestly to myself, that it was all a gigantic hoax, I grew equally certain that it wasn’t. Admittedly there was no Earth power, no mentality, no equipment, no facilities, and no foolhardiness so great as to produce this hoax. That they had come from the stars I could not doubt. That they had deliberately hoaxed us I could not doubt. That they must have some alien motive for doing this I could not doubt.

And the more normal these slap-happy fly-boys appeared to be, the wilder the acclaim and adulation of Official and Social Washington, and the world, the more I doubted them.

They were not, surely they could not be what they seemed. Then what were they? Why and how had they so completely adopted Hollywood’s entirely spurious idea of what a hero should be? To conceal what?

To look through the eyes of what might logically be assumed the surveillance of an alien life intelligence, I might not be proud of Man (he gave me little cause), but Man was, nonetheless, my own. For better or for worse, I was on his side.

I longed to talk to someone about it, but as the day progressed I found no kinship doubt in any other eyes. I was one attending an executive-suburban social who must tailor his tastes and opinions to public relations lest he give offense by seeming a minority.

Not even Sara was with me, not this time. There had been no doubt in her eyes, the last time I’d seen her before the crowd separated us at the Mall. Her eyes had also been star sapphires.

Unpracticed as I was in Washington’s diplomatic courtesies, I found myself quickly shuffled, shouldered, and edged away from the favored position the Starmen had given me at the Mall. Yet, to my astonishment, I found myself in the third car behind them in the parade on its way to Blair House across from the White House. I learned only later that it was Shirley, who did know Washington, working behind the scenes, who not only saw to it that I got a seat in that car but who laid down the law to every host and hostess in Washington that one Dr. Ralph Kennedy must be hurriedly added to their exclusive lists. Only later did I learn that the servants and office staff members are the real social and political arbiters of Washington—everybody else is too green and inexperienced to know.

Both Official and Social Washington, after some cautious inquiry of their own servants, accepted Shirley’s judgment. Word was passed around (and my status grew in the telling) that I was the world’s foremost authority on extraterrestrial psychology (if I had been a mere second-foremost authority I couldn’t have got into the service entrance)… Adviser to the Pentagon, they say the top generals and admirals don’t make a move, a single move, without consulting him first…an admiral, himself, and therefore socially acceptable…you noticed, didn’t you, that the Spacemen picked him out to introduce them to the President, and they’re certainly All Right…therefore he must be too.…

It seemed not to occur to anyone (else) to wonder how the Spacemen had known all this about me immediately upon landing—me standing there among all that resplendent brass and braid without so much as a good-conduct medal.

It was while driving from one welcoming function to another in the late afternoon of the first day that I made first mental contact with them. Unhappily, it was my last for quite some time. This time, through Shirley’s influence, I had been given the seat beside the secret-service man who was driving their open car through the crowded streets. We were driving through a wild demonstration of celebrity worship. Bex, Dex, Jex, Kex, and Lex, seated in the rear of the car, were busy grinning handsomely, smirking, and occasionally saluting the crowd.

“You’re setting us back a hundred years,” I grumbled sourly, while I tried to look both brilliant and happy for the cameras myself. “Here we’ve been telling our young people that the real hero of tomorrow is a Thinking Man; that to meet the challenge of the future they’ve got to develop their Intellect beyond studying out how to heat before they eat, how to obey road signs, how to distinguish between rest rooms. How far do you think we’re going to get now, after the example you’ve set?” It was subvocal grumbling; no point in revealing myself to the secret service as a subversive.

We were still bowing and smiling to the crowds lining the street, but I forgot myself long enough to swallow hard on a double take at their answer. They did not speak it, but it was clear and sharp.

“The prevailing art forms of a culture invariably give the common denominator of its direction. In yours we find no such cultural ideal as you express.”

It was the first thought they’d uttered which couldn’t have been lifted bodily from the script of Git Along Doggie, or Biff Swift, Space Detective.

And it was impersonal, emotionless—as remote from approval or rebuke as a spiral galaxy.

There went my consistency again. Oddly, somehow, it made me feel better. At least they weren’t really what they seemed—cowboys taken from some distant world’s Western Plains, dressed up in fancy uniforms and taught to press some buttons. There was intellect behind those false fronts.

I felt a twinge of fear. So far they had taken utmost care not to harm any human life—but only so far.

They gave me no more contact. They were much too busy playing up to the crowds lining the streets. And why? Why were they working so hard to be popular? Why were they giving us such a liberal helping of what we obviously had hoped to find in them? Or were they sampling each mind as we passed? With the same ease in sampling mine? And finding? For what were they searching?

Too bad our scientists would all be back at the Mall, attempting to measure, guess the weight and composition of an entranceless, seamless globe. And I still wonder if their instruments told them there wasn’t anything there—or if the instruments, too, were subject to illusion.

And I wonder, too, if the police department wasn’t secretly relieved when the ship, in mid-afternoon, suddenly disappeared; releasing the cordons of police so they could go back to their normal occupation of attempting to entice ordinary people into committing crimes so they could entrap them more conveniently.

Now it was three o’clock in the morning. At the dinners and receptions the human males had worn their symbolic tails, the females had shown off the old dead scraps skinned from slaughtered rodents to display the hunting prowess of their males in the widows-and-orphans fleecing marts or under the graft table. The social events symbolizing the progress of a flowering civilization were over for the night. Even the stench of perfumes, so fragrant in the bottle and jar, so fetid as they oxidize and mix with sweat and decaying scales of skin, was being carried away on the cool night breeze.

The Star Heroes lounged around in one of the more intimate reception rooms of Blair House, theirs for their stay, while they relaxed before going to bed—single beds, of course, installed under the strict supervision of F.B.I. who were doing their best to make sure these handsome, single men from the stars indulged in no nonconformist sex behavior while guests of this Earth and subject to association with government officials.

The long legs of the heroes were thrown up over the arms of chairs, their cigarette ashes dropped carelessly upon priceless rugs, their corrosive nightcaps etched rings upon rare table tops.

They seemed not to know about spy-ray units, microphones, and cameras concealed behind moldings, under chairs, in electrical outlets, through minute openings punched through eye pupils of masterpiece paintings on the wall, through false mirrors placed strategically to cover every square foot of Blair House.

They seemed unaware that a couple billion people would be treated to their every private move and word—well, nearly every move and word. Certain scratching, certain tugging at cloth cutting into certain body areas, certain remarks; these would have to be expurgated, of course. All right for the censors to observe them, for the censors could be confident that their minds were pure, but no such trust could be placed in those with inferior morals.

They seemed unaware of the vast satisfaction their behavior would bring to a hundred million moms who would watch them mash down the upholstered arms of chairs, mess up the rugs, ruin the furniture, make grunts and belches just like their own fine sons. Which proved, again, that they were All Right, for here was behavior that even moms could understand. Oh, they would cluck with shocked disapproval at the terrible, terrible upbringing these boys must have had; but they would sigh happily that these heroes didn’t have a thing, not a single thing, which their own fine sons didn’t also have. Anybody could be a hero, it didn’t take anything special. Just luck. The moms could draw vast comfort from seeing that with their own eyes, and compliment themselves that they had done just as good a job as those mothers on—well, wherever these heroes came from.

The secret services, the supersecret services, the spies who spy upon the spies, wherever a human body could be squeezed into false wall passages, locked closets, basements, attics, and houses next door, all these watched, recorded, and photographed for later analysis. They had begun with narrowed, suspicious eyes; they had savored each remark for hidden, subversive meanings, and gradually they, too, became convinced that these astronauts were, indeed, what they claimed to be—pure and simple representatives from the Right Thinking Universe.

The conversation of the five was in the tradition of an army barracks. Perhaps an occasional Navy man actually does make a furtive try or so at obtaining some illicit pleasure while ashore, but it takes an Army man to talk about it. This portion of their conversation would have to be considerably expurgated, for the social beauties might not like the general public to hear the argued estimates of their milk-gallonage production capacity, and whether or not the daily gallons they advertised were really believable. Probably their conversation did help to reassure the F.B.I. that their sex patterns had been properly oriented and their association with government officials might not contaminate with any positions or movements not on the approved list.

I did my own share of listening, viewing, analyzing, and wondering, and found I really didn’t have the Peeping Tom temperament required for this work. My status as the world’s foremost authority on extraterrestrial psychology gave me access to the various observing units, but after sampling the behavior of the Starmen, the cloud of avidity radiating from the observers drove me outside, onto the lawn, to clear my lungs with the night’s cool breeze.

But not an empty lawn or street. Even at this hour of predawn, and after nights of sleeplessness, still there were crowds of people standing outside of Blair House stolidly watching, staring at lighted rectangles of windows blanked by closed blinds or even blanker walls.

I walked among the silent, staring people, and was on the point of deciding to find some transportation to my hotel when the dark figures of the crowd began to stir, and a low murmur arose from them. I turned and looked at the spot which seemed to have drawn all their eyes.

It was one of the upper balconies which let through French doors into a bedroom. It began with a glow, a vague nimbus of pearly light.

The throaty murmur around me was one of awe.

A form began to take shape within the brightening nimbus of light. At first it was ghostly, symbolizing immateriality. It began to clear, take shape. Now it was a human form. The arms came up and out. The white robe draped the figure and flowed from the extended arms. A face emerged from the nimbus of the head, a Flemish face, with hair long, and blond, and draped in ringlets about the shoulders. The robe glistened now as finest nylon. A halo began to glow about the head.

Then it was gone.

The balcony was dark and black.

The crowd had buckled at the knees. Some were lying prone upon the ground. I looked back up at the balcony angrily.

“Now what are you practical jokers up to?” I asked bitterly.

SIXTEEN

The Miracle at Blair House, as it came to be called, gave Harvey Strickland the assurance he needed.

He sat, the next morning, in his purple robe at his desk in the suite of offices reserved for him at the Washington Evening Bulletin, and weighed the discrepancies in the vision against their purpose.

Nylon robe, indeed! His first response to this item in the reporters’ stories had been fury at the sloppy thinking, and some of his reporters came closer than they ever knew to excommunication from the fourth estate. But then he grew curious at the unanimous opinion that the robe was nylon. Odd.

Odd, also, that a halo was universally reported. Painters didn’t invent the halo for several centuries after the time of Christ. And it was some centuries still more before the anti-Semitic Nordic painters changed the physical appearance to one they liked better. Just as the approved image which came to be accepted had nothing whatever in common with the probably dark and swarthy little Asiatic Jew, so did Christianity evolve into something which had nothing whatever in common with that servile little Jew’s teachings.

So what motive in presenting this wholly inaccurate vision?

The goddamn communists had said religion was the opiate of the people. As usual, they were so twisted in their thinking they had even misinterpreted this. Christianity was the most powerful weapon rulers had ever found for keeping the people meek, docile, humble, subservient, asking nothing, expecting nothing, fearing even that if they asked for their rights here on Earth, they might be denied them in Heaven. This was the reason the ancient rulers had shrewdly adopted it as a state policy; this was the reason the modern industrialist enforced it upon his employees, and saw to it that the ministers in his factory towns kept the workers humble, docile, and afraid.

Suddenly he felt flooded with revelation. The Miracle at Blair House had been their sign to him. “We approve the method of scaring the sheep into submission,” they were saying to him. “We see that there is altogether too damn much independent thinking going on, and it’s time the people were brought back into line.”

He pushed his huge bulk to his feet and began to pace the space between the desk and the doorway while he thought out the implications behind the act. From their behavior these five had seemed no more than stupid fly-boys, the kind of happy-go-lucky show-offs we might send out after we had taught them to press the right buttons. Maybe they were, maybe they weren’t. Maybe there was more to them than met the eye, or maybe this was just another button they had been ordered to push, part of a long range pattern.

It didn’t really matter which. Whether they’d thought it up, or it had been thought up for them, the intended result was clear.

Here lately there’d been a rash of independent little literary magazines, operating on a shoestring, with appeal to only a few goddamn intellectuals. He’d paid them no attention. Those things usually died out after two or three issues, and the backers saw that they hadn’t changed the destiny of mankind with a couple of editorials. But the rash of them was symptom of increase in independent thinking. Worse, there were mutterings among the scientists that came close to mutiny. Goddamn scientists were getting too big for their britches. They were forgetting they were just hired mechanics, and were trying to tell the bosses how the shop ought to be run.

He whirled around and slapped his hand down hard on his desk.

That was the deal!

Lest this give anybody ideas about science being more important than sheeplike docility, this arrival of men from the stars, the people were to be reminded of the pasture fences and who drives them with the dogs and whip.

Well, they didn’t have to hit Harvey Strickland over the head. Now that they had shown him that either they, or the power behind them, knew the score; he’d play their game. Sooner or later, there’d be a showdown of hands across the table—or under it.

He wheezed his high, gasping laughter, went around the desk, sat back down in the triple-strength chair, and began punching buttons to summon his editorial staff. He grabbed up his phone, called his New York suite, and ordered Miller to come on the next plane.

He hadn’t wanted Miller with him while he was uncertain of his course. It wouldn’t do for Miller to know he could be uncertain. But now that he knew, Miller must be here to see. He would have considered it complete nonsense if any psychologist had told him Miller, to him, was symbolic of humanity; and that the same jealousy and hatred which had driven him to destroy Miller pressured his drive to humble the contemptible human race.

That its determined, eternal, beautiful effort to lift its head in pride, in spite of all his efforts and those down through the ages like him to keep it servile and cowardly, was embodied in Miller. Even if he had contemplated the idea, he would have rejected it, for obviously Miller had been completely broken, by him, long ago.

He would not have admitted, or known, either of the human race or of Miller, that the spark of man’s desire to lift himself up out of the muck, to throw back his head and gaze in ecstasy up to the stars, is never quenched.

More immediately, it did not occur to him that his secretary, so self-effacing as to be often forgotten, as a good organization man should, had, ignored, stood by his shoulder once too often and watched him work the secret combination to his file room of dossiers.

That Miller had used his absence from New York, and the excitement of the rest of the New York personnel in its absorption with the doings of the Starmen, to spend long hours in that secret room.

That Miller had finally found his own dossier, and had read its every word with increasingly comprehending eyes.

That the dormant spark of pride in Miller had been given the fuel to flame into a raging fire.

SEVENTEEN

It was Shirley again, with her manipulations behind the scenes, who filled my following days with woe.

Long experienced in the empire-building involvements and intrigues of bureaucratic Washington, and well knowing this was done through grabbing the ball of expediency and running with it before anybody else had a chance to get their hands on it, she grabbed the ball and passed it into my hands before I knew what it was.

Who had a better right to act as intermediary between the Starmen and the deputations and committees of Earthmen than Dr. Ralph Kennedy, the world’s foremost authority on extraterrestrial psychology?

Let the State Department rant and rave that the Starmen had called themselves ambassadors, and it was their function to handle ambassadors—did they have trained authorities in extraterrestrial psychology to do the job? They did not! All right, we would concede a point. We admitted it was their job to handle Earth ambassadors. So the foreign ambassadors from Earth countries who wanted to call upon the Starmen and pay their respects (and wheedle concessions for their own countries) could go cool their heels in the anterooms of the State Department while their protocol was sorted out, but the State Department would have to deal with us in who actually got in to see the Starmen.

All right! We would concede that the Commerce Department handled deputations of businessmen, so let the businessmen cool their heels in the Commerce Department while waiting for permission, from us, to wheel and deal trade concessions out of the Starmen.

All right! Let the Civil Space Authority answer the question of the scientists, “How did you do it?” if they could!

Shirley solved all this by the simple, and thoroughly familiar to Washington, means of “transmitting orders from above”—without revealing who gave those orders up above. She simply told the guards around Blair House to admit no one but me. She even took on the President’s secretary and came out on top, by hinting darkly about the political repercussions which could result from the President making a premature step through interceding for his court favorites.

Not even Harvey Strickland would be permitted to see the Starmen without my approval!

Trouble was, since I’d had no further contact with the Starmen myself, I was hardly in position to start filling their calendar with dates from all these pressing deputations, committees, and individuals.

I found myself curiously reluctant to step out into the spotlight, for now the entire world sat staring at its television set, which showed the entrance of Blair House and the milling crowds outside the cordon of guards.

So, the Space Cadets could escort me and make a path through the crowds. So, the guards, upon proper identification, would allow me through the lines. So there I would be, walking up the steps, alone. Watched by two billion people. So I would knock on the door. So I would say, “Please, Mr. Starmen, may I come in?”

What if they said, “No!”?

Goddamn you, Shirley, you and your empire-building.

I delayed putting it to a test as long as I could. My excuse was that I must sample the reactions of the press and television to the Miracle at Blair House.

The Strickland organization had gone all out. “Down on your knees, you stupid slaves,” was the gist. “Grovel your silly faces in the dust. Lo! We have been given the sign.”

The more I read the angrier I grew. Not only at Strickland, his motives were becoming pretty clear to me. Not just at the fanatics who were all too willing to jump on the band wagon to increase their importance and their compulsion to destroy all who didn’t acknowledge their ascendancy. But at the Starmen, themselves. What were they trying to do to us?

My anger supplied the necessary adrenalin to get me on my feet and going.

It went as I had envisioned. There was, indeed, the escort of Space Cadets. I was admitted through the lines upon verification of the Captain of the Guards that I was one and the same person who had introduced the Starmen to the President, the one exception who was to be admitted to Blair House, and therefore the authentic Dr. Ralph Kennedy.

I did not knock on the door, shuffle my feet, pull my forelock, make a steeple out of my hands, and pray for admittance. I simply pushed open the door and walked inside. I had considered that they might throw me out bodily, feet flying over head down the steps, with two billion people watching my disgrace, but by now I didn’t care.

Instead, I was received with that exasperating, “Shucks, Dr. Kennedy, we’re just plain folks. You shouldn’t ought to go to all this trouble, a busy man like you, just to see if we’re makin’ out all right.”

They were scattered around the breakfast room, in dressing gowns with cloth strained at the shoulders and gathered in folds around the hips—dressing gowns obtained from the wardrobe of Blair House and designed for the more normally proportioned VIP’s who might be expected to visit the Capital—with thin shoulders and fat asses. They were having morning coffee—black; served by the regular servants assigned to Blair House. Their faces were designed to reflect the morning after the night before.

My disgust with them increased, but I was stopped in my impulse to say what I thought by the knowledge of the spy-rays, microphones, and cameras, and knowing how two billion people would interpret my discourtesy to visitors who were heroes at the very least, and possibly divine.

“Funny thing about them gadgets,” one of the Spacemen drawled, as a dark man in a white coat, who possessed far more dignity than I, seated me and gave me coffee. “Sometime during the night them gadgets all went out of commission. Them noises you hear behind the walls, I reckon they’re not rats—just electronic engineers tryin’ to figger out what went wrong.”

That much was a relief. But the joker’s stupid country-boy accent and attitude weren’t. I’d caught that highly revealing flash about “art forms of a culture” the day before, and they must have known I’d caught it. So they must also know that I wasn’t taken in by their false faces. So now why the masquerade? With me?

I didn’t know what their game was. I knew only that so long as they maintained this farce I wouldn’t find out. I’m afraid I boiled over, as soon as the servants had left the room.

“You come in lies and deceit,” I said, and was surprised to find I was speaking in cold, measured words instead of hot stammering. “I shouldn’t be surprised to learn that you are also self-righteous, knowing what is good for us. And knowing that, capable of any atrocity upon us.”

There was a blur of faces and forms. For an instant, there was no one in the room with me. Only a vortex of faint, violet light. Then the room was populated again. The boys were still lounging around with coffee cups in their hands. But their faces were not the stupid duh-faces of Earth heroes. There was the faint glow of a nimbus around them.

It shook me. What kind of fool was I? To stir up what? All right! The worst they could do was blast me out of existence for blasphemy. And that might be preferable to living in the kind of world their behavior was going to create. Their faces were symbols of curiosity now, a wordless invitation for me to go on.

“The most despicable of all human traits,” I said, “the most cruel and mean, is self-righteousness, the belief that there is some special virtue in ourselves which enables us to decide what is best for others. It provides excuse for anything we may want to do in the destruction of others. We know it well. We should. We’ve had plenty of experience with it. We know it in all its stages of progression. We know it is a contagion and an addiction. We know it to be worse than any narcotic habit, for it can only feed upon forbidding and condemning others in ever increasing doses, to increase its own self-approval.

“You come to us in lies and deceit. You probably have even rationalized already that such lies and deceit are for our own good—the first stage of addiction to self-righteousness. You are, even now, probably trying to decide what is best for us. Your behavior seems to indicate you already think you know what is good for us. When will you go into the next stage of self-righteousness and start punishing us for not behaving the way you think we should?”

Again the blur, again the violet glow of whirlpool, again the curious faces around me. There was no country-boy drawl when one of them spoke.

“When one of your biologists wishes to study a life form,” he said in emotionless tones, “he first tries to measure all the elements in its environment. But this study does not reveal to him the tolerances of variation in that life form, nor does it reveal the potentials he suspects may be hidden within it. He enters the medium in which the culture exists, by, let us say, increasing the temperature, changing the chemical compound slightly, altering the environment to determine the potentials of reaction in the life form. He probably hasn’t the slightest concern, at this point, for what is ‘good’ for the life form, or ‘bad’ for it. He simply wants to know what it is, how it behaves, how it might behave.”

“And,” I interrupted, this time a little hotly, “if he finds out we don’t like it, we set about finding a way to destroy it.”

They hit me then.

Oh, not with a brawny hero’s sadistic fists. They did not gun me down with impunity and praise because they were on the right side.

They hit me with a vision.

I saw the universe as I had never before conceived it. For an instant I knew the vastness of infinity, the trillions and quadrillions of whirling dead worlds, a vastness of emptiness so overwhelming that the mind cannot grasp the whole of it—and lifeless.

Only here and there, in such pitifully small quantities as to be only a trace element was there life in any form—and, of that, an even tinier amount evolved to self-awareness.

And then I saw Earth; with its surface teeming, crawling, squirming with multitudes and myriads of life forms; each in life/death struggle with all the rest for survival and room to grow. No wonder, to us, life was cheap. No wonder, to us, the way to win was destruction of our opposition. Our values were formed on a world where there was too much life for the space it could occupy.

Their values were formed by a universe almost totally devoid of life—where every scrap of it was so precious that its right to survive must transcend all else, the right to be must transcend the difference in being.

They did not know which was the Right form of life, and which the Wrong form. Such concepts had no meaning. They did not know which should become ascendant and which should be suppressed; for they did not know what the future destiny of life, any kind of life, was to be. They did not know it of us, they did not know it of themselves. They did not know of any right to harm us; or we, coming out to the stars, to harm them.

They did not know.

I did not know how or when I left them there in the breakfast room—again appearing to be duh-loafers sprawled around sipping morning coffee.

They tell me that while I was there, for something like an hour, the crowds had massed in increasing numbers, to press tighter and tighter against the cordon of guards. They tell me that when I came out of the door the crowd, which had been growing noisier, hushed. They tell me I walked as one in a trance. They tell me that even Strickland, purple-faced near apoplexy in his argument with the guards, demanding admittance, fell silent, and clamped his lips in a thin line. They tell me that, as I walked through the line, my eyes were fixed on something out of this world, and that the crowd, somehow, pushed back to open a path for me—wide enough that none touched me.

They tell me that, on the outskirts of the crowd, I stepped into the first limousine I reached—which wasn’t mine—and that the chauffeur, without a word, closed the door and drove me straight to the Pentagon.

I came to, sitting at my desk, with Sara telling me that the deputations of politicians, businessmen, and even some scientists were still waiting for me to tell them when they were scheduled to interview the Starmen.

I shook my head, as if coming out of a sleep.

“I don’t know,” I said vaguely. “I didn’t think to arrange anything.”

“But, boss,” she wailed. “You have no idea what we’ve been going through trying to stall off those people!”

“Oh darn, oh gracious, oh fudge,” I said. “To heck with those people!”[1]

EIGHTEEN

Meanwhile, back at the office, things had not stood still.

I had no more than introduced the Starmen to the President than Central Personnel suddenly discovered that somehow it had made the mistake of cutting my employee requisitions in half, and that in view of my obvious change in status the credit they might receive for all that money they were saving the taxpayers might measure somewhat less than the blame for not giving me the help I asked. They hurriedly rectified this by sending more than a thousand new employees to us, in one day’s time—each carrying a back-order reference to a given requisition.

Shirley was fit to be tied. But she arose to the occasion by appealing to Dr. Kibbie for assistance in finding still more space to hold them and orienting them to their new jobs. Apparently he was willing and eager to help, and to offer the help of all his other departments as well. We were making use of that two billion very nicely, and he had received word from a congressional committee that even though Congress was not officially in session all members were in town, and if we needed any more spending money they could get some of the boys together within an hour. Dr. Kibbie did not refuse. Shirley’s request for him to take on some of the burdens, and actually do some work around here, came as a boon to him.

Mine was the department where the spotlight was shining. He was only too glad for the opportunity to move back into the spotlight, after he had flubbed earlier chances so miserably. If it seemed that I had started out working for him and now he was working for me—well, that’s Washington.

Shirley had done a couple other things to pull the reins of control tightly into our hands. Telephone switchboards were removed from Blair House and all calls were routed through our office; or rather, stopped at our office. All mail and telegrams were routed to our office. She closed off every approach to the Starmen except through us—through me.

Dr. Gerald Gaffee, the second member of my original staff of three, was not far behind her. He, too, in his own field, had become the man of the hour; and arose to its challenge. With a singular lack of self-doubt and conflict, which usually keeps the intellectual impotent to accomplish anything, he drafted every available scientist to assist him in calculating the probable civilization of these Starmen to pad out the bales of news releases demanded of us; for page after page and hour after hour of print and discussion must be filled. There was no news of any other kind worth printing or talking about.

The scientists were delighted. As rapidly as they could, they turned off their Bunsen burners, cooled their retorts, balanced their equations, set aside their drawings, and flocked to his aid. When he matched them credential for credential, hauteur for hauteur, they fell to work with a sigh of deep satisfaction. Accustomed as they were to being low man on the totem pole, bottom of the status barrel, victims of every vagrant breeze that blew in cultural whims, they had grown practiced in seizing every fleeting opportunity to add a little more to mankind’s knowledge of the world and universe about him before a change in whim cut them off at the pockets, or a new program of anti-science in the culture quietly eliminated them.

A skilled archaeologist, himself finding the fragment at the site dig, can deduce an entire culture from a single shard. To do this, they must have known that. To know that could happen only after they had progressed through these and these stages of cultural growth. Buried at this level, in this climatic condition, required this much passage of time. Or, finding this shard at this site, instead of halfway around the world where it should have been found, presupposed an intercontinental trade among these earlier people, which, in turn, measured the level of civilization they had attained. All from a piece of shard—and astonishingly accurate in estimate, when later discoveries come to light. (Or, are later discoveries rearranged to confirm the first?)

Here they had no isolated shard. They had had days of watching, first the discs, then the globes, the battle with its incredible denials of the laws of inertia, the globe which had come to rest briefly at the Mall before it suddenly disappeared, the shape and clothing of the occupants—the speech of the occupants which they must have learned from a Western movie television-wave trapped by their instruments, the correct (well, in so far as West Texas speech can be considered correct) semantic meanings to the words they had uttered. Here was such an abundance of observation and evidence that deduction was mere child’s play—at least deduction at the level understandable to the people.

Their scientific deductions even brought them dangerously close to the forbidden areas of the humanities. For they deduced two massive galaxial civilizations strung out among the stars and galaxies of stars, at war, one Evil, one Good.

The discs were Evil, because they had threatened us. The globes were Good, because they had saved us. The scientists fell into the humanities routine of morals and ethics without even knowing they had done it.

They did not go on to spell out that mankind’s morals and ethics are based solely in expediency and have no other source of origin; that which favors his survival is Good; that which threatens his survival is Evil. The universe was created around man, for his benefit and no other purpose. It surrounds him, he is at its center, and all things in it relate to him in terms of Good, or Evil. In the humanics, man is still in the Ptolemaic age and has not yet reached, or come close, to that level of rational thinking where a humanic Copernicus can emerge.

And therefore the scientists bought themselves a few more days of toleration from the humanists, by, once again, not challenging the arbiters of right and wrong.

These bales of news handouts kept reporters and commentators off our necks for the moment. But the insistence of other deputations, each with its own expedient fish to fry, was growing in volume and number.

Oddly, there were no church deputations. Perhaps the churchmen prefer their miracles be kept long ago and far away. Perhaps that bogus miracle at Blair House filled them with dread that the Judgment Day was at hand—a Judgment Day few of them really believed would ever come, when they would be called to account for what they had done with that stewardship handed to them so long ago. At least, so went the comment around the department when the absence of such deputations was realized.

One other little development of a minor nature had also been making progress. With incredible speed, work, and skill, which can only come through complete dedication and psychotic drive, N-462 had now completed his proof that I was not the real Dr. Ralph Kennedy (who was still teaching a vague class at a vaguer college somewhere in the Mid-West, and never knowing how much he was missing just because some clerk in Space Navy got the files mixed up), but only a Mr. Ralph Kennedy, an imposter.

Following the accustomed police pattern, he calculated the various avenues of advantage to himself, brought the proof of my imposture to me first—and held out his hand.

“Hell!” I exclaimed after I’d looked it over. “I’m not going to pay hush on a half-cooked job like this. If you’d used more sense and less venom you’d have checked Space Navy, Personnel Department, Section of Files beginning with the letter K. There you’d have found a recording of my telephone call, which I made when I first got their letter telling me they’d court-martial me if I didn’t show up in forty-eight hours. You’d have found I told them and told them that I was the wrong man.

“If you’d interviewed the people I saw, in person, after I got here, and used the proper thumbscrews and rubber hoses in the approved police manner, they’d have finally admitted that I told them again and again I was the wrong man.

“They’re the ones who made the mistake. They’re the ones who insisted. They’re the ones who threatened me into taking the job. I know how we’re supposed to tremble when you look in our direction, I know how easy and how often you cook the evidence to suit your whims, but I’m not going to pay off on a lousy job like this.”

“I know who will pay off,” he said. He tried to bully me with his eyes. “The Strickland reps have already approached me, and about half the rest of the people in your department, trying to get something on you. They’ll pay plenty for this.”

“Sell it,” I answered instantly. “Don’t pass up your big chance, man. Sell it for enough so you can retire and write your memoirs about what a good boy you were when you were an undercover agent for, whatever you are an undercover agent for. Sell it to finance you while you tell us how you boys are our big brothers, how you should be let lead us by the hand, how nothing should be put in your way, least of all such a silly little thing like human rights.

“Sell it. Meantime, I’ll ask the Starmen if it makes any difference to them whether I’m a Doctor or a Mister. If they don’t want me as their go-between you’ve got yourself a big deal. But if they do want me—well, I don’t know if you’d noticed, but I saw what they could do to their enemies.” His eyes were no longer cold and bargaining. He fled. That left, of the central corps, only Sara to bully me about not making any appointments with the Starmen—a job any secretary ought to be able to do. Certainly the world’s foremost authority on extraterrestrial psychology ought to be able…

“Awright, Sara!” I finally snapped back. “Stop nagging. We’re not married yet, you know!”

Her eyes grew big.

Come to think of it, I guess that’s something else I hadn’t thought to take care of when I should.

NINETEEN

I might stand on the smear slide and shake my fist in resentment at the eye looking down through the microscope at us, but it had no apparent effect on the biologists who were stirring up our environment to test the potentials of our reaction.

The next exasperating move of the Starmen was reported on the television set in my office. I’d left the thing turned on because even my brief visit with them had given me another perspective. Now I was looking at the antics of the human race as they might appear to a detached, alien mind in curious observation.

Out of nowhere the star-sapphire globe suddenly appeared again, this time over the street in front of Blair House. There was panic pressure in the crowds of people directly beneath it, but the perimeter crowds were pressing inward to get closer this time. They could not move out of its path of descent.

I watched in apprehension mixed with some sardonic satisfaction. This time the Starmen, those lovable boys, Bex, Dex, Jex, Kex, and Lex, must reveal that the globe was an unsubstantial illusion, or they must crush the people beneath and violate their own precepts of not harming another life form.

They solved their dilemma, but not mine, by performing another miracle. I might have known they’d not hesitate to impress the yokels with their magic.

They came through the doorway of Blair House, again dressed in their resplendent uniforms, again with those irrepressible boyish grins on their handsome faces. They grouped together there at the entrance. The crowd fell silent. The leader, I suppose it was Bex, spoke familiarly with the crowd.

“Folks,” he said, and without seeming to strain his voice reached the outermost limits of the crowd, “I reckon we oughta clear up a little mistake we made. The other day that recording we played said we was here as ambassadors. Well, shucks, we’re not. I guess, back on our world, ambassador means something different from here. We didn’t know we’d be insultin’ anybody by not meetin’ with all the ambassadors from all your countries.

“And we’re not in any position to make any deals with anybody about anything. So that’s why we asked Mr. Kennedy not to put us down for talks with all you people of importance.”

(They came in lies and deceit. They hadn’t asked me any such thing. The matter hadn’t even come up. Still, I breathed a sigh of relief.)

“You might say”—Bex continued to sell his winsome personality—“instead of being ambassadors, we’re more like—well, tourists. We don’t want to disappoint nobody, but that’s kinda what we’d like to do a little more of.

“We’re gonna tour around now, to see a little more of this beautiful world of yours; that is, if you don’t mind. We figger we oughta see the country a little before we go back home. Maybe we can figger out how to give you a helping hand here and there. You might say we’re a kind of Youth Peace Corps—in a small way, that is.

“We want to thank you for the nice reception and the nice parties you gave us yesterday, but we hope it won’t hurt nobody’s feelin’s if we hafta turn down any more invitations. We’re not used to all this celebratin’, we’re just plain fightin’ men.

“You keep in touch with Mr. Ralph Kennedy at the Pentagon about us, he’s a mighty fine fella, and we certainly appreciate all the valuable time he’s given us. We’ll keep in touch with him too, long as we’re visitin’ here on your fine world.

“We’ll be back before we hafta go home. So long, now.”

A rainbow suddenly sprang out of the side of the hovering globe and placed its end at their feet. They marched up the rainbow and entered a hatch which opened at their approach. The blue glow from within the ship was cut off as the hatch closed again.

And there was no ship there.

Some claimed stoutly that they were able to follow its incredible speed up into the heavens; some confused specks before their eyes with the dot of the globe disappearing into the blue.

I had an idea it was something else; some movement perfectly normal to the experimenting biologist, inconceivable to the germs on the smear slide. But why bother to explain themselves to the germs? To keep the environment as “natural” as possible, within controlled conditions, changing only those things they wished to alter?

Personally, I wished they’d make up their minds. What were they? Ambassadors, tourists, fightin’ men, Youth Peace Corpsmen? Each role required a different response from us, each label carried its own set of expected behaviors.

This was a question I felt Dr. Gerald Gaffee and his phalanx of semanticists might wish to ponder. He and I had grown friendlier since that first meeting, and when I walked into his office this time, I was a little surprised that the original icy hauteur was back. The two scientists with him, both of international renown, looked at me with open hostility. Then I realized.

Twice the Starmen had referred to me in this latest speech of theirs, and both times as Mister. I was a Mister who had been posing as a Doctor. I was beneath contempt. Nothing was said, of course. Nothing needed be.

I had made up my mind to tell them, before they went out on the limb too far in the speculations of these Good and Evil Galaxial Civilizations, that they’d better also take into consideration that the whole thing had been a staged illusion. I changed my mind now. I knew from experience that anything a layman might say could not possibly be credited.

And, anyway, what difference would it make to the biologist what one germ on the smear slide thought of another?

“Never mind,” I told him, and walked out without mentioning why I had interrupted their important conference in the first place.

We heard nothing from the Starmen, or no reports of their whereabouts, for two days. This didn’t mean we heard nothing about them. There was page after page, hour after hour of hash and rehash.

The newest miracle of Walking on a Rainbow stirred and disturbed us even more than the balcony scene that first night at Blair House.

Now, for the first time, we took public note that in the battle between the globes and discs there had been no debris to fall upon us. It was another miracle.

That the discs had almost won, then suddenly turned coward and fled was a miracle.

That our tracking equipment and scientific instruments generally had failed to work, failed to confirm what our eyes and noses, our ears and tactile senses had told us was real—this was a miracle.

Even Horace Thistlewaite, Night Manager of the Sheridan House, New York, came in for his hour. The entire front page of one edition of the newspapers was given to his story; of the bellhop who saw five guys only it was one guy, then a purple whirlwind, the footprints in the carpet that wouldn’t brush out, the broken bed, the scorched stain on the wall. It had happened before the Starmen had arrived on Earth; therefore, it couldn’t have happened. And didn’t that make it a miracle?

“First thing you know,” I said sourly to Sara, “we’ll be like the mountain Indians of Latin America. A tourist drives through a village at the breakneck speed of fifteen miles an hour and doesn’t kill anybody. It is a miracle. The sun shines through a rift in the clouds and lights up a Mariposa lily on the hillside. It is a miracle. A man wakes up in the morning, after he had dreamed he was dead. He is alive. It is a miracle.”

She looked at me without committing herself.

“Accept as basic premise that by individual whim we can suspend the natural law of the entire universe, and anything you want to name becomes a miracle,” I said.

“What natural law would you use to walk on a rainbow?” she asked me.

“Now, Sara,” I chided. “That’s like saying, ‘If you’re so smart why ain’t you rich?’ Hell, I don’t know all the natural laws there are. Nobody on Earth does. Maybe the Starmen know some natural laws we don’t know, and maybe they don’t know all there are, either. But that doesn’t mean because we don’t know the natural law, there isn’t one.”

“So you believe in natural laws you don’t understand, and others believe in miracles they don’t understand—and what’s the difference?”

“We can never understand the miracle. Someday we can understand the natural law. That’s the difference.”

“The miracle is easier,” she said lightly. “Think of all the scientific study you have to do to understand natural law.”

“Oh, Sara,” I groaned. “You too?”

“So what kick do you get out of being such a cynic?” she asked. “If we want miracles, what’s wrong with miracles?”

I started to answer with the old bromide, “Only the broken-hearted idealist can become a cynic,” but it sounded too corny and too complicated.

“What have you got there? Papers for me to sign?” I asked, instead. “Anyway the heat’s off on all the clamoring deputations,” I added.

“There’s that,” she agreed fervently, and began pointing out the line where I must write my name.

* * * *

In two days, a new series of miracles began.

The biologists began to mess up the culture they were studying in earnest. First news came from Western United States. From Austin, Texas, to the barren shores of the Pacific in Baja California, and upward to the badlands of the Dakotas and on upward into Canada, subterranean streams of water geysered to the surface overnight. The water was as fresh as that from mountain springs. It was seeping into the desert lands, flowing through the arroyos, forming lakes in box canyons, forming its own interwoven network of irrigation ditches. Within weeks the entire desert would be green with growing plants. Within a year, millions of new acres would become rich farmlands.

Let the Agriculture Department groan about its already too expensive surplus crops. It was a miracle.

Only the lag in communications, caused by lines clogged with diplomatic recriminations for our hogging the Starmen all to ourselves and trying to extend Yankee imperialism to the entire universe, prevented us from knowing at once that the desert regions all over the Earth were receiving like treatment.

News came from the Sahara region next, then the Arabian desert, the parched plains of India, then the Gobi. Australia was furious for being treated as if she were down under until suddenly her whole interior became a network of canals, streams, and lakes.

Brazil was in the act of complaining that just because she had no deserts was no reason why she should be deprived of her share of miracles, when word came that the vast Amazon region had been penetrated with networks of clearings and highways to checkerboard her many thousands of square miles of jungle. Almost in the manner of mycelium growth, the clearings spread up into Central America and momentarily stopped those people from shaking angry fists toward the north and south. Interior Africa and the jungles of Southern Asia next reported.

Russia was reaching new heights of bad manners until she noticed that the snows of Siberia were melting to release more millions of square miles where more comrade workers could refuse to grow enough grain to feed the toiling masses who had little personal incentive to toil. Greenland, Canada, and the State of Alaska hardly had time to draft protests before the same phenomena caused them to tear up the drafts.

There was a week of this. Hardly more than enough time for the land speculators to recast their investment programs to cash in on these profitable miracles. Hardly time for people to start packing their goods for the biggest land rush in all history—hardly time for governments to pass laws telling the people they couldn’t do it, not until the land investors had got set for profit taking. Hardly time for Russia to wonder where she would send her variant thinkers now that Siberia was a potential paradise. Hardly more than time for us in the Pentagon to do more than keep statistics on authenticated and rumored miracles.

If economists expressed alarm over the disruption of normal trade, if scientists expressed alarm at the potential ocean-level rise because of all these melting snows, nobody heeded. Economists are about as accurate as weather forecasters or horse-race handicappers, and who pays any attention to scientists where there are miracles?

United States did find time to do a little muttering in Uncle Sam’s beard. Figured on an area-for-area basis, certain other countries were receiving more miracles per square miles than we, and was that fair? Of course we were still ahead on a per capita basis—and so how you looked at it depended on whether you wanted to complain or brag.

Yes, indeed, the Starmen were varying the chemistry of the culture on the smear slide.

I looked at these changes with dread. They were so vast, with consequences beyond imagining—while man can tolerate only the smallest of change at any one time.

…It took a thousand years, fifteen hundred years, of placing the holy image exactly in the center of the canvas before man could tolerate the blasphemy of placing it slightly to one side.

…For fourteen hundred years Ptolemy’s astronomic system of placing the Earth at the center of the universe satisfied the vanity of man, including his astronomers, before the courage of Copernicus to say it might not be so. And four hundred years after Copernicus, in the scientifically enlightened year of 1958, one third of American high-school students still believed the Earth to be at the center of the universe.

…Change one word on the label of a product, and although they cannot read it, five hundred million Chinese will refuse to buy it. How ignorant can those natives be? But—

…Oh yes, we once tried to put this thick catsup in a wide-mouth bottle so it would pour easily, and the company almost went broke—the American housewife refused to touch it because the shape of the container had been changed. It has taken us fifteen years to enlarge the neck of the bottle by one quarter of an inch. And—

…It takes ten years to change the lapel line of men’s suits.

…Oh yes, we like to see fresh, new ideas and treatment in stories, but we can print only those exactly like those we have printed in the past.

…A popular song must be written in exactly thirty-two measures. State the theme in eight. Repeat it in the second eight. Bridge with another eight. Repeat the theme for the final eight. Otherwise a musician cannot play it, the people cannot learn to sing it.

…A man may take one step ahead of his culture and chance being called a genius. But if he takes two steps, he is certain to be called a menace, a madman, a fool.

…The humanist does not make even one step ahead, and thereby maintains his secure control of men’s minds. No one knows, or cares, how the scientist thinks, so long as he continues to make things easier without really changing anything. So he may say, “If my theory doesn’t work it must be wrong, and I must recast my notions about the true nature of this until I find a theory which will work.” If he gets any kick out of confounding himself with all this self-doubt, he’s welcome to it so long as he doesn’t disturb the certainties of the rest of us. But the humanist says, “I cannot be wrong. If my theory doesn’t work someone else is at fault and must be punished.” In all man’s history there has been taken not one single step forward from this attitude among the humanists.

And so I looked at these changes caused by the Starmen, and dreaded.

I should have known better. Past experience with a quarter million individuals should have taught me. I should have known that a man can receive only what his mind has been prepared to receive, that all else is ignored, or interpreted to suit his prior interpretation—that man can only accept change through it being interpreted as no change, or not knowing it is change.

Apparently I needed a reminder. Sara brought it into my office in the form of sample mail we were receiving—mail addressed to the Starmen, routed through us.

Our department’s mail room had done an excellent job of classifying the letters according to type. There were some forty-six thousand letters and telegrams represented by the following:

“My corn patch is gittin purty dry. Rain on it. Yrs trule.

There were only four thousand five hundred antonym letters in this category:

“Urgent you not let it rain on Ladies Aid picnic for worthy cause.”

A few hundred said something like:

“Have twenty dollars with bookie on long-shot, Sea War, in the second. 50/50 split with you if you make him win.”

Some six thousand pleaded with them to use brand products in their next personal appearances, or came within the following patterns:

“Enclosed find eleven genuine simulated gold embossed lifetime passes to any theater showing our pictures. Usual requirement that you give your independent, unbiased opinion that picture is stupendous, colossal, gigantic applies. Lifetime passes absolutely guaranteed good for ninety days. Cancelable without notice.”

“Request you furnish our department-store chain with one gross real live Santa Clauses for coming Christmas season. Must have real ones. Kids are wise to phonies, pull off their beards and kick them in shins for not keeping last year promises. Causes much union grievance. For your information, enclosed is traditional editorial telling why belief in Santa Claus is necessary—and which says nothing at all about how sales would drop off, factories shut down, and newspaper (which carries the editorial) advertising space cut down without said belief. Absolutely necessary our citizens be kept believing there is a Santa Claus. As twig is bent tree will grow. Fight communism. Send us real Santa Clauses. We pay union scale.”

Unfortunately, statistics on the following kind of letter were incomplete, since loyal mail clerks had been tearing them up before it was realized we should keep an impartial check:

“Toiling masses greet their comrades from space. Party requires you make unmistakable statement against grasping capitalists within next twenty-four hours. No excuses, or you know what.”

But there were one hundred and twenty-four thousand letters of the following kind:

“Eyes of blue, five-feet two, Bette Lou, and she’s pretty too. That’s just a little rime the boys made up to teese me with, and I guess it does tell you what I’m like, but it didn’t make me stuck up, not a bit. I don’t think if a girl is inteligunt and beautiful, crushinglly divistatinglly beautiful she doesn’t need to be stuck up. Do You? Anyway Im not, not a bit, stuck up I mean.

“I feel it is my sacred duty to write you and tell you what the nice girls in my town are saying about you, and everybody will be saying it soon, but everybody, if they arent allready. I guess you know we have been keping pretty close tabes on you fellas, ha! ha!

“Seriously, we watched you go to bed, and we watched you get up, whenever the TV was working, when you was here. I guess you know everybody in the world is keping watch out for you, so if youd done what regular fellas do, I guess we’d know about it. Like I said, people are begining to talk.

“Youve been here more than a week now, and none of you fellas have gone to bed with any girls, if you know what I mean. So I guess you know from that what people must be saying about you, if you know what I mean. I dont beleev it, what theyre saying about you, if you know what I mean. Anyway, even if you were, well if you found out what it was like to have a real feminin girl, if you know what I mean, you wouldn’t be any more.

“Anyway that is why I think it is my scared duty. You wouldnt have to marry me afterwards, if you know what I mean, that is, if you didnt want to. But Ill bet youd want to after you found out how much fun you could have with a real feminin nice girl, if you know what I mean. Ha! Ha!

“I hope I havent been to suttle about what I mean if you know what I mean. But Im a nice girl and nice girls dont come right out and tell men what theyre always thinking about. Theres only one of me and theres five of you fellas, but dont fight. Just draw straws or something. I have got lots of nice girl friends. They are not as cruchinglly beautiful as I am, but they are real feminine girls and All Right, if you know what I mean.

“Some people are saying you fellas are angles from heaven. If you are angles then thats why you havent gone to bed with any girls because angles arent suppose to know about such things, if you know what I mean. So if you dont take me up on my Supreem Sacrafise I wont believe what people are saying about you not being regular fellas, if you know what I mean. IE believe its because you are angles and my feelings wont be hurt a bit. Well not much anyhow, because there are plenty of nice boys around here Ill have you know, and there allright too, and I dont have to throw myself at nobody, if you know what I mean.

“So as they say if you want it come get it or Ill throw it in the garbage, if you know what I mean. But if youre angles then you dont know what I mean. Cruchinglly, devistatinglly yours,”

I looked up from reading the last letter. I looked a question at Sara, who was sitting across the desk from me. I asked a question with my eyes.

“Yes,” she answered. “I’ve read them. Quite a few more like them, just to see if they were representative, as the mail room claims.”

I wondered if my face showed the same inner sickness as hers.

“People,” I commented unhappily.

“People,” she agreed.

“Whether it’s some kind of science we don’t understand, yet, or miracles we’ll never understand, it doesn’t change a thing,” I said. “I thought it was really going to bollox up the works, but it doesn’t. Before the Starmen, people looked to science for miracles. They didn’t know how the scientist got them, they didn’t want to know, they didn’t listen when he tried to tell them. All they wanted was the miracle, not a lot of instruction which would be work to understand. Well, now they’ve got the miracles from another source, without any instruction on how to go and do likewise. But there’s no real difference, no real change from then to now.”

“I guess people will go right on being people,” she agreed, as if that would comfort me.

* * * *

Apparently Shirley, and Dr. Gerald Gaffee, and Dr. Kibbie had also been busy, behind the scenes, working for my comfort.

The three of them walked into the office, at that moment, without appointment. The two men had broad, happy grins for me, and file folders of papers in their right hands. Shirley’s beautiful, old homely face was wreathed in misty smiles, and she was looking at me as a mother might look at a favored son. She also carried a file folder in her right hand, and a big dry-goods box in under her left arm. I wondered fleetingly if her motherly instincts had gone so far as to start buying suits for me.

As ranking seniority in my department, she stepped forward first.

“Galaxy Admiral Kennedy,” she said solemnly. “I present you with the official document making you Galaxy Admiral.” She flipped the file folder open, laid it on my desk, and, surely enough, there were the words, the signatures, the seal. “Those publicity-seeking—uh—people down in Space Navy wanted to be in on the presentation, but I convinced them you’d want it kept in the family, first, before all the hoopla of television, newsreel, and the rest of it. I hope that was right, Galaxy Admiral, sir.”

“That was exactly right, Shirley,” I managed to gasp. “For my part, I could skip the hoopla entirely.”

“Well, sir, we mustn’t go too far,” she admonished.

Then she laid the big dry-goods box on the desk top and whisked off the lid. I saw the midnight blue of textile within the box, and a gleam of brass and braid. Much brass and braid.

“Your uniform,” she said proudly. “I thought you’d want it right away.”

I looked down at my white shirt, which had been, fresh this morning when I put it on, but wasn’t now. I looked down at my faded slacks, which, aeons ago, had been pressed.

“I suppose that’s part of the penalty of being a Galaxy Admiral,” I said, and already felt a twinge of nostalgia for the good old civilian days. “I hope it fits.”

“Oh, it will fit,” she answered confidently. “I made N-462 give me your exact measurements.”

I opened my eyes wide at that calm statement.

“You knew?” I asked.

“Sure, I knew he was a cop,” she said. “But it was better to have him where I could keep an eye on him than to let him run loose. In his own way, he was doing his job. He had all your measurements down to the last quarter inch.”

“I hope not all of them, Shirley,” I said solemnly.

The old gal blushed, and for the first time since I’d known her, she broke into a rumbling roar of laughter.

“You kill me,” she chuckled. “You always have. Right from that first morning.”

Dr. Gerald Gaffee, standing behind her, and next in line, gave a loud “Harrumph!”

Shirley blushed again and stiffened.

“Excuse me, sir,” she stammered, “I didn’t mean to get familiar.”

“Stay familiar, Shirley,” I said softly. “I like it that way better.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, too formally, but the motherly pride was still in her eyes. I supposed I’d have to settle for that.

Now Gerald stepped forward. He too flipped open a file folder and laid it on the desk.

“Dr. Ralph Kennedy,” he said solemnly. “Here is your Ph.D. in extraterrestrial psychology.”

I looked at the name of the famous university, and the signatures at the bottom of the scroll. It was no purchased quickie that I need ever be ashamed of.

“How is this possible?” I asked. “It doesn’t merely say ‘Honorary.’”

“In view of your contact with the extraterrestrials,” he murmured. “The only Terrestrial who has had private conferences with the extraterrestrials…”

“I’m glad,” I said simply. “There’ve been some things I’ve wanted to tell you. And now I can, now that I’m in the union.”

He also blushed.

Dr. Kibbie then stepped forward and laid his gift on the desk.

“Another two billion,” he crowed happily. “A special committee, with special war emergency powers…”

“Good God,” I said. “I haven’t finished spending the last two billion, yet.”

TWENTY

Mr. Harvey Strickland was unhappy.

He sat in his purple robe in his Washington office, and pawed sourly at the late-edition newspapers on his desk. The editors were following his instructions to the letter. There were paeans of praise, gratitude for all this foreign aid and good deeds from Youth Peace Corpsmen (which would enrich the fortunate and impoverish the unfortunate even more), the clear interpretation of the divine nature of the Starmen, the bead strings of blessings, the exhortations to his millions of readers, who bought their daily ration of ready cooked opinion from him each day, to get down on their knees and grovel in the dust.

But it was not enough.

Everybody was being too damn glad about it all.

There wasn’t…there wasn’t anybody to hate. That was the missing element. No villain anywhere.

It was all right to crusade for something, provided it is a milksop something, safe and popular, like home and flag and mother; but nothing really starts to happen until you come out against something. And that’s got to be a personalized something, somebody you can get your teeth into. You can be against sin, but there’s no real fun in it until you’ve gone out and located yourself some sinners.

And what’s the point of being for something, unless you can grab up the torch and the knife and the bullwhip to use on somebody who isn’t also for it? The way you bring about the disintegration of a community or a culture is to turn loose the self-righteous with no holds barred. But how can you have the full enjoyment of self-righteousness unless there’s somebody to persecute?

What were the lines from that obscure writer of thirty-forty years ago? Oh yes…

Hide! Hide! Witch!

The good folk come to burn thee,

Their keen enjoyment hid beneath

The Gothic mask of duty.

And there wasn’t a goddamn witch in sight. But there must be a witch in the underbrush somewhere. There had to be. There was always somebody you could make out a witch. Damn it, everything was brought up to a peak; the fervor was running in full flood, and not a smell of anybody to pull the bloodhounds baying, to call forth the robes and light the torches.

Goddamn Starmen were being too impartial with their favors for everybody. That was wrong, all wrong. It wasn’t done that way. You always favored somebody at the expense of somebody else. Then to keep the bloodhounds from attacking the favored, you always found a false scent to pull them clear away from the scene. That was the way it was done, the human way.

You give the goddamn humans some witches to burn if you don’t want ’em to notice what’s happening.

There was only one human who had had more than the most casual social contact with the Starmen. And that one was damn near untouchable. He had been made a Galaxy Admiral, and Harvey Strickland hadn’t been able to block it. He had been made a Ph.D., and even there the Strickland threats of cutting off all future donations to that university had arrived too late to stall the act. He’d been given another two billion dollars to spend, and the goddamn congressmen had just laughed and said, “Well, Harvey, you ought to be able to figure out some way to get your cut of it—as usual.”

His mounting fury at one Dr. Ralph Kennedy congested his veins to turn his face purple.

There ought to be a way. There had to be a way.

And what the hell had he been thinking about? Of course there was a way. He was a newspaperman, wasn’t he? And wasn’t the first thing a cub reporter learned on his first interview the way? You threw away what the guy actually said. You made up the things you wanted him to say, and put them in quotes. You hung these on just enough of the truth to make them believable.

His tensions relaxed, and he began to smile. No goddamn underling could be trusted with this one. He would go to see Galaxy Admiral Dr. Ralph Kennedy, in person. So let the stupe deny, scream denial. Who’d print it? Who ever does?

He snapped his fingers to bring Miller to him, to fetch his clothes, to help him dress, to accompany him to the Pentagon. In the contortions of dressing, his hand happened to brush against the left side of the loose jacket Miller was wearing today. He touched the gun through the cloth, the gun too amateurishly worn in its shoulder holster.

He froze for an instant, with his mind racing through the possibilities. He excused himself to go to the bathroom. Miller was not needed in this task. This was a demand he had been saving against the day when Miller might show a reviving spark of pride; this to be the final degradation of the once-proud and haughty most popular man on the campus.

From a concealed space in back of the medicine cabinet he drew forth an elaborate bulletproof vest. He had no trouble, all by himself, in stripping to the waist, putting on the vest, dressing himself again. With all his mountainous rolls of fat, an added inch of girth would never be noticed. He had no fear for his head. The amateur murderer, handling a gun for the first time, always shot at the biggest part of the target.

The things you learn in the newspaper game! You never know what might come in handy.

His high, wheezing laughter was still wreathing his face in a grin when he came out of the bathroom.

The smile froze on his face.

The fax machines were chattering like monkeys gone crazy. Miller had the TV monitor turned on and was staring at it incredulously. But there was no mistaking the news.

As fast as one bulletin cleared, another came through.

“Bulletin… Santa Fe… New rivers and lakes in the desert have suddenly disappeared… Jet aircraft shot aloft reports entire horizon empty of water… Other areas confirming entire Southwest desert dried up…dust storms howling…early sprouting seeds blackening…land investors ruined…

“Wait a minute…another flash coming in…the warm air in Canada, Alaska, turned to howling blizzard…many surveying parties representing land investors believed trapped…no word yet from Siberia…no…here it is…same thing in Siberia… Moscow threatens reprisals against United States for harboring Starmen…

“Another bulletin… Rio…the Amazon jungle has closed in again…no more clearings and highways…”

One after another the bulletins poured in, the cancellations of the good deeds of Youth Peace Corpsmen—true human behavior, once the enthusiasm had worn thin, the publicity had been milked, let loose, let the whole thing disintegrate.

He wondered if the Starmen were all that human; that they could shrug it off with, “Well, we came and showed you the benefits you could have. It’s not our fault if you failed to pick up and maintain what we gave you. We did our part.”

A slow smile began to stretch his lips.

What the hell. It didn’t matter what the Starmen were thinking or doing now. Once the shock of losing all these goodies had worn off, the whole human race would be screaming for blood, somebody’s blood, anybody’s blood. The whole human race, which he so despised…

And he had the power of opinion-making in his hand.…

He looked at Miller, standing there in front of him, meek, licked, powerless, smoldering down underneath perhaps, but helpless. Planning violent revenge for what had been done to him, but doomed to failure. The whole human race was a Miller, his Miller.

The grin broadened into a grimace of pure glee.

* * * *

The cancellation bulletins were still pouring in over my own TV monitor when Sara came in from her buffer office. Her eyes were wide, her face was pale, her lips were taut.

“What does it mean, Ralph?” she asked in a low voice.

I shrugged helplessly.

“I think the biologists have finished running their experiment with the culture,” I said with a wry smile. “I think they’re getting ready to go home, and are tidying up the lab to leave it in the same state they found it.”

“You never did believe they were for us,” she said.

“Nor against us, either,” I answered. “Why should they be? How long is the human race going on believing it is something so damned special that the universe and everything in it has to be arranged to suit man’s convenience?”

“Maybe you’re right,” she said. “What I came in to tell you is that there’s a Mr. Harvey Strickland and his secretary waiting in my office to see you. I don’t know how they got past all the security checks, but they’re here.”

“It’s taken him longer to get around to me than I’d expected,” I said. “Maybe he’s been waiting for the right moment.”

“He’s picked a good one,” she agreed.

She correctly interpreted my nod of assent, and stepped back to open the door. The two men must have been standing there on the other side of it. The fat man’s face was already clouding with anger at the lèse-majesté of keeping him waiting.

“Mr. Strickland, Mr. Miller,” Sara murmured as they came through the door, “Galaxy Admiral Dr. Ralph Kennedy,” she introduced me unnecessarily.

But the introduction did recall to me that I was wearing my new sailor suit, and must conduct myself in keeping with all its glittering brass and braid. I stood up, but did not hold out my hand; nor did Strickland walk over to the desk to hold out his.

“Find this gentleman the widest chair we have, Sara,” I said soberly and in a tone of utmost courtesy.

She had been my secretary for many years. Not one line of her face altered, but I noticed there was a new lightness to her step and less dejection in her shoulders as she stepped over to a huge overstuffed and murmured, “I believe the gentleman will find this comfortable.” Sara was exploding with perfectly concealed laughter. The world had not come to an end, after all; not really.

She touched another chair for Miller, but he ignored her. His face was pale, his breathing harsh, his forehead beaded with sweat, his hands at his side were trembling. His eyes were riveted on Strickland, and Strickland alone. Neither the chair, nor the room, nor the rest of us existed for him. He remained standing, a little to the side, a little behind his boss, as a good organization man must.

When Strickland had wheezed and eased himself into the depths of the chair, I sat down too, and folded my hands on top of the desk. Sara was looking at me inquiringly.

“I doubt that the true record would ever find its way into the popular press or on TV channels, Sara,” I said dryly. “But stay and take notes, anyway.”

Strickland’s head jerked at that. He looked at me piercingly from out the rolls of fat around his eyes, and the slow grin appeared on his face.

“This is going to be a pleasure,” he rumbled. “Another young squirt who thinks he’s lord of the Earth.”

“I’ve managed somehow to keep my head up, and my backbone straight,” I said modestly. I deliberately looked at Miller, and felt my words penetrate that rapt preoccupation. His own head seemed to come up a trifle, his own back seemed to straighten. His right hand started to raise, then lowered again.

“I don’t know why you’ve endured the nuisance of coming here,” I said to Strickland. I was using moderate tones, words slowly spaced. I knew this man for what he was; I’d been around Washington long enough now and enough people had become sufficiently confident of me to talk to me. I’d met other men like him, congressmen and senators who believed their districts and their states to be their own private hunting grounds, and the people in them their political serfs and game. Most of these had no other motive except self-preservation; the corrupting years had given them assurance that they were of superior clay, their behavior simply to see that none challenged that truth. Mr. Harvey Strickland was driven by compulsions running deeper than Lord of the Manor keeping his serfs under control.

“You already know what you’re going to report out of this meeting,” I continued. “You’re looking for a patsy, and you’ve found one. You know, as well as I, that I have no power and no influence with the Starmen, whatever. If you’ve got any sense at all, and you’ve got plenty, you know that they’ve been fiddling around with the environment of this life form they’ve discovered; and what I might think about it makes no more difference to them than what some germ thinks about the chemical changes some biologist makes in the culture medium on a smear slide.”

His grin grew wider. It was my only answer.

“The mob is going to be howling for blood,” I said. “They’re always ready to blame somebody, and you’ll get your kicks out of giving them somebody. It would never occur to you to use your power and your influence to build men, to build intelligence, willingness to think, willingness to shoulder responsibility for their own mistakes, to help them grow up. Because if they did that, you might not be such a hot specimen. And that’s the realization you can never face.”

He threw back his head and roared with laughter.

‘I’ll bet you were the most popular man on the campus,” he said, between high, wheezing gasps.

That was one thing he shouldn’t have said. Miller jerked like a marionette on agitated strings. His right hand swept up under his unbuttoned jacket; he pulled out the small gun; he pumped shots at the body of the huge man; one, two, three, four, five, six.

There was the thud of each, the flinching of the flesh, the slight sway to one side at the force of repeated impact—and the high, wheezing roar of laughter increased.

Miller’s eyes widened, his jaw dropped. Now he was trembling violently. He stared at the laughing man in horror, the full surge of his belief in Strickland’s invincibility returned. His knees crumpled. He sank to the floor there in the middle of the office. He cradled his head in his arms braced by his knees, and sobbed in loud, racking coughs.

I had half risen, bracing my hands on desk top. Sara was sitting still and frozen. I could understand; I too was frozen in that crouch before a leap around the desk to stop him. Strickland was calmly unbuttoning his shirt, and searching in the mesh of his bulletproof vest for the slugs of lead. As he found one, he would lift it between thumb and forefinger, hold it up as one looks at a pebble specimen, then lay it carefully on the smoking stand at the side of his chair. He was collecting a little pile of them. I had no doubt he would find them useful in the future.

I settled back down in my chair and began to breathe again. I did not punch any of the buttons under the front rim on my desk top. There was no emergency. And I doubted that the spat, spat, spat of the gun had been heard outside the office. Oddly, I heard myself still talking in measured tones, and this time to Miller huddled there on the floor.

“It wouldn’t have solved anything,” I was saying. “There’s always been Stricklands around. There’ll always be Stricklands around until people get tired of swallowing ready-made opinions and slogans like cure-all pills. This Strickland was only one of the series, and it wouldn’t take long to replace him with another. Personally, I think the people deserve him.”

Strickland looked up from his preoccupation with his little pile of misshapen bullets. He stared long at me from the creased rolls of flesh.

“I could use a man like you,” he said as if making an important discovery. “By God if I couldn’t!”

“But by God you won’t,” I said.

“You know the score,” he went on as if I hadn’t spoken. As if the matter were already arranged. “Now this is the next step we’ll take…”

His voice trailed off, and his own eyes widened. I hadn’t believed it possible to see so much of them. His own face went slack, and the flesh suddenly sagged. The whole body seemed to slump and overflow the edges of the chair. The head dropped suddenly, as far as fat would allow, toward the chest.

And only then did I become aware that a purple vortex was whirling beside my desk.

I seemed to be past shock, past caring. Perhaps I had been expecting them, prepared for their coming, ready for any kind of form in which they might appear.

“Bex, Dex, Jex, Kex and—ah—Lex,” I said dryly. “I think you’ve given the man a heart attack. Granted that one was long overdue with all that fat around it, this is how you carry out your resolution to harm no one?”

Miller still cradled his head in his arms, his face concealed. He had not yet seen the vortex. Sara was still huddled back in her chair, staring at the purple whirlwind.

“It’s all right, Sara,” I said. “These are our little playmates who just like to have fun. I think this is probably how they really look. All the other he-man stuff was just showmanship. More illusion. You know, same as people?”

She nodded, but out of habit only. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see her fingers transcribing it all in shorthand, without the faintest notion of what I was saying.

“Still,” I said to the vortex, “it might be a little chummier if you did take human shapes.” I nodded toward the slumped figure of Miller, who hadn’t yet looked up.

They obliged me. Five, handsome, resplendent young men were standing about the room. At the stir Miller did look up then.

“Your boss is dead,” I said.

His face stiffened, and then he smiled.

He held out his hands, wrists together, toward the nearest Starman.

“They’re not policemen,” I said. “Sara, take him down to first aid. Let the Strickland body be until I see what these slap-happy fly-boys want now. We’ll get around to cleaning up our own mess after I learn why these fellows who come from the stars have created such a bigger one.”

As if she too were a puppet on a string, Sara arose, reached out to Miller, helped him pull himself to his feet, helped him out the door. As they went across the room, I wasn’t sure who was leaning on whom.

“Well?” I asked when Sara had closed the door behind them. I nodded toward the Strickland body again.

I do not know, to this day, whether the Starmen felt emotions in the way we feel them. They portrayed emotions, and I suppose any life form must have emotions of some kind. Wouldn’t it be a part of awareness, awareness of self, awareness of self in relation to things about us, awareness that things, even though unpersonal and impersonal, can harm or benefit us according to our use of them? These Starmen had at least the courtesy, if nothing else, to look regretful.

“Your criticism of our mistakes is nothing compared to what Galaxy Council will say,” Bex said. I suppose it was Bex.

“I thought you told me yours was a policy of noninterference, of bringing harm to no life form,” I said.

“We have restored everything to its original state.”

“Oh no,” I answered. “You’ve been here. You’ve made yourself known. If nothing else, nothing else at all, we’d never be the same again.”

“That’s the point,” he said. “You will be the same. Because the Vegans were here, thousands of years ago. Prematurely, without authorization. You’ve built up an entire structure of thought based on their appearance. In time, our appearance will come to be just more of the same.”

“But we were progressing out of it,” I said. “Our belief in demons was fading. Compared with what you can do, perhaps we hadn’t made much progress in science, but we were starting off in that direction. Now you’ve set us back at least a thousand years.”

“We miscalculated,” he said, and had the grace to look unhappy about it.

“You sure did,” I agreed fervently.

“It’s still difficult to believe that you’ve made the advances in nuclear physics, other quite commendable advances in other fields…”

“Thanks,” I interrupted dryly.

“And still know nothing, nothing at all about yourselves. We miscalculated. We believed there must be two life forms. We didn’t see how a man could master science in one area of knowledge and be as ignorant and superstitious as a savage in another. We believed that for some reason the intelligent race must be in hiding. We didn’t then know that this intelligence was being hidden, not only from his own kind, but from himself.

“Otherwise we wouldn’t have made an appearance at all.”

“And having made the appearance… But if you were courting an intelligence, why the guise of—well-—such hero types?”

“We felt there must be some desperate reason why the intelligence was concealed. We fitted the mores of the lesser form, lest our appearance lead to revealment unwittingly.”

“So now,” I said, “you’ve made your tests and done your exploring, and you’ve found that while we can mix together a little of this and that and make a big bang, emotionally and philosophically we’re still ignorant savages. That we’ve made a little progress in the physical sciences, but in the humanic sciences we are still determined not to make any progress, I suppose you’ll—uh—ah—quarantine us? See to it that we don’t get out beyond our solar system?”

“Oh no!” The reply was instant, and shocked. “We wouldn’t have any right to do that. Who are we to say how a life form shall develop? When you get out there, if you do, if your humanists permit your science to develop any farther and that’s unlikely, we’ll cope with you somehow.”

“Our humanists may fool you,” I said. “You hadn’t noticed, because it is such a tiny trace; but here and there we even have a humanist who is willing to admit that his authoritative personal opinion and vested importance as a leader-not-ever-to-be-challenged might not, after all, be the whole and final answer.”

I nodded toward Strickland’s body.

“That guy’s a bumbling amateur compared with some of the humanists we’ve had and what they’ve done to the human race. But don’t count on us failing. That would be another miscalculation.”

TWENTY ONE

The star-sapphire globe, iridescent from pearl to blue, hovered once more in the center of Washington’s Mall. Once more the sad eyes of the Lincoln statue looked out upon it.

The crowd was thinner now, and quiet. The dignitaries were few. Men such as the President had calculated the political disadvantages of appearing too intimate with these Starmen who had given of miracles, and taken them away. No one, this time, seemed eager to challenge my position as go-between, host speeding the departing guests upon their way.

There were a few officers from the Pentagon, bless ’em, who had shown up; as if to say, right or wrong, the services will stand behind their own. The crowds of the curious had gathered, but they were neither enthusiastic nor hostile. The death of Strickland had left a hole, a deep hole not yet healed, and no one had yet turned public opinion toward the Starmen into hate. Lacking leadership in forming slogans, for this temporary space, the news media were simply reporting events. It was something new for this generation, and no one knew how to respond to it.

We stood, a little lonely group; the five Starmen, somehow less resplendent this morning under a clouded sky, Sara and I, Shirley and Dr. Kibbie and Dr. Gaffee, a handful of lesser Pentagon officers.

We stood by the ramp (no rainbow bridge this time) and gravely shook hands with the five Starmen. They turned and filed up the ramp. There were no cheers from the crowd.

Four of them filed into the blue radiance shining from the interior, an interior our scientists had never got to explore. The fifth, I suppose it was Bex, turned and faced the silent people. So he was going to carry out my suggestion of saving face, after all!

“People of Earth,” he said, and his voice came clearly to all of us. “I reckon you all are disappointed that we hafta go home now. But like your own Peace Corps we came, and we showed you how to turn wasteland into bountiful fertile acres. We done our duty by you, and I reckon now that you know what ought to be done, you’ll go right ahead and do it. We showed you. We done our part.”

He waited.

There was no answering cheer.

“Good-by, now. When you all have figgered out how to sail across space to our shores, you’ll find yourselves just as welcome as the people who come to your shores.”

There was a murmur from one of the officers behind me.

“Why the dirty, hostile sonsofbitches!” he said.

Bex turned then, and walked into the blue radiance. The ramp slid, melted into the side of the ship. The door closed. The globe lifted; slowly at first, then faster and faster.

It melted into the layer of clouds. It was gone.

The silent crowd shuffled a little, and slowly began to disperse.

They had come from space, and Earth would start its long road to recovery.

I looked at Sara, Shirley, Gaffee, Kibbie.

“Well, boys and girls,” I said. “We’re still the Bureau of Extraterrestrial Psychology. Maybe some of the obscure research departments of some of the universities will still want some information from us.”

“We may have to hoard that two billion and stretch it out for quite a while,” Dr. Kibbie answered.

The three of them turned then, and started walking toward our staff cars, ahead of Sara and me.

“I wonder if Old Stone Face might hire back a couple of wandering personnel people,” I mused.

Sara grabbed me by the arm and halted me. She spoke intensely.

“Look, boss,” she said firmly. “Everybody’s shocked now. After that they’re going to be mad. They’ll be as mad as hornets for a while. And then they’re going to start thinking. Now that we know that outside our solar system, now that we know it is there; how long do you think it’s going to be before we grit our teeth, dig in, and determine to go out there, ourselves? Come hell or high water!”

Shirley, Gaffee, Kibbie had stopped when we did, and now they drifted back.

“Why, sure,” Kibbie began to bubble again. “And that two billion will be just a drop in the bucket, why it’ll be like pissin’ in the ocean compared to the money we can promote for that kind of program. ’Scuse me, girls.”

“Dr. Kennedy, I’m going to need much more scientific help than I’ve got if I’m to carry my share,” Gaffee said, and began to look far away into a dream.

“And, Admiral,” Shirley said, “I think we ought to use this lull to get reorganized for the big push. Oh, ah, I’ve been invited to join the Women’s Executive Club of Washington. Do you think I should?”

“Okay, kids,” I said. “You’re right. We’re not licked. We’re just starting.”

The Space Cadet chauffeurs saw us turn and start walking briskly toward them. Even at that distance they began to catch the sudden enthusiasm our strides and faces revealed. They straightened up, pulled their space helmets into ready, climbed jauntily into the cockpits of the automobiles, and when we had slammed the ports behind us, they blasted off down Pennsylvania Avenue.

1 This isn’t really what I said, but our United States Post Office Department, itself far gone in the syndrome of self-righteousness, has determined that the American public is much too young to be told how people really talk and behave, not if we expect to use their post offices for distributing our horrid books.

THE SEALED SKY, by Cynthia Ward

Cautiously, Lantry Stiller pulls back a fold of curtain to expose a gray afternoon. A low, dull cloud rests on the rim of the wooded hilltops, a pewter pot-lid covering the isolated valley. The cloud is a familiar sight; in the Northwest, the sky is overcast almost every day. Lantry doesn’t mind. He doesn’t want to see the sky.

It is safe to go out. Lantry gulps brandy-laced coffee and ventures onto the redwood deck. Shivering in the damp autumn air, he looks around. There is little risk of a break in the cloud cover; no risk of seeing stars. But he doesn’t look up.

Lantry drops the mug. He barely hears the porcelain shatter. His house has changed.

He stalks inside and pounds furiously on the door of his son’s bedroom.

The door opens fractionally. A wary brown eye peers out and up. “What?” Kyle asks.

“What do you think?” Lantry says. “You turned the damned house into an observatory. Again.”

“Dad, my softutor’s teaching an astronomy mod. How can I learn astronomy if--”

“Don’t give me that,” Lantry says. “Your education software includes a virtual-space package. Now, put the house back to normal.”

Kyle opens the door a few inches. He is a short, slim boy, with fine dark features and heavy black hair. “How about if I get rid of the dome and keep the telescope--”

“The whole observatory,” Lantry snaps. “Now.”

Kyle tugs nervously on his tunic, garish plaid shot through with nano-spun gold and ruby thread, this week’s kid fashion. “But, Dad, I want to be an astronomer--”

“Never!” Lantry raises his hand.

Kyle shrinks back. Lantry stops, appalled. Would he really have hit Kyle? Kyle, who looks so much like Maria that Lantry’s anger fades before helpless love, and the old, fresh, rending pain. Kyle has the same hair, the same eyes, the same stubborn jaw as his mother.

Lantry lowers his hand. He’ll never hurt their son. Rare and priceless treasure. Nobody as young as Lantry and Maria had been is allowed a child. Unless they’ve been chosen for a starship.

“I’m replacing your education software,” Lantry tells his son. Astronomy is a profession practiced exclusively off Earth. “That module’s giving you dangerous ideas about going to space.”

Kyle speaks quietly, sounding far older than his eleven years. “Dad, space is safe as Earth, almost. Mom died in a freak accident.”

Lantry slaps his son across the face.

“Don’t you ever try using your mother’s death to get your way! Now, unmake the observatory!”

Kyle turns away, stabs a keyboard fiercely. Lantry makes himself look up. The slot in the observatory disappears; the telescope melts into the dome as the dome sinks and alters. The heat of transformation washes over Lantry’s face as the nanomachines revert metal and concrete to redwood planks and beams.

“I know you think I’m being mean, Kyle,” Lantry says. “But I’m doing this for your own good.”

Kyle mutters, “You can’t keep me here forever.”

“No?” Lantry’s heart roars like the engine of an Earth-to-L5 cargo rocket. “Did you forget I’m a medical technician? I can change your nanodocs, boy, to keep you eleven years old! You would always have a child’s biology, a child’s temperament, and in the eyes of the law you would always be a minor. You wouldn’t be able to cancel the growth suppression without my permission. You wouldn’t be able to go to space without my permission. And you would never receive my permission.”

Kyle turns to Lantry, his expression horrified.

“You’ve got to understand, son. Death is real. It’s not a myth, or something confined to the bad old pre-nanodoc days of age and disease. I love you, and I won’t let you die.”

There is no mark on Kyle’s face, but he rubs his cheek where his father struck him. Lantry knows this is pure manipulation--the nanodocs would have quickly numbed the pain--but he feels sick. How could he strike his son? Maria’s son?

To save his life.

“I’m sorry I hit you, Kyle,” Lantry says. “But I can’t let anything happen to you.”

Lantry walks away. He needs a drink. Needs to drown the memories flooding in. His wife. Her dream of reaching the stars. The starship taking shape outside the L5 habitat. The fatal shuttle. Maria didn’t need to leave L5 to do her job--data from the orbital and Lunar Farside telescopes were transmitted to astrophysicists--but she loved looking naked-eye at the stars, so she insisted on accompanying him when his work took him to other habitats. He didn’t need to see patients in the flesh, but he found telemedicine and virtual examinations too impersonal, and knew they could miss subtle but important behavioral changes, so he traveled occasionally.

Maria was beside him, in the window seat, when a meteor struck the shuttle from Clarke Colony. They were both killed, yet they survived. Everyone on board survived, their nano-rich clothes converting to vacuum suits and the nanodocs in their bloodstreams healing injuries and restoring life. Lantry regained consciousness to find Maria still strapped in beside him, her body broken and bloody, her skull crushed but rising, reforming under the new glassteel helmet. The brain too was being rebuilt. Uselessly.

Lantry remembers an archaic theory that nanodocs would copy minds into hardware storage and download a copy into a clone when a person’s body or brain were destroyed. He suppresses a bitter laugh. Pre-nanotech naivete. The mind isn’t software that runs on the brain. Hell, the mind isn’t even confined to the brain. He glances at his hands, discovers them clenched in fists. Every muscle and nerve, every hormone and enzyme, is part of the mind. But destroy the brain and you destroy the mind. The person.

Maria was as dead as Hippocrates. And nothing Dr. Lantry Stiller could do would change it.

He could only euthanize her healthy body.

Lantry mixes a strong stinger. Maria was already dead, he knows, but that doesn’t matter. He killed the woman he loved. He killed her; and the stars led her to her death.

He swallows the brandy and sinks into an entertainment virtual. Nothing interactive; he needs something passive, stupid. He hasn’t used an interactive since returning to Earth. He has done little except watch virtuals and drink brandy in the seven years since he quit the starship crew and left space.

Sometimes VR manages to distract him; sometimes he almost forgets. Today, when it finally distracts him, it disappears.

“What the hell--!” He tears off the VR helmet to find his entertainment center gone. Everything familiar and comforting is gone. This time, the inside of his house has been transformed.

Lantry is inside an observatory, and he can’t find a single keyboard to reverse the change.

He can’t find Kyle, either. Bracing himself, he steps outdoors. His redwood deck has turned to concrete. He sees the sky. The pewter lid is gone, the cloud cover torn to scattered gray tatters by a chill wind. He shudders. The sun is setting. The stars will appear any time.

Slow with dread, he turns to observe the observatory. It is white as stars in a dream. Its optical telescope points to the darkening east. At the peak of the great dome, his son stands, straight as a Douglas fir. Kyle has never looked so much like his mother.

“How could you do this?” Lantry cries. “Knowing how I feel, knowing why--God, Kyle, why have you--”

“I want to go to the stars.”

“I’m freezing your growth!” Lantry yells. He can’t--he won’t--lose Kyle too. “You will never go to space!”

“If I can’t have the one thing I want,” Kyle says, “I’ll have nothing.”

He jumps, plummeting headfirst toward the concrete deck. Aiming to destroy his mind. Irreversible suicide.

“No!” Lantry can’t believe what he’s seeing, yet he reacts instantly, springing forward, trying to catch his son. But Kyle’s falling so fast!

Lantry is slammed to the deck. He cannot move for broken bones and pain. He stopped believing in God when he had to kill his wife, but he prays--Let my son live!--and opens his eyes.

Kyle lies atop his father, eyes closed, head on Lantry’s arm. Kyle’s head is intact--what Lantry can see of it is intact.

“Kyle!”

Kyle doesn’t stir. Lantry tries to touch his son, but his arms are shattered, his back broken, his skull cracked or bruised. He can see by their angles that Kyle’s arms are broken, but he can’t see the back of Kyle’s skull. Is it smashed?

“Oh, Kyle, your father is a monster,” Lantry whispers. The nanodocs are anesthetizing his body, but they cannot numb the deeper pain. “I killed my wife. I killed my son.”

Kyle’s eyes open. “Dad, you didn’t kill anyone!”

“Kyle!” Relief fills Lantry ’til he feels he’ll burst. He wants to crush his son in his embrace, but he can’t move his arms. And you shouldn’t disturb a nano-healing body.

He feels like he’s been lying too long under a tropical sun. The unpleasant sensation is worsened by the growing heat of his son’s body, the waste heat of the nanodocs in his system working as energetically as Lantry’s.

“How long have you been watching the stars, son?”

Kyle averts his eyes. “Every clear night for the last year.”

“You’re so like your mother,” Lantry says. “So like Maria, and I tried not to see it.” So like Maria, because I forbade you to be like her. “God, I wish you’d known her.”

Kyle looks at his father. “I remember Mom. I was four when she died, Dad. You’re not the only one who misses her.”

Kyle is right. Lantry has acted as if he alone were bereaved. And, lost in himself, he has been a terrible father. For seven years.

Despite the feverish heat of nanorepair, Lantry’s heart goes cold as the interstellar dark. I drove my son to suicide. “I made you want to be with your mother instead of me.”

“No, you didn’t!” Kyle says. “I wasn’t trying to kill myself! I just wanted to scare you. I knew you’d catch me.”

“You’re lucky I caught you!” Lantry’s outrage is exceeded only by his relief. “You can’t guess how lucky.”

“I’m sorry, Dad,” Kyle says contritely. “I’ll never do it again, I promise.”

Lantry’s body is healed now. Kyle’s nanodocs have already finished their work. Lantry rises, helping his son to his feet. Kyle is alive. His father must stop killing him.

“If your mother hadn’t gone to space, it would have crushed her spirit,” Lantry says. “Perhaps it would have killed her. And by keeping you out of space, I’m killing you. I won’t try to stop you anymore.” Kyle stares in astonishment. “You’ll be a fine astronomer, son. You’ll make your mother proud.”

With a wordless cry, Kyle embraces his father.

When the boy steps back, Lantry says, “All the keyboards are gone. How will we get our house back?”

Kyle leads his father into the observatory. “This’ll reverse the programming,” he says, reaching for a telescope control.

Lantry lays his hand on his son’s arm. “No need to revert the observatory yet. Night is coming. I know you want to watch the stars.”

“Thanks, Dad!” Kyle cries joyously. “You go first.”

Lantry shakes his head. “The telescope is yours, Kyle. I wouldn’t keep you from it for a minute.”

They took Lantry’s wife from him. They will take his son. Lantry will never look at the stars.

METEOR STRIKE! by Donald E. Westlake

The cargo was crated for delivery at Los Angeles, where the workers didn’t consider it anything special. In the company where they worked, this particular cargo was of the type called a Standing Repeater. That is, a new order was shipped out every six months, regular as clockwork. First the order department mailed off a suggested list of specifications to the General Transits, Ltd. main office in Tangiers. Next, the list came back, usually with a few substitutions inked in, and was sent down to LA, to the warehouse, for the specific items to be crated for shipment.

There were seven aluminum crates in the cargo, each a three-foot cube. Aluminum was still the lightest feasible crating material, and this cargo was destined for the Quartermaster Base orbiting the Moon.

The seven crates left the warehouse by helicopter and were flown north to the airport midway between LA and San Francisco. There they spent thirty-two hours in another warehouse before being flown to the Tangiers Poe. (Even in nomenclature, Man made it apparent that his thoughts these days were ever outward, away from Earth. The spaceport on Earth was called Tangiers Poe, which stood for Port Of Embarkation. The spaceport on the Moon was called Moon Pod, for Port Of Debarkation. It was as though Man didn’t want to admit that he still had to make the round trip.)

The cargo arrived at the Tangiers Poe a day ahead of schedule, and spent one more night in a warehouse. Across the field, the four lighters from Station One were being unloaded. Their cargo was almost exclusively manufactured items from the factories on the Moon. Manufacturers had discovered, to their astonishment, that the lighter gravity and the accessible vacuum and the ready availability of free raw materials on the Moon more than offset the additional cost of labor and buildings and transportation. In the last fifteen years, the Moon had become studded with heavily-automated factories, producing everything from delicate electronic equipment to razor blades. Though human exploitation of the Moon had begun as a military venture, back in the late nineteen-sixties, by 1994 it had been taken over almost completely by commercial interests.

A few of the cartons being unloaded across the field were samples or data from the scientific teams on the Moon. These teams, all affiliated with one university or another, were for the most part supported by the manufacturers themselves. As at all times in the past, commercial business success had been shortly followed by commercial philanthropy. A part of the profits of what one newspaper columnist had dubbed the Moonufacturers was siphoned off to give scientists an opportunity and a freedom for research and investigation unavailable through any “short-range Government grant.”

There were as yet no tourist facilities either for travel to the Moon nor for a stay on the Moon.

A rumor was current that a number of hotel and restaurant corporations were banding together to found a Moon resort, but so far nothing had come of it.

The seven aluminum crates spent the night in the Poe warehouse, and in the morning were turned over to Glenn Blair, whose charge they would be for the next thirty-three days, until they reached the Quartermaster Base.

GLENN BLAIR was a big man, big-boned and fully-fleshed, with a short-cropped head of light hair. Thirty-four years of age, he had been for the last seven years one of the two Chief Cargomasters for General Transits, Ltd., the franchised operator of the Earth-Moon transportation system.

He came into the warehouse now with Cy Braddock, the Poe Cargo Chief, and the two of them compared the stacked crates half-filling the warehouse with the manifest flimsies attached to Braddock’s, checking off each item as they found it. When they came to the seven crates from Los Angeles, Blair said, “Cargo for QB. Let’s see, what’s the specification?” He read the line on the manifest, and grinned. “I forgot it was time for another shipment. Six months already.” He patted the nearest of the seven crates. “The boys at QB will be happy to see you fellas,” he said.

Braddock looked over his shoulder and read the specification. “What’s so important about that stuff? I thought that was low priority.”

“Check your reegs, Cy. These fellas are priority number one. If they don’t get to QB, there’ll be hell to pay. Within a month, QB would be more dangerous than a cannibal village.”

Braddock shook his head. “You people have a funny set of values,” he said. “The more I know about you, the happier I am to stay right here. Come on, let’s finish the checkout and get loading. Takeoff is scheduled for eleven-seventeen.”

They finished the first checking of the cargo, and went on out of the shed and across the sunbaked tarmac toward the lighter. The Tangiers Poe was a great concrete oval, ringed by warehouse sheds and repair huts and administration buildings. All of Earth’s space shipping was conducted here, close to the Mediterranean coast of North Africa, where perfect flight conditions were rarely marred by clouds or rain or cold. Where flight plans include three variables—a lighter moving from a moving Earth to a moving Space Station—no one can afford delays caused by bad weather.

In the shed, the cargo handlers loaded small open-sided carts, which were then driven across the field to the lighter. The cargo for QB came out on the second cart, and Glenn Blair supervised its careful stowing and tying down in the hold, then made the second check after its specification line on the manifest. The first checkmark meant that he had found the seven crates in undamaged condition in the shed. The second one meant that he had accepted delivery onto the lighter. Eight more checkmarks would be made before the cargo was finally delivered to QB.

All cargo and personnel traveling between the Earth and the Moon made the trip in five stages. Stage One was transit from the surface of the Earth to the Space Station, aboard a torpedo-shaped ship familiarly known as a lighter. Stage Two was aboard the Station, during its fifteen-day trip from perigee, four hundred miles up, to apogee, eighty-four thousand miles from Earth. (Space Stations One and Two circled the Earth, one at perigee whenever the other was at apogee, so that a shipment left for the Moon every fifteen days.) Stage three was via a ship technically known as V-T-V (vacuum-to-vacuum) but informally called the Barbell, because of its shape. This stage also took fifteen days, and covered sixty-two thousand miles, terminating at its meeting with Space Station Three, eighty-four thousand miles from the Moon. Station Three orbited the Moon every fifteen days, so that this lap of the trip, Stage Four, took seven and a half days. And finally Stage Five, via another lighter, was from Station Three at perigee two hundred fifty miles above the Moon to the surface of the Moon itself or, as in the case of the seven aluminum crates from Los Angeles, from Station Three to Quartermaster Base, the maintenance satellite for the whole system, in permanent orbit two hundred miles above the surface of the Moon.

Although it had taken four lighters, this trip, to bring down to the Poe the shipment of manufactured goods and scientific samples from the Moon, only one lighter was required for the return shipment. The Moon colony was not yet self-supporting, but the first steps in that direction had already been made. A part of the colony’s food was homegrown, hydroponically. New plant buildings and new machinery were built right on the Moon, by firms whose only customers were other Moon companies. Clothing and furnishings were made of synthetics.

Most of the Moon-bound cargo was paperwork, of one sort or another. There was the fifteen days accumulation of mail for the Moon personnel, sheaves of new product specifications for the managers of the Moon plants, financial reports, and so on. The rest, except for the cargo for QB, was primarily food, meat and dairy products and other foods unavailable through hydroponics. There were also three engineers, new employees of Interplanetal Business Machines, replacing three men whose two year contracts were ending and who would be coming back to Earth on the next transit.

BLAIR greeted the three men at the lighter ramp, checking their names and identity cards against the manifest and then saying, “My name’s Blair, Glenn Blair. I’m Cargomaster on this trip, and you boys are part of the cargo. You’ve got any questions or problems, bring them to me. I’m liaison between you and the rest of the Transit personnel. Okay?”

One of the engineers said, “If we decide we can’t take it we shouldn’t bug the working types, is that it?”

“You’re Ricks? Yes, Ricks, that’s exactly it. None of you people have been off-planet before, so you can’t make any sure statements about how you’ll act. A good quarter of our first-time passengers are plenty scared. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. If any of you feel it getting to you come to me. Don’t try to burrow your way through the wall, don’t try to kill yourself, don’t go running around screaming. We’ve had all of that, at one time or another, and it plays merry hell with the working day.”

Ricks grinned. “If I need a shoulder to cry on, Mister Blair,” he said, “I’ll run straight to you.”

“You do that. Come on, I’ll show you your quarters.”

Blair led the way up the ramp and into the lighter. The bottom half of the ship was engine and fuel-space, and most of the upper half was cargo hold, leaving only two levels at the top for human occupancy. The uppermost level was the control room, with passenger space on the level beneath.

The three engineers, Ricks in the lead, followed Blair up the inside ladder to the second level, a smallish circular room with twelve bunks, in tiers of three, around the walls. The center space was empty.

“There’s only four of us,” said Blair, “so we can all take middle bunks. The middle’s best; there’s less noise and vibration.”

“Beds for the babies, is that it?” said Ricks.

Blair grinned at him. “You wouldn’t want to be standing up when we blast,” he said. “Now, you lie face down in these bunks. This indentation is for your knees, and this pillow up here is for your chin. You hold onto these handles here, in front of the pillow, and you brace your feet against this bar back here. Just before we blast, you dig your chin down into that pillow hard. If you have your mouth open, you’re liable to get up to the Station minus a few teeth. In front of each bunk here, you see these three lights. The green one means you can relax, talk if you want to, readjust your position, whatever you want. The orange one means a blast within one minute, and the red one means a blast within ten seconds. The red one stays on throughout a blast. Okay?”

Ricks said, “The company had us play with these cribs. They filled us in pretty good.”

“I’m glad to hear that. I’m always pleased to get my human cargo to the Pod alive. Let’s get into the bunks now and get ourselves ready. Blast is due in a couple minutes.”

Blair saw to it that the three engineers were properly situated in their bunks, and then he crawled into the one nearest Ricks. He had the feeling that young man would be needing his hand held in just a few minutes.

* * * *

Harvey Ricks was not a crybaby. Way back in grammar school, he was known as the kid who couldn’t be made to cry. A lot of the other kids tried it, and some of them were pretty ingenious, but no one ever succeeded. Harvey Ricks was not a crybaby.

He didn’t cry when he flunked out of MIT, either, in the first semester of his sophomore year. He wanted to, God knows, but he didn’t. He simply packed his gear and went on home, and spent six months thinking it over. Until the MIT fiasco, schoolwork had always come readily to him. He’d never had to do much studying, and so he’d never learned the methods or picked up the habit. He’d managed to breeze through his secondary schooling with natural intelligence and smooth glibness, and he’d tried the same technique at college. It hadn’t worked.

During those six months at home, he’d learned why it hadn’t worked. He still had his textbooks, and he spent a lot of time with them, not so much out of a desire to learn as out of a nostalgia for the school that had rejected him. Gradually he began to see where he’d gone wrong. He was at a level of learning now where natural intuition and glibness weren’t enough. There were facts and concepts and relationships in those textbooks that he just couldn’t pick up in a rapid glossing of the subject matter, and there were other things in the textbooks that he couldn’t even understand until he had a sure grip on the earlier work.

Six months of brain-beating in his own home finally did for him what thirteen years of formal schooling had not done; it taught him how to study, and it taught him why to study. At the end of that time, he was accepted by a lesser engineering school in the northeastern United States, and this time he did it right.

In this second school, however, he was known as the boy who’d flunked out of MIT. It was much the same as his reputation for non-crying in childhood. He hadn’t really wanted, then, to be known as the boy who wouldn’t cry—all he’d really wanted was for people not to try to make him cry. But he hadn’t known how to manage that, and so he’d built up a brittle sort of bravado, a challenging attitude that was actually only the other side of the crying coin.

The bravado was still his only defense when he was known as the boy who’d flunked out of MIT. His whole attitude seemed to say, “So what? I’m still a smarter better engineer than all the rest of you clods combined, and that goes for you fourth-rate teachers, too.” As a result, he had plenty of time for studying. No one at school was particularly anxious for his company.

The funny part of it was that he was right. As a child, the other kids couldn’t make him cry.

As an engineering student, he was better than anyone else in his class. After two semesters, with a string of ‘A’ marks to his credit, he re-applied at MIT and was accepted on a probationary basis. He graduated seventh in his class—held back only by his poor freshman marks—and was immediately snapped up by Interplanetal Business Machines.

Interplanetal ran him through the normal engineer trainee courses, familiarizing him with the company’s line of equipment. He sailed through, fascinated by this actual concrete usage of what had been only theoretical knowledge at school, and since he finished first in his class he was given his choice of geographical area of assignment.

By now, bravado was an ingrained characteristic of Harvey Ricks. Interplanetal maintained a Moon Division, which built computers and office equipment for lease to the other Moon industries, and all personnel there were volunteers on a two-year contract. It was inevitable that Harvey Ricks would volunteer.

Throughout his life, bravado had made him do what he could but didn’t want to do. He could hold the tears back, though he didn’t want to have to, and his attitude had forced him to prove it, time and time again. He could buckle down and study, though he’d have preferred to loaf, and his own challenge to his classmates had forced him to do it. He could spend two years on the Moon, though he would much rather have lived that time in New York or San Jose, and so here he was on his way to the Moon.

He tried to stop himself from being such a wise guy, but he always failed. Before he knew what was happening, he’d have his mouth wide open and his foot in it up to the knee. Like with this Cargomaster, Blair. He hadn’t wanted to bait the man, he hadn’t wanted to show off and act the smart-aleck, but he’d done it just the same. If, at any time in the next month of the journey, he felt himself slipping, he’d have no one to stiffen his backbone for him but himself. If he’d only kept his mouth shut and minded his own business, he could have relaxed, knowing that an older and wiser hand was always there, ready and willing to help him keep his balance. This way, as usual, he had put himself in the position where he had to rely totally on himself.

Lying face down in the bunk, chin on the squarish foam-rubber pillow, he eyed the three lights in front of him grimly and silently cursed himself for forty-seven kinds of fool. He was the reverse of the boy who cried wolf too much. He cried wolf too seldom. One of these days he would send all the hunters away and a wolf would come along too big for him to handle by himself. That day, Harvey Ricks would have his reckoning.

He wondered if the day was coming sometime in the next month.

The orange light flashed on.

Behind him, the voice of the Cargomaster came softly, talking to them all. “You fellows take it easy now,” he was saying. “Breathe deep and slow. Don’t get all tensed up. Don’t hold on to those handles so tight you bunch your shoulder muscles all up. Don’t try to kick those foot bars right off the bunks. Just relax. If you tense your bodies all up, you’ll take a lot worse licking than if you just lie easy. You can get yourselves a broken bone just by being too tense when we blast. Inhale slow and easy, now. Exhale slow and easy. Just keep a light grip on the handles, lie easy and relaxed, like you were going to doze off in a minute.”

The voice droned softly in the small room, and Ricks knew the man was trying to relax them just by the sound of his voice. But for Ricks, with his perverse bravado, it had just the opposite effect. His body kept tensing up and tensing up, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. His hands, gripping the chrome-plated handles as though they would snap them in two, were sweating already, and his shoulders were aching with strain. His feet pushed so hard against the bar that his knees were completely off the bunk.

I’m going to panic, he thought, I’m going to scream. I’m going to jump up off this bunk and get myself killed when we blast.

Only shame kept him in the bunk, only shame kept the scream unsounded in his throat. He had acted the bigshot with the Cargomaster, acted the know-it-all. He couldn’t give in, he couldn’t turn around and show himself a phony and a weakling.

The red light flicked on.

Sweat ribboned down his face. The back of his shirt clung to him, soaked through with perspiration. His collar was too tight, cutting off air, and his belt buckle was grinding into his middle.

He pushed his chin down into the pillow, and stared at the red light. He had to swallow, his mouth was full of saliva. But he was afraid to. If he was swallowing when the blast came, he could strangle. That had happened in the past, more than once. Perspiration stung his eyes, but he was afraid to blink. He had to keep staring at the red light, staring at the red light.

A heavy iron press slammed into his back, grinding him down into the bunk, stomping his feet down off the bar, shoving his face into the pillow. His mouth was full of saliva, dribbling out now between his lips, staining the pillow, mixing with his perspiration. The bunched muscles of his shoulders whined in agony, and his hands, numb now, slipped from the handles and lay limp, fingers curled, before his eyes.

THE red light was still on, waving and changing as he tried to keep watching it. His eyes burned and, despite himself, the lids came down, as though weighted with heavy magnets.

With closed eyes came nausea. He had no equilibrium any more, no balance. There was no longer any up or down, there was only himself, crushed between the bunk and the heavy iron press.

He held his breath, closed his throat, kept it down. Breakfast swirled and lumped in his stomach, wanting to come up, but he kept it down. He couldn’t have it, he couldn’t stand it, to have the Cargomaster see him lying in his own sickness. He kept it down.

The iron press went away, with a suddenness that terrified him. He could breathe again, he could swallow, he could move his arms and legs, he could wipe the sweat out of his eyes and look at the blessed green light.

The Cargomaster was on his feet in the middle of the room, by the ladder, saying, “Okay, fellows, that’s it for a while. We’ll be at a steady one-G for a while now. There’ll be another little jolt in maybe twenty minutes, when we come into phase with the Station. In the meantime, you all can rest easy.”

One of the other two, Standish, said timidly, “Excuse me, are there any—do you have any, uh, bags?”

“Sure thing. Right in that little slot under the light panel.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t feel bad. You haven’t really been initiated into space till you’ve lost at least one meal. How are you other two doing?”

“Okay, I guess,” said Miller, the third one.

“Fine. And you, Ricks?”

“I’m doing just lovely. This is a great little old roller-coaster you’ve got here.”

Blair grinned. “I thought you’d like it,” he said.

Harvey Ricks had proved himself again.

* * * *

Station One was leaving perigee, hurtling around the Earth on the long elliptical curve that would take it, fifteen days from now, eighty-four thousand miles towards the Moon. The lighter came curving up from Earth into the path of the Station’s orbit and fifty miles ahead. As the Station overtook it, it slowly increased its speed, until the two were neck-and-neck. Slowly, the lighter pilot maneuvered his ship closer to the station, until the magnetic grapples caught, holding the ship to the curving grid jutting out from the hatchway in the high center of the doughnut. A closed companionway slid out along the grid, attached itself to the airlock in the side of the lighter, and formed a hermetic seal. The lock was open, and the Station cargo handlers came aboard for the unloading.

The seven aluminum crates of the cargo for QB were stacked on a powered cart, driven across the companionway to the Station proper, and taken by elevator down two levels, thence down one of the three interior corridors to the outer ring, and were finally stowed in Section Five, with the rest of the shipment.

Glenn Blair and the Station Manager, Irv Mendel, oversaw the unloading, making the appropriate row of checkmarks as each item was transferred from lighter to station. Blair then went back up and got the three engineers, all of whom seemed a little shaken by this first stage of the journey, though Ricks was doing his best to hide it. “Don’t worry,” Blair assured them, “the worst part of the trip is done with. From now on, it’s quarter-G all the way.”

Standish, who had so far been sick twice and who was now holding tight to the nearest support as though afraid he might float up and out of sight any minute, grinned weakly and said, “I don’t know which is worse, too much gravity or too little. Do people really get used to this?”

“In a couple of days,” Blair told him, “you’ll be running around as happy as a feather in an updraft. Once you get used to it, there’s nothing in the universe as much fun as weighing only one-quarter what you’re used to.”

“I hope I get used to it soon,” said Standish, “before I starve to death.”

Blair led the way down the ladder and through the companionway to the Station. The three passengers were introduced to Irv Mendel, who told them how much they’d enjoy quarter-G in a couple days, and then they were shown their cubicles, in Section One, which would be their home for the next fifteen days. Their luggage—thirty-eight pounds permissable—had preceded them into the rooms, which were small but functional. There was, in each room, a bed and a chair and a small writing table, a lamp and a narrow closet and a tiny bathroom complete with shower stall and WC. The floor was uncarpeted black plastic and the walls and ceiling were cream-painted metal. It took the engineers a while to get used to the idea that the floor was not what they would have thought of as the ‘bottom’ of the Station from the outside. The floor of their cubicles was, on the outside, the outer edge of the Station. The center of the Station was not to the left or right, it was directly overhead.

The outer ring of the Station was divided into twelve sections. Sections Nine, Ten and Eleven housed the permanent Station personnel, including the weathermen and television relay men and so on. Sections Five, Six and Seven were cargo holds, and Sections One, Two and Three were transient quarters. (The three engineers were in Section Two.) Sections Four, Eight and Twelve contained the utilities, the sources of light and heat and air, as well as the chow hall and food storage. At the bulkhead separating each Section, floor and ceiling met at an angle of thirty degrees. A man could do a loop-the-loop simply by walking dead ahead down the main corridor until he came back to his starting point.

Once the three engineers were safely settled in their cubicles, Blair took the elevator back up to the center of the Station, where Irv Mendel was waiting for him in his office. Blair went through the same sort of paperwork as he’d done with Cy Braddock, and when they were finished Mendel said, “How are these three kids? Going to give us any trouble?”

“I’m not sure. Standish has a pretty weak stomach, it may take him a while to get adjusted, but I think he’ll just grin and bear it. Miller’s all right. I’m not too sure about Ricks. He’s pushing himself a little hard, one of these guys who wants to be an old salt before he ever gets into the water. If he cracks, he may do it in style.”

Mendel leaned back in his chair, arms behind his head. “You know,” he said, “when I was a kid, all I ever wanted was to get out here in space. I grew up reading about Moon-shots and orbiting satellites and I thought, ‘By Golly, there’s the frontier of tomorrow. There’s where the adventurers are going to be, the explorers and the prospectors and the soldiers of fortune. That’s the place for me, boy.’ Romance and adventure, that’s the way I saw it.” He grinned and shook his head. “I forgot all about the twentieth century’s most significant invention: Red tape. It never even occurred to me that space would be a job like this. Paperwork all over the place, schedules to meet and financial reports to make out, young fuzzy-faced kids to be nursemaided. It never even occurred to me.”

“If you hate it so much,” Blair told him, “why not go on back to Earth?”

“Are you kidding? Do you know what I weigh down there? Two hundred and fourteen pounds. Maybe more by now, I’m not sure. Besides, it’s even worse down there. Paperwork up to your nose. It’s only half that high up here. If you know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean. Lighter gone?”

“Long gone. Halfway back to Earth by now. Left while you were with your Boy Scouts.”

“So we’re on our way again.” Blair got lazily to his feet, and stretched. “After a couple days on Earth,” he said, “quarter-G feels like a good quiet drunk. Think I’ll go lie down in the rack and think about philosophy. See you later.”

“Right. Hey, by the way.” Blair turned at the door. “By what way?”

“This is your last round trip, isn’t it? Your two years are up.”

“It was up last trip. I re-contracted.”

Mendel grinned. “Member of the club now, huh? I thought you’d do that. Welcome aboard.” Blair shrugged self-consciously. “You know how it is,” he said. “Every time I go back, Earth gets a little heavier. Besides, I like the soft life.”

“You want it really soft,” Mendel told him, “you put in for station duty. All we do is float around and around, draw our pay, and look at the pretty scenery.”

“If that boy Ricks blows up,” Blair said, “we’ll both have plenty to do. I’m going to rack out, I’ll see you later.”

“See you, nursemaid.”

Blair took the elevator down to the outer ring, and went to his cubicle in Section Two, next to the one occupied by Ricks, across the corridor from Standish and Miller. He stretched out on his bed and half-dozed, as his body gradually got reoriented to quarter-gravity.

* * * *

Twenty minutes later, the meteor hit.

It should never have happened. The Station had full radar vision, and so the meteor should have been seen long before it struck. The Station was powered, and should have been able to goose itself out of the meteor’s path. So it should never have happened. But it did.

It was one of those million-to-one shots. The meteor, a chunk of space-rock about six feet in diameter, had come boiling across the Solar System, past the sun and the two innermost planets, headed on a near-collision course with Earth. It had actually dipped into the Earth’s atmosphere, which slowed it somewhat, but not enough for it to be captured by Earth’s gravity. It had shot out of the atmosphere again, moving more slowly than before, now red-hot from atmospheric friction, and shortly thereafter it plowed into the Space Station from behind.

From the moment it had first become a potential danger to the Station, it had been unseeable. It was directly between the Station and the massive ball of Earth. It was the one thin segment of space where the radar’s vision was unclear, and it was out of that segment that the juggernaut had come.

The impact could have been worse. In the first place, the meteor was not now traveling at its normal top speed. In the second place, the meteor and the Station were traveling in approximately the same direction, so that the Station, in effect, rolled with the punch. The space-rock broke through the outer hull. Whether or not it penetrated the inner hull no one was immediately sure.

The strike was in Section Five, containing the cargo, with it the seven aluminum crates for QB. At the instant of impact, even before the meteor had ground to a halt, an alarm bell rang in Section Five. The bell meant that the bulkhead doors to that section would be closed in ten seconds.

There was only one person in Section Five at the time, a crewman named Gilmore, who’d been checking the security of the lashings on the cargo. Constant strike drills had made his reaction immediate and instinctive: he ran for the nearest door. He made it, too, all but his left shoe. The bulkhead door neatly snicked off the heel of the shoe as it slammed across the doorway and sealed shut. Gilmore’s shoe was ruined and his sock slightly grazed, but his foot was untouched.

Throughout the rest of the Station, another bell was ringing, this one with a deeper tone and a two-beat rhythm. Harvey Ricks heard it and leaped up from his bunk, forgetting the discomfort that hadn’t yet abated, despite the cheery words of the Cargomaster and the Station Manager. The bell rang on, and Ricks stood quivering in his cubicle, body tensed for fight or flight, mind bewildered and frightened.

The cubicle door jolted open and Blair’s face stuck in long enough for him to shout, “Suit up! It’s under your bunk!” Then he was gone again, and Ricks heard him delivering the same call to Standish and Miller, across the corridor.

Ricks, incredibly grateful for any excuse to be in motion, lunged across the cubicle toward his bunk. He misjudged the force of his leap, with the lesser gravity, and tumbled head over heels across the bunk and into the metal wall. He lay crouched on the bunk, gripping his knees, and whispered desperately to himself, “Take it easy, take it easy, take it easy.”

When he could move without trembling, he got to his feet and dragged the spacesuit out from under the bunk. In the company course, preparatory to leaving on this trip, he’d learned how to don a spacesuit, and he clambered rapidly into this one, closing the inner and outer zippers, and then searched under the bunk again and dragged out the helmet. As he got to his feet, the bell stopped.

RICKS bit down hard on his lower lip, willing himself to be calm. Carefully, he donned the helmet and went through the series of safety checks he’d been taught. Faceplate open, he put his fingers to the row of buttons at the suit’s waist. First finger, left hand; helmet lamp: It worked, he could see it shining against the opposite wall. Click off. First finger, right hand; air intake: It worked, he could hear the faint hissing below his right ear. Cautiously, he closed the faceplate and inhaled. The oxygen mixture was rich, but good. Click off, faceplate open. Second finger, left hand; heat unit: It worked, he could immediately feel the suit warming against his legs and arms. Click off. Second finger, right hand; water intake: It worked, a thin dribble of lukewarm water emerged from the tube in the corner of his mouth. Click off.

So far, so good. He hunched his left shoulder forward, and read the small dials there: Oxygen tanks, full. Water tank, half full. Battery, fully charged. Temperature inside the suit, sixty-eight degrees.

Was the air in the cubicle getting foul? Ricks snapped the faceplate shut, pushed the air intake button. This air was cleaner, he was sure of it.

Where were the others? Where was Blair? He couldn’t hear a sound. The suit cut out all external atmosphere, but not all external sound. He reached up under the helmet chin and switched on the suit radio. A faint crackling of static told him it was on, but other than that there was no sound.

He looked around the cubicle. Was there any air in it now? He could be standing in total vacuum, there was no way to be sure. He could be the only one still alive in the Station.

“Blair?” His own voice, confined within the helmet, sounded harsh and croaking in his ears. The radio gave no answer.

Unwillingly, he moved toward the door. In here, the sound of his pounding heart was magnified, frightening him more than the radio’s silence or the thought that the Station might now be airless. He pushed open the door, and saw Blair standing in the corridor, wearing his spacesuit but holding the helmet casually in his left hand.

Blair looked at him and grimaced, then motioned for Ricks to open his faceplate. Ricks reached up, switched off the radio, and removed his helmet. He managed a grin. “Kind of nice in here,” he said. “Set up a bar, put a couple of chairs around, it could be real livable.” But he heard the tremor in his voice, and he knew that Blair heard it, too.

Blair said, “Get on down by the elevator with Standish and Miller. If you hear another bell, a few notes lower than the first one, with a triple-beep in it, clap the helmet on. Otherwise, keep it off. You don’t have canned air to waste.”

“Watch for the triple beep,” said Ricks jauntily. “Aye aye, sir.”

Blair grunted, and turned away, heading down the corridor in the opposite direction. Ricks watched him go, glaring at his back. ‘I’m a better man than you, Harvey Ricks,’ said that back. ‘You’ll break down, you’ll flunk my course, you’ll never match me or even come close.”

Blair disappeared, through the bulkhead doorway to Section Three, and Ricks turned the other way, walking down the corridor and right to the elevator. Standish and Miller were standing there, helmets on but faceplates open, and Ricks felt somewhat better. His helmet was in his hand.

As he came up to them, Standish said, “What do you suppose it is?” His pale face was even paler now, his large eyes larger.

Ricks shrugged. “It’s probably just a drill. Get us new boys all lathered up, just in case we weren’t taking it all seriously.”

“I thought I felt a tremor just before the bell started,” said Miller. “We may have been hit by a meteor or some such thing.” Ricks shrugged again. “Whatever it was, it doesn’t seem very urgent. Did Papa Blair tell you two about the triple-beep?”

“Sure,” said Miller. “He was sore at you, because you were late getting out in the hall.”

“I was running my suit-check,” said Ricks easily.

“Omigosh!” cried Standish. “I forgot!” He started the check, right then and there.

Watching Standish run through his suit-check, Ricks felt a lot better. He hadn’t forgotten.

BLAIR found Mendel at the sealed bulkhead between Sections Four and Five. Mendel waved to him and grinned sourly. “I thought you’d be along,” he said.

“What is it? The cargo section?”

“Right through there, boy. Sorry. We’ve had a meteor strike. Son of a gun came at us on the blind side.”

Blair glanced quickly at the gauges beside the bulkhead door. “Pressure’s up,” he said. “Looks like it didn’t break all the way through.”

“No way to tell yet,” said Mendel. “It might be a slow leakage.”

“Then we have time to move the cargo.”

Mendel shook his head. “Sorry, Glenn, no can do. Open this door here, it might joggle the air pressure just enough to make a slow leak a fast one. If that happens, it won’t be this door that slams shut, it’ll be the one way over there, between Three and Four.”

“So you wait in Three. I’m willing to take the chance.”

“I’m not. And it isn’t your pearly white skin I’m worried about, it’s my pearly white Station. If we have one Section in vacuum, we’ll have trouble enough keeping equilibrium. With two Sections out of whack, we’ll wobble all over the damn Solar System.”

“Irv, my whole cargo’s in there! The cargo for QB is in there!”

“I can’t help it. Besides, vacuum won’t hurt that stuff for QB”.

“Irv, if there’s a break through the inner hull, and that meteor shakes loose, the QB cargo won’t be in the Station any more, it’ll be scattered halfway from here to Mars. Did you ever see stuff come flying out of a room that goes suddenly to vacuum?”

“Yes, I did. Did you ever see a man that’s gone suddenly to vacuum?”

“Irv, look at your blasted pressure gauge!”

“It’s down.”

“It’s down less than half a point, Irv, and that’s because you’ve stopped pumping air in there. Listen, that QB cargo isn’t hermetically sealed. If it doesn’t get good air, it can rot.”

“It can rot right now, for all of me. I’m not touching Section Five or anything in it. We’ll get in touch with QB, and let them send a couple of reps up here. It’s their job, not ours.”

“Irv, don’t you realize what that cargo means to the boys at QB?”

“Sure, I do. But do you realize what this Station here means to me? The boys at QB can re-order another batch. I can’t go out and re-order another Station.”

“Irv, listen. The ground-pounders don’t realize how important that stuff is. Without it, the crew at QB will be at each other’s throats in a month. This is no exaggeration, Irv, the whole QB operation will fall apart within a month. And if QB falls apart, the whole system falls apart, because it’s QB’s job to run maintenance for the rest of us.”

“I know that,” said Mendel, “I know it well. Every word you say is absolutely true. But I still say they can re-order.”

“And I say it’ll take three months at the very least to fill the new order! We can’t even put the order in until we can prove to the ground-pounders’ satisfaction that this batch is destroyed, and we won’t be able to do that till the reeps get here and patch the hole. So that’s ten or fifteen days right there. Then they’ll fool around another half a month or more, figuring out costs and tax breaks and whatnot, wanting to know why QB can’t make do till the next regular shipment, and bogging down in a lot of red tape. Then they have to put the order in, out of sequence, so it’ll take longer to fill it. And every single item has to be doublechecked and approved by the psycho department and half a dozen other departments. It’ll be more than three months!”

Mendel doggedly shook his head. “I’m not going to argue with you, Glenn,” he said, “I’m going to tell you. That cargo is your responsibility, but this whole Station is mine, and I’m not going to risk this Station for you or QB or anybody. Period, finish, end of discussion. Now, I’m going to go on up and call QB and have them send us a couple of reeps. Want to come along?”

“I want to boot you in the rump, Irv, I swear.”

Mendel grinned. “I feel like doing some rump-booting myself. Take it easy, Glenn. It’ll all work out.”

“Hot diggity,” said Blair sourly.

“Want to come up to the office with me?”

“No.”

“Suit yourself.”

Mendel left, and Blair stomped angrily back down the corridor to Section Two, where he found the three engineers still waiting by the elevator. He glared at them and snarled, “What the devil are you clowns doing? Get out of those idiot clown suits, the party’s over.”

The three of them stared at him in astonishment. Ricks looked as though he might smart-talk, and Blair waited hopefully, fists clenched, but something about his stance gave Ricks second thoughts and he turned away without a word, red-faced and frowning.

QB was the Quartermaster Base, a large satellite in permanent orbit two hundred miles above the surface of the Moon. It was shaped somewhat like the three Space Stations, though with a thicker outer ring and a less intricate inner section. This base held all of the equipment for maintenance and repair of the entire General Transit system, the three Space Stations, the two barbells, and the Moon-based lighters.

Attached to QB by a simple hook-and-ring mechanism were six repair ships, familiarly known as reeps. Reeps were small blunt rounded one-man ships, with payloads made up exclusively of fuel. Protruding from the front of each reep were four jointed arms, operated by the arms and legs of the pilot. The reep had one large rocket exhaust at the rear, which swiveled to allow turning maneuverability, and four small swiveled exhausts around the body, permitting the reep complete close-range maneuverability. An experienced reep pilot could operate his ship as though it were an extension of his body, backing and sidestepping, working the four arms as readily as he used his own arms and legs.

There were two kinds of reeps, and three of each kind. There was the gripper reep, with arms designed for holding and manipulating, and the fixer reep, with arms for welding and cutting.

When the call came in from Station One, QB was three-quarters around the Earth-side of its orbit. The radioman on duty got the approximate dimensions of the meteor now jammed into the outer edge of the Station, and its approximate placement, and passed this information on to the Dispatcher Office. A call then went down to the Supply Department for Part X-102-W, outer hull replacement panel. This piece, eight feet by eight, was delivered to the Dispatch Delivery Point, at the inner rim of the doughnut.

Meanwhile, fixer reep 2 and gripper reep 5 were fueled and piloted. Spacesuited QB crewmen put the replacement panel in position for the gripper reep to get hold of, and the two ships broke away from the satellite, headed toward Earth.

The radioman at QB got in touch with the radioman at Station One and told him to expect the two reeps in fourteen days, approximately twelve hours before the Station was scheduled to make contact with the barbell from Station Three.

For everyone concerned, it was a long fourteen days. Irv Mendel watched the air pressure creep downward in Section Five, and gnawed his lower lip. Glenn Blair thought of the cargo for QB, and snarled at everyone he saw. Harvey Ricks thought of his two moments of panic, and waited for the chance to shove Blair’s superior attitude down his stinking throat.

* * * *

Time in space is arbitrary. There are no seasons in the gulf between the planets, and there is no day and night. The sun, incredibly bright and fierce when seen without the protection of miles of atmosphere, glares out eternally at its domain, heating whatever it touches, leaving to frigid cold whatever lies in shadow. The twenty-four hour day is a fact of Earth, not a fact of the universe. In the void between the planets, the day is singular, and will end only with the death of the sun.

No matter how much he wills it otherwise, Man is a parochial creature, a native of a planet and not of all space. Whatever else he leaves behind him when he roves beyond his own globe, he takes with him his ingrained ideas of night and day. In every room and office of Space Station One there was a clock, and every clock pointed simultaneously to exactly the same time. The time was that of the Greenwich Meridian, the time of England and Ireland and Scotland and Wales. When Big Ben tolled twelve o’clock noon, the spacefarers of Station One ate lunch. When Big Ben, thousands of miles away in London, struck twelve o’clock midnight, the spacemen obediently went to bed.

The reeps arrived at four twenty-two p.m., the fourteenth day out from Earth. The gripper reep, still clutching replacement part X-102-W, slid into a soft elliptical orbit around the Station. The fixer reep closed gently against the personnel hatch grid. Spacesuited crewmen fastened it to the grid by metal lines through the two rings, one at the reep’s top toward the rear and the other at the bottom near the front. The reep pilot pumped the cabin air into the storage tank, adjusted his helmet, and opened the magnetically-sealed clear plastic cockpit dome. A Station crewman helped him out onto the grid, and escorted him inside for a conference with Irv Mendel and Blair.

Mendel greeted him at his office doorway, hand out-thrust. “Welcome aboard. Irv Mendel.” The pilot grinned and took the proffered hand. “Ed Wiley,” he said. He nodded to Blair. “How’s it going, Glenn?”

“Lousy,” Blair told him. “Did you see the strike?”

“Yeah, it’s a nice one, a real boulder. Which section is that?”

“Five,” said Mendel. “Glenn’s cargo is in there, that’s why he’s so peeved.”

“It’s QB’s cargo,” snapped Blair, “not mine.”

Wiley frowned. “Ours? How so?”

Mendel explained, “Your six-months’ goodies are in there.”

“Oh, fine. In what condition?” Blair said, “This fat character here won’t let me in to find out. The whole section’s at half-pressure by now.”

“Then he’s right,” said Wiley. “I hate to admit it, but he’s right. Double the pressure all at once, you’re liable to knock the meteor right out of the hole. If pressure’s going down that slow right now, it means the meteor’s partially plugging the leak.”

“And what happens when you guys yank the meteor out? Same difference.”

“Not the same,” said Mendel. “This way, nobody gets killed.” Blair shrugged angrily.

Wiley said, “Maybe we can work something. Vacuum won’t hurt the goodies, will it?”

“It may explode the cases,” said Blair. “That shouldn’t do too much damage. I’m worried about it being flipped outside. The cases’ll burst, and the whole shipment’ll be scattered to hell-an’-gone.”

Wiley nodded. “We’ll try to lower the pressure slow and easy. Have you cut off the air supply in that section?”

“First thing,” said Mendel. “Good. We’ll need two guys on the outside to give us a hand. Do you want to, Glenn?”

“Damn right,” said Blair. He got to his feet. “I’ll suit up.”

Wiley stopped him at the door. “Don’t worry, boy,” he said. “Nobody’s going to blame you if it goes wrong.”

Blair studied him, then said, “Tell me, Ed. If that shipment doesn’t get out to QB, will it be a very pleasant place to live the next few months.”

Wiley returned his gaze a moment, then shook his head. “No, it won’t. We’ll have to hide the razor blades.”

“How do you feel now, Ed?” pursued Blair. “Happy in your work, content with the job and the pay and the living conditions? How are you going to feel two months from now?”

“I know that, Glenn. Believe me, I know exactly what you mean. Don’t forget, I come from QB. If there’s any way at all to fix that strike and save the cargo, I’ll do it.”

“What do you figure your chances, Ed?”

“It’s hard to say, before we get a closer look. Maybe fifty-fifty.”

“If I open the Section Five door and go in there and get that cargo out, what are the chances of the meteor being knocked out? Fifty-fifty?”

“Less than that, Glenn. You’ve only got half-pressure in there, you tell me.” Wiley patted his shoulder. “We’ll work it out,” he said.

“I’m glad to hear it.”

* * * *

Blair left the office and took the elevator down to Section Two and his cubicle. As he was getting into his suit, there was a knock at the door. He grunted, and Ricks came in.

The two had been avoiding each other for the last two weeks, Ricks more obviously than Blair. Whenever one entered a room—mess hall or library or whatever—the other immediately left. When they passed one another in a corridor, they looked straight ahead with no acknowledgment.

Ricks now looked truculent and determined. Blair grimaced at the sight of him and snapped, “All right, Ricks, what is it? I don’t have time for hand-holding right now.”

“You’re going outside,” said Ricks, “to help fix the strike. I want to go out with you.”

“What? Go to hell!”

“You’re going to need more than one man out there.”

“We’ll get an experienced crewman. You’ve never been outside in vacuum in your life. This isn’t any training course.”

“How did you do the first time, Blair? Did you make it?”

“You aren’t me, sonny.”

“I’ve been taking vitamins.”

“If you want that chip knocked off your shoulder, you better try somewhere else. I’m liable to knock your head off with it.”

“Try it afterwards, Superman. I’m a better man than you are every day in the week and twice on Sundays. Give me a chance to prove it.”

“No.”

Ricks grinned crookedly. “Okay, big man,” he said. “It’s your football, so you can choose up the sides.”

He started toward the doorway and Blair growled, “Hold on a second.” When Ricks turned, he said, “You’re a grandstander, Ricks. You knew there wasn’t a chance in a million I’d let you go outside with me, so it was a nice safe challenge, wasn’t it?”

“Then call my bluff!”

Blair nodded. “I’m going to. Get into your suit. But just let me tell you something first. This isn’t a game. If you flub, it counts. You’re going to be living on the Moon for the next two years. That’s a small community; everybody knows everybody else. If you flub, those are going to be two miserable years for you, sonny. You’re going to be the boy who lost the cargo for QB, and nobody’ll let you forget it.” Ricks’ face was pale, but his grin sardonic. “All right, Cargo-master,” he said. “I can handle that job, too. I can be your whipping boy.” He spun around, and out of the cubicle.

Fists clenched tight, Blair glowered at the empty doorway.

Ricks nervously followed Blair and Wiley out through the personnel hatch and onto the grid outside the Station. His meeting with Wiley had been a simple exchange of names, with no questions asked and no explanations given. Apparently, Wiley had no idea he was merely a passenger on the Station, and not a crew member. Irv Mendel, on the other hand, had pointedly ignored him. Ricks got the impression that Mendel and Blair had argued about him, and that Mendel had lost. Blair himself simply looked grim.

It was the first time Ricks had seen the exterior of the Station. He was standing now on a grid extending from a semi-conical section which itself protruded upward from the ball in the middle of the Station. The ball contained the administrative and recreational rooms of the Station, and the cone above it contained the radio room, the control room, and cubicles containing the meteorological equipment of the weather team.

Standing on the grid, Ricks looked up and out, toward the stars, toward the vast emptinesses, and all at once he felt microscopic. He was as small as an ant beneath a redwood tree. Smaller than that, smaller than an amoeba in the ocean, smaller than a single grain of sand on the Sahara. He was a weak and tiny speck of fury and indecision, a flea riding a lily pad down the Mississippi. He could cry out, with all the strength of his lungs, and it would be no more than a faint peeping in the bottom of the deepest well of all.

Wiley’s calm voice broke into his awe and wonder, crackling tinnily from the helmet radio: “We’ll go on down and take a look at the damage first. It’s the section just to the right of that spoke.”

Blair’s voice, oddly depersonalized by the radio, said, “Right. You lead off.”

Wiley, calm and sure-footed in his magnet-soled boots, stepped off the grid onto the curving side of the cone. He marched down it, looking to Ricks like a man walking calmly down a wall, and thence across the bulge of the central ball to the spoke. Blair followed him, moving just as easily and effortlessly, and Ricks came last.

There was no gravity out here. The Station spun beneath them with what seemed lazy slowness against the distant backdrop of the stars, and the only gravitic force was the centrifugal action of the Station, trying lazily to spin them off and out into space. Above them, the gripper reep arced by in its orbit; the pilot waved.

Ricks gritted his teeth and followed the other two, imitating their actions. The magnetic boots were tricky things; you had to step high, or all at once the boot would click back against the Station with a step only half-completed. And it took a sliding knee-bending movement to release the boot for another step.

The three men moved in slow Indian file across the rounded bulk of the spoke, up across the first inner bulge of the rim, and then out on the rim’s top. They stepped carefully over the metal ridge that marked where, inside the Station, Section Six was separated from Section Five. Then there was a four-foot drop to the curve of the outer surface of the rim. If the rim of the Station had been an automobile tire, they would now have been standing on its side, out on the edge where the tread begins. The meteor was imbedded in the tread-area itself, below the curve.

Wiley and Blair stood close to the meteor; Ricks hung back a step, watching them, moving only when and as they moved. No one had spoken since they left the grid. Then, over the earphones came an unfamiliar voice: “How’s it look, Ed?”

“Not sure yet, Dan. We’re just beginning to look it over.”

Ricks looked around, baffled, then realized that Dan was the pilot in the gripper reep, now hovering a little ways off, circling as the Station circled, keeping approximately even with the meteor break, the replacement part awkward in its long arms.

“Here it is, here,” said Blair suddenly. He squatted carefully, keeping both boots firmly in contact with the Station metal, and pointed to a spot at the jagged intersection of rough meteor rock and frayed bent metal.

Ricks moved in closer, to see what Blair was pointing at. Sunlight glinted momentarily from whatever it was.

Wiley crouched down beside Blair, cutting off Ricks’ view, as Dan asked, “What is it?”

It was Wiley who answered. “Little bit of ice here. We’ve got a slow leakage. Looks like there’s probably a small puncture of the inner hull, with the meteor itself plugging it most of the way. Little bit of air gets out, dissipates between the hulls, and a smidgen of it gets out through here and freezes solid.”

Blair’s voice sounded, saying, “Does Dan know what’s in this section?”

“I don’t know a thing.”

Wiley explained it, and Dan said, “We’ll have to take it nice and easy, then. If that stuff gets loused up, I’m not going home.” Blair straightened, turning, and said, “Okay, Ricks, you can make yourself useful. Go on up with Wiley and help him unrig his ship.”

“Sure.”

BLAIR waited by the meteor while the other two went back across the spoke and up to the grid. Wiley said, “There’s these two wires to disengage. Wait till I’m in and set, and I’ll give you the high-sign.”

“Okay.”

Wiley clambered into the reep, sealing the dome shut and adjusting the air pressure to fill the cabin. Then he turned off the suit’s air supply and opened his faceplate. Hands and feet ready on the controls, he nodded to Ricks. Ricks released the moorings, and the reep drifted out and to the left, falling slowly away from the spinning Station. Its rear rocket flashed, and it moved away more rapidly, beyond the Station’s outer rim.

Ricks walked back to the rim. When he got there, Wiley’s ship was in place, two of the side rockets firing sporadically, keeping it still in relation to the motion of the Station. The two side arms clung to jagged tears in the rim metal, next to the meteor, while the top and bottom arms, working to the pre-measurements of a small computer tape, inched across the metal, cutting implements extended, scoring not deep enough to cut completely through the hull. Just behind each cutting edge, a small nozzle marked the line of the score with a thin line of red.

Finished, Wiley retracted all four arms, and allowed the reep to drift back away from the Station. The other reep came in closer.

Blair said, “Got something else for you to do, Ricks.” He removed from a clip on the waist of his suit what looked like a coiled length of narrow cable. “You can hold the replacement panel,” he said, “while Dan clears the meteor out. Help me unsnarl this thing.”

“Right.”

Unwound, the coil proved to be four lengths of cable, about fifteen feet long, joined together at one end and terminating at the other end in broad curved clips. While Dan hovered as close as he dared, Blair attached these clips to the edges of the panel, near the corners. Ricks held the other end, where the cables met.

“It’s going to want to drift to the left,” said Blair. “Make sure it doesn’t. Keep all four cables taut. It’s the same as flying a kite. If you let it dip, it’ll crash into the rim here. If it’s crumpled, we can’t use it. And we don’t have any spares handy.”

“I’ll keep it up,” promised Ricks.

Dan backed the gripper reep until the cables stretched taut from Ricks to the panel, and then released his hold on the panel, which immediately drifted to the left, not maintaining the speed of the Station’s spin.

Holding the joined part of the cable tight in his gloved left hand, Ricks tugged with his right at individual lines, trying to keep the panel above him. Behind him, Blair and Dan were ignoring him, working at their own part of the problem. Ricks could hear Blair instructing Dan, guiding him as he came slowly in and fastened his four gripper arms to the meteor. Two of the reep’s auxiliary rocket exhausts fired briefly, and then again, as Dan tugged tentatively at the meteor.

Ricks wanted to turn and watch the operation, but he couldn’t. The eight-by-eight replacement panel swayed above him with maddening slowness, inching away from him, curving down toward the Station. Trying to move too quickly, he pulled on the wrong cable, and the panel dipped sharply, the uppermost cable falling slack, threatening to snarl the others.

* * * *

Stepping back quickly, almost losing his boot-grip on the hull, Ricks yanked desperately at the slack cable. The panel shuddered, stopped perpendicular to the hull and scarcely two feet above its surface. Then the force of Ricks’ yank took over, and it sailed slowly toward him, curving up and over him, moving now in the direction of the Station’s spin but somewhat faster. When it was directly above him, Ricks tried to stop it, but it curved on, angling down now directly toward the meteor and the arms of the gripper reep.

This time, Ricks managed to tug the cables properly, reversing the drift without too much trouble. He was beginning to catch on to the method, now. It was impossible to keep the panel stationery above him. All he could do was keep sawing it back and forth, forcing its own sluggish motion to follow his commands. Once he had the right idea, it wasn’t too difficult to keep the thing under control, but it didn’t take long at all for his arms to feel the strain. He didn’t dare relax, not for a second. His arms and shoulders twinged at every movement, and his neck and back ached from the necessity of his looking constantly directly above him.

From time to time, he chanced a quick look at the progress of the other two. Blair was standing now at the very edge of the scored section, guiding Dan both with words and with arm and body movements. Dan was tugging slowly, first to the left and then to the right, and gradually the meteor was being inched outward. At one point, Blair glanced over at Ricks and said, “How’s it going, Ricks?”

“Just dandy,” said Ricks, grunting with effort. “Just fine. Almost as good as you.”

Blair frowned, then turned his attention back to the meteor. Half a dozen times since they’d come out here, he’d been at the point of telling Ricks to go back inside, to have Mendel send out a crewman instead. He wasn’t sure what had stopped him. It wasn’t the way Ricks saw it; he wasn’t looking for a whipping boy, to take the blame for him if he lost the cargo. Glenn Blair didn’t pass the buck, he never had and he never would. He’d been given this job in the first place because he was a man who could handle responsibility, whose pride lay in his ability to complete his own jobs, not in any ability to oversee the work of others.

He had, he knew, lost the dispassionate approach necessary in his work. Ricks and the cargo for QB had both become too important to him, though in far different ways. With Ricks, he seemed somehow to have become ensnarled in some idiotic sort of contest, in which only Ricks knew the rules and the scoring, in which only Ricks could know or care who had won and who had lost. Ricks had kept him off-balance, thinking with his emotions rather than his brains. In so doing, he’d underestimated Ricks’ own concern with the contest. He’d agreed to let Ricks come out here partly out of a desire to throw the guy into a situation where he would lose his own con-

test under his own rules, arm partly out of a desire to call Ricks’ bluff. It had turned out to be no bluff, and Blair, thinking with his emotions, had been unable to withdraw the agreement.

And the fight with Mendel had only served to harden the cement. Mendel had been instantly and loudly opposed to Ricks’ going outside, and Blair had responded just as quickly and just as loudly. Mendel’s opposition had finally only intensified Blair’s determination to go through with it.

Outside, he had had no choice but to put Ricks to work. There were only the two of them out there, and both were needed. He’d kept for himself the intricate job of guiding the removal of the meteor—the reep pilot was too far back and too involved with the operation of his ship’s controls to be able to do the job by himself—but that had left for Ricks the scarcely-less intricate job of holding onto the replacement panel. Blair had kept an eye on him throughout, ready to step in if it looked as though Ricks would lose control, but Ricks had done surprisingly well, after bobbling the ball a bit to begin with.

Now, as Blair kept up a steady drone of low-voiced directions, Dan gradually eased the meteor out of the jagged hole it had made in the hull. The whole scored segment was now bulged outward slightly, and the sawtooth edges of the hole were scraping out and back, with the motion of the meteor.

Then, all at once, the reep jerked backward, as the meteor rasped loose. The hull vibrated beneath Blair’s feet, and then quieted.

Blair waited, cautiously watching the jagged tear, but after the second’s vibration, there was nothing more. They’d managed it, working and tugging and twisting the meteor in such a way that the remaining air in Section Five was released slowly enough to be of no danger.

Dan’s voice came over the helmet radio: “I’ll take Junior on home.”

“Right.”

* * * *

The gripper reep shot, turning, up and away from the Station, carrying the meteor far enough away so that it could safely be released without being drawn right back to the Station. Blair watched it go, then stepped cautiously across the scored line and looked down through the hole at the inner hull, five feet away. It was too dark in there to be sure, but he thought he could see the marks of a tiny jagged tear.

Wiley’s voice came through the earphones, saying, “Okay, Glenn, I’m ready to slice ’er up.”

“Come ahead.” He backed out of the scored section again, and watched as the fixer reep came in close, once again clutching the edges of the hole with the side arms while the other two arms carefully sliced through the scored lines, this time cutting all the way through, leaving only thin uncut segments at the corners to keep the whole piece in place.

As the fixer reep backed off, the gripper reep returned, empty-armed now, and slid into place, grabbing the serrated edges of the hole. Blair took the small powered hand-cutter from its loop at the waist of his suit, and carefully sliced through the remaining segments. The gripper reep backed away, holding the cut-off square.

Blair crouched at the edge of the cut, and held tightly to it as he lifted both boots clear of the hull. His body swung slowly around, over the hole, and he pulled himself down into it, until his boots clamped to the inner hull.

The space between the hulls was a maze of braces and supports, five feet wide. One diagonal brace had been crushed by the meteor, and would have to be replaced once both hulls were repaired. For now, Blair was concerned to affix a temporary patch to the outside of the inner hull. The final repair job on that would be done from inside the Station. All he had to do was put on a patch that would allow Section Five to be filled with air again, so the inner repair work could be safely done.

Once his boots were firmly braced against the inner hull, Blair released his hold on the outer hull and moved through the constricted space to the cross-braced wall between Section Five and Six. A tool-and-patch kit was bolted to the wall, beside the round small entranceway to the between-hulls of Section Six. From this kit Blair took a small hammer and a foot-square rubberized metallic patch. He then returned to the spot where the meteor had broken through.

The hole in the inner hull was a ragged oval, less than half an inch in diameter at its widest point. The edges of the tear had been pulled outward by the removal of the meteor, and Blair first hammered these flat, then removed the protective backing of the patch square and pressed the square firmly over the hole. Its inner side was covered with a sealant designed to work in vacuum, binding patch and hull together at the molecular level. It was not a permanent repair job by any means, but it would hold for at least twenty-four hours of normal pressure inside Section Five.

The patch job finished, Blair came back out in much the same manner as he had gone in. Ricks, a little ways to the left, was still maneuvering the replacement panel back and forth, though his arms seemed to be sagging somewhat by now. Blair said, “Okay, Ricks, bring it in.”

“Anything you say, Admiral.” Blair helped him ease the panel down close enough for each of them to grab an edge. They released the cable clips, and Blair one-handed bunched the cable together until he could slip it back onto the catch on his suit. Together, they turned the panel around and held it flat. On Earth, this reinforced thickness of hull would have weighed nearly two hundred pounds. Here, it seemed to weigh less than nothing, since the only force on it was trying to push it up, away from the Station.

They carried the panel over to the hole made for it, and Blair said, “Lower it easy. It should be a snug fit, flush with the rest of the hull. If we set it in flat, we won’t have any trouble.”

“No trouble at all, Commander.”

“Don’t play the smart-aleck!” Surprisingly, Ricks answer was subdued: “All right. What do we do now?”

“Lower it. Don’t hold it on the edge, hold your hands flat on the top, like this. There’s no danger of it falling.”

Ricks laughed nervously. “It’s like a table-raising at a séance.” They stood on opposite sides of the hole, the panel flat between them, their arms out over it, gloved hands pressing it slowly down. The fixer reep rolled gently in toward them, and Wiley said, “Let me know when you’re ready, Glenn.”

“Just a minute now.”

The panel was a little too far over on Ricks’ side. Together, they adjusted it, and lowered it to match the hole. They stood crouched opposite one another, holding the panel in place, while the fixer reep edged into position, and the welding arm reached out to the bottom left corner. “Turn your face away, Ricks,” warned Blair.

“Right.”

* * * *

It took ten minutes to weld the new piece into place. In the meantime, the gripper reep returned from dumping the scrap section, and Blair sent Ricks up to the grid to help Dan moor his ship. Ricks and Dan came back carrying two tool kits and, when the welding job was finished, Blair and Ricks stood aside as Dan power-sanded the new weld and did a quick spray-painting that removed the signs of the patch. Straightening, he said, “There you go. Good as new.”

“Fine,” said Blair. “Let’s see how the cargo made out.”

The three men returned to the grid, where they moored Wiley’s ship across from Dan’s, and then the four of them went on back inside the Station.

Mendel was waiting for them inside the lock, brow furrowed with worry. He glanced back and forth from Blair to Ricks, then said to Blair, “How did it go?”

“Fine.”

“Just peachy,” said Ricks. “I get my merit badge, don’t I, Cargomaster?”

Blair shook his head at Mendel, and went on toward the elevator without answering Ricks.

He headed immediately for Section Five. Three crewmen were already at the bulkhead, which was still sealed shut. Blair looked at the pressure gauge, and saw that the dial was above the halfway mark and noticeably climbing. He talked with the crewmen a few minutes, discussing the strike and its repairing, and then at last the bulkhead door slid back into its recess, and they went on in. The crewmen went to work on the permanent repair of the inner hull, and Blair checked his cargo. A few of the food cartons had exploded when the section had gone to vacuum, but he gave them hardly a glance. He found the seven aluminum crates for QB. All had split open, releasing interior air, but their contents looked to be still in good condition. Blair grinned to himself with relief.

QB was the maintenance base. As such, it had a permanent crew of eighty-four men. These men were on thirty-minute call at all times, and were fulfilling a two-year contract with General Transists. They spent every moment of those two years inside the QB satellite. Most of the time, they had little work to do, but the size of the crew was the statistical minimum required for any foreseeable accident to any part of the General Transits lifeline between the Earth and the Moon. When there was any sort of breakdown, such as this meteor strike on Station One, they went to work. The rest of the time, they were completely on their own. Their world, for two years, was a small metal ring nearly a quarter million miles from home. They couldn’t leave it, and they had little to do inside it.

That was why the contents of the seven aluminum crates was so important. Four cartons of motion picture film and three cartons of microfilmed books. Six months of entertainment, of distraction. The only way the men of QB could keep from going stir-crazy in their two years of self-imposed imprisonment, the only way to last through the inactive days and weeks between the infrequent calls for their skills and labor.

With no books, no motion pictures, no cheerful distractions for their minds, the men of QB would falter. Irritations would mount, squabbles would turn to hatreds, aggravations to bloody vendettas. Efficiency would collapse, morale disappear. Statistically, there would be within the first sixty days five suicides and eight murders.

Entertainment. Tinsel. But, to the men of QB, as vital as food.

Glenn Blair patted the aluminum crates, and grinned with relief.

NOW that it was over, Harvey Ricks was terrified. Before he’d gone out, he’d been too full of the challenge he’d hurled at Blair; while he’d been outside, he’d been too busy. Now it was over, and he had time to realize the extent of the risks he’d taken, and he was terrified.

He spent the next four hours in his cubicle, staring at the wall, vowing great resolutions of reform. From now on, he would mind his own business, accept his limitations.

Then, after four hours, the barbell arrived from Station Three, and the transfer of cargo and passengers was made. There were five men coming back to Earth, there was stack after stack of cargo. The huge hold of the barbell was emptied, and then the shipment for the Moon—and the cargo for QB—was loaded aboard, and the three passengers for the Moon left Station One, carrying their one-suitcase-each to the new cubicle, where they would live another fifteen days of their lives. Ricks looked around at the new room, and already the retroactive terror was receding, already he was thinking of his exploit in self-congratulatory terms. He’d done well. He’d showed the Cargomaster that Harvey Ricks was a good man to have at your side, a man who can do the job right the first time.

After a while, Blair knocked at the cubicle door and entered, smiling hesitantly, saying, “I didn’t get a chance to thank you, Ricks. You did a good job out there.”

Ricks smiled, the old self-confident challenging smile. “Why, any time, Cargomaster.”

Blair’s face tightened. “Well,” he said. “So I’ve thanked you.”

“So you have, Cargomaster.”

Blair left without another word.

Ricks settled back on his bunk, arms behind his head, and smiled at the ceiling. He’d made it again. He’d sent the hunters away, and when the wolf had come he’d tromped it all on his own. He still hadn’t run across the wolf he couldn’t handle.

But there was time. There was still plenty of time for Harvey Ricks to have his reckoning.

Two years’ worth.

WAITING FOR THE COIN TO DROP, by Dean Wesley Smith

Nick stared at the sign on the antique gumball machine near the door in Donna Hayman’s living room and sighed.

Wait for the Coin to Drop.

If he waited for a coin to drop in that machine, he would never live long enough. Sometimes he really wished mechanical things would work here. Anything. But nothing mechanical did work, nothing electrical, nothing that required a moving part, even down to simple door hinges.

Just to get into Donna’s apartment, he had had to use a sledgehammer and smash open the door. It took a crowbar to open a refrigerator, and that was after removing the screws on the hinges.

Now, after almost a year of living in this apartment building, he had almost every apartment open so he could come and go with ease. Counting Donna’s, there were only six more apartments on the top floor left to open, six more hidden lives to explore, six more adventures to take before his research was finally finished and he could go home.

He stopped inside the door and glanced around at Donna’s apartment. He could almost smell the uncut Canadian bacon and pepperoni pizza on the coffee table. He knew that wasn’t possible, since he needed special implants and a breathing device to even breathe or walk or see light through the air of this time period. Air molecules that didn’t move were as hard as steel. And since nothing moved, no smell could move to his nose either. Without the special implants, he would have died instantly on arriving in this moment in time.

Outside the clean window, the city of New York spread out, the deep canyons of the buildings tightening down in the distance. No sound came from the city, since it too was frozen in this moment, this instant of time, as was everything else around him.

He shook his head. It still smelled like pepperoni pizza in this apartment. He hadn’t had a bite of pizza for almost a year. It hadn’t occurred to him to bring any with him, or program it into his food replicator. No wonder he was imagining the smell. But he did remember to bring along his fine cigars and best whiskey. And after each day he allowed himself a few sips and a cigar, so life without pizza hadn’t been all bad.

He had no idea if Donna Hayman was home at this very instant in time, but it sure looked like she was. He hoped she was. If nothing more than to give himself another beautiful woman to look at for his last few weeks in the building and in this time period. He knew, from his files that he had brought with him from the future, that Donna had been good looking at one point in her life.

He doubted she would be as good as Betty in apartment 310, or Sandra in 241, or Kitty in 608, whom he had found in the shower, her head thrown back, her naked body frozen in a moment of showering, her almost perfect body covered in a silvered sheen of water.

He had to admit, he had spent far, far too much time in that bathroom, staring at her, a woman long dead as far as he was concerned. Kitty would never realize that for a fraction of a fraction of an instant in time, she had had a visitor from the future staring at her in a very private moment.

At first it made him feel a little perverted. But his job here was to study the people and he had decided there was nothing at all wrong with admiring a perfect human form.

After a time, he thought he had actually fallen in love with her. An impossible romance, since the only way a person from his time could travel back to another time was inside an instant, a fraction of a second too small to even measure, where nothing moved, and the laws of conservation of mass and energy wouldn’t allow anything to be changed from one instant to another.

That fact, that reality, solved all time paradoxes.

And that allowed for middle-aged writers like him, with far too much time on their hands, to go back in time for a year to study the people who lived in a crowded apartment building in New York and write a book about their long-dead lives of 2015.

Granted, studying people in the past was nothing really new or original. But that wasn’t his focus. He had decided that for his book, he would put a special spin on the idea of ordinary people’s lives.

He would study their secrets. He would learn their hidden desires, their fetishes, their affairs, and their faults.

Every person, either in 2015 or 2259 had secrets. And a lot of people loved reading about other people’s secrets. His challenge to research his book called “The Secrets of Lexington Avenue” was to look into everyone’s lives in this building, and then through historical documents, if possible, learn how ten of these people fared with their secrets.

So, for almost one year now, he had lived in a special time bubble set up in the lobby area. And every day he left that time bubble and broke open people’s doors and cabinets and everything else they kept secret and closed off and hidden from their neighbors.

Of course, in the next fraction of an instant of real time for this building and these people, the universe would reset everything as if he had never been here, broken down a door, or even existed in this moment.

It was impossible for him to do any real harm in this time.

And to him, all these people were long dead, including Kitty in 608. And to Kitty and everyone else in this building, he was below notice.

He had been surprised that living alone in a city of frozen, uncaring people had bothered him for the first few months. But eventually he got used to it.

And now, after almost a year, he had come to like the people of this building, for the most part. He hadn’t expected that. He had expected them to just be statistics in his research. But by looking for their secrets, looking through their hidden lives, they had become more than frozen flesh and data. They had become human to him.

And he had no doubt that was going to make his book a much stronger book.

Of course, there were a half-dozen he had also come to hate when he discovered who they actually were. So far he had found two child molesters living in the building. Even though they would never notice, he had cut off their hands. It made him feel better, even though in the next instant of time, everything would reset and the monsters would continue on in their own time.

But screw it, it made him feel better doing that.

Even more surprising to him was that over a quarter of the people in the building had very few, if any, secrets. They simply lived their lives, many of them very sad and dull lives.

Just as life treated them, he was sure he would go home and just forget them. They would live on as nothing more than a few notes in his research. He had come to realize that in many cases a person without secrets, without desires, without courage, was not worth studying.

Or remembering, for that matter.

However, a large number of people in the building lived interesting lives, had fascinating secrets, and often varied sex lives. He knew his readers would be interested in that, so for each person he tried to determine what their sexual desires and secrets were.

There were twelve gay couples in the building and at least sixteen men and a dozen women who liked to look at pornography on their computers. Eight others were heavily into different aspects of bondage. Some had pornographic pictures in hidden boxes or in the back of drawers, often of themselves with some unknown partner.

Fifty people in the building played musical instruments and another dozen were travel freaks, people who seemed to live to do nothing but leave town and see the world beyond the confines of New York City.

Six were working on novels and from what he could tell, none of them were any good. And three were working on plays, none of which were ever produced that he could discover.

Almost half of the people in the building were having money trouble of one sort or another.

He had no doubt he would have trouble focusing on just ten people in this building for his book.

Maybe Donna would end up being one of those top ten most interesting. He could call her the “pizza woman” since that pizza really seemed to have invaded his imagination.

Nothing could smell or feel hot or cold in this instant of time. And if not for his specially contained living bubble that sucked energy from his own time period and allowed him to live in his real time, he wouldn’t even be able to shower or eat.

He had once tried a bite of a steak in one of the first apartments he had broken into. It had tasted like sawdust and his special implants had warned him away from such action by instantly causing him to throw it all back up all over the plate of the apartment occupant.

Nick ignored the imagined smell of the pizza and forced himself to really look at the apartment around him. He needed to find out just how human Donna Hayman of apartment 719 really was, and what her secrets were.

Just as he was doing now, living in the past, Donna clearly also had lived in the past in her life. Every detail screamed out another era long before 2015. From the old gumball machine with its strange sign telling someone to wait for the coin to drop to a huge mural on one wall with the pictures of Gone with the Wind stars taken at the opening of the famous picture in Atlanta.

The furniture was of the 1940s, overstuffed and comfortable-looking. A Shirley Temple doll sat on one chair and a game of Monopoly with metal pieces and wood houses covered an end table, looking like it was half-played.

The room looked lived in, with the pizza on the coffee table and Coke in an old bottle beside it. His stomach rumbled as he got nearer the pizza. He was going to have to call the day early and head back to his time bubble to get some dinner.

“You want a piece?” a woman asked from behind him.

He spun, his heart threatening to explode out of his chest. It had been almost a year since he had heard another person’s voice, even though he had talked to the frozen residents all the time.

Facing him was a woman with a very nasty-looking knife held casually in her hand like she was used to using one in all different ways, including cutting pizza.

Not possible.

She was moving and breathing and blinking and doing everything a live person would do.

Not possible. He was inside an instant of time, a random instant. No one else could be here at this moment.

His mind just wouldn’t believe what he was seeing. Then finally he caught his breath and realized that the live person he was staring at wasn’t Donna Hayman, the resident of this apartment.

“How?” he asked, which was just about all he could manage to get out.

He lowered his hand slowly and let it hover over his emergency recall button covered with a protective cap on his belt. He had thought about hitting that button that would send him back to his normal time a great deal during those first lonely days, but after three months, he had sworn to himself he wouldn’t give up on this idea or this book.

The woman smiled at him and her face seemed even more attractive in a classical model way, except for the fact that the smile didn’t reach her green eyes. She had on a knit yellow sweater and shorts that allowed her beautiful, thin legs to stand out. She was barefoot and her long, blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail.

Damn, she was the best-looking woman in the building.

He was dreaming. This wasn’t real. It simply couldn’t be real.

“Don’t bother to hit your recall button,” she said, her voice low and husky. “You’re inside my bubble now and it won’t work.”

He shook his head. His mind was reeling. This could not be happening. It was against all the laws of physics that he understood, and he had spent some time studying them before he was allowed to take this research trip. And this was really, really against the laws of time travel.

“You sort of stunned me,” she said, again smiling at him, “when you started banging on my door with that ax.”

He watched as she twisted the knife in her hands. Crap, he had left the ax out in the hallway.

She went on. “Clearly, you’re from some point in the future. What year is it where you came from?”

“2259.” His voice sounded high and he swallowed the dryness.

“What month and day is it for you now?”

He had to think for a moment and do a little calculation, since he hadn’t thought of what day it was back in the future, in his real time, for a while. “August twenty-first.”

That time he managed to keep his voice normal and level, even though he was having an impossible conversation with a woman twisting a knife in her hands.

She nodded. “Two more years and twelve days. That’s what I figured.”

“Until what?”

“Until I get out of this jail,” she said, waving the knife around at the apartment. “I’ve been here for six years, 353 days. Nine-year sentence in this instant in time, living in this stupid apartment that a woman by the name of Donna created.”

Suddenly Nick understood exactly what had happened. He had broken into a prison cell.

After time travel had been discovered and the realization that nothing could be affected in the past, society had started dumping criminals into the past, letting them live in contained time bubbles in an instant in time, isolated, unable to hurt anything or anyone until their sentence was up.

It was fantastically cheaper than prisons. He had read studies on it. No guards, self-replicating food, and no need to even bother with keeping track of the prisoners. Their locations and instants of times in the past were always kept a secret, thus they would be impossible to find.

This woman was a criminal and this was her cell.

Somehow, when he had traveled back in time, he had ended up in the same instant of time she was in. Against all odds, but more than likely the time travel machines used a bunch of the same settings and that’s how they had both ended up in this same instant in the same area.

The thinking went that there was so much room in the past, there was no real reason to spread out the criminals over too wide a number of time moments.

The woman stared at him for a moment, clearly shocked at his stunned reaction. “You weren’t looking for me, were you? You stumbled in here by accident, didn’t you?”

He nodded.

She shook her head, clearly sad about something. Then she brightened. “Well, this is one for the record books.”

Again, all he could do was nod. More than likely this little accident would help the sales of his book, but at the moment that was the least of his worries. The knife in her hand bothered him a lot more.

“So, you want some pizza or not?” she asked, moving with the knife toward the couch. “I think it’s still warm.”

“So, what did you do?” he asked, trying his best to make his voice stay level and his tone conversational, like he was asking her the time of day.

“Stabbed a man,” she said, smiling as she held up the knife.

This time the smile got to her eyes and he knew she was kidding.

She laughed and then said, “Drugs. Smuggling the most recent designer drug from a modeling assignment into the wrong country. Stupid.”

The realization hit him as to who he was looking at. Her name was Nancy. Nancy Robinson, a supermodel convicted and sentenced back when he was still working on his third novel. Her face had been all over the world net, and they had even filmed her disappearing back into time to serve her sentence.

Now, after the six years, she had aged slightly, but was still a stunning beauty.

“So, who are you and what the hell are you doing here?” she asked, picking up a piece of pizza.

She bit into the pizza, watching him with her intense, green eyes.

“My name’s Nick,” he said. “I’m a writer here researching a new book on the secrets of people living in this building. Including Donna Hayman, the woman who was supposed to be living in this apartment at this point in time.”

“Welcome to her apartment,” Nancy said, looking disgusted. “Trust me, she’s not home and she has no real secrets, unless you call dying her hair and being behind on her credit cards a secret.”

Then she laughed, the sound husky and odd in a weird way. She indicated that he should sit down and have some pizza. “Might as well get comfortable. It does look like you stumbled on a really big secret in this apartment.”

He smiled and let himself relax a little. “It does, doesn’t it?”

He took the offered piece of rich-smelling pizza and carefully bit into it. It tasted even better than it smelled, if that was possible.

For the next thirty minutes, while they finished off the pizza, they talked and laughed about all sorts of things, and he got the short version of the events that put her in this jail cell.

All he kept thinking was how fantastically beautiful she was, how lucky he was to have found her, and how much more enjoyable the last few weeks of his research trip was going to be. He should have started at the top floor instead of the bottom floor. He would have found her ten months ago.

After he told her about a few of the other residents in the building, she smiled and sighed. “I like you, Nick. It’s going to be good to have company for the last two years of my sentence.”

“I only wish,” he said, laughing. “I’ve only got two weeks left on my research time, although I might be able to extend a month or two before hitting my recall button.”

The emergency recall button, and the main one in his time bubble in the lobby, were the only way anyone from his present could track him to this moment and bring him back. He had been warned that if something happened to those two buttons, there would be no finding him.

She looked at him, a puzzled frown wrinkling her wonderful face. Then sadly she shook her head. “You don’t understand, do you?”

She pointed to the door. “Your recall button is blocked in here. Go ahead, try to leave.”

He stared at her, again trying to absorb her words. He then glanced back at the shattered wooden door that he had stepped through and the hallway beyond. There were two other shattered doors he had gone into earlier in the week.

“This is a prison, remember,” she said, softly. “No one leaves here until they call me back when my time is up. It is why I never crashed through that door and explored the city.”

“You don’t have the special implants to do so,” he said, pushing the panic he was feeling down. Suddenly the pizza wasn’t settling so well in his stomach. “You would not have been able to move through the air out there.”

“Of course I have them,” she said, sadness filling her eyes. “Every prisoner has them just in case something goes wrong with the bubble. We also have special recall buttons that will only go through the bubble when our time is served.”

He shook his head and stood and headed for the shattered front door to the apartment. She couldn’t be right. She was just pulling some sort of sick joke on him.

As he reached the door, he started to step through the opening and his leg banged into what felt like a very hard surface. Pain shot up his leg and he grabbed his knee for a moment. There didn’t seem to be anything in his way, yet there was something there.

“Force field around the bubble,” she said from behind him, her voice soft. “A prison far more effective than any cell invented. And it will remain in place for just over two more years.”

“Sorry, got to go,” he said, his voice again high and showing the panic he felt. He pushed his emergency recall button and waited for the tingling feeling of the time travel kicking in.

Nothing.

He just stood there, with a former supermodel staring sadly at him. He clearly wasn’t going anywhere, at least for two years and twelve days.

But at least he had a beautiful supermodel to keep him company.

* * * *

Six months later, he was still sleeping on the couch.

Day after day of those six months he had stared at that stupid sign on the gumball machine.

Wait for the Coin to Drop.

He had come to find the secrets of the residents of an apartment building. And he had done just that.

It seemed the resident he had ended up trapped with had enough secrets to fill a dozen books. To start off with, she was bulimic, with no desire at all to help herself do anything else. In the small three-room apartment, the sounds of her forcing herself to throw up after every meal soon went from worrisome to completely revolting.

She had told him, on the second night, when he made a pass at her, that she had once been a man, had had the operation, and now hated everything to do with men. In fact, during the second month of his time with her, she had told him that he disgusted her.

It seemed that everything about her was fake. She took off her small breasts every night and hung them with her blonde wig on the wall beside her bed.

Worst of all, she was the most shallow human being he could have ever imagined in even a horror novel. The only topic of conversation that was allowed was her looks and her career and if she could save her career when she returned. She wondered if the world will have forgiven her “little mistake” as she called it.

She had quit school in the tenth grade and seemed proud of that fact. She had brought nothing to read and claimed that she had never read a book, ever, in her entire adult life. And there wasn’t a thing he could use to write on in the entire prison cell. What little bit of writing he managed to do was to fill the last of his notes in the pad he kept with him each day before it ran out of power.

Every day Nancy spent hours and hours and hours in the bathroom, staring at herself in the mirror.

Three small rooms filled with secrets. They had become impossibly small within the first week and downright tiny by the end of the first month. Plus he had no clothes to wear besides what he had been wearing, so his main chore was to cook himself something to eat twice a day and do laundry every third day.

The rest of the time he just lay on the couch and stared at the sign on the gumball machine sitting beside the open door that promised his freedom, yet never brought it.

The gumball machine became the symbol of his life.

Wait for the Coin to Drop.

He was trapped in a moment in time with the secrets he had uncovered, the same type of moment that existed when a child waited for the coin to drop in the gumball machine to deliver the promised reward.

BEYOND THE DARKNESS, by S. J. Byrne

CHAPTER I

Lylwani’s slender, pink hands clutched Nad’s arm.

“Do we have to look?” she said rather than asked.

Nad’s bushy, blond brows only lowered over his gray eyes and his mouth tightened into a scowl of hate and defiance as he watched the execution.

“Those are orders,” he said. “Orders! Always orders! Disobey or even question an order and you get what he’s going to get!”

Nad’s red-headed younger brother, Ron, nervously shifted the almost negligible weight of his frail body from his club foot to his good one and drew in closer to Nad.

“Be careful!” he hissed. “You’ll be overheard!”

His round blue eyes surveyed the faces of the hundred or so Passengers gathered there, and his female companion, holding his hand, felt in it the reflection of his terror. Yldra, she of the long blue hair and the pale white skin, had lost her customary smile, and her great, dark eyes glistened on the verge of tears.

“Poor Gradon!” she said to Ron. “He was so good and kind. Now he goes to the Abyss…!”

A frightened murmur arose from the crowd of Passengers as the Door slid soundlessly aside, exposing them all momentarily to the execution chamber that would soon open into the Abyss. Sargon M-13-NT, Navigator, shoved old Gradon unceremoniously into the large chamber, and the Door closed upon him forever.

Through its crystal clear substance they could see Gradon plainly. He turned his back on the dark destruction that approached him and faced all his old friends, a weary smile on his kindly face. As Sargon reached for the control valve, Gradon waved goodbye not only to those present but to those other thousands of Passengers who had been ordered to witness his execution in the visiplates.

Then the valve turned, and the Passengers hid their faces.

But Sargon shouted at them. “Look! As you persist in seeking the answers to the Unknown, so shall you be sent into it—into the Abyss, from which there is no return! Thus the discontented and the troublemakers shall die! Look, I said!”

And the squad of Navigators with him sprayed the Passengers with pain ray until they looked. By the time Nad’s party looked up, there was nothing much left to see. A frozen splatter of blood on the outer surface of the Door, and beyond—mystery of mysteries, especially to Nad—was the gaping opening into the Abyss.

Out there was gray-black nothingness. Why? What was it? Was it only another type of wall, a wall of endlessness beyond impenetrable walls of metal? Walls of cryosite, resistant to the terrific blows of meteors from the Abyss. Walls of emptiness and the Unknown. Walls of the mind. Seek not! Know not! Obey and be content—or die like Gradon, one of the finest men Nad had ever known.

As some of Gradon’s closest friends cried aloud in their bereavement, the outer door to the Abyss closed, and Sargon and his men moved toward Nad’s group. Nad knew this was not without premeditation, for Sargon had evidenced a marked interest in Lylwani for some time.

As Lylwani stepped close to Nad, and Ron and Yldra stepped deferentially aside to make way for Sargon, Nad’s lifelong frustration and indignation burst their bonds. He stepped in front of Sargon and deliberately blocked his path.

Nad was tall, lean, tense and white. His gray eyes met Sargon’s black stare unwaveringly. Sargon was slightly taller, broader of shoulder, and thicker in the limbs and neck. His reddish complexion deepened visibly in sudden rage, and his thick, leonine mane of jet-black hair seemed to bristle.

“Well, idiot!” he snapped. “Step aside! Haven’t you learned your lesson yet?”

“Yes,” replied Nad, in a strangely subdued tone of voice, “I have learned my lesson. You have all the advantages and we have none. I only intend to make a constructive suggestion, with your permission.”

Ron whimpered in his fright and tugged at his brother’s arm, but Nad waved him back, impatiently.

“It had better be constructive,” warned Sargon. “Speak, man! We haven’t got all day!”

One of the other Passengers, an old, gray-haired man with pale blue eyes and a leathery skin, crowded close to listen as Nad spoke.

“The occasional trouble you experience with us Passengers would be eliminated,” Nad said, “if you simply gave us more information. For instance—”

“Information!” shouted Sargon. “There is no information! This is the world in which you were born, and here you will live and die! Why must you grow discontented when you are adequately supplied with food, clothing and shelter and entertainment without having to work for it? Here there are only seven thousand of you, with kilometers of spacious room in which to live and play. Yet you complain! You do not trust the Navigators upon whom your life and welfare depends. It is because of this ungratefulness on your part that we have lost patience with you, and these disciplinary measures will continue to be taken until you accept the advantages with which you have been provided! What more do you want!”

“Sargon,” said Nad, unmoved by this tirade, “do you know your own father?”

“Of course, stupid! I—” Then Sargon bit his lip and he reddened visibly. He had been tricked into an admission he would not have made otherwise.

“You see, that’s the difference between the Navigators and the Passengers,” said Nad, rapidly. “We don’t know who our parents were, and parents can’t recognize their own children. The only reason I call Ron-E-251-P my brother is because you have told me he is my brother, and that was perhaps unintentional on your part. You Navigators have memory. You have deprived us of that so that we will forget. Forget what, Sargon? What is it you Navigators are so afraid that we will remember?”

Sargon’s big fists clenched. “Shut up!” he blurted out. “Do you want what Gradon got?”

Nad heard other Passengers gasp in alarm. Lylwani called out his name pleadingly and Ron ran away, taking Yldra with him. But the old man with the pale blue eyes drew even closer as he watched Nad.

As Sargon advanced slowly upon him and Nad slowly gave way before him, the latter continued. Now that he had started he could not stop himself.

“Our language is filled with strange words that we use without realizing their full significance,” he said rapidly. “Why do you say ‘day’ or ‘night’ or ‘month’ or ‘year’? What is the true meaning of these strange divisions of time where time never varies? You say that here there are only seven thousand Passengers. Are there more elsewhere? What is a Passenger, actually, other than a man or a woman who is not a Navigator and who is forbidden to enter section N or M?

“Why is it such an advantage not to have to work? Did Passengers work before? At what—and where? These walls that separate us from the Abyss were made by men. What was here before men knew enough to make them? Why are we three distinct types of people? There are the pale, blue-haired ones, such as Yldra V-57-P, and there is a second kind, like myself and my brother, who have the letter E attached to our names. Then there is the third type, like Lylwani here, with a pinkish complexion and jet-black hair like yours. You are Sargon M-13-NT and she is called Lylwani M-781-P. Your kind has the letter M attached to all your names. You say this is our natural world in which we have been born, yet you have also mentioned the ‘growing problem’ of inbreeding. I have heard the Navigator medicos remark that my brother’s club foot is the result of the problem. I can only conclude that our present state is not a natural one, but rather—”

At that moment, Sargon struck Nad with all his might, and he went down hard on the metal floor with blood spurting from his lower lip. Lylwani dropped instantly beside him.

“I let you talk,” said Sargon, “so that you would incriminate yourself completely. You will be executed, of course.”

“Why!” cried Lylwani, rising quickly to her feet and facing him. “His crime is only recognizable in relation to arbitrary opinion on your part! What good will it do to destroy him, too? A thousand more will ask the same questions!”

Sargon’s thick lips curled in amusement as he surveyed the lithe young woman before him, but secretly he admired again, as he had so often in the past, her long, raven-black hair lying across her shapely pink shoulders, and he hungered for her full, young lips while he thrilled at the fiery spirit that stared at him out of her dark green eyes.

“Don’t get yourself in trouble, too, beautiful,” he said. “Take him away and get out of my sight, both of you!”

“But will he be executed?” Lylwani persisted, as Nad rose slowly to his feet.

Sargon raised his thick brows as though surprised by the question. “Naturally!” he said. And then he walked away with his men.

“Oh Nad! Nad!” cried Lylwani, throwing her arms around his neck. “I couldn’t live without you! They can’t kill you! They can’t!”

Nad was apparently oblivious to all this. He did not feel the many sympathetic hands that touched him or hear the voices of the Passengers as they crowded thickly about him. His gray eyes only stared at Sargon’s receding back.

“If anything will preserve me,” he said, wiping more blood from his lip, “it will be hate—and the will to live until my hands have closed around Sargon’s fat neck. They won’t be able to take me until I have done at least that!”

CHAPTER II

In the high arching tube ramp that crossed above the great Recreation Center, Ron and Yldra hurried toward their own section, where they knew at least Lylwani would eventually return. A quarter kilometer below them, through the transparent metal floor of the tube, they could see over a thousand Passengers returning listlessly to their amusements, some bathing in giant pools of chemically treated water, others playing games or working out on exercise machines. Some Passengers flew transparent globes in changing formations far above the floor, engaging in an aerial game called three-dimensional chess. All around the gigantic chamber were countless observation tiers and refreshment mezzanines, where observers looked down at the activities below or watched the aerial chess game. Ron and Yldra had seen all this for as long as they could remember. It was their unchanging world, without beginning or end.

In the middle of the ramp they were suddenly confronted by Krylorno, the poet, whose well-known poems had so often alluded openly to Yldra. Tall, lean, dark of complexion and extremely acquiline of feature, he deliberately blocked Ron’s path, fixing his hypnotic eyes upon him. Behind him crowded a group of almost a hundred other Passengers, many of whom were relatively close acquaintances of both Yldra and Ron. They were of the younger set, mostly, and appeared to be emotionally geared to the strange fanaticism that lighted the face of Krylorno.

Krylorno, the silver-tongued, sneered at Ron. “Well, Club Foot, we saw your cowardly performance in the visiplates. Why did you desert your brother in the most heroic moment of his life? If he was moved to confront his tormentors at last, why did you not stand firm beside him instead of slithering away in the torrent of your fears? Can you name any valid reason for prolonging your meaningless existence? For what is left but the validity of heroism? Of what use is a groveling coward?”

Ron’s thin face paled and he seemed to be on the verge of tears, but Yldra defended him.

“Have you not heard of instinct?” she said, in the soft, benevolent tones that were the reflection of her well-beloved personality. She smiled sadly as she continued. “Whatever life may be, we all have an instinct to cling to it, and in times of stress and terror this instinct of self-preservation is like a mother that defends its child against reason. Ron is not alone. I am confused as he is, and so, I am sure, are the rest of you. So give us peace and let us pass!”

“Wait!” persisted Krylorno, addressing her. “Why you care for this coward I cannot imagine, but if you do, then perhaps you would prefer to have him embrace the greatest advantage life can offer.”

“And that is?”

“The single reality of death,” he answered, solemnly.

Ron stared at Krylorno and trembled. Yldra’s wondering gaze wandered from Krylorno’s enigmatic face to the fanatic faces of his followers. Then she sought his eyes again.

“I do not understand,” she said.

Krylorno laughed. Suddenly, as he answered her, his voice deepened and seemed to fill the ramp tube.

He chanted:

Oh Darkness that is Light!

Oh mighty Judge that offers peace forever in abyssmal night!

Oh Truth that gives me naked Nothing for falsely vested life,

Where in an instant that is ever I may be free of Wrong or Right!”

He glared now at Ron, and his voice crescendoed.

“Oh take me from this putrid shell,

This delusion-veined mirror of life’s hell,

And swallow up the atoms of my being in the freedom of oblivion

Beyond this dungeon cell!”

He grasped Ron’s white tunic and pulled him close. “Do you understand me?” he asked.

“No!” Ron cried out. “You are insane! Let me go!”

“Krylorno!” Yldra exclaimed, separating the two. “Whatever are you driving at?”

Krylorno waved his hand at his followers. “We are all of the same opinion,” he answered. “Life is meaningless. We prefer death. It is the only truth we can conceive of. It is release from all torment and frustration. Why not join us?”

“You mean—mass suicide?” Yldra blanched swiftly and looked at her friends in alarm.

“Yes!” Krylorno triumphed. “Why not! It’s painless in the disposal tubes. You enter the dumping locks, a valve is turned, and your worries are over. You explode out into the Abyss like Gradon did. There’s nothing to it!”

Yldra’s eyes glistened in her consternation. “But that’s hideous! It’s—it’s rank insanity!”

“No!” exclaimed Krylorno. “It is ultimate intelligence! Do you think this empty farce of life without memory, freedom or reason is worth clinging to? Only in the clarity of approaching death can we appreciate the magnificence of our decision to die. In a few hours we will be one with the Abyss, so leave this limping coward to cling to his rag of an existence and join us in the glory of oblivion!”

At that moment, the sonophone beneath a nearby visiplate rasped into life, and a strange voice addressed specifically those who were gathered at that one location on the tube ramp. The voice was strange because it was obviously not that of a Navigator. All the Passengers had been trained throughout their lives to recognize the arrogant, dictatorial tones of the Navigators. This voice was kind, patient—even fatherly. Moreover, it activated only the single sonophone in their vicinity, leaving the visiplate blank, which was an unprecedented occurrence.

“Man has a magnificent purpose to accomplish in the living flesh,” the voice said. “We should be willing to accept death only when we have contributed all we can toward the accomplishment of that purpose. This purpose has been hidden from you by the Navigators who have robbed you of memory so that you would not revolt. It cannot be explained to you until you have been informed of many more facts for which there is no time at present. But there is a purpose which you will only defeat by seeking death prematurely. You must be patient and cling to your lives as your most precious possession—until the time of liberation arrives…”

All present were too astonished to speak, except Krylorno. He stepped in front of the blank visiplate and said, “Who speaks to us of liberation without showing his face?”

Immediately, the two-way sonophone replied, “Your question must remain unanswered until the time comes. And if you truly seek an answer to your existence, if you wish for a real reason for living, and if you are desirous of a true, constructive change in your status of life, then tell no Navigator you have heard my voice—because otherwise they might subject you to the M-Ray again.”

“What is the M-Ray?” asked Krylorno.

“It is that which they have used against you to rob you of memory. I can say no more, but I will contact you and certain other Passengers again. In the meantime, you may refer to me among yourselves as—X.’

There ensued a long moment of silence, after which Yldra found her voice and said, “Then it is as Nad suspected all along.”

“What do you mean?” Krylorno asked her, staring at her intently.

“The Navigators are withholding knowledge from all of us. There is some greater meaning to all this other than just living and eating and sleeping and trying endlessly to amuse ourselves with senseless games.” Her dark eyes were wide with excitement. She turned to Ron and grasped his hand. “Let’s see if we can find Nad,” she said. “We must tell him of this message. And you—” She stopped to look back at Krylorno. “Use that persuasive tongue of yours to keep us all together and alive. Do you think the Navigators would care if you committed mass suicide? They are only looking for excuses to reduce our numbers. Did you ever think that there are only a few hundred of them against thousands of us?

For once, Krylorno was at a loss for words. But Yldra’s friends, and the others who had followed Krylorno raised a cheer for her.

“She’s right!” they cried. “And so is X.”

“Yldra,” said Ron, as he limped along beside her. “You are beautiful and intelligent. Why do you care for me?”

Yldra looked at him curiously. “Don’t ask me to explain that, Ron,” she answered. “There is no explanation, except that—well, we’ve been together since as far back as I can remember. I—I don’t know any other way of life.”

“I love you, Yldra.”

“You’re sweet.”

“I’m a worthless coward.”

“You only imagine that you are. Come on! We’ve got to find Lylwani—and Nad, if he has not been arrested already.

CHAPTER III

Nad and Ron, like all other single, adult male Passengers, shared quarters with several other men. Each unit of this type consisted of ten private rooms with a common bath. Meals were taken in large mess rooms serving a hundred such units, so no unit could boast of its own dining room. However, common to each unit was a small reception and recreation room where friends of both sexes could be entertained.

Yldra and Lylwani lived in a similar unit shared by single women. If a man and woman desired each other as mates, they found it necessary to adhere to a strict rule of the Navigators. They would apply to the authorities for permission to live together, and once this was granted there was seldom any permission given to separate again, chiefly because of the nature of the marriage process. Marriage was officially recognized when a pair authorized to live together produced a child, at which time they were considered to be bound together for life. Cohabitation was permitted for an indefinite period without children, and couples who had not reproduced were permitted to separate upon proper application to the authorities, although such a circumstance was rare. Only if they reproduced were they considered to be married and inseparable, however. Promiscuity was not permitted, entirely on the basis of practical rather than moral reasons.

It was in the recreation room of Nad’s unit where Nad, Ron, Lylwani and Yldra contacted each other again, and Yldra told Nad about the mysterious voice. She had to speak in a very low tone because of the ever present sonophones. It would be practically suicidal, she knew, for them to let such talk be intercepted by the Navigators. Ron, as usual, was worried. He tried to take Yldra out of the room in case the Navigators suddenly decided to investigate.

But Nad detained him. “Not this time, Ron,” he said, grimly. There was a new, intense expression on his face. “We’re all in this together. Whatever it is we’re going to do we’ll do together or die in the attempt! You’ll stick with us now, every step!”

“But Nad!” Ron protested. “If we are arrested we’ll not be able to do anything! Besides, what can we do even if we are not arrested for all this mysterious talk, or even if you are not executed as Sargon says you will be? What is our purpose or plan? What’s it all about?”

“That’s what I’m going to find out,” Nad replied. “I’ve got to find this ‘X’ person and work with him. If the price is my life or your lives, it’s worth it!”

“No!” protested Ron.

“Yes!” said Lylwani and Yldra in unison.

And Lylwani added, “You’re right, Nad. There is no purpose in mere existence here unless we can unravel the whole mystery and see where we are going.”

Nad had been lost in thought, momentarily, but now he looked up suddenly at Lylwani, his eyes wide in astonishment. “What did you say?” he demanded rather than asked.

“I said we’ve got to clear up this whole mystery and—and—”

“And what!” He glared at her, a triumphant smile on his lips.

“And—see—where we are going…”

“Exactly!” he exclaimed, smacking the palm of his hand with his fist. “We’re going somewhere! We’re on a journey! This metal-walled world of ours is like one of the flying globes used for the aerial chess games in the Recreation Hall. It is moving through the Abyss! The Navigators have erased our memory of where we really came from!”

He paced rapidly back and forth in front of his astounded little audience. “That means there was another life on the outside, at the beginning of the Abyss somewhere. And maybe—maybe there is a new life, after we cross the Abyss! Or maybe—” He paused, staring into nothingness.

“Maybe what, Nad?” Lylwani asked, excitedly.

“Maybe the Navigators are lost and won’t admit it…”

At that moment, without warning, two Navigators stepped into the room. It was too late for anyone to do anything. The Navigators, young and arrogant in their esoteric knowledge, immediately approached Nad and seized him.

“Come along!” said one of them. “Sargon’s orders!”

In a wholly unexpected move, Nad broke their grips on him and ran for the corridor. Both Navigators fired Stun Rays after him, but he was shielded by the metal walls just in time.

Much to the surprise of Nad’s friends remaining in the reception room, the two young guards only grinned at each other and shrugged. One of them reached over to the wall and unlocked a small compartment with a master key. Inside the compartment was a switch that tied the sonophone in the room to all the others in the system. Once the switch was thrown, the operator had at his disposal a universal public address system.

“Alert! Alert!” he called into the instrument. “All guards! Capture escaped Passenger condemned to execution, Nad E-250-P, last seen in Q sector, deck fifteen. He is unarmed. When captured, bring prisoner to H. That is all!”

The guard who had made the announcement locked up the converter switch box and turned to his companion.

“Is that guy crazy?” he asked. “How does he figure he has a chance?”

When they had left the room, Ron was near to fainting in his terror. “You see? You see?” he said, hysterically. “Now he’s got us all into trouble!”

Lylwani had a far away look in her eyes. Silently, she left the room. Ron stood there trembling in his helplessness for even if he had possessed courage he lacked the knowledge of what to do. Yldra covered her face and began to cry…

* * * *

Lylwani presented herself to the astonished guard and said simply, “I have come to see Sargon.” She gave him her name.

While she waited outside the great cryosite door, she could not suppress a feeling of terror. She had asked permission to enter section N, forbidden heretofore to all Passengers except women taken in as the chosen mates of the Navigators. Strange and terrifying were the imagined tales she had heard concerning this place, which was the citadel of the Navigators. Childlike in her ignorance, she half believed she would never emerge from the place once she entered it. But her purpose was fixed unshakeably in her mind. What she was doing was the only solution she could conceive of—for Nad. She was sure that the mysterious person known as X held the answer to all their problems, and if Nad could be free to join forces with X one day, it would be far more important than her own personal destiny.

The guard returned with a second Navigator, who led her to Sargon, Chief of the Navigator guards. So confused was her perception due to her increasing misgivings that she failed to notice anything unusual about the shining corridors through which she was taken, until she was admitted to Sargon’s own office.

This was not at all like the Passenger type living quarters or reception rooms. It was unusually spacious and comfortable, as though it had been designed for an officer of much higher rank than that of Sargon. On the floor was a soft, furry substance that felt luxurious under her thin sandals as she walked across it. Its strange, soft fibers were of purest white and she could not imagine of what it was composed. Even Sargon’s desk was of an alien substance—pure black, but like glass and scintillating with lights inherent within itself. On the walls were curious pictures which she could not understand at all. Among them was a very unintelligible one under glass, and beneath it was a metal plate bearing the meaningless title: Nebula in Andromeda…

Sargon sat inscrutably at his desk, but he motioned her to a large cushioned chair beside him. It was such a chair as Lylwani had never sat in before—soft and caressing, seeming to cradle her whole body like a cloud.

“Why have you come here?” he asked. “Is it because of Nad? His career is just about at an end, you know.” He watched her intently.

Lylwani sat up wide-eyed. “Then they did capture him?” she said.

Sargon’s brows lowered to emphasize a penetrating gaze. “What else could happen?” he asked.

Lylwani lowered her head to hide her face, and her long, dark hair fell across her shoulders, but Sargon noticed that they trembled. He rose to his feet and stood looking down at her.

“You have come to request leniency for him,” he told her. “What would you offer in return?”

Lylwani looked up at him, suddenly struggling for self-composure. “You want me,” she, said, tonelessly. “Give him freedom and I will bear you child.” In the language of the Passengers there was no actual word for marriage.

A light leaped into Sargon’s eyes but was gone almost in the same instant. “A Navigator’s woman remains forever within section N,” he replied. “You would have to be content never to see Nad again.”

By now, Lylwani’s face had lost its natural, pinkish complexion. It was white. And her voice was like that of an automaton as she spoke.

“Let me see him free, and I will be your woman,” she said.

Sargon chuckled. “What makes you think I would not take you anyway?” he asked. “I have planned it this way for a long time.”

Lylwani’s eyes widened. “But that is against Navigator law!” she protested. “Not even a Passenger woman may be forced—”

“Forget it,” Sargon interrupted. “There are many things you don’t know—too many things. Startling and amazing things, Lylwani. Things that would enable you to understand why we Navigators are doing what the Passengers believe to be unreasonable, even though we do it for their own protection. I have wanted to share this knowledge with you, as well as certain personal triumphs, but that will only be possible when you have became my mate. I promise you I will do all I can for Nad if you promise to stay here now and be content never to return to the Passengers.”

For answer, Lylwani buried her head in the gas-foam cushions of her chair and cried uncontrollable. But for Sargon it was answer enough.

CHAPTER IV

When Nad ran from his own quarters to escape the Navigator guards, he had in mind a certain destination known as V sector, where there were whole batteries of living units unassigned. Vaguely, he tried to formulate some plan of action as he ran, but he could not yet see his way clear beyond the mere possibility of hiding out for a very brief period in V sector.

Passengers in the corridors instantly made way for him as he ran, in spite of the warning cry of the Navigator guard over the sonophones. There was a sickly expression of incomprehension on most of their faces. They could not understand resistance or flight. Why resist or flee? Where could one go? It was easier to give up. Surrender to the Navigators if they want you. Death was a certainty. Life, at its best, was a monotonous, meaningless effort.

But Nad ran for his life, and he felt that he was running, too, for all their lives. This hopeful premonition gave him a new strength, courage and determination such as he had never known before. Something seemed to whisper: Now! The time has arrived! Make a break for it!

On deck eighteen, near V sector, the Navigators began to close in on him. Panting loudly, he ran down a passage and suddenly ducked into a deserted room. With narrowed eyes glaring like those of a wild animal at bay, he thought rapidly and with a new clarity and confidence that was in itself exhilarating to him. He knew, somehow, that he would make good his escape, for the simple reason that there was no room for failure now. A grim smile crept across his lips as a new plan began to take shape in his mind.

Cautiously, he stepped into the corridor and darted onward to a doorway farther along in the direction he had chosen. By this means he finally arrived at another intersection. Before entering it, he heard the running feet of several guards, and he pressed his back to the cold wall, waiting.

Just as the two guards dashed into view, Nad lunged across their path horizontally, and they tripped helplessly on their faces. With a lightning quick movement, Nad leaped into the air and came down with both heels squarely on the head of one of the guards, who went limp in the same instant. The other guard rolled over and lifted his Stun Ray just as Nad kicked him squarely in the face. In the next instant he had acquired their weapons.

With one guard slung over his shoulder, he darted along a new corridor, moving from door to door. Gradually, he neared his objective, which was the disposal room for V sector. As he entered the room, he paused a moment to listen for sounds of pursuit. He could hear the bedlam raised by the sonophones, but nothing else. Then he moved swiftly.

He went to the nearest dumping lock and opened it, dumping his limp burden inside. Then he paused again. His lips tightened as he looked down at the unconscious guard. This was the part of the plan he could little stomach, but it had to be carried out.

Grimly, he braced himself. Then, leaving the lock open, he pulled the disposal valve. There was a roar of escaping air as the guard’s body slipped into the vacuum of the disposal chute. The dumping lock door slammed, but did not shut, and air screeched through the remaining crack, making a sound that drowned out the sonophones.

Crawling on his belly against the air blast, Nad got through the doorway of the disposal room before automatic safety devices caused a metal hatch to slide into place, sealing the room hermetically. An alarm gong rang, which he assumed had been installed for such emergencies. He remembered having heard such alarms ring long ago when they said a galactite had pierced the walls. The gong was one of the things he had hoped for. It would bring them to the evidence, which he hoped they would interpret, at least temporarily, as suicide on his part. The other guard he had kicked was dead, so it would take them some time to figure out just who had gone out the disposal tube. He had deliberately left the dump lock door jammed, because a man committing suicide would not have been able to close it from inside. Careful inspection would prove that a human body had gone out the chute, he mused, remembering Gradon’s frozen blood on the outer surface of the door of the execution chamber.

“From here,” Nad said under his breath, “I’ve got to disappear.”

For hours, however, the Navigators continued their search. Evidently they wanted to find either him or the missing guard, to make the evidence conclusive. As he moved from hiding place to hiding place, he began to lose some of his confidence. The hide and seek could not go on indefinitely. Nor could he fight off a squad of Navigators, once they found him. They might even use the M-Ray on him.

Suddenly, he passed the doorway of a room that was unexpectedly occupied, and someone called out his name. He caught a brief glimpse of an old, gray-haired man with pale blue eyes and a leathery skin, the same who had been present at Gradon’s execution. His inclination was to run when he saw the strange weapon the other carried in his hand, but when he realized that the old man was no Navigator, he paused and looked back. The old man was in the doorway, beckoning to him.

“Come with me quickly!” he said.

Something told Nad to follow this stranger, and he did. As running feet neared them in the corridor, the old man extinguished the lights of the room and led Nad into the dimness of an inner apartment. There in the wall was a black hole just large enough to squeeze through. The old man went in first and Nad followed. He found himself on a metal catwalk between metal walls. He could feel cables and conduits running in all directions.

The old man closed the opening and fastened several bolts in place “This is called a maintenance hatch,” he explained. “They are very little used nowadays. Most of the Navigators have neglected their knowledge of real maintenance. You’ll be safe in here until they really start looking for you.

“Where are we?” said Nad. “And how did you know about this place? Who are you?”

“We are between the walls,” came the answer. “This is a vast maze of narrow passages of which the Passengers have no knowledge. I have always known about it because I never lost my memory. I am ‘X,’ my son, and you have come to me just in time.”

* * * *

So it was that a new phase of Nad’s existence actually began. The old man told him his name was Yiddir E-5172-P, but as time went on Nad began to suspect that this was an alias disguising a much more important identity than a mere Passenger. The man knew too much. In fact, as far as Nad was concerned, he was an oracle, willingly supplying him with all the knowledge he could absorb.

Yiddir led him, with amazing self-confidence and sure-footedness, through narrow, incomprehensible labyrinths and across dizzying catwalks below which gaped dark recesses the depths of which he could not guess. If what he had known before was a world unto itself, so was this. He seemed to be making a journey born of delirium, into the heart and veins and bowels of a monstrous, living creature.

Everywhere, Yiddir had reason to use new words to describe what he saw. There were “control relays” and “power cut-offs” and “master circuits” and “reactor shields,” and things incomprehensible without end, until Nad’s brain hurt.

Finally, they arrived at Yiddir’s destination, his private little citadel. It was an empty chemical tank into which he had diverted a tap from the ventilating system. There were small lockers for supplies of food and water and a few simple articles of furniture. A mattress, a small chair, a box that served as a table, and so on. But there were objects of a more technical nature that went beyond Nad’s understanding. He could understand the glow tubes Yiddir had rigged for lighting purposes, and the visiplate and sonophone and even their accompanying converter switches, but one whole end of the tank was a workshop containing a jumble of instruments and equipment that was totally foreign to him. He only grasped that in this secret chamber a very advanced person had lived and worked for perhaps many years of time. Here, at last, was the knowledge and the help he sought. This was the home of “X.”

When they had both rested somewhat, Yiddir began to talk to him in earnest, and for Nad the time for great revelations was at hand.

“Have you any concept of what a year of time is?” Yiddir asked.

“Only that it is a very long period—part of a lifetime, I guess.”

“You could not conceive of a period of five hundred years, could you?”

“Perhaps six or seven lifetimes?” Nad suggested.

“Something like that,” Yiddir replied. “Well, five hundred years ago, we human beings lived on real worlds; indeed, even three hundred years ago. I’ll tell you later what those worlds were like, but suffice it to say, they were natural worlds incalculably larger than this ship you are now in. There were three worlds of principal importance, from which all Passengers and Navigators are descended. There were Venus, Earth and Mars, together with other less developed worlds, revolving each in its own elliptical path about a flaming ball of fire which gave us all the heat and energy necessary to life. This huge hall of fire men referred to as the sun. Actually, it was one of innumerable similar suns called stars which in turn composed what was the galaxy.

“Well, to make a long story short, hundreds of millions of people like you and me lived and prospered in a high form of civilization, and we were able to travel between Venus, Earth and Mars at will, for those distances were as nothing when compared with interstellar distances—that is—the distance between the stars.

“It was about five hundred years ago that men first knew that the solar system, of which Venus, Earth and Mars formed a part, was going to be destroyed by cataclysm. That is, a runaway star was moving rapidly toward our sun, and it was accurately calculated that within three hundred years the collision would definitely occur.

“This single fact bound our three worlds together with a single purpose in mind—to salvage the human race. To do this, it was considered necessary to invent a way of traversing the awful distance between the stars. Not only would it be necessary to go to the nearer stars but onward indefinitely, if necessary, searching for a life-giving sun in whose system of planets there was at least one world that would be suitable as a new starting place for our kind. It would be necessary to extract cosmic energy from space and convert it into all desirable forms of matter, synthesizing out of basic elements all the molecular compounds necessary to the continuation of life. In short, the ships that were to save humanity had to be worlds independent of all other sources of sustenance except cosmic energy, itself.

“The task seemed insurmountable at first, but the concentrated minds of thousands of our great scientists gradually evolved the required miracle, over the course of the next century and a half. Necessity forced upon Man a superman technology, and the great arks began to be built. As you may have guessed, you are a Passenger in one of them now. It took all the human resources of three worlds to build a hundred of these vessels in as many years. They are flying planets. They move at a speed greater than light, itself. This means that light trying to reach us from behind can never catch up as long as we maintain such a velocity, and light meeting us head on is shoved clear off the visible spectrum. The result is that behind us is blackness, ahead is blackness, and to either side of us is a halo-like grayness. We can only navigate by means of instruments, some of which employ energies referred to as second order phenomena, which function many times faster than light.

“Before certain events of which I shall inform you caused the fleet to divide, these arks of space travelled in a broad phalanx, each ship one light year distant from the other, which is equivalent to trillions of kilometers. The entire fleet of arks covered a space of one hundred light years, and even by using second order means of communication it sometimes took years thoroughly to relay messages to all ships. This will give you a small idea of the size of this great attempt on the part of human beings to preserve their species.

“So far, we have been under way for slightly more than two hundred years. We are already many generations descended from those who first started out, and we have traveled about six or seven hundred light years in search of a new home.”

“But why haven’t we found another world?” asked Nad. “And why have the Navigators deprived us of memory, and why are we executed for asking questions that few can resist asking? How did you, alone, escape the M-Ray, and what is this plan you have spoken of concerning liberation and a new way of life?”

Yiddir smiled, patiently. “One question at a time,” he said. “First, it was learned within the first fifty years of this great voyage that our sun and the worlds we lived on were very unique, or rather we were especially adapted to live only under the exact conditions set up for us by Nature in our solar system. Many other suns and planetary systems were examined only to be found unsuitable to our needs. Infrequently did we find those other worlds to be inhabited, and only once were we threatened by alien space ships, but the only weapon we found it necessary to use against them was our far superior velocity. They could not follow us into the great darkness that lies beyond the speed of light.

“Another fifty year period passed, and yet another, and still we had not found what we were looking for. So the situation was when I was a young man, and even later, when I became Chief Navigator on board this ship.”

“You!” cried Nad. “You were the Chief Navigator?” His mind reeled under this new shock of surprise.

“Yes,” said Yiddir. “My real name is Korlon E-3-N, but therein lies a tale which is the third and final phase of this brief history I am giving you. You see, the present Navigators are outlaws. They mutinied against me.”

“But don’t the other ships know that by now?” protested Nad. “How long ago did this happen?”

“Thirty years or more.”

“Thirty years! And you’ve remained hidden ever since?”

“Yes. But let me go on with my story. At times,” Yiddir continued, “there were discoveries or circumstances confronting us which led to considerable argument, either among the Navigators or between Navigators and Passengers. About forty years ago, this ship encountered a region of space that appeared to give very promising signs that our goal had been reached. Analysis of the composition of energy patterns, the quality of nuclear radiations and spectro-helioscopic studies showed us that we were in a group of suns that did not seem to be inimical to life. Only one solar system, a rather large one, was found, which contained several large planets, all heavily populated. The problems that arose were the following. First, the civilizations on the planets we discovered were in a state of advancement almost equivalent to our own, and preliminary communications with them indicated that they would not welcome the influx of an alien race. Therefore, to force a landing would have precipitated a war against far superior numbers of people who possessed weapons that were worthy of our respect. Secondly, the sun at the center of this solar system was not any too young and had long since passed into that stage of evolution which scientists refer to as the disintegrant stage. Of course, our kind of life could have flourished yet for thousands of years there, but at the cost of fighting the increasing deleterious effects of hard radiation.

“In spite of this, our whole fleet divided strongly into two factions, one of which was in favor of invasion whatever the cost. The other faction was in favor of continuing our journey in the hope of discovering a more favorable set of circumstances. As I worked my way up to the highest office on board this ship, I adhered to this latter faction, and I trained my son also to hold this perspective of our situation.

“The opposing faction had almost become resigned to their fate when, ten years beyond the controversial solar system, I made a grave mistake. That was thirty years ago.”

Yiddir paused, and his pale blue eyes sought Nad’s. He saw there an expression of wonderment and awe, as well as the signs of an utterly insatiable thirst for knowledge.

“I was like many of the higher officers in charge of the expedition, a research scientist, and my specialty was in the second order phenomena. Out of my research evolved a new weapon—the M-Ray. Under any normal circumstances, this would have been a boon to humanity, from a therapeutic point of view. That is, people suffering from mental strain or great sorrow at the loss of a loved one and so forth could be made to forget either temporarily or permanently what was troubling them. But the M-Ray could also be used as a very formidable weapon. It could cause thousands or even millions of people to lose their memories and become as helpless as infants. Moreover, all alien energy shields we had encountered thus far were only of first order nature and therefore would not have been able to stop the M-Ray. In other words, here was a certain weapon against the inhabitable worlds we had contacted some years before.

“My mistake was to keep my weapon a secret, for the time being, for if I had taken it to the authorities on board our flagship they would now be in a position to cope with the terrible danger that threatens them and all the remaining ships that have not yet been taken over by the mutineers.”

Nad interrupted. “Do you mean to say that Sargon’s brand of Navigators have a foothold an other ships of the fleet?”

Yiddir nodded in bitter assent. “This has been going on for years,” he answered.

“But…”

“Let me continue. My further mistake was to take several other officers into my confidence, even against the advice of my son, who by now was a much more brilliant scientist than I, and who had contributed much to the development of the M-Ray.

“It so happened that one of my confidants was actually an opportunist and a sympathizer with the old opposition, but I did not know this at the time. It was this man who betrayed me and succeeded in producing M-Ray weapons superior to my own—and in effective quantity. The achievement went to his head and he gathered around him the most subversive forces among our number that he could find. He planned eventually to overthrow the government of the whole fleet and prepare for himself and his kind a small empire designed to his own tastes. Furthermore, his plan was to return to the inhabited planets in question and to subject all those races of people to M-Ray in preparation for occupation by his own forces. Even if it came to a matter of subjugating only a part of the fleet and turning back secretly, leaving the other portion to its own destinies, he was determined to carry the plan out.

“Again, my son sought to advise me. He argued that he and I must escape before it was too late. This ship, as you should know, is equipped with life boats which are capable of carrying a hundred or so Passengers. It was my son’s Plan to steal one of these and travel to the flagship, ten light years distant. Using second order type drive, this journey would have taken several years, but he was certain we could and should make it. Furthermore, he advised me that he was on the trail of just the discovery that would save the fleet government. He was close to developing a second order shield against the M-Ray, and he was confident he could complete it on board a friendly vessel such as the flagship.

“Having learned our lesson in caution by bitter experience, we decided each to take a lifeboat, so that if one of us were apprehended the other might still have a chance of making it.

“Just before we left, however, the Navigators, under their new leader, began their mutiny, and my son and I had to take refuge among the Passengers, whom we enlightened thoroughly concerning the whole situation. It was they who helped us effect our escape, although we were pursued. And we left behind us a ship caught in the throes of a grim war between Navigators and Passengers.

“I succeeded in distracting our pursuers sufficiently, I believe, to help my son escape, but in the process of escaping, myself, my ship was damaged, and after the pursuers abandoned the chase and gave me up for lost, I drifted about almost helplessly. It took me about three months to repair the damage and about a year to find the ship again.

“I was content to return here, because I knew that the Passengers and many of my old friends among the Navigators had by now been subjected to the M-Ray. Despite all rationalization, I felt responsible, not only as inventor of the M-Ray, but as the captain of my ship—a ship that had mutinied and was the seat of an unlawful government that planned to overthrow the fleet and eventually wage war on innocent worlds, subjugating millions of people to dictatorial rule.

“As one registered as dead, I enjoyed a particular advantage. Also, I had not lost my memory, and I knew the ship better than any Navigator on board. For years I have lived in secrecy, but a relatively short time ago something new developed that made it necessary for me to disguise myself as a Passenger. It was an easy matter for me to forge identifications and even place corroborative records in the files of the Navigators. Thus I created Yiddir E5172-P, an inconsequential Passenger who was free to move about among you and select his allies. For my present venture I need about one hundred men and women, and you I have long since chosen as my principal aide.”

“Me? Why pick on me?”

Yiddir smiled. “Look back on your actions that led to your escape today. Need you ask me more questions. I was not quite prepared to effect your escape according to my own well laid plans, and yet when your emergency arose you were capable of taking care of yourself.”

Nad disregarded the compliment. “But did your son ever reach the flagship?” he asked.

Yiddir shrugged, resignedly. “How can I tell? I can intercept communications from the other arks, but I dare not try to transmit, for fear of discovery. All I have learned is that a new Fleet Governor is in charge of the flagship, which is apparently unaware of what has been going on here. However, he seems to be a very capable man. His name is Nor E-I-M. I should certainly like to contact him sometime, for I am sure he would make a worthy ally. But that would take years, and there is no time for that just now.”

“But what about the mutineers’ plan to turn back to the solar system they wanted to invade? When will they do that?”

Yiddir waved his hand. “My story is not yet at an end,” he said, patiently. “Listen carefully. I have not been able to verify all the facts as yet, but in rough analysis, the circumstances at present are as follows. The rebel Navigators have taken over a large portion of the fleet, just how much I cannot say, except that I know the flagship is still free and unaware of what has happened. Or else it may be that the rebels fear the flagship of Nor E-I-M, that perhaps some sort of resistance has been demonstrated. Anyway, the fact remains that this rebel portion of the fleet has already broken off from the main fleet, come to a stop, and turned back toward the solar system they plan to invade. It will take years to retrace those many light years of distance, but they are determined to do it. Meanwhile, the portion of the fleet that is still under Fleet Government is drawing further away from us all the time in the original direction taken by the expedition. Now, between our group of rebel arks and the Fleet Government arks lies the goal I am after. Listen…”

“At the time that we slowed up to turn back, of course light from the stars was again perceptible and some important observations were made. I know that at that time the astrophysicists on board this particular ship discovered, in our own region of space, an inhabitable world. Oh it was a small one and not overly promising, because it was very young, geographically speaking. It was as yet uninhabited by the most primitive form of man, but was capable of supporting our kind. So mediocre was the find, however, that the rebel government in charge here decided not even to advise the rest of their representatives on board the other conquered ships. And of course the Fleet Government ships remained unadvised and were allowed to proceed on their way.

“However, it was the result of my own analysis of that region of space that stirred me into action. My own instruments revealed to me that there are other systems nearby which should have been investigated. I know this ship did some searching, but the job was not thorough, and they gave it up in order to keep pace with the other rebel ships now, enroute to the inhabited solar systems they intended to invade.

“Now, therefore, my immediate plan of action is this. In the lifeboat lockers are, as I have mentioned before, many ships, each of which is capable of transporting a hundred Passengers with reasonable comfort. As they are capable of converting cosmic energy into matter and synthesizing just like the ark does, they can support human life as indefinitely as their mother ship. It is my plan to use one of those ships and effect the escape of about a hundred Passengers, preferably young men and women, and make our way back to that small, primitive world which the Navigators discovered, and establish a base there for further exploration to discover the other solar system or systems which my instruments have indicated must exist in that region. If we fail, at least we will have one small, primitive world at our disposal on which to start a new life. And then if the rebel fleet should meet with surprise opposition and get wiped out, or if the other arks fail in their search, at least our small group will serve to rescue our species from extinction.”

Suddenly, Yiddir fell silent, and Nad knew that he had finished. Yet there were still more questions to be asked.

“All this is a fine plan,” he said, “and you can never appreciate what it means to me to know at last what this life of ours is all about. What I don’t like about your idea, however, is leaving the field wide open for the rebel Navigators such as Sargon and his kind.”

“There is one faint possibility” said Yiddir, “that this great new master of the flagship, Nor E-I-M, might be in a position to cope with the rebels, but there is the risk that if I were to beam a communication to him, once we have made good our escape, it might be intercepted and result in precipitating on the Fleet Government a battle for which they are not prepared. I feel that it would be better not to take that risk, to let each segment of the fleet go its own way, so that there will be two chances of survival instead of one. Nor E-I-M has been hailed as a scientific genius, and I know that his section of the fleet is in good hands.”

“It is too bad that your son, with his secret of M-Ray defense, could not have joined forces with Nor,” said Nad. “It is obvious he did not, because if he had done so, by now the Fleet Government would have taken action against the rebels.”

Yiddir sighed. “That, too, is my conviction,” he said. “I have lost my son.”

Nad reached out and squeezed Yiddir’s frail hand. “May I serve as a poor substitute?” he asked.

Yiddir’s old face brightened. He grasped Nad’s hand with both of his. “Substitute, no,” he said. “You are my son, from this day forward.”

“Thanks,” Nad replied. “But there’s just one thing you’re not going to like.”

“What is that?”

“I am not a complete altruist like you. I harbor a bitter hatred that must be satisfied. Before I leave here, I intend to throttle one Sargon M13-NT.”

Yiddir shook his head in disapproval. “You must forget that,” he admonished. “Sargon is in high favor among the rebels. To expose yourself to him again would be to endanger the whole plan. You must learn to subordinate personal desires to the importance of your mission. Don’t you think that I, too, was long tempted by vengeful desire? This is my ship!” Yiddir’s eyes flashed anger. “But I held onto myself, and I pride myself that I acted in the best interests of the majority. I expect you to do the same.”

The muscles lumped along Nad’s jaws, and he clenched his fists, but he controlled himself. “All right,” he grumbled. “Let’s get to work on this plan of yours.”

Yiddir beamed with pride and satisfaction. “That’s the spirit, son! Self-control is your most strategic weapon now.”

CHAPTER V

When Nad and Yiddir acted, they worked swiftly. Contact was made with certain other Passengers on Yiddir’s long prepared list, chiefly by means of individually activated sonophones. In the privacy of his own room, a likely recruit was addressed as follows:

“The day of liberation has arrived. You have been chosen to join us. We are returning to a natural world and a natural way of life. We have both the knowledge and the means. What was taken from your minds, your rightful heritage, will be restored by a complete revelation of the truth of your origin and your purpose. There is no time for questions. We must act swiftly. Go and contact ten of your friends, five of them young men and five of them young women. Caution them all to strictest secrecy or this whole plan will fail and your last chance will have been sacrificed. These ten people will contact only you. You have three hours to accomplish this. So act at once! When you are ready, or at the end of three hours maximum, bring your people to your own reception room and there you will be guided into liberation.”

In the course of an hour, Nad and Yiddir thus contacted eight key men and women. It was almost time for them to start leading the first contacts and their recruits through various maintenance hatches between the walls when Nad finally tried to contact Lylwani.

Yldra was with Ron, in Ron’s reception room. This time, Nad dared to activate the visiplate as well as the sonophone.

“Nad!” cried Yldra, leaping to her feet. “Where are you? We thought you were either captured or dead!”

“There is no time to explain,” he said, while his eyes searched the room through the two-way visicom. “Where is Lylwani?”

“We don’t know,” said Yldra. “After you escaped from the guards, she disappeared.”

Then Ron found his voice. “I think she tried some crazy scheme to save you, and the Navigators probably have her by now. Maybe Sargon.”

“Sargon!” Nad’s face blanched and his mouth tightened. “It can’t be—not now, not at a time like this! She’s got to be here! There’s no time to lose!”

Quickly, he gave them his recruiting message, with extra explanations to help reassure Ron, and he deputized Yldra to gather up some of her friends.

The effect on Yldra was astonishing to Nad. As he told her the news, she seemed to come alive as though all her previous life had been lived in a shadow world. Now she seemed to perceive reality for the first time. In spite of her naturally pale Venusian complexion, a new color leaped to her cheeks and her eyes flashed with little fires of wild, new energy.

She turned to Ron and flung her arms around his neck. “Ron!” she cried. “It’s come true at last! There is another world and another life! Nad’s dream has come true! Quick! Let’s go get Nilra and Gorn and Myrla and—”

She stopped, amazed, because Ron did not reflect any of her mood. Sweat stood out on his forehead and his mouth was agape, his eyes round with fear…

“They’ll kill us all!” he cried out. “It’s mutiny! I’m innocent!” he yelled. “Innocent, do you hear! I wanted none of it! I want to stay right!”

“Ron!” shouted Nad, in a tone which he seldom used with his brother. “Shut your mouth and don’t speak another word. If you are so afraid of death, then remember this. Open your mouth once more as you have done just now and I will kill you myself!”

Ron was left speechless, as was Yldra.

“I can’t help it, Yldra,” Nad explained. “There is too much at stake. The whole future of humanity may be ruined by that sniveling coward. You keep him quiet if you want him to live or join us at all. Now hurry and assemble your friends in this room as quickly as you can. I’ll give you two hours. In the meantime—I’m going to find Lylwani…”

* * * *

Krylorno, the poet, was a vain and sensitive man. Secretly, he resented the fact that no woman had as yet gone with him to the authorities to request permission for cohabitation. He was older than the crowd he chose to associate with by some ten years, but he did everything possible to conceal the difference as it was one of the sore points of his vanity. Another blow to his vanity was Yldra’s inexplicable attachment to Ron. To think that she should prefer that club-footed, worthless coward to him!

He was thinking of these things when Ron and Yldra approached him. It was on one of the refreshment mezzanines overlooking the great Recreation Hall. Many of his previous “suicide” group were there, but they had become divorced from their fanaticism by the unprecedented message of “X”. Since that moment a great, secret unrest had manifested itself among the Passengers. The Navigators had been able to gather that certain of the Passengers were discussing some great secret that they were somewhat unwilling to share with others of their number, and general Passenger speculation was running wild. The Navigators, suspecting that the whole thing was merely another manifestation of general discontent, had resorted to an experiment. They had released a previous ban on alcoholic refreshments, and the effect, in general, had been favorable already.

Whereas most of the Passengers had become cheerful, Krylorno had become more moody and sensitive than usual, and was consuming liquor in large amounts. Yldra’s entrance with Ron was, therefore, the spark that kindled the smouldering fire.

When Yldra tried to engage certain younger members of the party in private conversation, he resented it at once. Also, his curiosity was piqued by the transformation that had come over her. Her face was radiant, her eyes flashed new life and vigor, as though her existence had taken on new meaning. She spoke rapidly and excitedly, but it was obvious that he, Kyrlorno, was being excluded deliberately.

Somewhat erratically, he walked over to her table with his half-filled glass. Everyone stopped talking as he began to give her a toast:

“She’s made of dreams, or so it seems,

For when she speaks to me,

My thoughts are stilled and my heart is thrilled

With a dreamy ecstasy;

And in her eyes my reason dies

And I am prison bound—”

He paused, with upraised glass, scowling at her and the others.

“I swear!” he said. “If you don’t all look as though you resented my presence!”

No one said a word. Some hung their heads or looked away.

“Why!” he said, not pleadingly, but challengingly. “What is this secret business all about? Has the voice of ‘X’ been haunting you again from out of the Abyss? Has he said you shall exclude Krylorno from the great liberation?”

Yldra paled because Krylorno was shouting these words recklessly. She got to her feet quickly and came close to him. Her small hand clamped down over his mouth.

“Krylorno, listen to me,” she said, softly. “You spoke to me recently great words about courage. You have demonstrated to everyone that you care for me. Now I am asking you to prove both. For my sake, and for the sake of all our kind, be still! This is the time of salvation for a few. There is neither time nor room for more. Perhaps your time will come later, but for the present Nad says they should all be young—”

“Young!” Krylorno fired back. “What do you think I am—an octogenarian?”

Again the small hand closed his lips, and her dark eyes sought his, pleadingly. Finally, he shrugged.

“All right, children,” he said, patronizingly. “What difference does it make, after all? A lifetime of certain boredom or a brief struggle for a dream that must end in certain death for all of you. Condemn me to boredom if you will.” He smiled mockingly at them. “I congratulate you!” he said, lifting his glass. “It is not every day that one may die for a heroic cause!”

Ron broke, at last. He threw himself on Krylorno, terrified.

“Take my place!” he exclaimed. “Go with Yldra! She’s going to take the others to my unit, where Nad will contact them. Take my place!” he cried. “I don’t want to go! I’m innocent! I want no part of it!”

Krylorno cocked an eyebrow at him in theatrical disdain, and Yldra scowled for the first time since anyone could remember.

“Ron,” she said, icily, “you had better hope Nad did not hear you over the sonophone. He would kill you. Remember his warning. It is evident your words to me of love and devotion were false, or you would want to be with me.”

Ron broke down completely. He sat at a table and buried his head in his arms.

“I do love you, Yldra,” he sobbed, “but I’m a coward. I can’t help being what I am!”

Yldra made a sign to several of the young men beside her, and they moved to obey. They picked Ron up bodily and carried him. He screamed, once, and they knocked him senseless.

Left alone, Krylorno bathed his internal wounds with alcohol. The drunker he became, the more distorted was his reasoning, until he was filled with bitter resentment.

“Leave me out, will they?” he said, staggering to his feet. “Ha! I’ll teach them not to slight Krylorno!”

Bottle in hand, he staggered in the general direction of section N, to find a Navigator.

* * * *

By this time, Yiddir was busy leading various groups of recruits through maintenance hatches and guiding them to a safe rendezvous between the walls. He became very apprehensive as Nad’s quota failed to appear, however. Suspecting that something was wrong, he deputized certain young men to guard the others and keep them quiet, and then he moved swiftly to take in Nad’s groups.

When at last he came to Yldra’s group, he questioned them, through the visiplate, concerning Nad. When he learned that the latter had gone searching for Lylwani in section N, a shadow of grave disappointment fell across his aged countenance.

“We cannot wait,” he said. “All of you enter the first apartment of this unit, quickly!”

“But this is a bachelor’s unit!” protested one of the girls.

“Forget all the laws the Navigators ever taught you, if you value your life,” said Yiddir. “Go quickly!”

Yiddir led the last of the recruits through a maintenance hatch just as he was fastening it behind him, however, the whole ark began to resound with alarm bells.

“What is that?” Yldra asked him, close by his shoulder.

Yiddir’s old hands trembled as he tightened the last bolt. “Perhaps our plan has been discovered,” he said. “Listen!”

The sonophones were raising a bedlam. “All guard units report immediately to T.H.Q.” came the announcement.

“T.H.Q. means Technical Headquarters,” said Yiddir. “And only Technical knows anything about this area of the ship we are in. I think they are after us. We must move immediately to the life boat lockers. Follow me!”

“But Nad—and Lylwani!” protested Yldra.

“Casualties,” said Yiddir, coldly. “Forget them or you’ll all be caught. There is too much at stake now. Come on, quickly, all of you!”

CHAPTER VI

Nad did not try to excuse himself for disobeying Yiddir’s admonition to subordinate personal desires to the welfare of the majority. When it came to leaving Lylwani in Sargon’s clutches—forever, never to see her again—his rationalizations ceased and instinct took over. In a blind, reckless rage, he sought Sargon out.

By following the catwalks forward, he soon reached section N, and at his first opportunity he began unfastening one of the now-familiar safety hatches. Yiddir had armed him with both an M-Ray and a Disruptor. In the mood he was in, he was prepared to M-Ray all Navigators into a state of complete idiocy, or blast the whole section to atoms, if necessary.

When he came through the hatch he fixed it so that it was unfastened while appearing not to have been disturbed. This would be his exit, he hoped.

He found himself in a vault-like room that was a maze of instruments, some whirring and ticking, others flickering with kaleidoscope colors. Quickly, he tried the door of the chamber and found it could only be opened from the outside. So he blasted it with the Disruptor.

Once outside, he found himself in a shining corridor, face to face with a young Navigator who was paralyzed with shock. Evidently, nothing of this nature had ever occurred in his lifetime. To see an armed Passenger come blasting his way out of the recording vault was too much for him.

By the time he had recovered, he found himself covered with a hot-barreled Disruptor, and he was looking into a pair of cold gray eyes that said simply: Obey or die!

“Take me to Sargon,” said Nad. “No questions. Quick!” He jabbed the Navigator and the latter moved without saying a word.

Two more Navigators turned into the corridor ahead of them. They were armed guards, Sargon’s own men. In spite of their surprise, they raised their Stun Rays almost simultaneously.

But Nad’s M-Ray was on them, and their weapons lowered suddenly to dangle ludicrously from their fingertips. They grinned idiotically as Nad and the now fully terrified Navigator passed them. Nad acquired one of the Navigators’ Stun Rays and thrust it into his belt.

“I’m your man,” the Navigator with him whispered. “Just don’t M-Ray me! I swear I won’t double cross you!”

“Shut up and keep moving—fast! Nad hissed. “How much farther is it?”

“Here!” The Navigator pointed to a large metal door on Nad’s right.

Whereupon Nad extracted the Stun Ray from his belt. “This won’t hurt,” he whispered. The other slumped quietly to the floor, blissfully unconscious.

Nad tried Sargon’s door and found it to be unlocked. Then he flung it open and sprang into the middle of the room.

The first thing he focused his eyes on was Lylwani, herself, sitting up in her cushioned chair as though paralyzed with amazement. Obviously she had been crying, for her usually clear green eyes were bloodshot and their lids were swollen.

Now her eyes widened and an incredulous cry rose to her lips, but Nad instantly signalled her to be quiet. He turned and dragged into the room the inert body of the Navigator he had stunned, and he closed the door behind him. Then he beckoned Lylwani to him.

She sprang to her feet and came into his arms, trembling on the edge of hysteria. “My darling!” she whispered. “You’re safe! You’re safe!”

“Far from it,” he said. “We’ve got to get out of here. Where’s Sargon?”

“I don’t know. He told me you had killed yourself, so I gave up all hope of ever—”

“Never mind, honey. Let’s go!

Then he stopped in his tracks as alarm bells started ringing everywhere. The sonophone in the room boomed a torrent of excited orders.

“Come on!” he said, opening the door to the corridor. But when he looked out he knew his way was blocked. The corridor was filled with running guards.

“Oh Nad!” cried Lylwani. “What can we do now!”

“Plenty,” he said, locking the door from inside. “Follow me!”

He took her by the hand and led her into an inner compartment which composed Sargon’s private quarters. Unfortunately he did not find the usual maintenance hatch.

The two looked at each other. The din raised by the alarms, the bellowing of the sonophones and the sound of many running feet began to increase the beating of their pulses, and terror found a grip on their hearts.

Just then, guards outside in the corridor began to pound on Sargon’s office door.

Lylwani clutched at Nad’s arms and pressed her head tightly against his chest. “You tried, darling,” she said. “It’s all right. We’ll go out together!”

“That’s right,” he said, grimly. “We’ll go out together. Get behind me!”

When she stepped wonderingly behind him, he focused his Disruptor on the wall of the apartment. There was a white flash accompanied by an explosion, and Lylwani saw a ragged hole leading into unknown darkness.

“What is it?” she whispered in awe. “The Abyss?”

“No. It is the road to the Abyss—and freedom. Follow me!”

Soon it became apparent that Navigators had entered between the walls, because he could hear them shouting, and their voices echoed and reechoed eerily through the dark and narrow labyrinths. Far ahead of him, Nad heard a series of startled shouts and screams.

“They’ve found them!” he muttered. “They’re fighting—probably being M-Rayed! Come on, quickly, or we’re lost forever!”

At that precise moment, a booted foot kicked Nad’s light out of his hand and darkness engulfed him. At the same time, he felt his M-Ray being snatched out of his grip.

Viciously, he sprayed the whole area in front of him and to each side with Stun Ray, and silence filled in the darkness to completion. Aside from dim and distant sounds of fighting, he could only hear Lylwani’s frightened breathing and his own. He felt the walls on either side of him and found them to be of a strange, warm substance that he had felt once before when Yiddir first guided him between the walls.

Suddenly, from above his head a voice said, “I have this M-Ray focused on both of you. Don’t move!”

As the two looked up into the apathetic glare of Nad’s own flashlight, they did not have to see who was there above it in the darkness. The voice was that of Sargon.

Nad swiftly analyzed his predicament. He and Lylwani stood on a narrow catwalk between the walls. Below them was a black pit of emptiness. Above, somewhere deadly close, crouched Sargon. And far away somewhere Yiddir and the recruits struggled with the Navigators.

Whatever was to be done had to be done instantly or the whole cause was lost. But Sargon had an M-Ray focused on him, and there came to Nad’s mind all too clearly the full evaluation of his danger in regard to that weapon.

If Sargon activated it, Nad and perhaps Lylwani also would lose all memory of life, their purpose, their hopes and plans, their love for each other, their conditionings, their personalities—their very identity. A wave of real terror engulfed him, but he fought it, strengthened at last by one element in his blood and marrow that was unfailing—his hatred of Sargon.

“In my hand,” he said quietly to Sargon, “I hold a Disruptor. I believe you know better than I do whether or not there is an instant of awareness before the mind succumbs to the M-Ray. In that instant, if you use it on me, I will blast you into extinction, as well as a good portion of the ship.”

There was a tantalizing silence, except that Nad heard Sargon breathing tensely above him. He also felt Lylwani’s tightened grip on his arm.

“Lylwani,” he said, divining Sargon’s thoughts, “if you feel the M-Ray, grip my arm as hard as you can.”

Sargon said, “You also have some reason for not using your weapons.”

“Yes,” Nad replied, every sense tingling with alertness. “The Stun Ray might miss.” He realized that the action of using the Stun Ray might allow the brief instant of awareness of the M-Ray to come and pass, leaving him helpless. “Furthermore,” he said, “we are standing between two reactor shields.” Yiddir had tried to explain what lay behind these weird shields, but all Nad had understood was that something of monstrous power lay harnessed there. “You can appreciate better than I,” he said to Sargon, “what would happen if the Disruptor were to penetrate these shields.”

“It would blow this whole ark to blazes,” said Sargon coldly.

“Then don’t force me to use it in this spot,” countered Nad. “Drop that M-Ray and get out of here!”

There was another moment of intense silence, while Nad nervously fingered his Stun Ray and Lylwani still gripped him with a feverish tenacity. Sweat trickled around the trigger finger of Nad’s other hand, where it rested on the Disruptor release. The roaring of his pulse drowned out the more distant sounds of alarm and fighting. He marveled, in spite of his predicament, at the degree of tenseness to which the mind could be brought without breaking down.

Finally, slowly and calmly, Sargon spoke. “It’s Lylwani I want,” he said. “I’ll take every risk you will, so listen to this, if you want to help your friends down there, leave Lylwani here and go. If you don’t like that proposition—”

There was no more room for words, Nad fired the Stun Ray upward as rapidly as his hand could work, but in the same moment he yelled as Lylwani’s fingernails tore his flesh. Simultaneously, Sargon’s heavy body thumped unconscious onto the catwalk.

Nad placed his weapons in his belt and reached down with hungry hands to find the other’s throat. But he was too late to prevent the body from slipping off the catwalk into nothingness.

“Lylwani!” he called. Groping behind him, he found her and clutched her to him, kissing her face and lips. “You’re safe! We’ll make it yet!”

Then his flesh crept and he felt his hair bristling. For Lylwani only giggled at him and made nameless sounds in response.

* * * *

Nad could never quite remember how he found his way to the lifeboat lockers, even though Yiddir had already shown him the way.

Vaguely, he recalled interminable periods of balancing precariously on dark catwalks with Lylwani in his arms, or of hiding while Navigators led the poor recruits back into captivity, passing him close by, with lights, so that he could see the victims’ idiotic smiles. They had all been M-Rayed like his beloved Lylwani. The whole plan was at an end, he had thought dimly.

Except for himself and Lylwani. He had an irrational desire to risk it in one of the space boats alone with her, somehow to master the secret of the controls and in spite of having no knowledge of astronomy whatsoever to find that little lost world of which Yiddir had told him. There he would reeducate his sweetheart and they would live and reproduce their own kind.

With these dim, mad thoughts and with Lylwani lying childlike in his arms, he arrived at the lockers. There he saw lights and Navigator guards, a squad of ten of them who had made one fatal mistake, Nad perceived. They were all gathered together in one small group.

Suddenly, his reason became twisted between insupportable grief and a reckless thirst for revenge. He set Lylwani down and deliberately aimed his Disruptor at the guards, firing without warning.

There followed a quick succession of blinding flashes and deafening explosions. Not only the guards went into nothingness, but several space boats, as well, along with part of the metal floor. Fortunately, the great cryosite doors separating the lockers from the Abyss held, although the inner sections of the two airlocks were destroyed.

He stood there, wondering if he were going to vomit. Behind him, Lylwani laughed and clapped her hands gaily at the fireworks and the smouldering results. Nad did not look back at her. He stood alone in the broken desolation of the place, trying to swallow a lump in his throat that threatened to choke him.

Then, suddenly, he felt a friendly hand on his arm, and a voice said, “Follow us quickly.” It was Yiddir.

Nad’s mind was reeling from the impact of events too terrible and swift to assimilate. He heard Yldra’s voice crying out in the darkness behind him as she discovered Lylwani’s plight, and there were a few other male voices, but he cared not whether they were of friend or foe, of sane man or idiot. He followed blindly…

* * * *

There were other space boats and launching locks that were still intact, although one thing bothered Yiddir that he refrained from mentioning to the others. He observed a very curious thing about one of the launching locks, but paused there for only a brief moment. Then, grimly, he led his pitifully small party onward. There was no time for conversation. The Navigators would be back in a matter of moments.

The dark ship lay enigmatically in its lock—a question mark standing between precarious Today and a totally unknown Tomorrow. Success? Failure? Privation, recapture, endless wandering through blackness and into madness? Sudden, violent, merciful death? All these questions were equally unanswerable as they filed silently on board and Yiddir turned to the control room.

No one was curious about the interior of this ark of freedom for which they had fought and for which scores of their companions had sacrificed their personalities. To them it was shelter. They tied themselves into cushioned seats as Yiddir instructed them to do—and they waited.

Yiddir had not wasted his thirty years of hidden exile. He had studied all controls and every phase of maintenance with painstaking care, and now he knew more about these space boats than the best Navigator on board the mother vessel. Expertly, he activated the lock and caused the outer doors to slide open, exposing the lifeboat to the awful gulf of blackness outside. For one brief moment his hand paused on the control. For centuries, his kind had been bottled up in darkness, except for sporadic, half-forgotten intervals. He felt suddenly the weight of Man’s loneliness, lost as they all were in the far reaches of the unknown galaxy. He knew that this single lifeboat, once detached from its base, would be like an electron lost in the farthest depths of the Seventh Sea.

With an unaccustomed prayer on his lips, he launched the boat outward into the great darkness…

CHAPTER VII

Their little group consisted of seven. There were Yiddir, Nad, Ron, Yldra, Lylwani, Gorn and Karg. Gorn was a pale, blue-haired Venusian like Yldra. Karg was one of Lylwani’s race—a Martian. Gorn had been wounded by a bad fall from one of the catwalks. Two ribs had punctured his left lung and he was dying from a pulmonary hemorrhage.

He was bitterly contemptuous of Ron. Just before he died, on that first day out, he called everybody around him and addressed Ron in their presence. In his dimming eyes they could see most of those qualities which they needed so desperately for their venture-courage, strength, and a full awareness of the role they were all acting in the destiny of their kind.

“Ron,” he said, laboriously, “I want you to witness my death and realize what it means. This expedition could well be the only chance for survival of the human race. Of course, you may all die and one or both branches of the fleet may succeed. But it’s just as possible that the reverse may happen. Here there is no room for a coward!” His emphasis on this last phrase cost him a new pain and he almost fainted. “I want you to realize that your outburst to Krylorno was directly responsible for the failure of the others to reach this ship. Thanks to you, about eighty-five recruits, young men and women, have been deprived of being here. If this thought haunts you through the days or years ahead as you seek a new world, I hope it serves to cure you of your cowardice. My death is also your fault, Ron. So you are responsible for taking my place in this party.” His eyes closed and his whole body tensed. “Take over—Ron!”

These were his last words.

As Yiddir decelerated as much as he could within the limits of reasonable comfort, the invisible mother ship and the rest of the rebel fleet receded at the rate of millions of kilometers each minute; in an opposite direction the distant Government Fleet still flung its light years long phalanx into ever expanding vastness; and he and his handful of lost souls were totally detached from all things kindred. They were like the first seeds of life in the Beginning, or like the last dust of the ages settling in the sunset of Creation. Whether colossal Nature would be mother or nemesis to them was a question that would remain unanswered through long months or even years to come. Yiddir was without hope, because of their small number, but where hope ran out, life continued. Almost like a robot, he went forward with the plan. He decelerated, day after day and week after week, calculating that their velocity would be reduced to that of the speed of light within two months. Then, for the first time in years, he would see the stars. It would be the first glimpse for the rest on board, and he wondered if that overwhelming spectacle would inspire them, or depress them with a sense of utter futility.

Then, too, there was that strange mystery concerning the lifeboat locker. After he had brooded on it for days, he finally called Nad to his side.

“What happened to Sargon?” he asked him, without preamble. “You said you overcame him in a struggle, during which he M-Rayed Lylwani. But what are the details? How did you overcome him?”

Mention of Sargon never failed to key Nad’s faculties to a maximum of alertness. He quickly perceived that Yiddir was driving at something.

“Why?” he asked, his gray eyes meeting Yiddir’s steadily. “I got him with a Stun Ray and he fell off the catwalk.”

Yiddir stared back intently. “How far did he fall?”

“I don’t know. It was dark. Why do you ask?”

“The effects of the Stun Ray only last a few minutes, depending on the intensity for which the weapon is set. It may be—”

He paused, thinking. Then he asked, “Did Sargon really care a great deal about Lylwani?”

“He told me he would take every risk I would to get her.”

“Hm-m-m. That might be the motive. He certainly wouldn’t take such a risk in the line of mere duty, or even for revenge alone. But if Lylwani means as much to him as she does to you—Tell me this. Did he know she was M-Rayed?”

“No. But what are you driving at?”

Yiddir spoke very slowly. “The space boat locker next to ours was empty,” he said, “yet only six hours before our departure I know there was a ship sitting in it. That can only mean that very shortly before we left another ship also came out. It may be out here somewhere right now, trailing us.”

Nad’s excitement subsided slightly. “Sargon could have recovered in time to get to the lockers ahead of us,” he said. “And he could have gone out into the Abyss to trap us in case we escaped. But in that case he would have spotted us immediately on his instruments and struck long before this. His stake in the rebellion is too important to be abandoned, I think, even for Lylwani.”

“That is an admirable deduction,” said Yiddir. “But perhaps he might know how to take Lylwani and return to the rebel fleet as well.”

“What! Return to the fleet from here? There is no return!”

“Yes,” said Yiddir. “I have never told you, and you must never tell the others, but there is a way. Our drivers can be altered for more speed. It is possible to overtake the fleet, although as the distance increases the time factor increases proportionately. Sargon is a capable Navigator and I know he finished Technical in order to increase his rating. He would know how to convert the drivers. Higher velocities haven’t been resorted to, in general, because the occasional meteors getting through our detection screens would have dangerous mass, enough to penetrate cryosite walls.”

“But—why should Sargon wait this long to strike?”

“I don’t know. Maybe a new factor has been added that delayed him. A breakdown, or some accident.”

“But all that is pure supposition. Haven’t you some sort of detector on board? Can’t you tell if he is out here?”

“Within ten million kilometers or so, yes. Much time has elapsed, and distances are tremendous out here. He could be on our trail without our knowing it.”

“But if we couldn’t detect him, how could he detect us in this darkness?”

“The answer to that is simpler than you think,” said Yiddir. “You forget that he knows where we are going.”

Nad’s brows raised and his mouth parted. “How could he?” he asked. “I’ll admit he’d know all about the world we’re trying to reach, but why should he assume we know about it?”

Yiddir shrugged. “I don’t know how much Yldra said in front of Krylorno or how much Krylorno told the Navigators. But one thing is certain. No Passenger could handle this ship as I have. It takes technical training which, incidentally, I am going to have to give to you and Ron and Karg as soon as possible. The Navigators have always speculated on my escape and that of my son, years ago. They have always feared that perhaps one of us would return, either alone or in force. Krylorno’s tale would easily enable them to guess what happened. They knew at once that I was on board. Well, that may be one thing that has made Sargon cautious, if he has followed us. He knows, perhaps, that he not only has another full-fledged Navigator to deal with, but the former captain of the ark—and a man of legendary scientific ability, in fact, the inventor of the M-Ray. The more I think of it, the more it all seems to fit together. That missing lifeboat in the locker next to ours cannot be disregarded.”

Nad sat silently for a long time, gazing with narrowed eyes into space. “What could he do if he decided to take us?” he asked, finally.

“Our meteor detectors would give us warning. We have shields against all primary rays and the Disruptor cannons which the rebels have mounted in all these boats. I doubt if he knows enough about second order stuff to assemble an effective M-Ray projector, which he would have to have, because the hand M-Ray is only good at short range. I have no shield against a good M-Ray projector. Only my son knew that secret, and he is long since gone.

“Then what can Sargon do?”

“I don’t know. That may be why he’s holding back—perhaps trying to figure something out. Perhaps—”

“What?”

“Perhaps he would even go so far as to follow us to that little planet of ours and kidnap Lylwani when the opportunity presented itself.”

Nad got to his feet. “I think we’re both dreaming,” he said. “Why don’t you start teaching me what you know about this ship?”

Yiddir sat still, thinking for a long time. Then he looked up and asked, “What do you want first, instruction in piloting—or in the use of the armaments?”

As he looked steadily at Nad, the latter broke into a grim smile. “Okay,” Nad said. “Then we’re not dreaming. Let me see those Disruptor cannons…”

* * * *

Deceleration continued, unabated, and the passengers of the small ship walked in it with heavy and laborious tread. The darkness prevailed, day after day, and each sought to occupy himself to the best of his abilities. Yiddir carefully instructed Nad, Karg and Ron concerning all the controls on board. He even started on a long-range conversion job, working on one of their four drivers at a time. He hoped to utilize the increased velocity some day in their further search for the better solar system whose existence he suspected.

Yldra had been assigned the long, arduous task of reeducating Lylwani. She had to teach her to speak and even how to eat and walk properly. It was a heartbreaking task, but Nad was always there, encouraging her in the depths of each new discouragement.

Karg was indirectly helpful. The short-statured little Martian was naturally cheerful in spite of the discomforture of doubled gravity due to deceleration. He was interested in everything, quick to learn, and entertaining. But most valuable of all, from the psychological standpoint, he had brought along one precious belonging that was now a means of mental salvation. It was a Martian querla, a small musical instrument that generated invisible rays in which his moving fingers produced a marvelous music of rich tone and endless variety. Yldra had a very pleasing voice, and sometimes the two would entertain the others by playing and singing.

At such times, Lylwani was very receptive and cooperative, and she even repeated some of Yldra’s sonars, to Nad’s infinite delight. All these things served to establish a routine and way of life for the ship’s small company which provided a certain measure of stability.

But one day—tragedy struck.

* * * *

On the upper deck, astern was an observation chamber equipped with a huge, double-paned window of transparent metal. While they were in the darkness, there was nothing to be seen from this vantage point, but Yiddir had announced that their velocity was being reduced very closely to the speed of light, and that any time now they might begin to see some evidence of the bright universe that had surrounded them invisibly all of their lives.

Ron had been sitting with Yldra in this room, both of them watching the window for some break in the darkness that lay astern. They had spoken of many things, their old acquaintances left behind, and of the possibilities of their future life on the new world.

Suddenly, the sonophone in their chamber brought Nad’s voice to them. He reminded Yldra that it was her watch with Lylwani, and she got up to leave.

“I’ll stay here a while,” Ron told her.

The chamber just forward of the aft observation bridge had been converted into a battle station by the rebel Navigators. Here were mounted several Disruptor cannons. Just as Yldra stepped into this room on her way forward, the galactite struck.

Started on its journey eons past, the small metallic fragment had gathered much more velocity than a meteor. Meteors were local phenomena, occurring within the galaxy, but the galactite was much rarer owing to its extra-galactic origin. In the course of time required for its transit between galaxies, it had acquired a velocity greater than light, itself. The arks of the fleet and the lifeboats could detect the approach of ordinary meteors and automatically vary their courses slightly to avoid them in time, or if a meteor penetrated the detection area and struck, the cryosite hulls could withstand the blow. But no detectors or metal walls could stop a galactite because of its terrible velocity.

The galactite struck the ship and penetrated it like a hot knife passing through butter. In its path it left a series of small, neat, round holes on both sides of the hull and through two decks of cryosite. Its passage was accompanied by a deafening report, which stunned Yldra momentarily.

Then air began to rush out of the chamber she was in. She began to struggle with the forward hatch, but it was jammed as the result of the galactite’s titanic blow. She turned aft, but too late, because the observation hatch slid automatically into place, as it had been designed to operate just that way in such an emergency.

Its seal could be released, however, from Ron’s side, and she called to him frantically to help her. When half the air had been released from the room, an unexpected phenomenon occurred that gave promise of saving her, even as she slipped into unconscious. The moisture in the air, as it encountered the deep cold of outer space, froze instantly, and soon the galactite holes in the hull were obstructed with ice, which slowed the escape of air. There was still a chance.

Over the sonophone, Yiddir’s tense instructions penetrated Ron’s panic. “The air in Yldra’s chamber is leaking out very slowly,” he said. “Open your hatch and pull Yldra through. Then close it again. This will reduce your own air pressure considerably, and you may pass out, but you’ll be safe. We are putting on spacesuits on this side and will burn our way through this jammed hatch, repair the damage and then pull you out. Now act quickly, or Yldra is lost!”

There was no answer from Ron.

“Hurry!” Yiddir exclaimed. “We can’t burn through from here without causing the ice plug to melt in the hole, and without a spacesuit, Yldra would die—just like Gradon did in the execution chamber.”

“Ron!” came Nad’s voice.

Then Ron: “I—I can’t! The air will go out. I’ll die!”

“Then die, you coward! If I find you alive and Yldra dead I’ll kill you anyway!”

But Ron only fell in his chair and sobbed. “Kill me then!” he cried. “I can’t do it! I love her, but I—I can’t make myself do it!”

Nad and Yiddir were in spacesuits in the next chamber forward. Their forward hatch was sealed. Instead of using the heat gun, Nad blasted the hatch with a Disruptor and leaped into the room. But the ice plug cracked, and the air rushed out again. Before new ice could form, Yldra’s nose and ears flowed red.

The two men carried her out to safety. Between them and Ron were two airless chambers.

Time passed endlessly for Ron, but nothing more happened. Finally, he addressed the sonophone in a choking voice.

“Nad!” he called. “Have you got her? Is she all right?”

After a long, terrible silence, Nad; replied. “You don’t know, do you?” he said. “Two airless rooms separate you from us, Ron. If you try to come out, you’ll die. If you stay there, you’ll suffocate in a few hours. Just stay there and think about it!”

“Nad!” Ron called, frantically. “Tell me! Is she alive?”

“Your cowardice wrecked our plans before,” came Nad’s voice, murderously cold.

“Nad!” Ron was hysterical, crying out in falsetto. “Don’t leave me here! Nad!”

But only silence answered him…

CHAPTER VIII

Yldra died. Fortunately, Lylwani was spared the grief of the others, but Yiddir, Nad and Karg could only sit there in painful silence looking at her lovely form as it lay inert before them. All but Yiddir, perhaps, hoped that Ron would die in agony. Silently, they prepared her for space burial, and just before they put her in the disposal lock, Nad bent over and kissed her cold forehead.

“Goodbye, sweet,” he whispered, tenderly.

Rod, in a delirium of fright and mortal anguish, seemed to hear a distant voice chanting:

“Oh Darkness that is Light!

Oh mighty judge that offers peace

Forever in abyssmal night!

Oh Truth that gives me naked

Nothing for falsely vested life,

Where in an instant that is ever

I may be free of Wrong or Right!”

“Yldra!” he screamed. “Yldra!”

Silence brought loneliness to sit with his conscience, while the air about him grew stale…

* * * *

Yiddir finally prevailed upon Nad to rescue Ron. At first, Nad refused, with close-mouthed stubbornness, but when Karg offered to get in a spacesuit, Nad gave in.

They used one compartment for an air lock, and Nad went into the damaged chamber and repaired the holes. Then air was admitted and they announced to Ron over the sonophones that he could come out.

After almost a minute, the hatch opened, and Ron stood there looking blankly at his brother.

“Yldra is dead and buried in space,” said Nad. “You didn’t deserve to see her. If you care to live with yourself after this, I’m giving you your life back. Not that I can see why. You can thank Yiddir.”

Ron’s face was colorless, his eyes severely bloodshot, but the fear was gone out of him. In fact, the spirit had gone out of him.

They left him to his own resources for a while, but later on when it was necessary for him to speak, they found that he could not articulate. As though unseeing, he stared mutely through them. He ate and slept like a somnambulist.

“The shock may wear off in time,” said Yiddir, sympathetically. “Nad, both you and Karg may despise Ron, but I feel terribly sorry for him. No man could experience a greater hell than to be born a coward and want to die and yet not have the courage to commit suicide. I know that Ron despises himself more, perhaps, than both of you put together. He is experiencing more punishment than anyone could possibly administer to him externally. Whether you may think so or not, I believe he loved Yldra as much as any man can love a woman, but the mechanism of cowardice worked in him in a way that was uncontrollable. Just leave him alone and give time a chance to heal his mind and shattered nerves.”

After a long moment of silence in which neither Nad nor Karg could think of anything to say, Yiddir added, “We have more important things to worry about. That galactite damaged certain electrical circuits that are virtually inaccessible to us. Our meteor detection system works only intermittently. It can only be hoped that no meteors cross our path while the system is not functioning, Of course, the hull might withstand the blow, but the change of course might be violent and the inertia would most certainly kill us at this velocity. Just now the system is functioning again. I hope it continues to do so.”

Yiddir looked significantly at Nad and felt that he was thinking of the same thing. If a meteor could get through without detection at some future date, so could Sargon.

CHAPTER IX

The great event they had been waiting for finally occurred. It happened one day when Nad was on watch and while Karg and Ron and Yiddir slept.

He was in the control room alone with Lylwani. Before him were control panels, and above these were large observation ports. There was nothing to do but watch the deceleration indicators occasionally.

Lylwani sat close beside Nad, looking blissfully at the black observation ports. Nad had been watching her affectionately. She appeared to be in good health, and the loneliness in him transformed her natural beauty into irresistible allure. He could not resist taking her hand in his, and she did not object. In fact he was elated to feel the suggestion of a responsive pressure from her slender fingers.

She could converse and think for herself with a childlike simplicity, so Nad tried to engage her in conversation.

“You and I,” he said, are the last of our kind.” There was no point in telling her of the arks, he thought.

“There is Yiddir,” she replied, “and Karg, and Ron.”

“I know, dearest, but—” He stopped, helplessly. How could he explain to an infant mind the gracelessness of their still extant ability to procreate their kind? How could he tell her that they were the potential parents of a new humanity?

“But what?” she asked, looking at him with the sweet, trusting smile of a child.

In her mind, he thought, she is a child, but physically she is a woman. She is my woman! He took her head between his hands, very gently, so as not to startle her.

“I must teach you to love me again,” he said, “or I’ll lose my mind.”

“Love?” She raised her brows, quizzically.

“Yes,” he said. “Love, Lylwani! A very important thing. Do you understand what it is to be happy?”

“I am happy.”

“But I mean—happier.”

“Very happy?”

“That’s right, darling. When you love, you are very happy.”

“I am very happy. Am I in love?”

A wave of discouragement sought to engulf him, but he persisted stubbornly.

“Do you know what this is?” he asked her, and then he kissed her gently while his arms ached to hold her.

She did not resist or respond, but he felt a slight tremor pass through her. Her eyes were wide, puzzled.

“Kiss?” she said.

“Kiss of love,” he corrected. “Makes us both very happy. I love you, Lylwani. Do you love me?”

“Kiss,” she said, raising her lips to his.

Nad swept her into his arms and kissed her as he had wanted to kiss her ever since they had left the ark, and she responded happily.

“You’re mine, Lylwani! Mine!” he whispered.

“Mine,” she answered, and her arms stole around his neck. “I am very happy.”

* * * *

When Nad next looked up, something bothered him that he could not define. He started to turn back to Lylwani, but his attention was dragged back again to something—something that was not as it should be.

Then he saw, through the observation panel, several dim glimmerings of violet light. Lylwani felt his body tense and she arose from his arms.

“What is wrong?” she asked.

Now Nad’s cup was overflowing. A fierce, glad joy suffused him. “Look!” he cried, pointing at the lights. “The stars, Lylwani! The stars!”

“Stars?” She looked up in puzzlement at the lights. “I see lights—pretty lights.”

“Oh don’t worry about what they are sweetheart!” he exclaimed. “They just make me very happy.”

She frowned. “Happy? Do you love the stars?”

“I could kiss them!

“I don’t understand,” she said. “Everything is love and kisses.”

Nad laughed and hugged her. “Come on!” he said. “Let’s wake up the others and show them the stars!” Yiddir and Karg came rushing forward when he called them, but Ron did not respond and they left him alone.

“Yes, there they are at last!” cried Yiddir, his old face flushed with the emotion of relief.

“Is that all they amount to?” queried Karg disappointedly. “I can see only about ten violet points of light.”

“No!” Yiddir laughed. “You see only the beginning of them. We have to slow down still more. We see only a few that are moving away from us, and their light waves are still reaching us at such a high frequency that we can only discern the highest visible band of their spectra. That is the so-called Doppler effect. In a few hours you will see the blazing glory of God’s whole universe!

“This is a very happy occasion,” said Karg.

“Are you happy?” Lylwani asked him.

“Yes,” Karg answered. “Very happy.”

To everyone’s intense surprise, Lylwani kissed him. “The kiss of love will make you happier,” she explained.

Karg blushed crimson and looked at Nad, who was utterly crestfallen. But the Martian’s sense of humor saved the situation as he admonished Nad with mock severity.

“Teacher,” he said, “you’ll have to make your lessons more explicit!”

It was Nad’s turn to blush. Both Yiddir and Karg patted him on the back with silent eloquence. They understood his problem.

“As soon as visibility has been completely established,” Yiddir announced, in an effort to change the subject, “we’re going to have a lot of work to do. I’ve got to locate definitely the solar system where our little planet is. It will be several weeks yet before we will be stationary and can start acceleration back toward our goal. Our trip to the planet will have to be made as much as possible within the speed of light, so it may take us a long time to reach it. Just how long I’ll have to determine. If it is too many light years distant we’ll have to plunge again into the velocity of darkness, but I hope not.”

Yiddir thought of Ron. He reasoned that if Ron was mentally incapable of evaluating their present position it could be a blessing. For otherwise his first thought must be, as was Yiddir’s: Poor Yldra died before she got to see the stars…

* * * *

True to Yiddir’s prediction, within a few hours the majority of the stars shifted into full spectrum visibility and shone with their natural light, at least to an effective extent. There was a slight tendency for the stars ahead to be predominantly blue-white and the ones astern to be predominantly yellow-white or even dull red, but Yiddir promised that within a week or so everything would be absolutely normal.

As the flaming universe took form before their eyes, they felt a great oppressiveness lift from them. Their spirits found room for expansion and life took on new values.

Ahead of them, in the direction of their goal, was a tremendous spectacle that none of them would ever forget. Towering in awe-inspiring grandeur among the great, blazing tiers and banks of stars was an opaque mass of gas that Yiddir said was hundreds of millions of kilometers in extent. He called it a nebula.

“Our little planet lies close beside it,” he said, and he showed them a yellowish sun in the telescope that was the center of the system they sought. “The outer fringe of the dark nebula is at about the same distance as our planet,” he explained. “It is about three light years away, so I am afraid we’ll have to make a large part of our journey in the darkness of higher velocity, but it will be necessary to watch our course and not get too close to the nebula.”

“Why?” asked Karg, who was at the telescope.

A shadow of concern crossed momentarily over Yiddir’s wrinkled brow. “I became informed, some time ago, of certain unaccountable phenomena connected with that region,” he said. “Exploration reports are on file in the ark we have left, and I found the opportunity to peruse some of them secretly. At the time the rebel Navigators visited the little world we are seeking, several of the scout boats, such as this one, made excursions to the nebula itself, to gather samples of the gas for analysis. Their pilots and accompanying observers returned with accounts of strange physical phenomena occurring within the nebula. There were planes of strong gravitational currents separated by regions of no attraction whatsoever. One of the ships was almost lost in a powerful eddy for which they had no name but which I would call a space warp. My only theory on this subject is that the nebula is so huge and its gasses so dense that various regions of superior density have enough concentrated mass to set up strong gravitational fields. As these masses exert pressure, expand, contract or attract each other they cause motion, as well, and probably a very complicated series of orbits is set up for multitudinous masses of gas, which change and change again. The result is that probably all the freak laws of Nature occur there, and it would be dangerous for a ship to go too near to the nebula or to attempt to pass through it. That’s why I want as much visual flight as I can get enroute to the planet, because in the darkness of super velocity I could go off course and end up too close to that dark colossus.”

Karg had been wandering among the star clusters with the telescope as Yiddir spoke. Now he turned and asked a question that brought Nad sharply to attention.

“Yiddir,” he said, “I was present when you first contacted us by sonophone, and I remember you told us that Man had a magnificent purpose to accomplish in the living flesh. You said this purpose had been hidden from us by the Navigators who had robbed us of memory, and that you could not reveal it to us until we had learned many more facts. Is it the proper time now to ask you what that purpose is?”

At this point, Yiddir, alone, noticed that Ron focused his eyes on him, and that there glimmered in him the faintest spark of interest for the first time since Yldra’s death.

“The answer to your question,” he said, “is a very vital one, but also the most problematical one that may be asked. I can’t answer you in one neat sentence. In fact, it may take me days, months, or even years to get the idea across to you, but if you’ll be patient I’ll start.”

He then began to approach the subject of Man’s duality, amazing them all with the concept of life beyond the flesh.

“Centuries and millennia ago, all this was so incomprehensible,” he continued, “that it was discussed on the basis of a blind and trusting faith. As science developed in its constant search for the truth, certain things could not very readily be reconciled with the old religious ideas and they were regarded merely as parables disguising, for a more ignorant mass of people, the real truths that science was after. So atheism developed, unfortunately, and Man retrogressed through rank materialism almost to the brink of sheer animalism, until the scientists, still valiantly searching, finally found the road to a seeing and a knowing faith in Man’s duality, by proving it, and by basing the new approach to godliness on the proof that nothing was supernatural—that even the next plane of existence was as physical as this. The discovery of sub-matter and second order phenomena led to the actual detection and even, in some cases, photographs, of Man’s sub-material self. Just as in the flesh we are formed in embryo and born into the corporeal plane of existence, so the sub-material, or ethereal Man, or spirit, as it was once called, is embryonic within the living human, until our grosser body disintegrates and releases the final entity of Man into the sub-material world which was once called Heaven, or the Hereafter, but which we know now is merely a vast universe composed of a finer matter.”

“But the purpose of our present existence—what is that? asked Nad.

Yiddir smiled. “I could talk for years,” he said, “but to make a long story short and go into the details later, I will tell you that there is one fundamental law behind all things, and failure to adhere to that law leads to disruption and unhappiness. That law says that there are two opposite forces—which may be called anything you like—active and passive, positive and negative, good and bad, construction and destruction. No matter where you look you find its manifestation: love and hate, man and woman, peace and war, happiness and despair. All is surge or vibration between these opposites. Without surge and striving between these extremes there would be no energy, hence no matter, or space, or time, or existence. And as Man is finite, so by this law may we positively deduce the Infinite, Man called God; not an arbitrary entity sitting somewhere on an ethereal throne, but the Incomprehensible Total of all sub-material energy, of which we are part and contributors.”

“But still I don’t see the great purpose of life,” protested Karg.

“That purpose,” said Yiddir, “is expansion, surge, or striving toward godliness, from finite to Infinite! No civilization that defies this principle of Natural Law can progress or stabilize itself at all!”

“But how can we progress toward this godliness?” asked Nad.

“We are doing it now,” said Yiddir. “In our self-denial and sacrifice to safeguard a potential future generation which must spring from you and Lylwani, we have advanced just that much out of our finite selves. Concentration upon self, alone, is merely a process of densifying and becoming infinitesimal even to the point of spiritual extinction.”

At this point, Ron buried his face in his hands. And Yiddir knew, at last, that he had driven his point home.

CHAPTER X

It required another week finally to eliminate their forward velocity. Yiddir handled the controls so expertly that they were without induced gravity for only a few seconds. Then acceleration took the place of deceleration and they were on their way at last toward their distant goal.

In the meantime, Yiddir and Karg both took note of Nad’s frequent use of the telescope. Instead of the expression of awe and wonderment that was always to be seen in Karg’s face when he used the instrument, Nad’s face reflected nothing but cold, grim determination. For hours, his narrowed, gray eyes searched the limitless vastness, and the other men knew he was not looking for new stars. At other times he watched the meteor detector, continually adjusting it for ultra-sensitivity, and yet they knew he was not trying to detect meteors. Then when the detection system failed momentarily owing to the intermittent short caused by the galactite, he would rush to the telescope and begin his vigil all over again.

Or at other times, Nad would try to be alone with Lylwani, awakening her personality slowly and painstakingly to a more complete awareness of their situation. At last she was completely rational, requiring only the continued process of education and training to bring her back to her former self.

Ron, too, showed some slow signs of progress, although he was still inarticulate. Sometimes Yiddir found him, too, at the telescope, and he reflected that curiosity was a sign of convalescence. He was even able to interest Ron in further training concerning space navigation.

Karg was all around handy man and dependable standby. He took complete charge of the converters and synthesized their food and water. Or at other times he would entertain them with his Martian querla, while Lylwani sang the songs he had taught her. Yiddir would sit silently meditating on the precarious future of a race of human beings that must originate from Nad and Lylwani—whom he considered in his mind as Adam and Eve.

* * * *

Such was their state of affairs when ultra-velocity was approaching again and Yiddir prepared to hurl them into the darkness that lies beyond the speed of light. They were two and a half light years from their goal.

As the stars began to fade slowly from view, Nad suddenly demanded a decrease of speed, for the sake of visibility. He had been at the telescope several hours.

“What’s the matter?” Yiddir asked him, and Karg and Lylwani crowded close to see.

Nad’s eye was at the eyepiece and he was silent for almost a minute.

“I lost it,” he said finally.

“Lost what?” Karg asked him.

Nad straightened up, his face slightly drawn with fatigue, and he brushed a mop of blond hair back from his forehead. “It might have been a meteor,” he said, “and yet its velocity seemed to be too great.”

Yiddir’s eyes narrowed. “In which direction was it traveling?”

Nad answered his look, significantly. “It was moving parallel to us and at about the same speed.”

“How far away?”

Nad shrugged. “Who can tell? The detectors can’t pick it up.”

Karg addressed both Yiddir and Nad. “You think it could be—”

“Sargon?” said Nad. “I don’t know.”

“Who is Sargon?” asked Lylwani.

Nad looked at her with deep affection. He put his arm around her and drew her close to him. “I hope you never find out,” he said.

That day their little ship hurled into the great darkness—an infinitesimal mote dwarfed into virtual nothingness by the towering enigma of the dark nebula.

* * * *

Nad could not sleep. He lay in his bunk wide awake and tried to remember how long they had been traveling in the darkness of super velocity. Days? Weeks? Such units of time were almost without meaning in this terrible endlessness, and there was a year or a year and a half to go. Sometimes he had felt that the whole structure of his personality was going to slump suddenly into a shapeless puddle, because all the reasons which formed the props under his mental stability were but arbitrary synthesis, like the food that came out of the converters. But in such precarious moments he supported himself on two pillars of reality: his love for Lylwani and his hatred and suspicion of Sargon.

Against his fear that Sargon might really be out there trailing them swiftly through the darkness was balanced by the grim hope that he was there—that someday they would meet again and that he could rid himself of his bitterness by throttling his enemy forever.

Abandoning his attempt to rest, he finally got up and went forward to keep Karg company in the control room. When he arrived, however, he found the room empty. He looked at the instruments and found them steady. However, the pilot light over the meteor indicator was out again, as it had been of late with dangerous frequency.

Reasoning that Karg had gone to the observation bridge aft, he sat down idly at Yiddir’s chart desk and puzzled over the star charts. Then he got up again and paced the room, a frown creasing his brow. Why was he so nervous? He tried to analyze himself. It was not just boredom. What was it?

Then he stopped dead still, eyes slowly widening with nameless apprehension. What was wrong?

The whole ship was too silent. He was accustomed to stillness out here in the void, but this was an absence of sound that pricked up the ears of instinct.

Swiftly, he went aft to look for Karg. The rear observation chamber was empty. He went to Yiddir’s cabin and found him unconscious in his bunk, but as he shook him Yiddir slowly came to.

“I can’t sleep,” Yiddir mumbled, “been awake for hours.”

“But you were unconscious!” said Nad. “You look like you’ve been knocked out. No color in your face at all!”

“You’re rather pale, yourself,” Yiddir replied, looking up at him curiously.

“Yiddir, something is wrong. I can’t find Karg anywhere!”

The old man got up and accompanied Nad on a hasty tour of inspection. At last they found Karg. He was lying on the floor before the main hatch airlock, face down, a Disruptor clutched in one band. His black hair was matted with blood.

Silently, both men bent over him and made a quick examination. With a frenzied effort, Nad turned his friend over to look at his face. Yiddir lifted one of Karg’s eyelids.

“He is dead,” he commented. “Someone Stun Rayed him and then hit him over the head. Nad,” he said, looking up gravely, “you and I were Stun Rayed while we slept.”

Nad rose slowly, gathering a great breath into his lungs. Then he shouted, “Lylwani!” And he ran toward her cabin before Yiddir could advise him that her absence from the ship was the only possible deduction.

Weighted down by an awareness of ultimate tragedy, he sought the control room. The darkened pilot light over the meteor indicator confirmed his worst suspicions.

“She’s gone! She’s gone!” he heard Nad shouting to him.

Ron came reeling into the control room, his face white from the effects of the Stun Ray. In his eyes was one obvious question as he looked at Yiddir.

Yiddir replied, “Yes. It’s happened. Sargon has struck at last, and Karg lost his life trying to oppose him.”

Nad became ill with fever. For days he lay in his bunk, unable to eat or sleep, his eyes staring widely out of an ever thinning face. Sometimes he would talk or shout, as though in delirium. Yiddir doctored him as best he could, force feeding him at intervals, while he permitted the ship to hurtle onward through the darkness.

Ron’s pale face remained absolutely expressionless, but a new purpose seemed to take hold of him. He, himself, manned the converters and took over most of Karg’s old duties. At other times he would watch Yiddir for hours, mutely waiting for him to speak. There was no need to state the great question before them now. It was self-evident.

Without Lylwani, their expedition was futile, so why go on? Yet, why try to overtake either section of the fleet again? To what purpose? Was there a purpose at all?

Ron seemed to have a purpose, and he appeared to be waiting for Yiddir to perceive it and confirm its validity. But time passed. Many weeks passed, and Yiddir remained as inarticulate as Ron. Ron knew he was waiting for Nad to recover.

CHAPTER XI

Finally, Nad did recover but he appeared to have no will to live. When Yiddir thought he was strong enough, he at last voiced Ron’s thoughts.

“There is only one thing we can do,” he said. “We must establish our base on the small planet as planned. From there we will attempt to find the system or systems I am really looking for. Once we have found a real group of worthwhile planets and established photographic proof of their existence, we will use our converted drivers and try to overtake the Government Fleet. We will contact only Nor E-I-M, of the flagship. With our proofs, if we obtain what I think we are going to find, the fleet will turn back.”

“I suppose you realize,” said Nad, dully, “that it will take us a few more years at the least to acquire the proofs you want. By that time, to overtake either part of the fleet, even with your converted drive would occupy half a lifetime, if one survived madness and the increased danger of meteors.”

“I admit that,” said Yiddir. “But what else have we three to live for?”

“Nothing. Sheer blank, nothing.”

“Then I suggest we adhere to the plan I have outlined.””

“All right,” Nad replied. “I hope we can all cling to our sanity in the meantime.”

Ron got to his feet and limped over to the control board. He examined the instruments with renewed interest…

* * * *

A year of darkness passed, during which time Yiddir began again to decelerate. This time he conditioned himself and the others to withstand a slowly increased deceleration rate until they were living under a very abnormal induced gravity. His object was to emerge from the velocity of darkness soon enough to leave a safe margin between them and the dark nebula.

But before they had quite emerged from the darkness, their meteor shield failed them once more, and this time a small meteor struck them squarely. The cryosite hull took the blow, but inertia resulting from their slight change of course came near to killing them. From that day forward, Yiddir’s health began to wane as the result of internal injuries.

Furthermore, it was discovered that as a result of the collision with the meteor the controls to the drivers were severed, and all they had left were their decelerators.

“It will be necessary for one of us to go outside in a spacesuit and inspect the damage to see if it can be repaired,” Yiddir said. “I believe I am physically incapable of going out there, and Ron’s bad foot may hinder him seriously. Moreover, I am not sure that he would be able to learn quickly enough what I’d have to teach him. Even if I did teach him, he would no doubt be terrorized by the experience. I’m afraid you’re the only one who could do the job, Nad. We still have several months’ time while we decelerate, but by that time those controls should be repaired, or I’m afraid I won’t be able to bring us safely in to our planet. I’ll have to begin instructing you at once concerning what you’re going to have to look for and possibly repair.”

There was nothing else to be done. For seemingly endless weeks Yiddir instructed Nad, while Ron took over almost all the duties on board. In the meantime the stars reappeared and the dark nebula was apparently so close that it formed one side of the whole universe. The sun of the one-planet solar system they sought was still a star, but of the brightest magnitude in their region of space. In the telescope they could discern the tiny pinpoint of light that was their planet, but only for a short period of time while it was in full phase.

The chief problem was to decelerate fast enough to escape falling within the inimical influence of the nebula. Yet in Yiddir’s condition no greater deceleration could be endured. In fact, Nad secretly decreased the deceleration rate sometimes when Yiddir fainted or dropped into fitful sleep. Inevitably, they came closer to the nebula than they had intended. Ron knew what was happening, because he had been a witness to Nad’s special adjustment of these controls. Strangely, he showed no fear of the consequences. He was Nad’s silent companion in all things now.

One day when Yiddir felt well enough to make observations he became greatly alarmed by their position. Already, some portions of the universe that had been plainly visible before were turning dim because they had penetrated the attenuated outer limits of the nebula.

“Nad, we can wait no longer,” he said. “You’ve got to go outside and see what you can do about those driver controls. Our course must be changed quickly or we will be at grips with unpredictable fields and extremes of gravity that may do us great harm or cause us to become lost irretrievably within the nebula.”

So Nad donned his suit, picked up his tools and instruments and entered the main airlock, while Ron stood tensely by, watching with widened eyes. But again Nad knew this was not fear. It was apprehension for his own safety. He waved at his brother reassuringly just as the outer door opened, exposing him to the vast Abyss. The rush of air out of the lock would have carried him into emptiness if it had not been for his magnetic traction produced by his shoes. Only then did he suddenly realize how alone he really was.

Before him, endless space yawned apathetically, coldly, and silence greater than he had ever known gripped him like the hand of Death. In spite of the grip maintained by his magnetic shoes, he had to struggle with giddiness and instinctive terror. Under Yiddir’s guidance over the sonophone extension that he dragged behind him, he moved aft along the dimly glistening hull, like a deep-sea diver in a bottomless ocean.

For two hours, Nad worked in the damaged area of the drivers, relaying his observations to Yiddir. He cut open hard cryosite channels to get at control conduits, bridged damaged gaps with his instruments and waited for Yiddir’s readings from the control panels inside.

Three times, Nad had to enter the ship and return to the outside, and thus another day passed, while they penetrated deeper into the nebula, and the stars became almost lost to sight. But now he was outside for the last time. This time he was finishing the job.

When Yiddir gave a cry of triumph and the drivers spit out a lightning blast in response to his controls, Nad knew his precarious work was done and he stood up, preparing to enter the ship again. Ron had entered a small observation dome in the center of the ship in an effort to watch Nad. From his position he could make out the dim outlines of the aft driver nacelles, and there he saw his brother trying to collect his tools, preparatory to re-entering the ship.

At that moment, a slight attenuation in the nebulous gas outside enabled Ron to discern something that was utterly incredible to him. Briefly he saw it, a great, shadowy outline that stood out clearly for one moment and then was gone again. A ship! A ship exactly like their own, drifting helplessly in the nebula!

Then he saw it again, this time much nearer. He could see its forward observation port, ablaze now with light, and a woman’s face appeared behind it, peering out at him.

“Lylwani!” he thought, his mind reeling with astonishment.

But he was given little time for speculation, because in the same instant he saw a grotesque figure move on the exterior of the other ship’s hull. Sargon, too, had come outside to effect repairs.

Just as the ships drifted within the influence of their mutual attraction, Nad straightened up and faced Sargon. Ron knew they were looking at each other and waiting for the two ships to come together. He also knew that Nad could not help seeing something else, something which must have made him go insane with rage and anguish. For just in the last brief moment of visibility, Lylwani could be seen very plainly in the observation port. In her arms was an infant child.

Ron saw both spacesuited figures lunge toward each other, each with a blinding white cryosite torch in his hand, and then the curtain of the nebula suddenly engulfed the scene.

* * * *

Suddenly, Ron darted forward as fast as his club foot would allow, and he was just in time to stay Yiddir’s hand at the controls. If the drivers had been activated, the other ship might have been lost forever, and if Nad had stepped across to it they would have lost him, also.

Yiddir had felt the impact of the other vessel, but as he could not see it from his location he had no idea what it was. Then, to his wonderment, Ron momentarily found his voice.

“S-Sargon!” he said, hoarsely, with an almost superhuman effort.

“Sargon!” Yiddir’s old eyes blazed with alarm.

Speech failing him again, Ron went through a frantic pantomime to show how the two vessels had come together and how Nad and Sargon had charged each other in mortal combat.

Hastily, Yiddir went to the central observation blister and tried to observe what was happening. But now the dark gases were too dense.

He could occasionally discern the shadowy outline of the other hull, plus a dim glow of light from the other observation port, but he could see nothing else. In fact, even that faded out as the two ships were carried into regions of maximum density.

He and Ron could only sit there and wait, well aware of the long pent-up emotions that were being unleashed out there in that precarious darkness. At any moment the nebula could throw them into a new spin and lose the other ship forever.

Yiddir asked Ron if he had seen any sign of Lylwani, and Ron nodded assent. He made a cradle of his arms and moved them back and forth, significantly.

“What!” Yiddir exclaimed. “She has a child?”

Again, Ron nodded affirmatively. Yiddir reflected that more than a year had passed since Lylwani’s abduction. Terror gripped his heart to think that she and the infant were so close in this infinite emptiness and that one lurch of the ship could lose them forever. His heart was with Nad, too, in his understanding of what his emotions must be. He could not begrudge him the rage and anguish that had hurled him against Sargon.

But what of the outcome? Suppose Sargon should win?

Just then there came to their ears the muffled sound of air compressors, and both of them knew that someone had entered the airlock. They ran to it without weighing the possible consequences.

There in the lock was a figure in a spacesuit, but they could not tell whether it was Nad or Sargon. As they watched, the figure dragged in behind it another figure clad in a spacesuit, and both observers felt their pulse surge with a new hope. This was either Sargon dragging Nad, or Nad dragging Sargon, and in either case they knew that Nad was still with them.

Hastily, Yiddir activated the valves and the outer door closed while air shot back into the lock. The figure outside opened the inner door before Yiddir could perform the service for him. At the same time, the standing figure helped the prone figure to its feet. Then the first figure opened its faceplate, and Sargon spoke too them, peremptorily.

“Help me with this suit, quick!” Whereupon he started to dismantle the other figure’s suit. Yiddir unscrewed the helmet and lifted it hastily, expecting to find Nad.

But there before him was the pale face of Lylwani! And he and Ron observed again in her eyes the childishness of a victim of the M-Ray.

“Baby!” she gasped, as she struggled in the depths of her suit, and Yiddir was alarmed to hear the muffled scream of an infant.

When he stripped off the top section, the small child came to light—its face almost blue from partial asphyxiation.

Ron helped Lylwani to a seat, while Yiddir stood there trying to contain himself. His mind staggered under the impact of the realization of what Sargon had done. Jealous of Lylwani’s newly acquired memory of Nad and love for him, Sargon had subjected her to the M-Ray, and then he had forced her to be his mate.

He turned on Sargon, his face red with rage. “You dirty, foul beast of Satan!” he exclaimed.

In their distraction with Lylwani and the child they had not seen Sargon extract an M-Ray from his spacesuit. He was half out of it now, and he stood there looking at them with a menacing scowl.

“You might as well take it this way,” he said. “We’re all in this together, and if we want to survive we’ll have to work together. I’ve been struggling with a disabled ship for months. Now it’s gone to God knows where in the nebula. It jerked loose just as I brought Lylwani over.”

“But what happened to Nad?” asked Yiddir. “Did you kill him and leave him outside?”

“Neither one,” replied Sargon, the shadow of a grim smile on his lips. “He lost pretty much air when I cracked his faceplate, but I think he’ll live, because I brought him inside.”

“Inside!” Yiddir’s eyes widened in horror, incredulous. “Inside what?”

“Inside the other ship.”

“You mean—” Yiddir staggered, fighting to keep from passing out.

“Yes,” snarled Sargon. “In the other ship out there lost in the nebula. If he manages to recover, he’ll find himself in a disabled ship, fully capable of supplying him with all the food and water and air he needs—but a drifting derelict.”

“But, good God! He’ll go mad!”

“It’s less than he deserves,” Sargon replied, divesting himself of the rest of his suit. “It’s just the way I wanted it. Killing was too good for him. I think he saw Lylwani and the child. I want him to spend a lot of time in absolute loneliness thinking about that. I hope he never goes mad. I hope he spends his whole life thinking about it!”

Just as Yiddir dropped to the floor, overcome by shock in his weakened condition, Ron lunged at Sargon’s legs and bore him to the floor. In a blind frenzy of hate, he sought the Martian’s throat. But Sargon landed a mighty rabbit punch on the back of his neck and he slumped into unconsciousness.

CHAPTER XII

It was Sargon who piloted the ship out of the nebula and plotted a straight course to the planet. When Yiddir felt better, Sargon had a talk with him.

“When my ship became disabled,” he said, “I had to abandon my original plans for returning to the fleet. I figured that if I could make it to the planet I was lucky. Well, I couldn’t make repairs in time to keep from tangling with the nebula, and I had about given up hope when I drifted into you. That was just unheard of luck! Wouldn’t have happened again in a million years!”

“Sargon,” said Yiddir, bitterly, “do you think that you will ever be able to really enjoy life again, knowing what you’ve done with Nad? You condemned him to that terrible fate at a time when your emotions were governing your reasoning, but later on, in your more sober moments of reflection, you may be haunted by the vision of him, a lonely madman drifting helplessly in the nebula.”

Sargon scowled. “He can always open the airlock,” he said. “I’d do it. It’s the easy way out. Besides, he may be dead anyway. He was out cold when I left him. But that’s all behind us now. What I’m concerned with is the future. To return to either section of the fleet, even with your converted drive, would take years. If it were just straight distance to cover we could make it much sooner, but both fleets are moving, too, much faster than light. Well, I’ve thought it all over a lot of times. I’ve weighed my possible rewards and advantages to be derived from returning to the arks against the terrible years of waiting through such a long journey. It’s not worth it, so it looks like the planet is the answer.”

Yiddir then carefully outlined his own ideas concerning further exploration. He emphasized the importance of notifying the Government Fleet, at any sacrifice, in the event such a discovery could be made.

“I am quite sure I have not long to live,” he continued. “So you will have to do it, Sargon. As a member of the human race, it is your duty to do it. Your own rebel section of the fleet might conceivably come back and try to invade any planets colonized by Government forces, and whether they might succeed in taking over or not would make little difference. What matters is the people. They must be given a chance. Once installed in a suitable natural environment, I have complete confidence that our species can outlive any form of dictatorial rule that can be imposed upon it. That has always been borne out to be true in the past and I don’t see why it shouldn’t be true in the future.”

“That’s neither here nor there,” replied Sargon impatiently. “As far as your idea about a better solar system is concerned, I think that’s a little imaginative. I was a first hand witness to previous explorations in this region, you know, and I can tell you there’s nothing out here but this one little planet. I’m not going to spend my time—”

Yiddir’s eyes flashed indignantly. He interrupted. “Have you any idea of who I really am?”

“Yes, I know. Yiddir E-5172-it was an alias.”

“And my real name is?”

“Korlon E-3-N. All right, so you used to be captain of the ark. But that was many years ago, and—”

“I was also something else!”

“So you were a famous scientist, too. But that’s not—”

Yiddir sat up in his bunk and grasped Sargon’s powerful arm. “Don’t you realize,” he argued, “that I was, even at the time of your exploration of this region, the most qualified astrophysicist on board? I had my own equipment which I had improved over your own. I know what I’m saying when I tell you there are other suns in this region which are favorable to our existence!”

“Suns, maybe, yes, but not planets. We’ve looked, and there aren’t any more.”

“Then let Ron go exploring, after you’ve settled. Promise me you’ll do at least that!”

Sargon laughed. “That coward! What could he do but shake to pieces with fright at the mere thought of being left alone in a space ship!”

Yiddir was too weak to argue further. But as the ship drew nearer to the small planet and he lay helplessly in his bunk, he was not at a loss for subjects upon which to meditate through the long hours.

* * * *

When the planet acquired a visible disk, Ron and even Lylwani became interested, although the latter was merely attracted to it because of its beautiful color and changing aspect. To Ron, however, it was fascinating because he knew how rare this planet was. He knew that it was on such a world that his ancestors had been born. As he observed its atmosphere, glowing like a silvery halo in the telescope, and as he saw its green jungles and smouldering young mountains and steaming oceans—he would often think of Yldra, who might have been there at his side, looking at all this for the first time. And then he would rescue his mind from vertigo by thinking of something outside the sphere of his personal emotions. The Government Fleet…he strove to keep his mind on that. The fleet, with its hundreds of thousands of people, moving outward, ever outward into vastness, searching vainly for a new home, for a natural way of life, for a means of survival…

Sargon effected a safe landing on a wild stretch of beach beside a primitive sea. Towering carboniferous forests loomed above them, and the bright sun shone hotly through a humid atmosphere. Gravitation was light, however, and it was a tremendous relief to everyone to be freed from the oppressive burden of deceleration. Even Yiddir felt well enough to give Sargon some assistance with the scientific problems connected with their emergence into this primitive world.

Air, water, solar radiations, samples of soil, fauna and flora—all had to be analyzed carefully. If Yiddir had not been able to help Sargon, certain mistakes might have been made which would have resulted in an early death for all of them. Very fortunately for them, the space ship’s cosmic energy converters were in good working condition, and they lived by synthesis as usual.

Inasmuch as the ship, designed to house a hundred Passengers, was roomy, self-sufficient, and impervious to the influences of their surroundings, Sargon could see no reason for building permanently on the ground. This was disappointing to Yiddir, because as long as Sargon and Lylwani and the child, Dirno, required the ship for a home, the possibilities of using it for further explorations were reduced proportionately. He had no hope of being able to make the exploratory trips himself, because he was virtually an invalid now. He tried occasionally to prevail upon Sargon to make an attempt to find the better solar system he knew existed in that region, but as Sargon procrastinated and time passed, the old man was finally forced to give up all hope of finding reasons for contacting either portion of the fleet. Here he would certainly die, and the little generation of brothers and sisters to be produced by Sargon and Lylwani would have to establish a new humanity here. In the meantime, Ron waited in silence—for what, no one knew, but he gave everybody the impression of patient waiting…?

CHAPTER XIII

A year passed, not without some progress. They explored and mapped most of the planet by air. They also found a new base, on a plateau overlooking a broad inland sea of fresh water. Here the jungle was less aggressive and the forms of animal life were less carnivorous and destructive. They could go about without spacesuits at last, and the change and outdoor exercise worked a great improvement on all of them except Yiddir, who was the victim of recurrent hemorrhages as a result of his old injuries.

Sargon had even begun to take interest in establishing a permanent base on the ground. He learned how to use lumber. When he needed other materials, such as metal, he had only to synthesize it in the converters. Base metallic stock could be melted, cast, forged, machined. In time, the foundations of a large building began to take shape, with Ron’s willing assistance. Lylwani busied herself quite happily with her small son, Dirno, while Yiddir sat often in the mild sunlight of late afternoons and watched her in unhappy reflection. He thought of another man whose companionship might have enriched her life a hundredfold. And then he would sigh and wish for death to overtake him…

* * * *

One day when all of them were eating together in the ship, Lylwani made a statement so startling that no one took another bite after she spoke. As she had done during her previous period of recovery from the M-Ray, she had also progressed this time to the point where she could think independently, at least as a child, and hold a simple conversation. As they sat discussing the small events of the day, some mention was made of Yiddir’s long white beard and Sargon’s bushy black one.

“But I like gold colored beards best,” she said, without preamble. She continued eating as though she had made the most casual remark in the world.

Sargon reacted first, perhaps ten seconds sooner than Yiddir or Ron. He lowered his fork and spoke to her.

“Where did you ever see such a beard?” he asked.

She looked up and smiled sweetly at him. “The man in the forest has one,” she said, innocently.

Sargon looked at Yiddir and saw his own thoughts reflected in the other’s faded eyes. He got to his feet.

“What man in the forest?”

Lylwani looked up, raising her eyebrows in surprise. “Oh, he’s a very wonderful man,” she said. “He is so kind to me and Dirno. He has such strange eyes, and his hair and beard are all made of gold.”

Sargon walked around the table and grasped her by the arm. “Where did you see this man?” he demanded.

Lylwani began to cry. She disliked and could never understand Sargon’s toughness.

“Just a minute!” Yiddir interrupted. “If you want any information, leave her to me. You’ll get nothing out of her by frightening her.”

Sargon knew that Lylwani was very fond of Yiddir. In any other circumstance he would have bullied her, jealously asserting his assumed prerogatives as father of her child, but now he gave in and stepped aside. He sat down at the table again and watched her intently as Yiddir questioned her and Ron watched the proceedings and listened with a pale, tense look of desperation.

“Lylwani,” said Yiddir, gently, “please help us. We want to know your man with the golden beard, too. It must be a very wonderful sight. Won’t you tell us more about him?

Finally, Lylwani complied. She related how he had first contacted her several weeks before. Ron had built a little summer-house for her and the child, where she could rest and enjoy the fresh air and be shielded from the hot sunlight. It was some distance removed from the ship, but in plain view, except that it blocked from view a patch of jungle immediately behind it.

One day, she told them, the golden bearded man had come to her from the jungle. He had called her by her name and spoken very nicely to her and played with Dirno. Then, when Sargon had approached the place, he had seemed angry and had gone back into the jungle. Three times he had come to see her. Yes, she confirmed, he had worn clothing, but it was very ragged, and he carried no weapons with him.

“He shouldn’t be afraid of us, should he?” she asked. “Why can’t we invite him to stay with us?”

“Man! Man!” gurgled Dirno, happily.

“You see!” Lylwani smiled. “Dirno knows who we mean. He wants him, too. Why don’t you bring him here?”

“Yes,” said Sargon, with a mirthless grin, “I think we should bring the man here…”

* * * *

That afternoon and all the next day Sargon roamed the jungle with two Disruptors, but he did not go too far astray. Frequently he would seek out a place where he could look back at the plateau where the ship was. Then he would stalk his intended quarry again.

Finally, hunger drove him back to the ship that night. He was surprised to find that Ron was absent, because Ron had evidenced a marked fear of the forest with its mysterious denizens. When Ron finally returned, he gave every evidence, by his extreme exhaustion and torn clothing, of having been on the same quest all day.

In his hand he carried a Stun Ray. Sargon’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. There was no necessity for anyone to say anything. It was tacitly understood that a simple sort of primordial law had set in, and the outcome of each individual’s efforts now was in the hands of fate. The stakes were grimly vital.

The next morning, however, Ron could not find the Stun Ray. In the whole ship neither he nor Yiddir could find a single hand weapon.

“Sargon must have concealed them last night,” said Yiddir at last.

For answer, Ron started off empty handed toward the jungle.

“Ron!” Yiddir called, helpless to follow. “Come back!”

But Ron did not stop, and soon his limping figure was lost to view in the deep shadow of the towering trees.

“Are they looking for the golden man?” asked Lylwani, innocently.

Yiddir put his arm around her, affectionately. “Yes, Lylwani,” he answered.

“Oh I hope they find him. I hope he comes back again!” she said.

“Yes. I hope he comes back…

CHAPTER XIV

By noon that day, Sargon discovered the other ship. There was every sign that its pilot had taken great pains to conceal it. It lay in a deep gulley, half covered with fallen vines and trees that had been burned down with the ship’s Disruptor cannons.

Without the slightest hesitation, Sargon set his Disruptors to maximum and fired at the ship. Time after time he fired, while explosions rocked the ground and the ship became a white inferno of dissolution.

Then he ran, fearing that he might have failed to destroy one or more of the reactors. Disrupted by the heat and explosions, unbalanced reaction might set in and they would blow, which was what he really wanted. A full atomic blast would clean out the last vestige of this thing he hated and perhaps its pilot as well, if he were lurking somewhere within half a mile.

Eyes wide with the excitement of mingled triumph and awareness of mortal danger, he ran through the jungle like a madman. Once he dropped a Disruptor and it fell between mighty tree roots into some recess that he could not reach. There was no time to look for it. He ran onward, never daring to stop.

When he had traversed a good mile and a half of the jungle, the reactors blew. In one brief instant everything stood out in blinding contrast, illuminated by a flash of intense light that came near to blinding him. Then came a sound that he felt more than heard because he was momentarily deafened by it. He groveled under a great fallen tree as the shock wave followed.

Giant trees crashed all about him and debris flew with the velocity of a hurricane. The jungle life set up one huge din, a roar and shrieking and bleating of abject terror.

He got to his feet and ran again, stumbling and picking himself up and running again, to get out of the area which he knew would soon be blighted by radioactive dust.

Close to the clearing where his own ship lay, he stumbled again, momentarily losing his grip on his one remaining Disruptor. As he lay there, panting, looking at the deadly weapon just three feet from him, he heard a crashing in the underbrush ahead. Then there stepped into his view, not twenty feet away, a man with golden blond hair and a year’s growth of blond beard. A pair of gray eyes looked at him out of shadows that had never been there before—shadows of terror and near madness, filled with haunting memories of secret things that no other man had ever seen. It seemed to Sargon in that moment that this unarmed, half naked mortal enemy of his was looking at him from out of the grave. His body was full and hardened, in apparently excellent condition, but it was the look in his eyes that made Sargon lunge toward his Disruptor.

Just then a body hurtled over his head and Ron fell flat on the Disruptor, clutching it so tightly in his arms that Sargon could not dislodge him in time. He sprang to his feet just in time to receive a blow from the bearded one that sent him staggering off balance into the bushes.

When he could see clearly again, he saw Ron hand the Disruptor to Nad. Nad only stood there looking at Sargon with his death-haunted eyes, while Sargon’s flesh crept and he sweated.

“You left me without weapons,” said Nad, in a toneless voice. “Even if I had chosen suicide—which I did not!” His gray eyes blazed. “I could only have chosen the Abyss. That’s the way you wanted it, wasn’t it? There are no weapons at your ship, either. You seem to enjoy holding all the cards, don’t you, Sargon?”

A deathly stillness ensued, while Nad just stood there looking at him.

“How—how did you—” Sargon stammered.

“How did I survive?” Nad finished the sentence for him. “How did I repair the ship? Thanks to Yiddir’s patient instructions, I know more about what was wrong than you did. But a lot has happened since then. Before emerging from the nebula I was drawn to its center, where I made an amazing discovery, thanks to you. I found…” He paused, looking at Sargon with cold deliberation. “But you’re never going to see it, so why should I tell you? Get on your feet!”

Sargon scrambled to his feet. “All right, you’ve won!” he shouted, white with fear. “Take everything! Take the ship! Take Lylwani and Dirno, but don’t shoot me in cold blood!”

Suddenly, Nad looked down at the Disruptor as though he had forgotten it was in his hands. Then, to Ron’s amazement, he threw it away with all his might, and it became lost in impenetrable undergrowth.

“This is what I have waited for—and dreamed of—during all the time I spent—out there.” He started toward Sargon. “I’ve got to do it with my bare hands!” he yelled, and he charged.

Sargon’s confidence returned when he saw the Disruptor fly over the bushes, and in the same instant he knew this was what he wanted, too. With a fierce shout of triumph, he met Nad’s charge…

Ron stood motionlessly to one side, watching them. He knew that this was inevitable. He also knew, somehow, that Nad preferred to die rather than accept outside help, even if Ron had been able to give it. Nor was it a matter of principle, it was a life-consuming hate that could only be expended in one way. Ron knew he had to leave both of them alone. He knew that if Sargon killed Nad he would have to stand there and watch him die.

As he watched, what he witnessed sickened him so that he felt faint. His legs failed him and he sat down. He did not know how two human bodies could take such punishment and still keep on struggling. The towering, pristine jungle held them as though in its lap, like some primitive god, understanding its children who obeyed the earliest law ever written—that which rules all the forces of construction and destruction, of love and hate, of survival and death…

It lasted about fifteen minutes. Nad dragged himself, somehow, off of Sargon’s prostrate body and stood up. He groped, as one blind, took two steps, and then fell on his face. Ron struggled with him and finally got him on his feet again. As he left the small clearing, he looked back at Sargon and shuddered. There was no doubt that Sargon was absolutely dead…

* * * *

So it was that Nad returned out of virtual limbo. He and Ron and Yiddir, with Lylwani and the small son of Sargon, left the small planet behind them—a planet that was still too young to receive them and too small to support the potential expansion of a new human race.

Nad piloted the ship back to the nebula and plunged directly into its weird darkness. He refused to tell even Yiddir what he had found, except to say that it was definitely the end of their search. There was a tense time of waiting, during which they struggled with the freak gravitational fields and ether warps within the nebula.

Then, suddenly, they burst into the tremendous interior, and Yiddir’s heart leapt in exultation. For there it was, the solar system he had detected—a more spectacular and beautiful system than he could have imagined in his most optimistic dreams. Ron and Lylwani joined him in wonderment and awe.

Four white suns filled that tremendous chamber with a light that was sheer heavenly splendor. They formed the center of a system which possessed at least eight major planets, five minor ones and a decorative host of thousands of planetoids and satellites. None of them showed distinct phases, because the sunlight seemed to be everywhere. On the “night side” of the various planets there was only a silvery twilight.

The world Nad had chosen was the fourth minor planet. It was roughly nine thousand miles in diameter and possessed about one-sixth land area and five-sixths water area. Yiddir knew even before he analyzed it that the atmosphere was healthful.

They landed by a broad river, just above a great waterfall, on a plateau that overlooked green jungle and a broad, blue ocean. At that altitude, the jungle had given way to mighty forests of coniferous trees, interspersed with great, rolling green prairie-lands that swept gently away and upward to snow-capped mountains.

“This is Paradise,” said Yiddir. “Thank God I’ve lived to see it!”

Two years passed, during which Yiddir’s life faded slowly away and new life took his place, for to Lylwani was born a baby girl, whom they named Yldra. The boy, Dirno, and his step-sister, Yldra, throve in their healthful environment as though their race had been indigenous to it. Lylwani made rapid recovery and happily accepted Nad as her man, forever.

Ron seemed to be the only one who was not content to adjust himself. He worked harder than anyone else to establish a permanent base on the ground. A sturdy house of wood and steel took shape. Storehouses, workshops and sheds followed. Out of the ship’s converters came metal, which was processed, forged and machined—under Yiddir’s occasional supervision. New hand weapons were made, and the Disruptor cannons were transferred to permanent installations on the ground, as a source of nuclear energy. And at last certain plants and animals were domesticated. The foundation for a natural adjustment to the new world was finally set.

It was when Yiddir finally lay on his death bed that his ultimate wish was expressed.

“Your little beginning here,” he said to Nad and Lylwani, “will require a millennium to bear substantial fruit. I regret very much that neither part of our divided fleet may ever know of this paradise you have discovered. By now the rebel fleet should be more than half way to its goal, and there is no one who can turn their course to this place. I wish they might be turned back before they invade those other planets. Even if they are rebels, all the Passengers should certainly be considered. They should be given a chance. Dictatorial governments come and go, but humanity goes on forever.

“Still, if there were a choice to be made, I’d prefer to notify the Fleet Government. The rebels have some sort of chance on those other worlds, if they survive the conflict, but the other arks are only plunging ever more deeply into the Unknown. I can understand why it is impossible for you, Nad, to go. It would take more than half a lifetime to catch up with them now, even with the converted drivers. Still, it is sad to think that Dirno and Yldra, your children, will find themselves alone in this great solar system after you are gone.”

Yiddir’s dimming eyes did not fail to notice that Ron was standing in the background, listening intently. “If you ever could contact the Government Fleet,” he said, “it would be worth more than life, itself. I’d try to locate Nor E-I-M, because he is the only person I can think of who might possibly be able to defend this place against the rebels, should they ever come back here exploring. There are some among their number who suspected the existence of this place more than they cared to admit to their companions.”

Nad thought silently for a long while, and Yiddir smiled inwardly when he observed that Ron had disappeared.

“I could leave Ron with Lylwani,” Nad said, finally.

Yiddir laid his withered hand on his arm. “It would take years, Nad. Years. Your children would be grown to adulthood before you reached the arks.”

A ripple of muscles appeared along Nad’s jaws. “But it must be done!” he exclaimed.

Just then, he heard a roar of rockets outside, accompanied by an unmistakable “swoosh!” He tried to jump to his feet, but Yiddir held him.

“Relax, Nad!” exclaimed Yiddir. “I knew it was going to happen. This is what he has been waiting for. It took great courage, but he has found that in full measure at last.”

Nad glared at him. “What do you mean?”

“Ron,” said Yiddir, with his last breath, “has gone to find Nor—to bring back the Government Fleet. A poor, misguided coward with a club foot, who fought his cowardice and failed, only to lose Yldra, whom he loved perhaps in a way and with a depth of feeling which we could never understand. And finally the shock of that loss has made of him such a hero that his name may shine through all the pages of Man’s future history—if he succeeds…”

CHAPTER XV

When Dirno was seventeen years old, Nad and Lylwani had almost forgotten the strange and all but hopeless mission of Ron. There were three more children, two boys and a girl. All the elements of their natural environment had combined to assist their adaptation to normal life, and their parents found the afternoon of their existence to be the fulfillment of human desire—except for infrequently recurrent memories that sometimes haunted Nad in his deeper moments of reflection.

Sometimes in the still hours of the night when Lylwani lay sleeping beside him, his mind would still wander out beyond the stupendous, black walls of the nebula and try to find his lost brother, Ron. He would quail at the thought of the other’s loneliness, riding the star-roads outward toward the edge of the galaxy, searching for an invisible fleet. Logic told him that Ron had failed, that in using the ultra-velocity available from the converted drivers he had made himself the victim of meteors—or that a lifetime of terrible loneliness had robbed him at last of his sanity. Sometimes he would dream that Ron was a white-haired maniac, whose star-blinded eyes stared at him from afar out of the Abyss, and he would awake with a start…

* * * *

Nor E-I-M was a man in his early seventies, still straight of limb and of an alert, military manner. His distinguishing mane of gray hair was vigorous and thick, and his blue eyes reflected a brightness of mind that had defied the years. For one week he and his medical staff had worked on the stranger from the Abyss. Under special second order type rays of his own devising, he had thrown the man’s conscious mind into a restful coma, and his nervous system was subjected to a complete reenergizing process. When they brought him back to consciousness, he was able to talk, haltingly, but effectively. He told them of a hidden paradise lying within the depths of the dark nebula, and of Yiddir and Nad and Sargon and Lylwani and the children and the rebel fleet.

“Of course you may think me insane,” said Ron, wearily.

“On the contrary,” Nor smiled. “I know this Yiddir of whom you speak, and I am quite sure the discovery you mention was actually made. In fact, we are going to return to the nebula. We may require another generation of time to reach it, but we will get there. If the rebel fleet has returned there and established a dictatorial government, we will overcome that government…”

“But they have the M-Ray,” Ron reminded him.

“And I have, at long last, finally perfected an effective screen against it—plus a lot more,” Nor told him, calmly.

“You!” Ron’s eyes widened. “But only Yiddir’s son—”

Nor smiled again. “This Yiddir you speak of,” he said, “was in reality Korlon E-3-N. I know, because he was my father…”

THE SMALLEST GOD, by Lester del Rey

I

Dr. Arlington Brugh led his visitor around a jumble of machinery that made sense only to himself, and through a maze of tables and junk that occupied most of his laboratory.

“It’s a little disordered just now,” he apologized, glad that his assistant had been able to clear up the worst of the mess. “Sort of gets that way after a long experiment.”

Herr Dr. Ernst Meyer nodded heavy agreement. “Ja, so. Und mit all dis matchinery, no vunder. It gives yet no goot place v’ere I can mit comfort vork, also in mine own laboradory. Und v’at haff ve here?”

“That’s Hermes—my mascot.” Brugh picked up the little, hollow rubber figure of the god Hermes; Mercury, the Romans called him. “The day I bought him for my daughter, the funds for my cyclotron were voted on favorably, so I’ve kept him here. Just a little superstition.”

Meyer shook his head. “Nein. I mean here.” He tapped a heavy lead chest bearing a large Keep Out label. “Is maybe v’at you make?”

“That’s right.” The physical chemist pulled up the heavy cover and displayed a few dirty crystals in a small compartment and a thick, tarry goo that filled a half-liter beaker. “Those are my latest success and my first failure. By the way, have you seen Dr. Hodges over in the biochemistry department?”

“Ja. Vonderful vork he makes yet, nicht wahr ?”

“Umm. Opinions differ. I’ll admit he did a good job in growing that synthetic amoeba, and the worm he made in his chemical bath wasn’t so bad, though I never did know whether it was really alive or not. Maybe you read about it? But he didn’t stick to simple things until he mastered his technique. He had to go rambling off trying to create a synthetic man.”

Meyer’s rough face gleamed. “Ja, so. Dot is hübsch—nice. Mit veins und muschles. Only it is not mit life upfilled.”

Brugh sifted a few of the crystals in the chest out onto a watch glass where they could be inspected more carefully. Then he put them into an opened drawer and closed it until the crystals were in a much dimmer light. In the semidarkness, a faint gleam was visible, hovering over the watch glass.

“Radioactive,” he explained. “There is the reason Hodges’ man isn’t filled with life. If there had been some of this in his chemical bath when he was growing Anthropos—that’s what he calls the thing—it would be walking around today. But you can’t expect a biochemist to know that, of course. They don’t keep up with the latest developments the way the physical chemists do. Most of them aren’t aware of the fact that the atom can be cracked up into a different kind of atom by using Bertha.”

“Bert’a? Maybe she is die daughter?”

Brugh grinned. “Bertha’s the cyclotron over there. The boys started calling her Big Bertha, and then we just named her Bertha for short.” He swung around to indicate the great mass of metal that filled one end of the room. “That’s a lot of material to make so few crystals of radioactive potassium chloride, though.”

“Ach, so. Den it is das radioagdivated salt dot vould give life to der synt’etic man, eh?”

“Right. We’re beginning to believe that life is a combination of electricity and radioactivity, and the basis of the last seems to be this active potassium we’ve produced by bombarding the ordinary form with neutrons. Put that in Anthropos and he’d be bouncing around for his meals in a week.”

Meyer succeeded in guessing the meaning of the last and cocked up a bushy eyebrow. “Den v’y not das salt to der man give?”

“And have Hodges hog all the glory again? Not a chance.” He banged his hand on the chest for emphasis, and the six-inch figure of Hermes bounced from its precarious perch and took off for the watch glass. Brugh grabbed frantically and caught it just before it hit. “Someday I’ll stuff this thing with something heavy enough to hold it down.”

The German looked at the statue with faint interest, then pointed to the gummy mess in the beaker. “Und dis?”

“That’s a failure. Someday I might analyze a little of it, but it’s too hard to get the stuff out of that tar, and probably not worth a quarter of the energy. Seems to be a little of everything in it, including potassium, and it’s fairly radioactive, but all it’s good for is—well, to stuff Hermes so he can’t go bouncing around.”

Brugh propped the little white figure against a ring stand and drew out the beaker, gouging out a chunk of the varicolored tar. He plopped it into a container and poured methyl alcohol over it, working with a glass rod until it was reasonably plastic. “Darned stuff gets soft, but it won’t dissolve,” he grumbled.

Meyer stood back, looking on, shaking his head gently. Americans were naturally crazy, but he hadn’t expected such foolishness from so distinguished a research man as Dr. Brugh. In his own laboratory, he’d have spent the next two years, if necessary, in finding out what the tar was, instead of wasting it to stuff a cheap rubber cast of a statue.

“Dis Herr Dr. Hodges, you don’t like him, I t’ink. Warum ?”

Brugh was spooning the dough into his statue, forcing it into the tiny mouth and packing it in loosely. “Hodges wanted a new tank for his life-culture experiments when I was trying to get the cyclotron and the cloud chamber. I had to dig up the old antivivisection howl among the students’ parents to keep him from getting it, and he thought it was a dirty trick. Maybe it was; anyway, he’s been trying ever since to get me kicked out, and switch the appropriations over to this department. By the way, I’d hate to have word of this get around.”

“Aber—andivifisegtion!” Meyer was faintly horrified at such an unscientific thing.

Brugh nodded. “I know. But I wanted that cyclotron, and I got it; I’d do worse. There, Hermes won’t go flying around again. Anything else I can show you, Dr. Meyer?”

“Tank you, no. Der clock is late now, und I must cadge my train by die hour. It has a bleasure been, Dr. Brugh.”

“Not at all.” Brugh set the statue on a table and went out with the German, leaving Hermes in sole possession of the laboratory, except for the cat.

II

The clock in the laboratory said four o’clock in the morning. Its hum and the gentle breathing of the cat, that exercised its special privileges by sleeping on the cyclotron, were the only noises to be heard. Up on the table Hermes stood quietly, just as Dr. Brugh had left him, a little white rubber figure outlined in the light that shone through from the outside. A very ordinary little statue he looked.

But inside, where the tar had been placed, something was stirring gently. Faintly and low at first, life began to quiver. Consciousness began to come slowly, and then a dim and hazy feeling of individuality. He was different in being a unit not directly connected in consciousness with the dim outlines of the laboratory.

What, where, when, who, why, and how? Hermes knew none of the answers, and the questions were only vague and hazy in his mind, but the desire to know and to understand was growing. He took in the laboratory slowly through the hole that formed his partly open mouth and let the light stream in against the resinous matter inside. At first, only a blur was visible, but as his “eyes” grew more proficient from experience, he made out separate shapes. He had no names for them, but he recognized the difference between a round tube and a square tabletop.

The motion of the second hand caught his attention, and he studied the clock carefully, but could make no sense to it. Apparently some things moved and others didn’t. What little he could see of himself didn’t, even when he made a clumsy attempt at forcing motion into his outthrust arm. It took longer to notice the faint breathing of the cat; then he noticed it not only moved, but did so in an irregular fashion. He strained toward it, and something clicked in his mind.

Tabby was dreaming, but Hermes couldn’t know that, nor understand from whence came the pictures that seemed to flash across his gummy brain; Tabby didn’t understand dreams, either. But the little god could see some tiny creature that went scurrying rapidly across the floor, and a much-distorted picture of Tabby following it. Tabby had a definitely exaggerated idea of herself. Now the little running figure began to grow until it was twice the size of the cat, and its appearance altered. It made harsh explosive noises and beat a thick tail stiffly. Tabby’s picture made a noise and fled, but the other followed quickly and a wide mouth opened. Tabby woke up, and the pictures disappeared. Hermes could make no sense of them, though it was plain in Tabby’s mind that such things often happened when her head turned black inside.

But the cat awake was even more interesting than she was sleeping. There were the largest groups of loosely classified odors, sights, and sensations to be absorbed, the nicest memories of moving about and exploring the laboratory. Through Tabby’s eyes he saw the part of the laboratory that was concealed from him, and much of the outside in the near neighborhood. He also drew a hazy picture of himself being filled, but it made no sense to him, though he gathered from the cat’s mind that the huge monster holding him was to be both despised and respected, and was, all in all, a very powerful person.

By now his intelligence was great enough to recognize that the world seen through the cat’s eyes was in many ways wrong. For one thing, everything was in shades of white and black, with medial grays, while he had already seen that there were several colors. Hermes decided that he needed another point of view, though the cat had served admirably to start his mind on the way to some understanding of the world about him.

A low howling sound came from outside the laboratory, and Hermes recoiled mentally, drawing a picture of a huge and ferocious beast from his secondhand cat’s memory. Then curiosity urged him to explore. If the cat’s color sense was faulty, perhaps her ideas on the subject of dogs were also wrong. He thrust his mind out toward the source of the sound, and again there was the little click that indicated a bridge between two minds.

He liked the dog much better than the cat. There was more to be learned here, and the animal had some faint understanding of a great many mysteries which had never interested Tabby. Hermes also found that hard, selfish emotions were not the only kind. On the whole, the mind of Shep seemed warm and glowing after the frigid self-interest of Tabby.

First in the dog’s mind, as in all others, was the thought of self, but close behind was mistress and master, the same person whom the cat’s mind had pictured filling the god. And there were the two little missies. Something about the dog’s mental image of one of them aroused an odd sensation in the little god, but it was too confused to be of any definite interest.

But the dog retained hazy ideas of words as a means of thought, and Hermes seized on them gratefully. He gathered that men used them as a medium of thought conveyance, and filed the sixty partly understood words of Shep’s vocabulary carefully away. There were others with tantalizing possibilities, but they were vague.

Shep’s world was much wider than that of Tabby, and his general impression of color—for dogs do see colors—was much better. The world became a fascinating place as he pictured it, and Hermes longed for the mysterious power of mobility that made wide explorations possible. He tried to glean the secret, but all that Shep knew on the subject was that movement followed desire, and sometimes came without any wish.

The god came to the conclusion that in all the world the only animals that could satisfy his curiosity were men. His mind was still too young to be bothered with such trifles as modesty, and he was quite sure there could be no animal with a better intelligence than he had. The dog couldn’t even read thoughts, and Hermes had doubts about man’s ability to do the same; otherwise, why should the master have punished Shep for fighting, when the other dog had clearly started it?

And if he hadn’t, Shep would have been home, instead of skulking around this place, where he sometimes came to meet the master after work.

Hermes tried to locate a man’s mind, but there was none near. He caught a vague eddy of jumbled thought waves from someone who was evidently located there to guard the building, but there was a definite limit to the space that thought could span.

The cat’s brain had gone black inside again, with only fitful images flickering on and off, and the dog was drifting into a similar state. Hermes studied the action with keen interest and decided that sleep might be a very fine way of passing the time until a man came back to the laboratory, as he gathered they did every time some big light shone from somewhere high up above.

But as he concentrated on the matter of turning off his mind, he wondered again what he was. Certainly neither a dog nor a cat, he had no real belief that he was a man; the dog didn’t know about him, but the cat regarded him as a stone. Maybe he was one, if stones ever came to life. Anyway, he’d find out in the morning when the master came in. Until then he forced thoughts from his mind and succeeded in simulating sleep.

III

A strange noise wakened Hermes in the morning. From what he had seen in Shep’s mind, he knew it was the sound of human speech, and listened intently. The people were talking at a point behind him, but he was sure it was the master and one of the little missies. He tuned his mind in on that of the master and began soaking up impressions.

“I wish you’d stay away from young Thomas,” Dr. Brugh was saying. “I think he’s the nephew of Hodges, though he won’t admit it. Your mother doesn’t like him either, Tanya.”

Tanya laughed softly at her father’s suspicions, and Hermes felt a glow all over. It was a lovely sound. “You never like my boyfriends,” she said. “I think you want me to grow up into an old-maid schoolmarm. Johnny’s a nice boy. To hear you talk, a person would think Hodges and his whole family were ogres.”

“Maybe they are.” But Brugh knew better than to argue with his older daughter; she always won, just as her mother always did. “Hodges tried to swindle me out of my appropriations again at the meeting last night. He’d like to see me ruined.”

“And you swindled him out of his tanks. Suppose I proved to the president who sent those anonymous vivisection letters to all the parents?”

Brugh looked around hastily, but there was no one listening. “Are you trying to blackmail me, Tanya?”

She laughed again at his attempt at anger. “You know I won’t tell a soul. ’Bye, Dad. I’m going swimming with Johnny.” Hermes felt a light kiss through Brugh’s senses, and saw her start around the table to pass in front of him. He snapped the connection with the master’s mind and prepared his own eyes for confirmation of what he had seen by telepathy.

Tanya was a vision of life and loveliness. In the fleeting second it took for her to cross the little god’s range of sight, he took in the soft, waving brown hair, the dark, sparkling eyes, and the dimple that lurked in the corner of her mouth, and something happened to Hermes. As yet he had no word for it, but it was pure sensation that sped through every atom of his synthetic soul. He began to appreciate that life was something more than the satisfaction of curiosity.

A sound from Brugh, who was puttering around with a cloudy precipitate, snapped him back to reality. The questions in his mind still needed answering, and the physicist was the logical one to answer them. Again he made contact with the other’s mind.

This was infinitely richer than the dog’s and cat’s combined. For one thing, there was a seemingly inexhaustible supply of word thoughts to be gleaned. As he absorbed them, thinking became easier, and the words provided a framework for abstractions, something utterly beyond the bounds of the animal minds. For half an hour he studied them, and absorbed the details of human life gradually.

Then he set about finding the reasons for his own life; that necessitated learning the whole field of physical chemistry, which occupied another half hour, and when he had finished, he began putting the knowledge he had gleaned together, until it made sense.

All life, he had found, was probably electricity and radioactivity, the latter supplied by means of a tiny amount of potassium in the human body. But life was really more than that. There were actions and interactions between the two things that had thus far baffled all students. Some of them baffled the rubber god, but he puzzled the general picture out to his own satisfaction.

When the experiment had gone wrong and created the tarry lump that formed the real life of Hermes, there had been a myriad compounds and odd arrangements of atom formed in it, and the tarry gum around them had acted as a medium for their operation. Then, when they were slightly softened by the addition of alcohol, they had begun to work, arranging and rearranging themselves into an interacting pattern that was roughly parallel to human life and thought.

But there were differences. For one thing, he could read thoughts accurately, and for another, he had a sense of perception which could analyze matter directly from its vibrations. For another, what he called sight and sound were merely other vibrations, acting directly on his life substance instead of by means of local sensory organs. He realized suddenly that he could see with his mouth instead of his eyes, and hear all over. Only the rubber casing prevented him from a full 360° vision. But, because of the minds he had tapped, he had learned to interpret those vibrations in a more or less conventional pattern.

Hermes analyzed the amount of radioactive potassium in Brugh’s body carefully and compared it with his own. There was a great difference, which probably accounted for his more fully developed powers. Something ached vaguely inside him, and he felt giddy. He turned away from his carefully ordered thoughts to inspect this new sensation.

The alcohol inside him was drying out—almost gone, in fact, and his tarry interior was growing thicker. He’d have to do something about it.

“Dr. Brugh,” he thought, fixing his attention on the other, “could I have some alcohol, please? My thoughts will be slowed even below human level if I can’t have some soon.”

Arlington Brugh shook his head to clear it of a sudden buzz, but he had not understood. Hermes tried again, using all the remaining thought power he could muster.

“This is Hermes, Dr. Brugh. You brought me to life, and I want some alcohol, please!”

Brugh heard this time, and swung suspiciously toward the end of the room, where his assistant was working. But the young man was engaged in his work, and showed no sign of having spoken or heard. Hermes repeated his request, squeezing out his fast failing energy, and the master jerked quickly, turning his eyes slowly around the room. Again Hermes tried, and the other twitched.

Brugh grabbed for his hat and addressed the assistant. “Bill, I’m going for a little walk to clear my head. The session last night seems to have put funny ideas in it.” He paused. “Oh, better toss that little rubber statue into the can for the junkman. It’s beginning to get on my nerves.”

He turned sharply and walked out of the room. Hermes felt the rough hands of the assistant, and felt himself falling. But his senses were leaving him, drained by the loss of alcohol and the strain of forcing his mind on the master. He sank heavily into the trash can and his mind grew blank.

IV

A splatter of wetness against Hermes’ mouth brought him back to consciousness, and he saw a few drops fall near him from a broken bottle that was tipped sidewise. Occasionally one found its way through his mouth, and he soaked it up greedily. Little as he got, the alcohol still had been enough to start his dormant life into renewed activity.

There was a pitch and sway to the rubbish on which he lay, and a rumbling noise came from in front of him. Out of the corner of his “eye” he saw a line of poles running by, and knew he was on something that moved. Momentarily he tapped the mind of the driver and found he was on a truck bound for the city dump, where all garbage was disposed of. But he felt no desire to use the little energy he had in mind reading, so he fell back to studying the small supply of liquid left in the bottle.

There was an irregular trickle now, running down only a few inches from him. He studied the situation carefully, noting that the bottle was well anchored to its spot, while he was poised precariously on a little mound of rubbish. One of Newton’s laws of momentum flashed through his mind from the mass of information he had learned through Brugh; if the truck were to speed up, he would be thrown backward, directly under the stream trickling down from the bottle—and with luck he might land face up.

Hermes summoned his energy and directed a wordless desire for speed toward the driver. The man’s foot came down slowly on the accelerator, but too slowly. Hermes tried again, and suddenly felt himself pitched backward—to land face down! Then a squeal of brakes reached his ears, as the driver counteracted his sudden speed, and the smallest god found himself rolling over, directly under the stream.

There were only a few teaspoons left, splashing out irregularly as the bouncing of the truck threw the liquid back and forth in the fragment of glass, but most of them reached his mouth. The truck braked to a halt and began reversing, and the last drops fell against his lips. It was highly impure alcohol, filled with raw chemicals from the laboratory, but Hermes had no complaints. He could feel the tar inside him soften, and he lay quietly enjoying the sensation until new outside stimuli caught his attention.

The truck had ceased backing and was parked on a slope leading down toward the rear. There was a rattle of chains and the gate dropped down to let the load go spinning out down the bank into the rubbish-filled gully. Hermes bounced from a heavy can and went caroming off sidewise, then struck against a rock with force enough to send white sparks of pain running through him.

But the rock had changed his course and thrown him clear of the other trash. When he finally stopped, his entire head and one arm were clear, and the rest was buried under only a loose litter of papers and dirt. No permanent damage had been done; his tarry core was readjusting itself to the normal shape of the rubber coating, and he was in no immediate danger.

But being left here was the equivalent of a death sentence. His only hope was to contact some human mind and establish friendly communications, and the dump heap was the last place to find men. Added to that, the need for further alcohol was a serious complication. Again he wished for the mysterious power of motion.

He concentrated his mental energy on moving the free arm, but there was no change; the arm stayed at the same awkward angle. With little hope, he tried again, watching for the slightest movement. This time a finger bent slightly! Feverishly he tried to move the others, and they twisted slowly until his whole hand lay stretched out flat. Then his arm began to move sluggishly. He was learning.

It was growing dark when he finally drew himself completely free of the trash and lay back to rest, exulting over his newfound ability. The alcohol was responsible, of course; it had softened the tar slightly more than it had been when he made his first efforts in the laboratory, and permitted motion of a sort through a change of surface tension. The answer to further motion was more alcohol.

There were bottles of all kinds strewn about, and he stared at those within his range of vision, testing their vibrations in the hope of finding a few more drops. The nearer ones were empty, except for a few that contained brackish rainwater. But below him, a few feet away, was a small-sized one whose label indicated that it had contained hair tonic. The cork was in tightly, and it was still half full of a liquid. That liquid was largely ethyl alcohol.

Hermes forced himself forward on his stomach, drawing along inch by inch. Without the help of gravity, he could never have made it, but the distance shortened. He gave a final labored hitch, clutched the bottle in his tiny hands, and tried to force the cork out. It was wedged in too firmly!

Despair clutched at him, but he threw it off. There must be some way. Glass was brittle, could be broken easily, and there were stones and rocks about with which to strike it. The little god propped the neck of the bottle up against one and drew himself up to a sitting position, one of the stones in his hands. He could not strike rapidly enough to break the glass, but had to rely on raising the rock and letting it fall.

Fortunately for his purpose, the bottle had been cracked by its fall, and the fourth stone shattered the neck. Hermes forced it up on a broken box and tipped it gingerly toward his mouth. The smell of it was sickening, but he had no time to be choosy about his drinks! There was room inside him to hold a dozen teaspoonfuls, and he meant to fill those spaces.

The warm sensation of softening tar went through him gratefully as the liquid was absorbed. According to what he had read in Brugh’s mind, he should have been drunk, but it didn’t feel that way. It more nearly approximated the sensation of a man who had eaten more than he should and hadn’t time to be sorry yet.

Hermes wriggled his toes comfortably and nodded his approval at the ease with which they worked. Another idea came to him, and he put it to the test. Where his ear channels were, the rubber was almost paper-thin; he put out a pseudopod of tar from the lumps inside his head and wriggled it against the membrane; a squeaky sound was produced like a radio speaker gone bad. He varied the speed of the feeler, alternating it until he discovered the variation of tones and overtones necessary, and tried a human word.

“Tanya!” It wasn’t perfect, but there could be no question as to what it was. Now he could talk with men directly, even with Tanya Brugh, if fate was particularly kind. He conjured up an ecstatic vision of her face and attempted a conventional sighing sound. Men in love evidently were supposed to sigh, and Hermes was in love! But if he wanted to see her, he’d have to leave the dump. It was dark now, but ultraviolet and infrared light were as useful to him as the so-called visible beams, and the amount of light needed to set off his sight was less than that for a cat. With soiled hands he began pulling his way up the bank, burrowing through the surface rubbish. Then he reached the top and spied the main path leading away.

His little feet twinkled brightly in the starlight, and the evening dew washed the stains from his body. A weasel, prowling for food, spied him and debated attack, but decided to flee when the little god pictured himself as a dog. Animals accepted such startling apparent changes without doubting their sanity. He chuckled at the tricks he could play on Tabby when he got back, and sped down the lane at a good two miles an hour.

V

Brugh worked late in the laboratory, making up for the time he had taken off to clear his head. All thoughts of his trouble with Hermes had vanished. He cleared up the worst of the day’s litter of dirty apparatus, arranged things for the night, and locked up.

Dixon, head of the organic chemistry department, was coming down the hall as the physicist left. He stopped, his pudgy face beaming, and greeted the other. “Hi, there, Brugh. Working late again?”

“A little. How’s the specific for tuberculosis going?” Dixon patted his paunch amiably. “Not bad. We’re able to get the metal poison into the dye, and the dye into the bug. We still can’t get much of the poison out of the dye after that to kill our friend, the bacillus, but we’ve been able to weaken him a little. By the way, I saw your daughter today, out with Hodges’ nephew, and she told me—”

“You mean Johnny Thomas?” Brugh’s eyebrows furrowed tightly and met at the corners. “So Hodges is his uncle! Hmmm.”

“Still fighting the biochemistry department?” By a miracle of tact and good nature, Dixon had managed to keep on friendly terms with both men. “I wish you two would get together; Hodges is really a pretty decent sort…Well, I didn’t think so; you’re both too stubborn for your own good. That nephew of his isn’t so good, though. Came up here to pump money out of his uncle and get away from some scandal in New York. His reputation isn’t any too savory. Wouldn’t want my daughter going with him.”

“Don’t worry; Tanya won’t be going with Hodges’ nephew any…longer. Thanks for the tip.” They reached the main door, and Brugh halted suddenly. “Damn!”

“What is it?”

“I left my auto keys on the worktable upstairs. Don’t bother waiting for me, Dixon. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Dixon smiled. “Absentminded professor, eh? All right, good night.” He went out the door and down the steps while Brugh climbed back to his laboratory, where he found the keys without further trouble. Fortunately he carried a spare door key to the lab in his pocket; it wasn’t the first time he’d done this fool trick.

As he passed down the hall again, a faint sound of movement caught his ear and he turned toward Hodges’ laboratory. There was no one there, and the door was locked, the lights all out. Brugh started for the stairs, then turned back.

“Might as well take advantage of an opportunity when I get it,” he muttered. “I’d like to see the creation of Hodges, as long as he won’t know about it.” He slipped quietly to the door, unlocked it, and pulled it shut after him. The one key unlocked every door in the building and the main entrance; he had too much trouble losing keys to carry more than needed with him.

There was no mistaking the heavy tank on the low table, and Brugh moved quietly to it, lifted the cover, and stared inside. There was a light in the tank that went on automatically when the cover was raised, and the details of the body inside were clearly defined. Brugh was disappointed; he had been hoping for physical defects, but the figure was that of a young man, almost too classically perfect in body, and with an intelligent, handsome face. There was even a healthy pink glow to the skin.

But there was no real life, no faintest spark of animation or breathing. Anthropos lay in his nutritive bath, eyes open, staring blankly at the ceiling and seeing nothing. “No properly radioactive potassium,” Brugh gloated. “In a way, it’s a pity, too. I’d like to work on you.”

He put the cover down and crept out again, making sure that the night watchman was not around. The man seldom left the first floor, anyway; who’d steal laboratory equipment? Brugh reached for his keys and fumbled with them, trying to find the proper one. It wasn’t on the key ring. “Damn!” he said softly. “I suppose it fell off back on the table.”

But he still had the spare, and the other could stay on the table. With the duplicate, he opened and relocked the door, then slipped down the hall to leave the building. Again a faint sound reached him, but he decided it was the cat or a rat moving around. He had other worries. Mrs. Brugh would give him what-for for being late again, he supposed. And Tanya probably wouldn’t be home yet from the beach. That was another thing to be attended to; there’d be no more running with that young Thomas!

In the latter supposition, he was wrong; Tanya was there, fooling with her hair and gushing to her mother about a date she had that night with Will Young. She usually had seven dates a week with at least four different men serving as escorts. Brugh thoroughly approved of Young, however, since he was completing his Ph.D. work and acting as lab assistant. Mrs. Brugh approved of him because the young man came from a good family and had independent means, without the need of the long grind up to a full professorship. Tanya was chiefly interested in his six-foot-two, his football reputation, and a new Dodge he owned.

Margaret Brugh spied her husband coming through the door and began her usual worried harangue about his health and overwork. He muttered something about a lost key, and Tanya changed the subject for him. Brugh threw her a grateful smile and went in to wash up. He decided to postpone the lecture on Thomas until after supper; then she was in too much of a hurry to be bothered, and he put it off until morning.

The old Morris chair was soothing after a full meal—so soothing that the paper fell from his lap and scattered itself over the floor unnoticed, until the jangling of the telephone brought him back with a jerk. “It’s for you,” his wife announced.

The voice was that of Hodges, his nasal Vermont twang unmistakable. “Brugh? Your latest brainstorm backfired on you! I’ve got evidence against you this time, so you’d better bring it back.” The pitch of the voice indicated fury that was only partly controlled.

The back hairs on Brugh’s neck bristled up hotly, and his voice snapped back harshly. “You’re drunk or crazy, like all biochemists! I haven’t done anything to you. Anyway, what is it you want back?”

“You wouldn’t know? How touching, such innocence! I want Anthropos, my synthetic man. I suppose you weren’t in the laboratory this evening?”

Brugh gulped, remembering the faint noises he had heard. So it had all been a trap! “I never—”

“Of course. But we had trouble before—someone trying to force his way in—and we set up a photoelectric eye and camera with film for u.v. light. Didn’t expect to catch you, but there’s a nice picture of your face on it, and your key is in the lock—the number shows it’s yours. I didn’t think even you would stoop to stealing!”

Brugh made strangling sounds. “I didn’t steal your phony man; wouldn’t touch the thing! Furthermore, I didn’t leave a key. Go sleep your insanity off!”

“Are you going to return Anthropos?”

“I don’t have him.” Brugh slammed the receiver down in disgust, snorting. If Hodges thought that he could put such a trick over, he’d find out better. With all the trumped-up evidence in the world, they’d still have to prove a few things. He’d see the president in the morning before Hodges could get to him.

But he wasn’t prepared for the doorbell a half hour later, nor for the blue-coated figures that stood outside. They wasted no time.

“Dr. Arlington Brugh? We have a warrant for your arrest, charge being larceny. If you’ll just come along quietly—”

They were purposeful individuals, and words did no good. Brugh went along—but not quietly.

VI

Hermes spied the public highway below him, and began puzzling about which direction to take back to town. Brugh had never been out this way, and he had failed to absorb the necessary information from the garbage man, so he had no idea of the location of Gorton. But there was a man leaning against a signpost, and he might know.

The little god approached him confidently, now that he could both move and talk. He wanted to try his new power instead of telepathy, and did not trouble with the man’s thoughts, though a faint impression indicated they were highly disordered.

“Good evening, sir,” he said pleasantly, with only a faint blur to the words. “Can you direct me to Gorton University?”

The man clutched the signpost and gazed down solemnly, blinking his eyes. “Got ’em again,” he said dispassionately. “And after cutting down on the stuff, too. ’Sfunny, they never talked before. Wonder if the snakes’ll talk, too, when I begin seeing them?”

It made no sense to Hermes, but he nodded wisely and repeated his question. From the vibrations, the man was not unacquainted with the virtues of alcohol.

The drunk pursed his lips and examined the little figure calmly. “Never had one like you before. What are you?”

“I suppose I’m a god,” Hermes answered. “Can you direct me to Gorton, please?”

“So it’s gods this time, eh? That’s what I get for changing brands. Go away and let me drink in peace.” He thought it over slowly as he drew out the bottle. “Want a drink?”

“Thank you, yes.” The little god stretched up and succeeded in reaching the bottle. This time he filled himself to capacity before handing it back. It was worse than the hair tonic, but there was no question of its tar-softening properties. “Could you—?”

“I know. Gorton. To your right and follow the road.” The man paused and made gurgling noises. “Whyn’t you stick around? I like you; snakes never would drink with me.”

Hermes made it quite clear he couldn’t stay, and the drunk nodded gravely. “Always women. I know about that; it’s a woman that drove me to this—seeing you. ’Stoo bad. Well, so long!”

Filled with the last drink, the god stepped his speed up to almost five miles an hour. There was no danger of fatigue, since the radioactive energy within him poured out as rapidly as he could use it, and there were no waste products to poison his system. His tiny legs flickered along the road, and the little feet made faint tapping sounds on the smooth asphalt surface.

He came over a hill and spied the yellow lights of Gorton, still an hour’s trot away. It might have been worse. The swishing of the water inside him bothered him, and he decided that he’d stick to straight alcohol hereafter; whiskey contained too many useless impurities. Hermes flopped over beside the road, and let the water and some of the oil from the hair tonic trickle out; the alcohol was already well inside his gummy interior where there was no danger of losing it. For some reason, it seemed to be drying out more slowly than the first had, and that was all to the good.

The few cars on the road aroused a faint desire for some easier means of locomotion, but otherwise they caused him no trouble. He clipped off the miles at a steady gait, keeping on the edge of the paving, until the outskirts of the town had been reached. Then he took to the sidewalk.

A blue-coated figure, ornamented with brass buttons, was pacing down the street toward him, and Hermes welcomed the presence of the policeman. One of the duties of an officer was directing people, he had gathered, and a little direction would be handy. The smallest god stopped and waited for the other to reach him.

“Could you direct me to the home of Dr. Arlington Brugh, please?”

The cop looked about carefully for the speaker. Hermes raised his voice again. “I’m here, sir.”

Officer O’Callahan dropped his eyes slowly, expecting a drunk, and spied the god. He let out a startled bellow. “So it’s tricks, is it now? Confound that Bergen fellow, after drivin’ the brats wild about ventriloquence. Come out o’ there, you spalpeen. Tryin’ your tricks on an honest police, like as if I didn’t have worries o’ me own.”

Hermes watched the officer hunting around in the doorways for what he believed must be the source of the voice, and decided that there was no use lingering. He put one foot in front of the other and left the cop.

“Pssst!” The sound came from an alley a couple of houses below, and Hermes paused. In the shadows, he made out a dirty old woman, her frowsy hair blowing about her face, her finger crooked enticingly. Evidently she wanted something, and he turned in hesitantly.

“That dumb Irish mick,” she grunted, and from her breath Hermes recognized another kindred spirit; apparently humans were much easier to get along with when thoroughly steeped in alcohol, as he was himself. “Sure, now, a body might think it’s never a word he’d heard o’ the Little Folks, and you speaking politely, too. Ventriloquence, indeed! Was you wanting to know what I might be telling you?”

Hermes stretched his rubber face into a passable smile. “Do you know where Dr. Arlington Brugh lives? He’s a research director at Gorton University.”

She shook her head, blinking bleary eyes. “That I don’t, but maybe you’d take the university? It’s well I know where that may be.”

Dr. Brugh lived but a short distance from the campus, he knew, and once on the university grounds, Hermes would have no trouble in finding the house. He nodded eagerly. She reached down a filthy hand and caught him up, wrapping a fold of her tattered dress about him.

“Come along, then. I’ll be taking you there myself.” She paused to let the few last drops trickle from a bottle into her wide mouth, and stuck her head out cautiously; the policeman had gone. With a grunt of satisfaction, she struck across the street to a streetcar stop.

“’Tis the last dime I have, but a sorry day it’ll be when Molly McCann can’t do a favor for a Little Folk.”

She propped herself against the carstop post and waited patiently, while Hermes pondered the mellowing effects of alcohol again. When the noisy car stopped, she climbed on, clutching him firmly, and he heard only the bumping of a flat wheel and her heavy breathing. But she managed to keep half awake, and carried him off the car at the proper place.

She set him down as gently as unsteady fingers would permit and pointed vaguely at the buildings on the campus. “There you be, and it’s the best of luck I’m wishing you. Maybe, now that I’ve helped a Little Man, good luck’ll be coming to me. A very good night to you.”

Hermes bowed gravely as he guessed she expected. “My thanks, Molly McCann, for your kindness, and a very good night to you.” He watched her totter away, and turned toward the laboratory building, where he could secure a few more drops of straight alcohol. After that, he could attend to his other business.

VII

Tanya Brugh was completely unaware of the smallest god’s presence as he stood on a chair looking across at her. A stray beam of moonlight struck her face caressingly, and made her seem a creature of velvet and silver, withdrawn in sleep from all that was mundane. Hermes probed her mind gently, a little fearfully.

Across her mind, a flickering pageant of tall men, strong men, lithe and athletic men, ran in disordered array, and none of them was less than six feet tall. Hermes gazed at his own small body, barely six inches high; it would never do. Now the face of John Thomas fitted itself on one of the men, and Tanya held the image for a few seconds. The god growled muttered oaths; he had no love for the Thomas image. Then it flickered into the face of Will Young, Brugh’s assistant.

Hermes had probed her thoughts to confirm his own ideas of the wonderful delight that Tanya must be, and he was faintly disappointed. In her mind were innocence and emptiness—except for men of tall stature. He sighed softly, and reverted to purely human rationalization until he had convinced himself of the rightness of her thoughts.

But the question of height bothered him. Children, he knew, grew up, but he was no child, though his age was measured in hours. Someway, he must gain a new body, or grow taller, and that meant that Dr. Brugh would be needed for advice on the riddle of height increase.

He dropped quietly from the chair and trotted toward the master’s bedroom, pushing against the door in the hope that it might be open. It wasn’t, but he made a leap for the doorknob and caught it, throwing his slight weight into the job of twisting it. Finally, the knob turned, and he kicked out against the doorjamb with one foot until the door began to swing. Then he dropped down and pushed until he could slide through the opening. For his size, he carried a goodly portion of strength in his gum-and-rubber body.

But the master was not in the bed, and the mistress was making slow strangling sounds that indicated emotional upset. From Brugh’s mind, Hermes had picked up a hatred of the sound of a woman crying, and he swung hastily out, wondering what the fuss was about. There was only one person left, and he headed toward the little Missie Katherine’s room.

She was asleep when he entered, but he called softly: “Miss Kitty.” Her head popped up suddenly from the pillow and she groped for the light. For an eight-year-old child, she was lovely with the sleep still in her eyes. She gazed at the little white figure in faint astonishment.

Hermes shinnied up the leg of a chair and made a leap over onto the bed where he could watch her. “What happened to your father?” he asked.

She blinked at him with round eyes. “It talks—a little doll that talks! How cute!”

“I’m not a doll, Kitty. I’m Hermes.”

“Not a doll? Oh, goody, you’re an elf then?”

“Maybe.” It was no time to bicker about a question that had no satisfactory answer. But his heart warmed toward the girl. She wasn’t drunk, yet she could still believe in his existence. “I don’t know just what I am, but I think I’m the smallest of the gods. Where’s your father?”

Memory overwhelmed Kitty in a rush, and her brown eyes brimmed with tears. “He’s in jail!” she answered through a puckered mouth. “A nasty man came and took him away, and Mamma feels awful. Just ’cause Mr. Hodges hates him.”

“Where’s jail? Never mind, I’ll find out.” It would save time by taking the information directly from her head, since she knew where it was. “Now go back to sleep and I’ll go find your father.”

“And bring him home to Mamma?”

“And bring him home to Mamma.” Hermes knew practically nothing of jails, but the feeling of power was surging hotly through him. So far, everything he had attempted had been accomplished. Kitty smiled uncertainly at him and dropped her head back on the pillow. Then the little god’s sense of vibration perception led him toward the cellar in search of certain vital bottles.

A child’s toy truck, overburdened with a large bottle and a small god, drew up in front of the dirty white building that served as jail. Hermes had discovered the toy in the yard and used it as a boy does a wagon to facilitate travel. Now he stepped off, lifted the bottle, and parked the truck in a small shrub where he could find it again. Then he began the laborious job of hitching himself up the steps and into the building.

It was in the early morning hours, and there were few men about, but he stayed carefully in the shadow and moved only when their backs were turned. From his observation, men saw only what they expected, and the unusual attracted attention only when accompanied by some sudden sound or movement. Hermes searched one of the men’s minds for the location of Brugh, then headed toward the cell, dragging the pint bottle behind him as noiselessly as he could.

Dr. Brugh sat on the hard iron cot with his head in his hands, somewhat after the fashion of Rodin’s Thinker; but his face bore rather less of calm reflection. An occasional muttered invective reached the little god, who grinned. Arlington Brugh was a man of wide attainments, and he had not neglected the development of his vocabulary.

Hermes waited patiently until the guard was out of sight and slipped rapidly toward the cell, mounting over the bottom brace and through the bars. The scientist did not see him as he trotted under the bunk and found a convenient hiding place near the man’s legs. At the moment, Brugh was considering the pleasant prospect of attaching all police to Bertha and bombarding them with neutrons until their flesh turned to anything but protoplasm.

Hermes tapped a relatively huge leg and spoke softly. “Dr. Brugh, if you’ll look down here, please—” He held up the bottle, the cap already unscrewed.

Brugh lowered his eyes and blinked; from the angle of his sight, only a pint bottle of whiskey, raising itself from the floor, could be seen. But he was in a mood to accept miracles without question, and he reached instinctively. Ordinarily he wasn’t a drinking man, but the person who won’t drink on occasion has a special place reserved for him in heaven—well removed from all other saints.

As the bottle was lowered again, Hermes reached for it and drained a few drops, while Brugh stared at him. “Well?” the god asked finally.

The alcohol was leaving the scientist’s stomach rapidly, as it does when no food interferes, and making for his head; the mellowing effect Hermes had hoped for was beginning. “That’s my voice you’re using,” Brugh observed mildly.

“It should be; I learned the language from you. You made me, you know.” He waited for a second. “Well, do you believe in me now?”

Brugh grunted. “Hermes, eh? So I wasn’t imagining things back in the lab. What happened to you?” A suspicious look crossed his face. “Has Hodges been tinkering again?”

As briefly as he could, the little god summarized events and explained himself, climbing up on the cot as he did so, and squatting down against the physicist’s side, out of sight from the door. The other chuckled sourly as he finished.

“So while Hodges was fooling around with amoebas and flesh, I made super-life, only I didn’t know it, eh?” There was no longer doubt in his mind, but that might have been due to the whiskey. The reason for more than one conversion to a new religious belief lies hidden in the mysterious soothing effect of ethanol in the form of whiskey and rum. “Well, glad to know you. What happens now?”

“I promised your daughter I’d take you home to the mistress.” But now that he was here, he wasn’t so sure. There were more men around than he liked. “We’ll have to make plans.”

Brugh reflected thoughtfully. “That might not be so good. They’d come after me again, and I’d have less chance to prove my innocence.”

Hermes was surprised. “You’re innocent? I thought you’d murdered Hodges.” After all, it was a reasonable supposition, based on the state of the physicist’s mind the day before. “What happened?”

“No, I haven’t murdered him—yet.” Brugh’s smile promised unpleasant things at the first chance. “It’s still a nice idea, after this trick, though. It all started with the key.”

“Maybe I’d better take it from your head,” Hermes decided. “That way I’ll be less apt to miss things, and more sure to get things straight.”

Brugh nodded and relaxed, thinking back over the last few hours. He lifted the bottle and extracted another drink, while Hermes followed the mental pictures and memory until the story was complete in his head.

“So that’s the way it was,” he grunted, finished. “Some of it doesn’t make sense.”

“None of it does. All I know is that I’m here and Hodges has enough trumped-up evidence to convict me. He wanted to make the charge kidnapping, but they suggested corpse stealing, and compromised on larceny—grand larceny, I guess.”

“I still might be able to swipe the guard’s keys and attract their attention—”

Brugh gathered his somewhat pickled senses. “No. Your biggest value to me is in your ability to get in places where a man couldn’t, and find out things without anyone knowing it. If I get out, I can do no more than I can here—I’m not a detective when it comes to human reactions; just physical or chemical puzzles.”

There was something in that, Hermes had to concede. “Then I’m to work outside?”

“If you want to. You’re a free agent, not bound to me. Slaves have gone out of fashion, and you’re hardly a robot.” The physicist shook his head. “Why should you help me, come to think of it?”

“Because I want to grow up, and you might help me; and because in a sense, we both have the same memories and thought actions—I started out with a mixture of dog, cat, and you.” He climbed off the bunk and scuttled across the floor. “I’ll give Hodges your love if I see him.”

Brugh grinned crookedly. “Do.”

VIII

Professor Hiram Hodges stirred and turned over in his bed, a sense of something that wasn’t as it should be troubling his mind. He grunted softly and tried to sleep again, but the premonition still bothered him. And then he realized that there was a rustling sound going on in his study and that it was still too early for his housekeeper.

He kicked off the sheet and rummaged under the bed for his slippers, drawing on the tattered old robe he’d worn for the last six years. As quietly as he could, he slipped across to the study door, threw it open, and snapped on the light switch, just as the rustling sound stopped. Probably his nephew up to some trick—

But the room contained neither a nephew nor any other man. Hodges blinked, adjusting his eyes to the light, and stared at his desk.

It had been closed when he went to bed, he was sure of that. Now it was open, and a litter of papers was strewn across it in haphazard fashion. Someone must have been there and disappeared in the split second it took to snap on the lights.

Hodges moved over to the desk, stopping to pick up a few scraps of paper that had fallen on the floor, then reached up to close the roll top. As he did so, something small and white made a sudden frantic lunge from among the papers and hit the floor to go scuttling across the room. With startlingly quick reactions for his age, the professor spun his lank frame and scooped up the scurrying object.

Apparently it was an animated rubber doll that lay twisting in his grasp. Words came spilling out, though the tiny mouth did not move. “All right, you’ve caught me. Do you have to squeeze me to death?”

Some men, when faced with the impossible, go insane; others refuse to believe. But Hodges’ life had been spent in proving the impossible to be possible, and he faced the situation calmly. A robot wouldn’t have spoken that way, and obviously this wasn’t flesh and blood; equally obviously, it was some form of life. He lifted the figure onto the desk and clamped the wire wastebasket down over it.

“Now,” he said, “what are you, where from, and what do you want?”

Hermes devoted full energy to picturing himself as a charging lion, but the professor was not impressed.

“It’s a nice illusion,” he granted, smiling. “Come to think of it, maybe your other shape isn’t real. Which is it—my nephew or Brugh?”

Hermes gave up and went over the story of his creation again, point by point, while dawn crept up over the roofs of the adjacent houses and urged him to hurry. Hodges’ first incredulity turned to doubt, and doubt gave place to half belief.

“So that’s the way it is? All right. I’ll believe you, provided you can explain how you see without the aid of a lens to direct the light against your sensory surface.”

Hermes had overlooked that detail, and took time off to investigate himself. “Apparently the surface is sensitive only to light that strikes it at a certain angle,” he decided. “And my mouth opening acts as a very rough lens—something on the order of the old pinhole camera. The tar below is curved, and if I want clearer vision, I can put out a thin bubble of fairly transparent surface material to rectify the light more fully, as a lens would. I don’t need an iris.”

“Ummm. So Brugh decided he’d made life and wanted to make a fool of me by bringing my man to consciousness, eh? Is that why he kidnapped Anthropos?”

Hermes grunted sourly. His mind was incapable of the sudden rages and dull hates that seemed to fill men’s thoughts, but it was colored by the dislike Brugh had cultivated for the biochemist. “It’s a nice way of lying, professor, but I know Dr. Brugh had nothing to do with your creation.”

The other grinned skeptically. “How do you know?”

“I read his mind, where he had to reveal the truth.” In proof, the little god transferred part of the picture he had drawn from Brugh’s mind to that of Hodges.

“Hm-m-m.” The biochemist lifted the wastebasket off and picked up the little figure. “That would account for the exposed film. Suppose you come with me while I get dressed and try reading my mind. You might be surprised.”

Hermes was surprised, definitely. In the professor’s mind there had been complete conviction of Brugh’s guilt, shaken somewhat now by the story transferred by Hermes. Instead of being a cooked-up scheme to ruin his rival, the theft of the synthetic man was unquestionably genuine. The god fixed on one detail, trying to solve the riddle.

A note received the night before had first apprised the biochemist of the disappearance of his pet creation and sent him to the laboratory to investigate. “What happened to the ransom note?” Hermes asked.

Hodges was struggling with man’s symbol of slavery to the law of fashion, his necktie. “It’s still in my pocket—here.” He flipped it across the room, where the other could study the crude scrawl. The words were crude and direct:

Perffeser, we got yur artifishul man itll cost you 1000$ to get him back leave the dough in a papre sack in the garbaj can bak of yur hows noon tomorer and dont cawl the bulls.

“Obviously the work of a well-educated man,” Hodges grunted, succeeding finally with the tie. “They always try to appear too illiterate when writing those notes. That’s why I thought Dr. Brugh wrote it to throw me off the trail.”

“Hatred had nothing to do with it, I suppose?”

“I don’t hate Brugh, and if his conscience didn’t bother him, he wouldn’t hate me. We used to be fairly good friends. We could still be if we weren’t so darned stubborn.” The professor grinned as he picked up the small figure and moved toward the kitchen. “You don’t eat, do you? Well, I do. Brugh played a dirty trick on me, but I’ve put over a few of them myself to get money for my department. At Gorton, it’s always been dog eat dog when appropriations were under debate.”

“But did you think he’d leave his key lying around for evidence?”

“People do funny things, and only the department heads are permitted master keys. It had his number.” Hodges swallowed the last of a bun and washed it down with milk. “It is funny, though. Let’s see, now. Brugh left the keys on the table; and sometime yesterday he lost one of them. Tanya was in the laboratory in the morning, just before a date with that confounded nephew of mine. Hm-m-m.”

“But Tanya wouldn’t—” Hermes felt duty bound to protect Tanya’s reputation.

Hodges cut in on his protest. “It’s plain you don’t know Tanya Brugh. For herself, she wouldn’t take it. But give her a fairly handsome young man with a smooth line, and she’d sell her own father down the river. That ransom note might be some of Johnny’s pleasant work.”

“Then you think it’s your nephew?”

“I don’t think anything, but it might be. He’s the type. Tell you what I’ll do; you try to get some of that potassium salt—oh, yes, I knew about it long ago—from your patron, and I’ll help you investigate Johnny.”

“If you’ll help increase my size.” That question was still a major one in the god’s mind. “How’ll we find out whether young Thomas has the thing?”

“That’s your worry, son. I’ll carry you there, but from then on, it’s in your hands.” Hodges pocketed Hermes and turned out of the kitchen.

IX

Johnny Thomas looked reasonably pleasant as he stuck his head out of the door, though the circles under his eyes were a little too prominent in the early morning hours. He grinned with evident self-satisfaction.

“Ah, my dear maternal uncle. Do come in.” He kicked aside a newspaper that was scattered across the floor and flipped the cigarette ashes off the one comfortable chair in the room, seating himself on the bed. “What can I do for you this morning?”

Hodges coughed to cover the noise of Hermes slipping across the room to a dark place under the table. With that attended to, he faced his nephew. “You know Anthropos—that synthetic man I grew in a culture bath? Somebody stole him last night, tank and all, and slipped a note under my door demanding a thousand dollars for his return.”

“Too bad. But surely, uncle, you don’t think I had anything to do with it?”

“Of course not; how could you get into the laboratory? But I thought you might help me contact the man and make arrangements to pay. Of course, I’d be willing to let you have a few dollars for your work.”

Thomas smiled, and looked across the room while apparently making up his mind. As he looked, a cat came out from where no cat should be, gravely lifted a bottle of whiskey, and drank deeply. “Excellent, my dear Thomas,” the cat remarked. “I suppose when you collect that grand from your uncle, we’ll have even better drinks. Smart trick, stealing that thing.”

The cat licked its chops, sprouted wings, and turned into a fairy. “Naughty, naughty,” said the fairy. “Little boys shouldn’t steal.” It fluttered over to Thomas’ shoulder and perched there, tinkling reproachfully.

The young man swatted at it, felt his hand pass through it, and jumped for the chair. Now the room was empty, though his eyes darted into every corner. His uncle coughed again. “If you’re done playing, John—” he suggested.

“Didn’t you see it?”

“See what? Oh, you mean that fly? Yes, it was a big one. But about this business I have—”

“I think he’d make a nice meal,” said a grizzly bear, materializing suddenly. “So young and succulent.”

A shining halo of light quivered violently. “You’d poison your system, Bruin. Go back home.” The bear obediently trotted to the window and passed through the glass; the halo of light struck a commanding note, and a face of wrath appeared in it. “Young man, repent of your ways and learn that your sins have found you out. Time is but short on this mortal sphere, and the bad that we do must follow us through all eternity. Repent, for the hour has come!”

Thomas quivered down onto the bed again, wiping his forehead. The idea of getting nervous at a time like this! The things couldn’t be real. He turned back to Hodges, who was waiting patiently. “Just a little nervous this morning; not used to getting up so early. Now, as we were saying—”

Click! The sound was in the young man’s head, and a soft purring voice followed it. “I know a secret, I know a secret, and I’m going to tell! Johnny, old kid, tell the old fossil what a smart guy you are, putting over a trick like that on him. Go ahead and tell!” There was a hot flicker of pain that stabbed up the backbone, then ran around the ribs and began doing something on the order of a toe dance in Thomas’ stomach.

He gritted his teeth and groaned. Hodges became all solicitation. “Something you ate?” asked the professor. “Just lie down on the bed and relax.”

There was a whole den of rattlesnakes curled up on the bed, making clicking sounds that seemed to say: “Come ahead, young fellow, it’s breakfast time and we’re hungry!” Thomas had no desire to relax among even imaginary snakes.

“Gulp—ugh!” he said, and an angel unscrewed its head from the light socket and dropped near him. “Gulp—ouch!” The angel sprouted horns and tail, and carried a red-hot fork that felt most unpleasant when rubbed tenderly along his shins.

Click! Again the voice was in his head. “Remember that girl at Casey’s? Well, when she committed suicide, it wasn’t so nice. But that was gas, and she didn’t feel any pains. When you commit suicide—”

“I won’t commit suicide!” The bellow was involuntary, forced out just as the little devil decided his fork would feel worse in the stomach. “Take ’em away!”

Hodges clucked sympathetically. “Dear, dear! Do you have a dizzy feeling, Johnny?”

Johnny did, just as the words were out. His head gave an unpleasant twang and leaped from his body, then went whirling around the room. A gnome picked it up, whittled the neck quickly to a point, and drew a whip. “Hi, fellows!” called the gnome. “Come, see the top I made.” He drew the whip smartly across Thomas’ head and sent it spinning as a horde of other little hobgoblins jumped out of odd places to watch. That was a little too much for Johnny, with the addition of two worms that were eating his eyes.

Hodges chuckled. “All right, Hermes, let him alone. The boy’s fainted. It’s a pity I couldn’t see the things you were forcing on his mind. Must have been right interesting.”

Hermes came out of the corner, smiling. “They were very nice. I think he’ll talk when he comes to. He persuaded Tanya to get him the key by pretending an interest in cyclotrons—said he was writing a story. She wouldn’t have done it, except that the key was lying so temptingly within reach. He worked on her innocence.”

“Okay, Hermes,” Hodges grunted. “She’s washed whiter than snow, if you want it that way. Better get back in my pocket; Johnny’s coming around again.”

It was noon when Hodges came to the cell where Brugh sat. The biochemist dropped the little god on the floor and grinned. “You’re free now, Arlington,” he informed the other. “Sorry I got you in here, but I’ve tried to make up for that.”

Brugh looked up at the professor’s voice, and his face wasn’t pretty. “Arrughh!” he said.

The smile on Hodges’ face remained unchanged. “I expected that. But Hermes here can tell you I honestly thought you’d stolen Anthropos. We just finished putting him back where he belongs, and seeing that young nephew of mine leave town. If you’ll avoid committing homicide on me, the warden will unlock the door.”

“What about my reputation?”

“Quite untouched,” Hermes assured him. “Professor Hodges succeeded in keeping everything hushed up, and it’s Sunday, so your absence from the university won’t mean anything.”

The physicist came out of the cell, and his shoulders lifted with the touch of freedom. The scowl on his face was gone, but uncertainty still remained in the look he gave Hodges.

The biochemist put out a hand. “I’ve been thinking you might help me on Anthropos,” he said. “You know, Arlington, we might make something out of that yet if we worked together.”

Brugh grinned suddenly. “We might at that, Hiram. Come on home to lunch, and we’ll talk it over while Hermes tells me what happened.”

Hermes squirmed as a hand lifted him back into the pocket. “How about helping me grow up?”

The two men were busy discussing other things. The height increase would have to wait.

X

Hermes sat on the edge of Anthropos’ tank, kicking his small legs against it and thinking of the last two days. To live in the same house, breathe the same air as Tanya Brugh! He dug up another sigh of ecstasy and followed it with one of despair.

For Tanya regarded him as some new form of bug, to be tolerated since he was useful, but not to be liked—an attitude shared by her mother. Dr. Brugh had the greatest respect for the little god, and Kitty was fond of him. Of them all, Kitty treated him best, and Tanya worst.

Of course, that was due to his height. John Thomas was gone, but there were still Will Young and her other escorts, none less than six feet in height. And Hermes was far from being tall. The consultation, held with Brugh and Hodges, had resulted in nothing; when all was said and done, there was no hope for him.

He sighed again, and Dixon, who was helping Hodges and Brugh with Anthropos, noticed him. “What’s the matter, Hermes?” he asked good-naturedly. “Alcohol drying out again? Why not try carbon tetrachloride this time?”

Hermes shook his head. “I don’t need anything. The alcohol seems to have permanently combined with the tar—something like water and a crystal, to form a hydrate. I’m softened thoroughly for all time.”

Hodges looked up and then turned back to the tank where the synthetic man lay, and Hermes turned his attention to it. As far as outward appearance went, Anthropos was nearly perfect, and a tinge of envy filled the little god’s thoughts.

Dixon wiped his forehead, “I give up. When three separate divisions of chemistry can’t bring life to him, there’s no hope. Hodges, your man is doomed to failure.”

“He’s breathing, though,” the biochemist muttered. “Ever since we injected the potassium into him and put it in his nutritive bath, he’s been living, but not conscious. See, his heartbeat is as regular as clockwork.” He indicated the meter that flickered regularly on the tank.

Brugh refused to look. “To anyone but a biochemist,” he informed the room, “the answer would be obvious. Hiram’s created life, yes; but he can’t give it a good brain. That’s too complex for his electric cell formation determiner. What Anthropos needs is a new brain.”

“I suppose you’d like to stick his head full of that gummy tar of yours?” Old habit made the words tart, though good fellowship had been restored between them.

“Why not?” It was Hermes’ voice this time. Inspiration had flashed suddenly through his small mind, opening a mighty vista of marvels to his imagination. “Why wouldn’t that solve it?”

“I’ll bite. Why?” Dixon grinned, sweat rolling from his chubby face. “That’s the best suggestion we’ve had today.”

“But he wouldn’t be real life then, not organic life. Besides, we can’t be sure that another batch of the tar would live—it might be an accident that Hermes contained just the right ingredients. The rest of the tar probably isn’t the same.”

Hermes wriggled in his excitement. “Organic life is merely a chemicoelectrical reaction, with radioactivity thrown in; and I’m all of that. What difference does it make?” He stretched out a small leg. “Dr. Brugh, will you examine my feet?”

With a puzzled frown, Brugh complied. “They’re wearing out,” he said. “The rubber is almost paper-thin. You’ll need a new body soon, Hermes.”

“Precisely. That’s what I’m talking about. Why couldn’t I be put in Anthropos’ brainpan?”

Hodges let out a startled wail that died out and left his mouth hanging open. Finally he remembered to close it. “I wonder—” he muttered. “Would it work?”

Dixon demurred. “It’d be a delicate operation, removing the useless higher part of the brain and leaving the essential vital areas that control the heart and organs. Besides, could Hermes control the nerves?”

“Why not? He can control your nerves at a distance if he tries hard enough. But the operation would need a doctor’s skill.”

Hermes had that all figured out by now, and he voiced his plan while the others listened carefully. Hodges finally nodded. “It might work, son, and Anthropos isn’t much good as is. I promised to help you grow up, and if you can use this body, it’s yours. The university doesn’t seem to value it much.”

Later, the borrowed dissecting equipment from the zoology department was in readiness and the men stood looking on as Hermes prepared for his work. He paused at the brink of the tank. “You know what you’re to do?”

“We do. After you open it, we’ll lower your temperature until you harden up to unconsciousness, remove your casing, pack you in the brainpan, so there’s no danger of nerve pressure, and cover the opening with the removed section of the skull.”

“Right. In that nutrient fluid, it should heal completely in a few hours.” Hermes dropped into the tank and was immersed in the liquid; his ability to work in any medium facilitated the operation.

And his sense of perception made him capable of performing the work with almost uncanny skill. As the others watched, he cut briskly around the skull, removed a section, and went into the brain, analyzing it almost cell by cell and suturing, cutting, and scraping away the useless tissue.

Blood oozed out slowly, but the liquid’s restorative power began functioning, healing the soft nerve tissue almost as rapidly as it was cut. Hermes nodded approval and continued until only the vital centers that functioned properly were left. Then he indicated that he was finished and Hodges pulled him out.

The dry ice was numbing as they packed it around him, and his thoughts began moving more sluggishly. But as consciousness left him, a heady exultation was singing its song through every atom of his being. He would be tall and handsome, and Tanya would love him.

Consciousness faded as Hodges began the relatively simple job of removing his casing and inserting him into the vacancy in Anthropos’ head.

XI

Darkness. That was the first thought Hermes felt on regaining consciousness. He was in a cave with no entrance, and light could not stream through. Around him was a warm shell that held him away from direct contact with the world. He started to struggle against it, and the uneasy sense of closeness increased.

Then he remembered he was in the head of the synthetic man. He must open his eyes and look out. But his eyes refused to open. Again he concentrated, and nothing seemed to happen.

Brugh’s voice, muffled as from a great distance, reached him. “Well, he’s awake. His big toe twitched then.” There was another sensation, the feeling of faint current pouring in from one of the nerve endings, and Hermes realized that must be his ears sending their message to his brain.

This time he tried to talk, and Hodges spoke. “That was his leg moving. I wonder if he can control his body.” Hermes was learning; the sound and nerve messages co-ordinated this time. Learning to use Anthropos’ auditory system would not be too difficult.

But he was having trouble. He had tried to open his eyes, and a toe had twitched; an effort to use his tongue resulted in a leg moving. There was only one thing to do, and that was to try everything until the desired result was obtained.

It was several minutes later when Dixon’s voice registered on his nerves: “See, his eyes are open. Can you see, Hermes—or Anthropos?”

Hermes couldn’t. There was a wild chaos of sensation pouring in through the optic nerve, which must be the effect of light, but it made little sense to him. He concentrated on one part that seemed to register less strongly, and succeeded in making out the distorted figure of a man. It was enough to begin with, but learning to use his eyes took more time than the ears had.

He gave up trying to speak and sent his thought out directly to Brugh. “Lift me out and move me around, so that I can study which sensations are related to my various parts.”

Brugh obeyed promptly with the help of the others, enthusiasm running high. Hermes had the entire job of learning to make his body behave before him, but he brought a highly developed mind to bear on the problem. Bit by bit, the sensation sent up by the nerves registered on his brain, was cataloged and analyzed, and became a familiar thing to him. He tried touching a table with his finger, and made it in two attempts.

“You’ll be better than any man when we’re done with you,” Hodges gloated. “If I’d brought consciousness into Anthropos, I’d still have had to educate him as a child is taught. You can learn by yourself.”

Hermes was learning to talk again, in the clumsy system of breathing, throat contraction, and oral adaptation that produces human words. He tried it now. “Let me walk alone.”

Another half hour saw a stalwart young figure striding about the laboratory, examining this and that, trying out implements, using his body in every way that he could. It answered his commands with a smooth co-ordination that pleased them all.

Brugh was elated. “With a brain like that, Hermes, and the body you have now, we could make the world’s greatest physical chemist out of you. A little wire pulling and a few tricks, examinations, and things, and you’d have your degree in no time. I could use you here.”

“He’d be a wonderful biochemist,” Hodges cut in. “Think of what that sense of perception would mean to us in trying to determine the effects of drugs on an organism.”

Dixon added his opinion. “As an organic chemist, think what it would mean in analyzing and synthesizing new compounds. But why not all three? What we really need is someone to co-ordinate the various fields, and Hermes is ideal.” He held out an old pair of trousers, acid-stained, but whole, and Hermes began climbing into them. That was a complication he hadn’t thought of, and one which was not entirely pleasant. He saw no reason to conceal the new body of which he was so proud.

Brugh had accepted Dixon’s idea. “How about getting yourself added to our staff in a few years? It would mean a lot to science, and the board of directors couldn’t refuse the appointment if you’d force a little thought into their empty heads.”

Hermes had been considering it, and the prospect appealed to him. But Tanya wouldn’t like it, probably. He’d have to see her before he could make any decisions. Of course, now that he was a real man instead of a rubber statue, she couldn’t refuse him.

There was an interruption from the door, a small child’s voice. “Daddy, Daddy, are you there?” The door swung open and Kitty Brugh came tripping in.

“Kitty, you don’t belong here.” Brugh faced her with a scowl of annoyance. “I’m busy.”

“But Mamma sent me.” Her voice was plaintive. “She gave me this telegram to bring to you.”

Brugh took it and read it through, his face lighting up. “Great luck,” he told Hermes, handing it over. “I never thought Tanya would choose so well.”

The telegram was as simple as most telegrams are:

HAVE MARRIED WILL YOUNG AND ON HONEYMOON IN MILLSBURG STOP EVER SO HAPPY STOP LOVE

TANYA

And with it, the newly created man’s hopes went flying out into nothingness.

But somehow he felt much better than he should. He handed it back to Brugh, and the sigh he achieved was halfhearted. Kitty’s eyes noticed him for the first time.

She squeaked delightedly. “Oh, what a pretty man! What’s your name?”

Hermes’ heart went out to her. He stooped and picked her up in his strong young arms, stroking her hair. “I’m the little god, Kitty. I’m your Hermes in a new body. Do you like it?”

She snuggled up. “Um-hmm. It’s nice.” There was no surprise for her in anything Hermes might do. He turned back to the three men then.

“Dr. Brugh, I’ve decided to accept your offer. I’d like nothing better than working with all of you here at Gorton.”

“Splendid, my boy. Splendid. Eh, Hiram?”

They crowded around him, shaking his hand, and he thoroughly enjoyed the flattery of their respect. But most of his thoughts were centered on Kitty. After all, she was the only woman—or girl—who had treated him with any consideration, and her little mind was open and honest. She’d make a wonderful woman in ten more years.

Ten more years; and he wasn’t so very old himself. There might be hope there yet.

THE SCIENCE FICTION ALPHABET, by Allen Glasser

A’s for Amazing, the first of its kind;

It keeps going strong while the rest drop behind.

B is for Burroughs, the great Edgar Rice;

No mag gets his yarns if they don’t meet his price.

C is for Cummings, whose stuff is okay,

Though some of his plots have grown rather gray.

D’s for Dimension—the Fourth one we mean;

It’s mighty well known, though it’s never been seen.

E is for Earthmen who wander through space,

Calmly subduing each troublesome race.

F is for Forrest, most famous of fans;

The letters he’s written would fill sev’ral vans.

G is for Gilmore; the first name is Tony.

His writing’s okay, but that moniker’s phony.

H is for Hamilton, who has written a lot;

He sure makes good use of his favorite plot.

I’s for Invaders who seek Earth to hold,

Until they are slain by our hero so bold.

J is for Jupiter and each Jovian moon;

To fantasy writers they sure are a boon.

K is for Keller, who lives in Penn State;

He can’t get a cover though his stories are great.

L is for Luna, our own satellite;

It’s appeared in more yarns than I’m able to cite.

M is for Mars, way up in the sky,

Without it, we fear, science fiction would die.

N is for Newton, the Gravity King,

Whose laws, in our mags, just don’t mean a thing.

O’s for Ourselves, who read science-fiction

We know what we like, and there’s no dereliction.

P’s for the Princess that’s always on hand

To wed the brave Earthman who visits her land.

Q is for Quinn, the weird-story writer;

If he’d do science fiction his fame might be brighter.

R is for Robot, of whom much is said;

For many an author his antics have fed.

S is for Starzl, Schachner, and Sloane;

And let’s not forget Doc Smith and Miss Stone.

T is for Time, a favorite theme

Which never grows stale—or so it would seem.

U is the Unknown, which writers employ

Whenever they need some death dealing toy.

V is for Venus, which belonged to one Kline

Until Mr. Burroughs took over that line.

W’s Wonder, a changeable book;

You never can tell how it’s going to look.

X means “okay” when written “All X”

A term which has brought Doctor Smith many checks.

Y’s for the Yarn which will suit everyone;

We hardly believe it can ever be done.

Z is for Zagat—whom else could it be?

It’s lucky for us his name starts with Z!

CANAL, by Carl Jacobi

At the top of the stairs Kramer stood still a long moment, listening. The road behind him was empty and desolate, stretching off into the red-rimmed horizon like a crayon streak on a piece of cardboard. Up above in the dry motionless air a lone Kiloto wheeled and soared, searching for prey. There was no sign of pursuit.

Mentally Kramer checked over his equipment: canteen, food concentrate envelope, sand mask, and most precious of all, the map. The official Martian Cartographic Folio 654, direct from its glass case in the FaGanda Bureau of Standards. The map still lay in its oilskin pouch, and the archaic printing thrilled him as he stared down upon it.

It was Monday morning, 11:14 Earth time; he checked with his watch. In exactly eleven days, assuming all went well, he should be entering Canal 28 Northwest and coming down the home-stretch. After that it would be easy. His forged passports would give him easy access to the Crater City port. The regular Earth Express would take off at high noon. Not even Blanchard would suspect him of escaping in this direction. Since Kramer had first conceived the plan a month ago, he had studied each detail, accounted for each contingency, and everything had worked like clockwork.

He began to descend the steps, absently counting them as he went down: fifty-six, fifty-seven, fifty-eight.

Level One. Here the first sign, almost illegible from age, met his gaze:

IT IS ABSOLUTELY FORBIDDEN TO ENTER THESE CANALS.

BY ORDER OF ZARA

It seemed strange seeing that name, Zara, there out of a history book. The last Martian monarchy had passed on into the limbo ages ago. And Kramer remembered that even during the last three—or was it four?—dynasties the canals had been closed.

One twenty-eight, one twenty-nine. Third, fourth, fifth level. Kramer drew up before a massive door, fashioned of arelium steel. A second sign stood out mockingly in the light of his torch:

IT IS ABSOLUTELY FORBIDDEN…

Without hesitation he reached into his pocket and drew forth a key. He removed the royal seal with the utmost care, inserted the key in the lock and twisted. The door swung open slowly of its own accord.

Even then with virtual success just within his grasp, he did not forget himself. He replaced the seal in such away that the closed door would show no signs of passage. Then he broke into a low laugh.

There it was—Canal Grand, the master artery that linked North Mars with South Mars, the single avenue that crossed the Void, and offered a possible means of escape. No Earth men, no living Martian had ever penetrated the Void and returned. Planes, expeditions, rocket ships had taken off time and time again, only to disappear without trace. In their wake superstition had flowered, rumor had multiplied, until today the Void stood, a chasm of isolation, effectually slicing the red planet into two parts.

Kramer strode boldly forward, warm and comfortable in his space suit and hextar helmet. For the first twenty yards alluvial drift impeded his progress, and he swore to himself as he thought of his early schooling that had taught him there was no wind on Mars.

Then he reached the hard-packed center of the canal, and the ground here was firm and level as a pavement.

The frowning walls, towering sheer on either side, were as oppressive as a tunnel at first. The geometric desolation fatigued the eye. But after he had gone a mile Kramer swung along rapidly, immune to these irritations.

Queer how things worked out in one’s life. A month ago he had been an ordinary salvage ratio clerk at the Metropolitan Power Unit in FaGanda. His life had been routine, with only a few petty thieveries and unimportant swindlings to break the monotony. Then, quite by accident he had hit upon the plan.

The plan had as its nucleus the secret, of the Void which had baffled mankind for so many years. In 3091 the historian, Stola, had written:

I am convinced that the great catastrophe which caused the complete dehydration of the canals and began the rapid decline of the early Martians under the monarchy is linked in some unexplainable way with that corridor which we know today as the Void.

We know of a certainty that Canal Grand was unquestionably the only passage which crossed that corridor even in those early times, and we know by spectroscopic analysis that somewhere along that canal lies a deposit of retnite, now catalogued as Chemical X. Since Chemical X is the most desired thing by Earthmen today, there is no doubt in my mind but that eventually the lode will be tapped and the mysteries of the Void explored.

Stola had written that, and he had been conservative. In the entire System, Kramer knew, there were but fourteen kilograms of retnite known to exist. That was reserved for the nine members of the Interplanetary Council and their elected successors.

But retnite was in reality nothing more than a drug, a mental stimulant which, when taken correctly, could amplify the thought processes of the brain a thousandfold. A retniter carried with ease, not only the heritage of his ancestors but viewed the panorama of life intelligently. A retniter, in other words, was a super intellect.

Kramer wanted that elixir. He wanted it because it would open the door for him to success. No more petty swindlings then, no more trickster schemes with constant fear of the police. He could tell Blanchard and the law to go to blazes.

Inside his helmet he pressed his chin against a stud, and automatically a Martian cheroot dropped out of a rack and slipped between his lips. A tiny heat unit swung over to ignite it, and the exhaust valve behind his neck increased its pulsations to expel the smoke. He walked on…

Kramer’s introduction to the plan had come about in an odd way. In a small curio shop in FaGanda he had purchased an old vase, marked with a mixture of curious hieroglyphics on one side and some doggerel Martian verse on the other. Now Kramer was no student of languages, but in order to quicken his wits he had frequently pored over early Martian.

He was astounded to discover that the hieroglyphics and the verse keyed the two languages and offered the first translation of the ancient parchments in the Bureau of Standards.

The rest was a matter of detail. Kramer had managed to hide in the gallery at night. Alone, behind locked doors, he had selected one folio of the hundred and twenty-six in the glass cases. It was that one, he knew, which held the secret of the Void.

There remained then but one thing to do. Hom Valla, the Martian philologist, must be removed. Hom Valla had announced only recently that, after years of study, he was finally on the verge of deciphering early Martian and the folios.

Kramer had taken his time. He waited until Hom Valla was known to be leaving on a trip up-country. Then he had entered his apartment, fired one shot with a heat gun and fed the body into the city’s refuse tubes.

Blanchard? Yes, Blanchard would probably couple the three details: the stolen folio, the death of Hom Valla, and Kramer’s disappearance. But it would take time, and during that time Kramer would be increasing the distance between himself and the law.

He began to study the canal as he paced along. Straight as a knife blade, it stretched before him to the vanishing point. The walls were sheer, dug out of the red rock by a means that so far had baffled archaeologists. Three-quarters of the way up he could see a series of darker serrated lines, and he knew these were the ancient water marks.

How many hundreds of explorers had started this way, hoping to penetrate the secret of the Void, only to disappear completely. And what was the Void? If it held retnite at its core, what power did it wield to entrap all trespassers?

The stolen folio in this respect had been oddly disappointing. It had charted the location of the lode, in such a way that only a person able to decipher ancient Martian could read it. It had mapped a route through the labyrinth of canals, but it had made no mention of the mystery that lay ahead.

At noon, by his Earth watch, Kramer halted for a rest. After a half hour he set off again, walking at that same mechanical pace that ate up the miles.

The red ditch faded out of his thoughts now. He saw the canals as they were of old, as the Chronicles had described them. Luxurious waterways clogged with commercial shipping, with tapestried gondolas and canopied barges. He saw the gigantic locks and the way stations where swashbuckling pilots drank genith and watched South Martian girls writhe and sway to the rhythm of the Ucatel drums.

It was at that moment that preceded the sudden advance of night that Kramer found himself rudely torn back to reality. He had kept his visa set turned on, and now a low magnetic hum told him that its finder was in operation. The vision plate above his eyes began to glow with a dull light.

Abruptly a violent shock swept through him!

In the plate he saw a section of red wall and the huge studded entrance door through which he had recently passed. As he watched, that door opened, and a man appeared clad in a space suit. Through the crystal helmet his features revealed themselves clearly. It was Blanchard!

The I. P. man was on his hands and knees, examining the sand on the floor of the canal. Presently he straightened and began to stride forward rapidly.

Kramer swore. Only a few hours had elapsed since he had dispatched Hom Valla. How could Blanchard possibly have picked up the trail so quickly? In some way he, Kramer, must have erred, must have left a clue.

For a moment panic swept over the former salvage ratio clerk. Then quickly he was in control of himself again. He lay down on the sand, swallowed a few food concentrate pellets and in a moment was asleep.

Awakening before dawn, he pushed on again in the darkness. But with the coming of the sun the first of the three quanthrows swooped down to attack him.

The quanthrows were far south for this time of year, but their ferocity was no less great. Strangely resembling sword fish, but with octagon-shaped heads and curious square wingspreads, they wheeled out of the saffron sky with rasping squawks that vibrated the earphones in Kramer’s helmet.

He killed the first with a single shot, managed to wound fatally the second with a double charge from his heat pistol. The third, a colossus of avian strength shot toward him, its steel-like proboscis thrust straight for his throat.

Kramer escaped the murderous attack by inches. Even so, before he could whip out his knife and jam it upward, the “sword” penetrated his suit and bit deep in his shoulder.

Breathing hard, he stood there looking down at the three lifeless bodies. And then, with that sudden clarity which physical action always brought him, Kramer thought of something.

If there were three quanthrows, there must be ninety-seven more close by. It was one of the peculiarities of this creature to travel always in flocks of a hundred. Also—and here in spite of the pain in his shoulder, Kramer permitted himself to indulge in a broad smile, the one thing which would attract a quanthrow was salt.

In an instant he was ripping open his haversack, pouring the white crystals on the three dead bodies.

With their strange clannishness, the quanthrows would miss these members of their flock shortly and would return to investigate their absence. When they found the salt they would linger there for hours. And Blanchard…! Kramer walked on again with new vigor.

The sword cut in his suit was easily repaired. Duore-silient tape fixed that. To his dismay, however, Kramer found that the attack by the quanthrows had damaged the delicate wiring of his visa set. Several times he switched it on, expecting to see the oncoming Blanchard. But the vision plate remained blurred.

At nightfall of the second day he reached the first way station. Stumbling in the doorless cubicle, Kramer threw himself prone on the debris-covered floor, panting with exhaustion.

Here at least he could rest a while, free from the incredible dangers of this world.

The cubicle ages ago had housed the air filtration apparatus and heat control units of the way station. This machinery had weathered to a pile of oxidized metal. But in a hermetically sealed cabinet mounted on one wall Kramer found a spanner glass still in usable operation.

He pursed his lips in satisfaction, quickly transferred the battery connections of his suit to the device and tripped over the vernier.

For a long moment the cracked screen showed a blank surface. Then, with an oath, Kramer drove his clenched fist into the panel, shattering pintax tubes in a shower of fragments.

He had seen enough. Clearly outlined in the screen the figure of Blanchard could be seen, plodding doggedly through the sand. Kramer dropped into a ruined settee and chinned the stud feeding a lighted cheroot to his lips. He inhaled the rank smoke savagely.

He stood up and began a careful survey of the cubicle’s interior. Nothing at all which might serve to entrap the oncoming I. P. man. Kramer went outside and began to pace along the short narrow street.

On the right was the matrilated dome where canaleers passed the night so long ago. On the left stood the remnants of the harthode tower where first, second and third Monarchy Martian dispatchers had pored over their charts and lock controls, guiding the network of traffic in and out of Canal Grand.

The last structure was still in fairly good preservation. It was a canalserai, and Kramer’s heart leaped as his gaze took it in. Even pilots in those days had not lacked for entertainment. This was their pleasure palace where gambling and dancing had taken place.

The door to this building had long since vanished and five feet over the threshold was a small mound of drifted sand. Inside, however, Kramer, found the rarified air had kept things in pretty good trim.

The long demdem bar still stood before one wall. Farther on he saw the little alcoves where incoming pilots had drowsed under the effect of the forbidden electro-hypnotic machines.

The dismantled parts of one of these machines still stood in a corner, and he paused to examine it. Self applied hypnotism was one of the accomplishments of the early Martians. This device was simple. It consisted of two prism-shaped pieces of translucent metal, mounted on brackets in front of a many-sided panel of refracto-glass. Seated before the instrument, under a powerful ato-light, the imbiber found his gaze drawn toward a single perspective, where the reflection of his own eyes was transmitted back to him.

Abruptly Kramer seized the instrument and carried it to the doorway of the room, scooped the drifted sand into a higher mound, and placed the machine upon it.

Directly above a stone girder hung precariously, balanced by the jammed key stone in the archway. Kramer dug toe holes in the crumbling masonry, mounted to that key stone and loosened it with his knife blade. An instant later only a few chips of stone kept the massive girder from plunging downward.

Back on the floor level again, he whipped out his electric stylus and wrote the following words across the refracto-glass panel:

Blanchard: I know you’re after me, but our trails part here. If you want to know which canal I’ve taken, the secret lies in the glass.

He signed his name and smiled quietly. It was a rather complicated trap, but if he knew the I. P. man, it was a good one. Blanchard would enter here, searching for clues. He would see the hypnosis machine, and he would read the message.

From the moment he looked into the refracto glass, the machine would begin its spell. Blanchard would be lulled into a quick, deep sleep, and as he slumped backward against the wall, the dislodged girder above would complete the story.

Five minor canals angled off Canal Grand at this way station. But Kramer’s original plan of taking one of these to throw his pursuer off the track was gone now. Sure of himself, he continued almost lightheartedly down Canal Grand.

As he went on, he worked at the wiring of his visa set. Once he got it in partial operation, but then it blurred again, and refused to respond to the controls. The pain in his shoulder was a dull throb now; his whole arm felt numb and feverish, and there was a growing lump in the gland under his armpit.

By noon he was aware of a subtle change in the scene about him. The canal’s walls seemed to draw closer together and become deeper. The sides of the great ditch took on a deeper brownish red hue that caught the glare of the sun and refracted it back into his eyeballs.

Abruptly Kramer halted, staring with wide-open eyes. A quarter mile ahead a large black mound barred his path.

Rocks! As he drew nearer he could see the outlines of gargantuan boulders piled high in a grotesque cairn. But how had they come here? They had not rolled down from the top of the canal, for no whim of nature could have constructed such a regular formation.

Kramer approached with caution. Twenty yards away he stopped again, and a wave of fear swept over him. There was something curiously life-like about those stones. He received the impression they were watching him with unseen eyes.

Then suppressing the scream which arose in his throat, he turned and ran. Simultaneously he looked over his shoulder, and an incredible sight met his eyes.

The “stones” had left their mound and were now deploying over the hard-packed ground and slowly, but unmistakably, pursuing him.

Not until that moment did Kramer realize what he had blundered into. They were the horrors of the canals—the kanal-bras, Mars’ link between organic and inorganic life.

At first he outdistanced them easily. Then, as they increased their locomotion, he seemed to be running on a treadmill with painted scenery unrolling on either side. The kanal-bras came on with no apparent effort, gliding across the surface of the sand as if they weighed nothing at all. Looking back, Kramer thought he could see cavernous mouths and multiple eyes.

He understood their purpose. They were inorganic, yes, but they were also omnivorous. That is, feeding on organic matter, they permitted that matter to adhere to their surfaces and slowly petrify like a coal deposit.

They were close upon him now. Kramer’s breath was searing his lungs, and he could hear the exhaust valve in the back of his helmet rattle open and shut like a shuttleclock.

And then once again his reading background came to the aid of the former salvage ratio clerk. Somewhere he remembered that a kanal-bra reacted to sub-sonic vibrations. They alone could penetrate their metal-stone bodies.

He had no vibrator, but he did have his heat pistol. Frantically he clawed the weapon out of its holster and twisted the control stud to its farthest marking. From a heat ray to an infra-red ray to a sub-sonic ray was but a step. He turned and fired.

Even then he was not prepared for the results. As the single blast pulsed out of the barrel, the kanal-bras lost their forward momentum and halted. Like a slow motion camera turned backward, they slowly retreated across the sand. Reaching their former position, they mounted one upon the other, until they formed the identical mound Kramer had seen before.

He stood still a long moment, staring in amazement. Then boldly he tried an experiment. The heat pistol was of the latest Gan-Larkington type, and the tiny rheostat was capable of controlling vibrations almost the entire breadth of the vibratory scale. Super-sonic charges, though rare with most weapons, were included in the Gan-Larkington.

If a sub-sonic charge would thus stultify the kanal-bras would not a super-sonic or ultra-sonic wave tend to release them?

Kramer tried it. He adjusted the weapon, fired a shot and saw the stony creatures immediately erupt into life. A sub-sonic blast sent them returning in that curious retrogressive action to their former position.

He smoked a cigarette over the discovery. A quarter of an hour later he had set his third trap. Beyond a doubt there wasn’t the slightest need for it. But with the stakes he had, there was no use taking chances.

He buried the heat gun in the sand, leaving only the barrel and the trigger exposed. He stretched a cord tightly for twenty yards across the canal floor, connecting one end to the trigger. The barrel he aimed directly at the motionless kanal-bras.

“Now,” he muttered, “if Blanchard does get by the way station, he’ll get a surprise. All you need, these days, is brains.”

With a quick step he skirted the living rock cairn and headed down the canal.

Within a quarter mile he found it necessary to consult the stolen map. And a mile farther on found him clutching the folio in one hand, gazing at it constantly as he walked.

At intervals of every few hundred yards other tributary canals branched off the main stem. Some of these were equally as large and impressive as Canal Grand, and shortly it dawned upon Kramer that he might be lost.

The map was clearly enough marked, but apparently new waterways had been dug since those ancient cartographers had penned the manuscript. Kramer swore but did not slow his pace. He still had his magno compass. He might wander off the main artery, but sooner or later he should be able to place his position and swing back into it.

Faded hieroglyphics began to make their appearance now, stenciled deeply in colossal letters above the water marks on the canal’s sides. Some of them were undecipherable. Others, Kramer tried to ease his growing tension, by translating.

“Praise to Zara,” one of them read. Another: “Calthedra five hundred legaros.” There was one in larger marking that caused Kramer to knit his brows in puzzlement. Translated freely, it read: “Beware of the Echo.”

He forgot the hieroglyphics abruptly when he tripped over a heavier mound of sand and fell sprawling. The sudden shock did something to his visa set. It crackled, hummed, began operation, then went dead again.

But that momentary glimpse in the vision plate was enough. Kramer had seen Blanchard plodding forward relentlessly through the drifted sand. He had safely passed both traps.

Was there no stopping the man?

Kramer lurched to his feet and began to walk at a faster pace, though the pain in his shoulder had increased a hundredfold.

He noticed now that the red banks of the canal had given way to a kind of lusterless, metallic wall. Slate gray in color, they towered even higher than before, and they seemed to converge at the top like a tunnel.

Simultaneously he felt a cloud of mental uneasiness sweep over him, accompanied by an overpowering desire to break the brooding oppressive silence.

Twenty yards forward, and that desire had become maddening. The utter quiet pressed against his ears. Against his will he found his steps drawn toward the nearer wall. And here, like a crazed man, he seized a heavy rock fragment and began dashing it again and again against the metallic bank.

He could feel the snapping recoil as the blow traveled up his arm. The hum in his headset told him there was nothing wrong with his audiphone.

But the blows produced no sound.

It was as if he had struck a mallet into a pile of cotton. And then he went rigid. Out of the corner of his eye he had seen something leap up from the rock fragment even as he hit it and race outward across the canal with incredible speed. A shadow, it seemed to be, and yet a shadow that possessed a certain miniature form with moving ghost legs and arms and a tiny button knob that might have been a head.

Again he struck the rock and again a shadow leaped up and sped away. An instant later Kramer threw himself flat upon the sand, groveling in agony. The shadows, a dozen of them, had formed a phalanx at the opposite wall of the canal, and had raced back upon him.

As they came, they carried the delayed sound of Kramer’s blows upon the stone.

Delayed, but multiplied and amplified a thousand times. The concentrated roar was agonizing. Vainly he thumbed the switch, disconnecting the headset. But the vibration pulsed relentlessly through the space suit and hextar helmet. He thought he felt the shadow bodies leaping upon him, striking his skull with tiny invisible hammers.

Were they sound shadows, some mixture of light and sound waves possessing the ability to travel through space and time, a mutant echo that had the dominant characteristics of living matter?

Or was the whole thing a vagary of his brain, the result of a mounting fever from his infected arm? He did not know.

Kramer sat there a long time, mulling over the situation, as the vibration finally ceased. He wondered if there were any possibility of using the phenomena as a trap. A last and final trap that would forestall Blanchard for once and for all.

But he had no time for further thought. His gaze had turned idly to that length of canal down which he had just passed. And far off, almost at the limit of his vision he saw something which made his mouth suddenly fall slack.

A man was toiling through the sand, slowly advancing toward him. Blanchard!

Leaping to his feet, he raced away, fleeing madly at top speed. Nor, thereafter, did he relax for an instant his frenzied efforts to escape.

Six days later Kramer entered the last lap of his trek. He knew it was the last lap because the way station at the confluence of the two mighty canals was clearly marked and described on the map. Any moment now he should be sighting the cavern mouth that led to the retnite deposit.

After that his worries would be over. He would extract a quantity of the deposit—the folio gave a detailed account of the method to obtain and purify it. He would swing into Canal 28 Northwest and manage somehow to reach Crater City. Blanchard was close on his heels, yes. But in some way he would take care of Blanchard.

Give him a year then—six months, and success would be his. The mental doors that would be flung open to him would eliminate all necessity of subsistence worry, and the law would be a trivial thing which he could dispense with.

Remained only one item unanswered—the Void. Since he had entered Canal Grand, Kramer had tried to put that mystery out of his thoughts. It had persisted, however, and now that he was nearing his goal, he thought about it more and more.

It lay ahead somewhere, a gulf which he must cross. Not until he had reached it would he know the answer.

He began to study the canal sides now with care. The hieroglyphics had long since disappeared, and there was utterly no sight of life.

All that long Martian day he walked steadily onward. His throat was dry; his arm and shoulder felt strange and numb like alien parts of his body; at intervals reddish spots danced before his eyes.

At three o’clock by his Earth watch Kramer was startled to see the left canal wall swing outward on a tangent, forming a vast ellipse before him. Simultaneously the sand floor began to descend, deeper and deeper, until he could no longer discern the tops of the banks.

An hour later a cry of amazement escaped his lips.

Scattered across the canal floor a quarter mile ahead was an array of incredible objects. He saw modern rocket ships; he saw thirtieth century stepto planes with their curious elongated wing exhaust jets. All of them lay there in the oppressive silence, conning doors open as if their crews had left only a moment before and would shortly return.

But as he passed them at closer range, he saw, too, that they had been there a long time. The hulls were half buried in the sand. The glassite ports were yellowish and opaque with the peculiar dull hue brought about by long exposure to the Martian atmosphere.

There were some twenty ships of types and manufacture he recognized. One of them was the ill-fated Goliath, whose disappearance, he vaguely remembered, had caused a furor when he was a child. Older vessels loomed as he walked on, some of them antedating the ancient models he had seen in his history books.

Kramer did not have to be told that this was the end of the trail for these ships. They too had come this far, hoping to probe the Void. But what had become of their crews? Why had they not returned?

He passed the last vessel at length and reached a point where the view before him was unrestricted. Here he halted, oppressed by an inner sense of unease. He drew out the oil skin pouch and began a close survey of the folio.

Almost at once a cry of triumph came to his lips. It seemed queer he had not noticed it before, but this widening point of the canal was marked on the map. More than that, the map also showed the retnite deposit to lie in the center of the huge bowl.

Two trails leading to the lode were shown. One of them a narrow, round-about route was marked with a dotted line. The other trail, larger, shorter bore two words in early Martian at its entrance. A-krey menarga, it read.

Kramer stood up and walked a hundred yards east. He saw no trail. Nothing but trackless sand. And then abruptly, as he turned his eyes slightly upward, he did see it.

Extending before him was a narrow corridor where the sand floor somehow seemed tilted at a different angle and where the atmosphere bore a curious glazed effect, as if he were looking through a double thickness of glass. Also, he thought he saw a row of black spots, like a dotted line, stretching into space before him.

But even at that moment with success at his finger tips, Kramer did not forget himself—or Blanchard. Two trails were marked on the map, this one and another farther on. He threw the map to the sand, grinding it under his heel to give the impression it had been dropped there accidentally.

Then he continued walking east. And shortly afterward his efforts were rewarded. The second trail was larger, more inviting. A stone floor stretched out before him across the sand. But here, too, he received the impression he was looking at it through imperfect plates of glass.

Without hesitation Kramer swung into it. Almost at once he had a feeling of exhilaration, of mental buoyancy. Mingled with it was a feeling that the way behind him was closing up.

The stone floorway led up. And that was odd. For Kramer could have sworn that the sand bowl was flat as a vast die. As he went on, however, he thought less about his surroundings and more about the stolen folio.

A-krey menarga? What did those words mean? Menar he knew, was an early Martian prefix, meaning bent or twisted. And the only logical definite of krey was space.

Kramer stopped while an icy chill crawled up his spine. Into the space warp! …Of course, that was what the secret of the Void was. A space warp would account for everything: the eternal division of North and South Mars, the disappearance of the various expeditions, the dehydration of the canals. It meant that another world—another dimension—was impinged at this point and whoever blundered into it would be lost forever!

Quite slowly, Kramer began to walk again.

He forced his eyes ahead where the usual perspective was supplanted by a jumble of angles, tilted ellipses and quadrants. But at length he could stand it no longer, and he turned.

Nothing! There was nothing behind him at all. Only the way ahead, stretching like a forsaken causeway into measureless distances.

THE LOCH MOOSE MONSTER, by Janet Kagan

This year the Ribeiro’s daffodils seeded early and they seeded cockroaches. Now ecologically speaking, even a cockroach has its place—but these suckers bit. That didn’t sound Earth authentic to me. Not that I care, mind you, all I ask is useful. I wasn’t betting on that either.

As usual, we were short-handed—most of the team was up-country trying to stabilize a herd of Guernseys—which left me and Mike to throw a containment tent around the Ribeiro place while we did the gene-reads on the roaches and the daffodils that spawned ’em. Dragon’s Teeth, sure enough, and worse than useless. I grabbed my gear and went in to clean them out, daffodils and all.

By the time I crawled back out of the containment tent, exhausted, cranky, and thoroughly bitten, there wasn’t a daffodil left in town. Damn fools. If I’d told ’em the roaches were Earth authentic they’d have cheered ’em, no matter how obnoxious they were.

I didn’t even have the good grace to say “hi” to Mike when I slammed into the lab. The first thing out of my mouth was, “The red daffodils—in front of Sagdeev’s.”

“I got ’em,” he said. “Nick of time, but I got ’em. They’re in the greenhouse—”

We’d done a gene-read on that particular patch of daffodils the first year they’d flowered red: they promised to produce a good strain of preying mantises, probably Earth authentic. We both knew how badly Mirabile needed insectivores. The other possibility was something harmless but pretty that ship’s records called “fireflies.” Either would have been welcome, and those idiots had been ready to consign both to a fire.

“I used the same soil, Annie, so don’t give me that look.”

“Town’s full of fools,” I growled, to let him know that look wasn’t aimed at him. “Same soil, fine, but can we match the rest of the environmental conditions those preying mantises need in the goddamn greenhouse?”

“It’s the best we’ve got,” he said. He shrugged and his right hand came up bandaged. I glared at it.

He dropped the bandaged hand behind the lab bench. “They were gonna burn ’em. I couldn’t—” He looked away, looked back. “Annie, it’s nothing to worry about—”

I’d have done the same myself, true, but that was no reason to let him get into the habit of taking fool risks.

I started across to check out his hand and give him pure hell from close up. Halfway there the com blatted for attention. Yellow light on the console, meaning it was no emergency, but I snatched it up to deal with the interruption before I dealt with Mike. I snapped a “Yeah?” at the screen.

“Mama Jason?”

Nobody calls me that but Elly’s kids. I glowered at the face on screen: my age, third-generation Mirabilan, and not so privileged. “Annie Jason Masmajean,” I corrected, “Who wants to know?”

“Leonov Bellmaker Denness at this end,” he said. “I apologize for my improper use of your nickname.” Ship’s manners—he ignored my rudeness completely.

The name struck me as vaguely familiar but I was in no mood to search my memory; I’d lost my ship’s manners about three hours into the cockroach clean-out. “State your business,” I said.

To his credit, he did: “Two of Elly’s lodgers claim there’s a monster in Loch Moose. By their description, it’s a humdinger.”

I was all ears now. Elly runs the lodge at Loch Moose for fun—her profession’s raising kids. (Elly Raiser Roget, like her father before her. Our population is still so small we can’t afford to lose genes just because somebody’s not suited, one way or another, for parenting.) A chimera anywhere near Loch Moose was a potential disaster. Thing of it was, Denness didn’t sound right for that. “Then why aren’t they making this call?”

He gave a deep-throated chuckle. “They’re in the dining room gorging themselves on Chris’s shrimp. I doubt they’ll make you a formal call when they’re done. Their names are Emile Pilot Stirzaker and Francois Cobbler Pastides and, right now, they can’t spell either without dropping letters.”

So he thought they’d both been smoking dumbweed. Fair enough. I simmered down and reconsidered him. I’d’ve bet money he was the one who side-tracked Pastides and Stirzaker into the eating binge.

Recognition struck at last: this was the guy Elly’s kids called “Noisy.” The first thing he’d done on moving into the neighborhood was outshout every one of ’em in one helluva contest. He was equally legendary for his stories, his bells, and his ability to keep secrets. I hadn’t met him, but I’d sure as hell heard tell.

I must have said the nickname aloud, because Denness said, “Yes, ‘Noisy.’ Is that enough to get me a hearing?”

“It is.” It was my turn to apologize. “Sorry. What more do you want me to hear?”

“You should, I think, hear Stirzaker imitate his monster’s bellow of rage.”

It took me a long moment to get his drift, but get it I did. “I’m on my way,” I said. I snapped off and started re-packing my gear.

Mike stared at me. “Annie? What did I miss?”

“You ever know anybody who got auditory hallucinations on dumbweed?”

“Shit,” he said, “No.” He scrambled for his own pack.

“Not you,” I said. “I need you here to coddle those daffodils, check the environmental conditions that produced ’em, and call me if Dragon’s Teeth pop up anywhere else.” I shouldered my pack and finished with a glare and a growl: “That should be enough to keep you out of bonfires while I’m gone, shouldn’t it?”

* * * *

By the time I grounded in the clearing next to Elly’s lodge, I’d decided I was on a wild moose chase. Yeah, I know the Earth authentic is wild goose, but “wild moose” was Grandaddy Jason’s phrase. He’d known Jason—the original first generation Jason—well before the Dragon’s Teeth had started popping up.

One look at the wilderness where Elly’s lodge is now and Jason knew she had the perfect EC for moose. She hauled the embryos out of ship’s storage and set them thawing. Built up a nice little herd of the things and turned ’em loose. Not a one of them survived—damn foolish creatures died of a taste for a Mirabilan plant they couldn’t metabolize.

Trying to establish a viable herd got to be an obsession with Jason. She must’ve spent years at it, off and on. She never succeeded but somebody with a warped sense of humor named the lake Loch Moose and it stuck, moose or no moose.

Loch Moose looked as serene as it always did this time of year. The waterlilies were in full bloom—patches of velvety red and green against the sparkles of sunlight off the water. Here and there I saw a ripple of real trout, Earth authentic.

On the bank to the far right, Susan’s troop of otters played tag, skidding down the incline and hitting the water with a splash. They whistled encouragement to each other like a pack of fans at a ballgame. Never saw a creature have more pure fun than an otter—unless it was a dozen otters, like now.

The pines were that dusty gold that meant I’d timed it just right to see Loch Moose smoke. There’s nothing quite so beautiful as that drift of pollen fog across the loch. It would gild rocks and trees alike until the next rainfall.

Monster, my ass—but where better for a wild moose chase?

I clambered down the steps to Elly’s lodge, still gawking at the scenery, so I was totally unprepared for the EC in the lobby. If that bright-eyed geneticist back on Earth put the double-whammy on any of the human genes in the cold banks they sent along (swore they hadn’t, but after the kangaroo rex, damn if I believe anything the old records tell me), the pandemonium I found would have been enough to kick off Dragon’s Teeth by the dozens.

Amid the chaos, Ilanith, Elly’s next-to-oldest, was handling the oversized gilt ledger with great dignity. She lit up when she saw me and waved. Then she bent down for whispered conversation. A second later Jen, the nine-year-old, exploded from behind the desk, bellowing, “Elleeeeee! Nois-eeeeee! Come quick! Mama Jason’s here!” The kid’s lung-power cut right through the chaos and startled the room into a momentary hush. She charged through the door to the dining room, still trying to shout the house down.

I took advantage of the distraction to elbow my way to the desk and Ilanith.

She squinted a little at me, purely Elly in manner, and said, “Bet you got hopped on by a kangaroo rex this week. You’re real snarly.”

“Can’t do anything about my face,” I told her. “And it was biting cockroaches.” I pushed up a sleeve to show her the bites.

“Bleeeeeh,” she said, with an inch or two of tongue for emphasis. “I hope they weren’t keepers.”

“Just the six I saved to put in your bed. Wouldn’t want you to think I’d forgotten you.”

She wrinkled her nose at me and flung herself across the desk to plant a big sloppy kiss on my cheek. “Mama Jason, you are the world’s biggest tease. But I’m gonna give you your favorite room anyhow”—she wrinkled her nose in a very different fashion at the couple to my right—“since those two just checked out of it.”

One of the those two peered at me like a myopic crane. I saw recognition strike, then he said, “We’ve changed our minds. We’ll keep the room.”

“Too late,” said Ilanith—and she was smug about it. “But, if you want to stay, I can give you one on the other side of the lodge. No view.” Score one for the good guys, I thought.

“See, Elly?” It was Jen, back at a trot beside Elly and dragging Noisy behind her. “See?” Jen said again, “If Mama Jason’s here, I won’t have to go away, right?”

“Right,” I said.

“Oh, Jen!” Elly dropped to one knee to pull Jen into one of her full-body-check hugs. “Is that what’s been worrying you? Leo already explained to your mom. There’s no monster--nobody’s going to send you away from Loch Moose!”

Jen, who’d been looking relieved, suddenly looked suspicious. “If there’s no monster, why’s Mama Jason here?”

“Need a break,” I said, realizing I meant it. Seeing Elly and the kids was break enough all by itself. “Stomped enough Dragon’s Teeth this week. I’m not about to go running after monsters that vanish at the first breath of fresh air.”

Elly gave me a smile that would have thawed a glacier and my shoulders relaxed for the first time in what seemed like months.

I grinned back. “Have your two monster-sighters sobered up yet?”

“Sobered up,” reported Ilanith, “and checked out.” She giggled. “You should have seen how red-faced they were, Mama Jason.”

I glowered at no-one in particular. “Just as well. After the day I had, they’d have been twice as red if I’d had to deal with ’em.”

Elly rose to her feet, bringing Jen with her. The two of them looked me over, Jen imitating Elly’s keen-eyed inspection. “We’d better get Mama Jason to her room. She needs a shower and a nap worse than any kid in the household.”

Ilanith shook her head. “Let her eat first, Elly. By the time she’s done, we’ll have her room ready.”

“Sounds good to me,” I said, “if the kids waiting tables can take it.”

“We raise a sturdy bunch around here. Go eat, Annie.” She gave me a kiss on the cheek—I got a bonus kiss from Jen—and the two of them bustled off to get my room ready. I frowned after them: Jen still seemed worried and I wondered why.

Ilanith rounded the desk to grab my pack. Standing between me and Leo, she suddenly jammed her fists into her hips. “Oh, nuts. Ship’s manners. Honestly, Mama Jason—how did people ever get acquainted in the old days?” With an expression of tried patience, she formally introduced the two of us.

I looked him over, this time giving him a fair shake. The face was as good as the reputation, all laugh lines etched deep. In return, I got inspected just as hard.

When nobody said anything for a full half second, Ilanith said, “More? You need more? Didn’t I get it right?”

Leo gave a smile that was a match for Elly’s. Definitely the EC, I thought. Then he thrust out a huge welcoming hand and said, “That’s Leo to you, as I don’t imagine I could outshout you.”

That assessment visibly impressed Ilanith.

“Annie,” I said. I took the hand. Not many people have hands the size of mine. In Denness I’d met my match for once. Surprised me how good that felt. He didn’t let go immediately and I wasn’t all that anxious for him to do so.

Ilanith eyed him severely. “Leo, there’s no need to be grabby!” She tapped his hand, trying to make him let go.

“Shows how much you know about ship’s manners,” Leo said. “I was about to offer the lady my arm, to escort her into the dining room.”

“Perfectly good old-time ritual,” I said. “I can stand it if he can.”

Leo held out his arm, ship’s formal; I took it. We went off rather grandly, leaving Ilanith all the more suspicious that we’d made it up for her benefit.

Leo chuckled as we passed beyond her earshot. “She won’t believe that until she double-checks with Elly.”

“I know. Good for ’em—check it out for yourself, I always say. Have you heard any bellowing off the loch?”

“Yes,” he said, “I have heard a couple of unusual sounds off the loch lately. I’ve no way of knowing if they’re all made by the same creature. But I’ve lived here long enough to know that these are new. One is a kind of sucking gurgle. Then there’s something related to a cow’s lowing”—he held up a hand—“not cow and not red deer either. I know both. And there’s a bellow that’ll bring you out of a sound sleep faster than a shotgun blast.”

His lips flattened a bit. “I can’t vouch for that one. I’ve only heard it awakening from sleep. It might have been a dream but it never feels like dream—and the bellow Stirzaker gave was a fair approximation of it.”

The lines across his forehead deepened. “There’s something else you should know, Annie. Jen’s been acting spooked, and neither Elly nor I can make any sense of it.”

“I saw. I thought she was still keyed up over the monster business.”

He shook his head. “This started weeks ago, long before Stirzaker and Pastides got everybody stirred up.”

“I’ll see what I can find out.”

“Anything I can do to help,” he said. He swung his free hand to tell me how extensive that “anything” actually was. “On either count.”

“Right now, you watch me eat a big plate of my shrimp with Chris’s barbeque sauce on ’em.”

Loch Moose was the only source of freshwater shrimp on Mirabile and they were one of my triumphs. Not just the way they tasted when Chris got done with them, but because I’d brought the waterlilies they came from myself and planted them down in Loch Moose on the chance they’d throw off something good. Spent three years making sure they stabilized. Got some pretty dragonflies out of that redundancy, too. Elly’s kids use ’em for catching rock lobsters, which is another thing Chris cooks to perfection.

By the time I’d finished my shrimp, the dining room was empty except for a couple of people I knew to be locals like Leo. I blinked my surprise, I guess.

Leo said, “Most of the guests checked out this morning. Let’s take advantage of it.” He picked up my glass and his own and bowed me toward one of the empty booths.

I followed and sank, sighing, into overstuffed comfort. “Now,” I said, “tell me what you heard from Stirzaker and Pastides.”

He obliged in detail, playing both roles. When he was done, I appreciated his reputation for story-telling, but I knew as well he’d given me an accurate account, right down to the two of them tripping over each other’s words in their excitement.

Their description of the chimera would have scared the daylights out of me—if they’d been able to agree on any given part of it aside from the size. Stirzaker had seen the thing reach for him with two great clawlike hands. Pastides had seen the loops of a water snake, grown to unbelievable lengths, undulate past him. They agreed again only when it came to the creature’s bellow.

When all was said, I had to laugh. “I bet their grandaddy told them scary bedtime stories too!”

“Good God,” said Leo, grinning suddenly. “The Loch Ness Monster! I should have recognized it!”

“From which description?” I grinned back. Luckily the question didn’t require an answer.

“Mama Jason!”

That was all the warning I got. Susan—all hundred pounds of her—pounced into my lap.

“They were dumbstruck, both of them,” she said, her manner making it clear that this was the most important news of the century. “You should have seen them eat! Tell her, Noisy—you saw!”

“Hello to you too,” I said, “and I just got the full story, complete with sound effects.”

That settled her down a bit, but not much. At sixteen, nothing settles them down. Sliding into the seat beside me, she said, “Now you tell—about the biting cockroaches.”

Well, I’d have had to tell that one sooner or later, so I told it for two, ending with Mike’s heroic attempt to rescue the red daffodils.

Susan’s eyes went dreamy. “Fireflies,” she said, “Think how pretty they’d be around the lake at night!”

“I was,” I said, all too curtly. “Sorry,” I amended, “I’m still pissed off about them.”

“I’ve got another one for you,” Susan said, matching my scowl. “Rowena who lives about 20 miles that way”—she pointed, glanced at Leo (who nudged her finger about 5 degrees left), then went on—“that way, claims that the only way to keep from raising Dragon’s Teeth is to spit tobacco on your plants whenever you go past them.” She gave another glance at Leo, this one a different sort of query. “I think she believes that. I know she does it!”

“’Fraid so,” Leo said.

“Well, we’ll know just what EC to check when something unusual pops out of Rowena’s plants, won’t we?” I sighed. The superstitions really were adding to our problems.

“Mama Jason,” said Susan—with a look that accused me of making a joke much too low for her age level—“How many authentics need tobacco spit ECs to pop up?”

“No joke, honey. It’s not authentic species I’d expect under conditions like that. It’d be Dragon’s Teeth plain and probably not so simple.” I looked from one to the other. “Keep an eye on those plants for me. Anything suddenly flowers in a different color or a slightly different form, snag a sample and send it to me fast!”

They nodded, Susan looking pleased with the assignment, Leo slightly puzzled. At last Leo said, “I’m afraid I’ve never understood this business of Dragon’s Teeth.…” He broke off, suddenly embarrassed.

“Fine,” I said, “as long as you don’t spit tobacco on the ragweed or piss on the petunias or toss the soapy washwater on the lettuce patch.”

Susan eyed me askance. I said, “Last year the whole town of Misty Valley decided that pissing on the petunias was the only way to stabilize them.” I threw up my hands to stave off the question that was already on the tip of Susan’s tongue. “I don’t know how that got started, so don’t ask me. I’m not even sure I want to know! —The end result, of course, was that the petunias seeded ladybugs.”

“Authentic?” Susan asked.

“No, but close enough to be valuable. Nice little insectivores and surprisingly well-suited for doing in ragmites.” The ragmites are native and a bloody nuisance. “And before you ask,” I added, “the things they might have gotten in the same EC included a very nasty species of poisonous ant and two different grain-eaters, one of which would chain up to a salamander with a taste for quail eggs.”

“Oh, my!” said Susan, “Misty Valley’s where we get our quail eggs!”

“So does everybody on Mirabile,” I said. “Nobody’s gotten the quail to thrive anywhere else yet.” For Leo’s benefit, I added, “So many of our Earth authentic species are on rocky ground, we can’t afford to lose a lot of individuals to a Dragon’s Tooth.”

Leo still looked puzzled. After a moment, he shook his head. “I’ve never understood this business. Maybe for once I could get a simple explanation, suitable for a bellmaker…?”

I gestured to Susan. “My assistant will be glad to give you the short course.”

Susan gave one of those award-winning grins. “It goes all the way back to before we left Earth, Leo.”

Leo arched an eyebrow: “‘We’?”

Susan punched him—lightly—on the arm and said, “You know what I mean! Humans!”

She heaved a dramatic sigh and went on in spite of it all. “They wanted to make sure we’d have everything we might possibly need.”

“I thought that’s why they sent along the embryo and gene banks,” Leo said.

Susan nodded. “It was. But at the time there was a fad for redundancy—every system doubled, tripled, even quadrupled—so just to make sure we couldn’t lose a species we might need, they built all that redundancy into the gene pool too.”

She glanced at me. She was doing fine, so I nodded for her to go on.

“Look, Noisy. They took the genes for, say, sunflowers and they tucked ’em into a twist in wheat helices. Purely recessive, but when the environmental conditions are right, maybe one one-hundredth of your wheat seeds will turn out to sprout sunflowers.”

She leaned closer, all earnestness. “And one one-hundredth of the sunflowers, given the right EC, will seed bumblebees, and so on and so forth. That’s what Mama Jason calls ‘chaining up.’ Eventually you might get red deer.”

Leo frowned. “I don’t see how you can go from plant to animal.…”

“There’s usually an intermediate stage—a plant that comes out all wrong for that plant but perfect for an incubator for whatever’s in the next twist.” She paused dramatically, then finished, “As you can see, it was a perfectly dumb idea.”

I decided to add my two bits here. “The idea wasn’t as dumb as you make out, kiddo. They just hadn’t worked the bugs out before they stuck us with it.”

“When she says bugs,” Susan confided grimly to Leo, “she means Dragon’s Teeth.”

I stepped in again. “Two things went wrong, Leo. First, there was supposed to be an easy way to turn anything other than the primary helix off and on at will. The problem is, that information was in the chunk of ship’s records we lost and it was such new knowledge at the time that it didn’t get passed to anyone on the ship.

“The second problem was the result of pure goof. They forgot that, in the long run, all plants and animals change to suit their environment. A new mutation may be just the thing for our wheat, but who knows what it’s done to those hidden sunflowers? Those—and the chimerae—are the real Dragon’s Teeth.”

Leo turned to Susan. “Want to explain the chimerae as long as you’re at it?”

“A chimera is something that’s, well, sort of patched together from two, maybe three, different genetic sources. Ordinarily it’s nothing striking—you’d probably only notice if you did a full gene-read. But with all those hidden sets of genes, just about anything can happen.”

“Kangaroo rex, for example,” I said. “That one was a true chimera: a wolf in kangaroo’s clothing.”

“I remember the news films,” Leo said. “Nasty.”

“Viable, too,” I said. “That was a tough fight. I’m still sorry I lost.” It still rankled, I discovered.

Leo looked startled.

“I wanted to save ’em, Leo, but I got voted down. We really couldn’t afford a new predator in that area.”

“Don’t look so shocked, Noisy,” Susan said. “You never know what might be useful some day. Just suppose we get an overpopulation of rabbits or something and we need a predator to balance them out before they eat all our crops. That’s why Mama Jason wanted to keep them.”

Leo looked unconvinced, Susan looked hurt suddenly. “Just because it’s ugly, Leo,” she said, “doesn’t mean you wipe it out. There’s nothing pretty about a rock lobster but it sure as hell tastes good.”

“I grant you that. I’m just not as sure about things that think I taste good.”

Susan folded her arms across her chest and heaved another of those dramatic sighs. “Now I know what you’re up against, Mama Jason,” she said, “Pure ignorance.”

That surprised me. I held my tongue for once, waiting to see how Leo would take that.

“Nothing pure about it,” he said. “Don’t insult a man who’s trying to enlighten himself. That never furthered a cause.” He paused, then added, “You sound like you take it very personally.”

Susan dropped her eyes. There was something in that evasion that wasn’t simple embarrassment at overstepping good manners. When she looked up again, she said, “I’m sorry, Leo. I just get so mad sometimes. Mama Jason—”

This time I had to come to her rescue. “Mama Jason sets a bad example, Leo. I come up here and rave about the rampant stupidity everywhere else. Susan, better to educate people than insult them. If I say insulting things about them when I’m in family that’s one thing. But I would never say to somebody who was concerned about his kids or his crops what you just said to Leo.”

“Yeah. I know. I’m sorry again.”

“Forgiven,” said Leo. “Better you make your mistakes on me and learn from them than make ’em on somebody else who might wallop you and turn you stubborn.”

Susan brightened. “Oh, but I am stubborn, Leo! You always say so!”

“Stubborn, yes. Stupid stubborn—not that I’ve seen.”

Again there was something other than embarrassment in her dropped eyes. I tried to puzzle it out, but I was distracted by a noise in the distance.

It came from the direction of the loch—something faint and unfamiliar. I cocked my head to listen harder and got an earful of sneezes instead.

“S-sorry!” Susan gasped, through a second series of sneezes. “P-pollen!” Then she was off again, her face buried in a napkin.

Leo caught my eye. He thought the sneezing fit was as phony as I did.

“Well,” I said, “You may be allergic to the pollen”—she wasn’t, I knew very well—“but I came hoping I’d timed it right to see Loch Moose smoke. And to get in some contemplative fishing”—meaning I didn’t intend to bait my hook—“before it gets too dark.”

Susan held up her hand, finished off one last sequence of sneezes, then said, “What about your nap?”

“What do you think contemplative fishing is?”

“Oh. Right. Get Leo to take you, then. He knows all the best places.”

“I’d be honored,” Leo said.

We left Susan scrubbing her face. Pausing only to pick up poles in the hallway, we set off in silence along the footpath down to Loch Moose. When we got to the first parting of the path, I broke the silence. “Which way to your favorite spot?”

He pointed to the right fork. I’d figured as much. “Mine’s to the left,” I said and headed out that way. If Susan didn’t want me in my usual haunts, I wanted to know why. Leo followed without comment, so I knew he was thinking the same thing.

“Keep your ears open. I heard something before Susan started her ‘sneezing fit’ to cover it.”

We came to another parting in the path. I angled right and again he followed. Pretty soon we were skidding and picking our way down the incline that led to the otters’ playground.

When we got to surer footing, Leo paused. “Annie—now that I’ve got somebody to ask: will you satisfy my curiosity?”

That peaked mine. “About what?”

“Was there such a thing as the Loch Ness Monster? I always thought my mother had made it up.”

I laughed. “And I thought my grandaddy had, especially since he claimed that people came to Loch Ness from all over the Earth hoping to catch a glimpse of the monster! I looked it up once in ship’s records. There really was such a place and people really did come from everywhere for a look!”

He was as taken aback that as I’d been, then he heard what I hadn’t said. “And the monster—was it real? Did it look like any of the stories?”

“I never found out.”

“Pre-photograph?”

“No,” I said, “that was the odd thing about it. There were some fuzzy photos—old flat ones, from a period when everybody had photographic equipment—that might have been photos of anything. The story was that Nessie was very shy and the loch was too full of peat to get sonograms. Lots of excuses, no results.”

“Smoking too much weed, eh?”

“Lot of that going around,” I said. “But no, I suspect Nessie was exactly what granddad used her for—a story. What’s always fascinated me is that people went to look!”

Quite unexpectedly, Leo chuckled. “You underestimate the average curiosity. I don’t think you appreciate how many people stayed glued to their tvs while you folks rounded up those kangaroo rexes. A little thrill is high entertainment.”

“The hell it is,” I said indignantly. “I oughta know: I do it for a living. They didn’t get their boots chewed off by the damn things.”

“Exactly my point,” said Leo. “Scary but safe. Elly’s kids would be the first to tell you what a good combination that is. They watch their kangaroo rex tape about twice a week, and cheer for you every time.”

Some things I was better off not knowing, I thought. I sighed. Turning away from Leo, I got the full view of Loch Moose and its surroundings, which drew a second sigh—this time pure content.

The secret of its appeal was that despite the vast sparkle of sunlight that glittered off it, Loch Moose always felt hidden away—a place you and you alone were aware of.

It took me a while to remember that Leo was beside me. No, I take that back. I was aware that he was there all along, but he was as content as I to simply drink it all in without a word.

Sometime—when we were both done admiring the scene—we headed for the boats, by some sort of mutual agreement. I was liking Leo more and more. For another thing, the whistling of the otters made him smile.

The slope down to the boats was dotted with violets. Most of them were that almost fiery shade of blue that practically defines the species, but once in a while they came out white just for the surprise of it. Some were more surprising than white, though. Almost hidden in the deep shade was a small isolated patch of scarlet.

For the life of me, I couldn’t remember seeing any material on scarlet violets. I stooped for a closer look. Damned odd texture to the petals, too, like velvet.

“Pretty, aren’t they?” Leo said. “Stop by my place while you’re here, and I’ll show you half an acre of them.”

I stood up to look him in the eye. “Popped up all at once? First time, this year?”

“No. I’ve been putting them in when I found them for, oh, three years now.”

“Oh, Leo. Half of Mirabile thinks everything’s going to sprout fangs and bite them and the other half doesn’t even take elementary precautions. Never ever transplant something red unless somebody’s done a work-up on it first!”

He looked startled. “Are they dangerous?”

“Don’t you start!” Dammit, I’d done it—jumped on him with both feet. “Sorry. I’m still fuming over those red daffodils, I guess.”

“Annie, I’m too damned old to worry about everything that flowers red. I took them for what my grandmother called ‘pansies.’ Much to her disappointment, she never could get any started on Mirabile. Maybe they aren’t, but that’s how I think of them. I’m going to hate it if you tell me I have to pull ’em out because they’re about to seed mosquitoes.”

And he’d never forgive me either, I could tell.

“We’ll get a sample on the way back, Leo. If there’s a problem, I’ll see if I can stabilize them for you.” He looked so surprised, I had to add, “Practical is not my only consideration. Never has been. ‘Pretty’ is just fine, provided I’ve got the time to spare.”

That satisfied him. He smiled all the way down to the edge of the water.

Two hands made light work of launching a boat and we paddled across to a sheltered cove I had always favored. I tied the boat to a low branch that overhung the water, dropped a naked hook into the loch, and leaned back. Leo did the same.

What I liked best about this spot, I think, was that it was the perfect view of the otters’ playground—without disturbing the play. It also meant I didn’t have to bring along treats for the little beggars. Susan had been feeding them since she was—oh—Jen’s age. They’d grown so used to it that they hustled the tourists now.

I didn’t believe in it myself, but as long as she didn’t overdo it to the point they couldn’t fend for themselves I wasn’t about to make a fuss. I think Susan knew that too. She had a better grasp of the principles than most adults I knew, aside from those on the team, of course.

The hillside and water were alive with the antics of the otters. Some rippled snake-like through the water. One chased one of those king-sized dragonflies. Two others tussled on the ridge and eventually threw themselves down the incline, tumbling over and over each other, to hit the water with a splash.

Leo touched my arm and pointed a little to the side. He was frowning. I turned to take it in and discovered there was an altercation going on, just below the surface of the water. This one was of a more serious nature.

“Odd,” I said, speaking aloud for the first time since we’d settled in. He nodded, and we both kept watching but there wasn’t anything to see except the occasional flick of a long muscular tail, the wild splash of water. A squeal of anger was followed by a squeal of distress and the combatants broke off, one of them high-tailing it towards us.

I got only a glimpse as it passed us by but it seemed to me it was considerably bigger than its opponent. Biggest otter I’d seen, in fact. I wondered why it had run instead of the smaller one.

The smaller one was already back at play. Leo shrugged and grinned. “I thought mating season was over,” he said. “So did she, considering how she treated him.”

“Ah,” I said, “I missed the opening moves.”

We settled back again, nothing to perturb us but the otter follies, which brought us to laughter over and over again. We trusted nothing would interrupt that by tugging at our lines.

Shadow was beginning to lengthen across us. I knew we had another half hour before it would be too dark for us to make our way easily back up to the lodge. “Leo,” I said, “Want me to head in? Your way will be in shadows long before mine.”

“Staying the night at the lodge. I promised Elly I’d do some handiwork for her. Besides, I could do with another of Chris’s meals.”

There was a stir and a series of splashes to our right, deep in the cove. That large otter, back with friends. There were two troops of them in the loch now. I made a mental note to make sure they weren’t overfishing the shrimp or the trout, then I made a second note to see if we couldn’t spread the otters to another lake as well. The otters were pretty firmly established on Mirabile but it never hurt to start up another colony elsewhere.

I turned to get a better look, maybe count noses to get a rough estimate of numbers. I counted six, eight, nine separate ripples in the water. Something seemed a little off about them. I got a firm clamp on my suspicious mind and on the stories I’d heard all day and tried to take an unbiased look. They weren’t about to hold still long enough for me to get a fix on them through the branches and the shadows that were deepening by the moment.

One twined around an overhang. I could see the characteristic tail but its head was lost in a stand of waterlilies. Good fishing there, I knew. The trout always thought they could hide in the waterlilies and the otters always knew just where to find them. Then I realized with a start that the waterlilies were disappearing.

I frowned. I untied the boat and gestured for Leo to help me get closer. We grabbed at branches to pull the boat along as silently as possible. To no avail: with a sudden flurry of splashes all around, the otters were gone.

“Hell,” I said. I unshipped the oars and we continued on over. I was losing too much of the light. I thrust down into the icy water and felt around the stand of lilies, then I grabbed and yanked, splattering water all over Leo. He made not a word of complaint. Instead, he stuck a damp match into his shirt pocket and tried a second one. This one lit.

It told my eyes what my fingers had already learned: the water lily had been neatly chewed. Several other leaves had been nipped off the stems as well—but at an earlier time, to judge from the way the stem had sealed itself. I dropped the plant back in the water and wiped my hands dry on my slacks.

Leo drowned the match and stuck it in his pocket with the first. It got suddenly very dark and very quiet on the loch.

I decided I didn’t want either of us out here without some kind of protective gear. I reached for the overhang and shoved us back toward the sunlit side of the loch. It wasn’t until I’d unshipped my oar again that I got my second shock of the day.

That branch was the one I’d seen the otter twined around. That gave me a belated sense of scale. The “otter” had been a good eight feet long!

I chewed on the thought all the way back to the lodge. Would have forgotten the violets altogether but for Leo’s refusal to let that happen. I put my pole back in its place and took the scarlet violet and its clump of earth from him. Spotted Susan and said, “Leo wants to see a gene-read. Can you have Chris send rock lobster for two up to my room?”

“It’s on its way, Mama.” She paused to glance at the violets. “Pretty,” she said, “I hope—”

“Yeah, me too.”

“Hey!” she said suddenly, “I thought you were here for a break?”

“How else can I lure Leo up to my room?”

“You could just invite him, Mama Jason. That’s what you’re always telling us: Keep it simple and straightforward…”

“I should keep my mouth shut.”

“Then you wouldn’t be able to eat your lobster.” With that as her parting shot, Susan vanished back into the dining room. I paused to poke my head around the corner—empty, just as Chris had predicted.

We climbed the stairs. I motioned Leo in, laid down the clump of violets and opened my gear. “Violets first,” I said, “as long as we’re about to be interrupted.”

I took my sample and cued up the room computer, linked it to the one back at the lab. There was a message from Mike waiting. “The daffodils have perked up, so they look good,” it said, “and the troops have returned from the Guernsey wars triumphant. We’ll call if we need you. You do the same.”

“You forgot to say how your hand is, dummy,” I growled at the screen—then typed the same in, for him to find in the morning.

The first level gene-read on the violets went fast. All it takes is a decent microscope—that I carry—and the computer. The hard part was running it through ship’s records looking for a match or a near match. I could let that run all night while I slept through it.

Susan brought the rock lobster and peered over my shoulder as she set it down. “Mama Jason, I can keep an eye on that while you eat if you like.”

“Sure,” I said, getting up to give her the chair. Leo and I dug into our lobster, with an occasional glance at the monitor. “Watch this part, Leo,” I said. Susan had already finished the preliminary and was looking for any tacked on genes that might be readable.

Susan’s fingers danced, then she peered at the screen like she was trying to see through it. Mike gets that same look. I suppose I do, too. The screen looks right through the ‘whatsis’—as Susan said—and into its genetic makeup. “Mama Jason, I can’t see anything but the primary helix.”

“Okay.” Neither did I. “Try a match with violets.” To Leo, I added, “We might as well try the easy stuff first. Why run the all-night program if you don’t have to.” I ducked into the bathroom to wash rock lobster and butter off my fingers.

“No luck,” Susan called to me.

When I came out, Leo had disappointment written all over his face.

“Buck up,” I said, “We’re not giving up that easily. Susan, ask the computer if it’s got a pattern for something called a ‘pansy’ or a ‘pansies.’”

“‘Pansy,’” said Leo and he spelled it for her.

It did. Luckily, that wasn’t one of the areas we’d lost data in. “Oh, Mama Jason!” said Susan, “Will you look at that?”

We had a match.

“Leo, you lucky dog!” I said. “Your grandma would be proud of you!”

His jaw dropped. “You mean—they really are pansies?”

“Dead on,” I told him, while Susan grinned like crazy. I patted her on the shoulder—and gave her a bit of a nudge toward the door at the same time. “You bring Susan a sample of the ones you planted around your place, just so she can double-check for stability. But I think you’ve got exactly what you hoped you had.”

I pointed to the left side of the screen. “According to this, they should come in just about every color of the rainbow. We may have to goose them a bit for that—unless you prefer them all red?”

“Authentic,” said Leo, “I want them Earth authentic, as long as you’re asking me.”

“Okay. Tomorrow then,” I told Susan. She grinned once more and left.

I sat down at the computer again. Wrote the stuff on the pansy to local memory—then I cleared the screen and called up everything ship’s records had on otters.

They didn’t eat waterlilies and they didn’t come six feet long. Pointing to the genes in question, I told Leo this.

“Does that mean there is a monster in the lake?”

“I can’t tell you that. I’m not terribly concerned about something that eats waterlilies, Leo, but I do want to know if it’s chaining up to something else.”

“How do we find out?”

“I snag a cell sample from the beasties.”

Again his lips pressed together in that wry way. “May I offer you what assistance I can?” A sweeping spread of the hands. “I’m very good at keeping out of the way and at following orders. I’m also a first-rate shot with a rifle and I can tell the difference between a monstrosity and a monster. I promise no shooting unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

“Let me think on it, Leo.” Mostly I wanted to ask Elly if what he said was true.

He must have read my mind, because he smiled and said, “Elly will vouch for me. I’ll see you in the morning.”

That was all. Except maybe I should mention he kissed my hand on his way out. I was beginning to like Leo more and more.

After he left, I did some thinking on it, then I trotted downstairs to talk to Elly. I leaned against the countertop, careful not to get in the way of her cleaning, and said, “Tell me about Leo.”

Elly stopped scrubbing for a moment, looked up, and smiled. “Like you,” she said.

“That good or bad?”

The smile broadened into a grin. “Both. That means he’s stubborn, loyal, keeps a secret secret, plays gruff with the kids but adores them just the same.”

“Any permanent attachments?” It popped out before I knew it was coming. I tried to shove it back in, but Elly only laughed harder at my attempt.

“Why, Annie! I believe you’ve got a crush on Leo!” Still laughing, she pulled out a chair and sat beside me, cupping her chin in her hand. “I shouldn’t be surprised. All the kids do.”

I gave one of Susan’s patented sighs.

“Okay, okay,” she said, “I’ll leave off. I like it, though. I like Leo and I like you and I think you’d get along together just fine.”

“Is he as good a shot as he claims to be? And as judicious about it?”

That sat her upright and looking wary.

“No panic,” I said firmly. “You have got something in the loch that I want a look at—but it’s an herbivore and I doubt it’s dangerous. It’s big enough to overturn a boat maybe, but—”

“Are you calling in the team?”

“I don’t think that’s necessary. They could all do with a break—”

“That’s what you came for. That’s hardly fair.”

I waved that aside. “Elly, you should know me better by now. I wouldn’t have taken this up as a profession if I weren’t a born meddler. And I asked about Leo because he offered to give me a hand.” I know I scowled. “Money and equipment I can always get—it’s the hands we’re short.”

“You’re going to make off with half my kids one of these days.”

I couldn’t help it. I jerked around to stare at her. She was smiling—and that laugh was threatening to break out all over again. “Annie, surely it’s occurred to you that half those kids want to be just like you when they grow up!”

“But—!”

“Oh, dear. Poor Mama Jason. You thought I was raising a whole passel of little Ellies here, didn’t you?”

The thing was, I’d never given it any thought at all. More than likely I just assumed Susan and Chris and Ilanith would take over the lodge and.…

Elly patted my hand. “Don’t you worry. Chris will run the lodge and you and the rest can still drop by for vacations.”

I felt guilty as hell somehow, as if I’d subverted the whole family.

Elly gave me a big hug. “Wipe that look off your face. You’d think I got chimerae instead of proper kids! The only thing I ask is that you don’t cart them off until you’re sure they’re ready.”

“You’ll worry yourself sick!”

“No. I’ll worry the same way I worry about you. Do I look sick?”

She stood off and let me look. She looked about as good as anybody could. She knew it too. Just grinned again and said, “Take Leo with you. Susan, too, if you think she’s ready. I warn you, she thinks she is, but she’ll listen to you on the subject.”

And that was the end of it as far as Elly was concerned. I walked back to my room, thoughtful all the way.

Damnify knew how I could have missed it. And there I’d been aggravating the situation as well, calling Susan “my assistant,” letting her do the gene-read on Leo’s pansies. Then I thought about it some more.

She’d done a damn fine gene-read. If she’d heard Leo talk about the pansies, she’d have no doubt thought to try that second as well.

The more I thought, the more I saw Elly was right. It was just so unexpected that I’d never really looked at it.

I crawled into that comfortable bed and lay there listening to the night sounds off the loch and all the while I was wondering how soon I could put Susan to work. I drifted off into sleep and my dreams were more pleased by it all than I would have admitted to Elly.

I woke, not rested enough, to an insistant shaking of my shoulder and opened my eyes to see a goggle-eyed something inches from my face. Thinking the dream had turned bad, I mumbled at it to go away and rolled over.

“Please, Mama Jason,” the bad dream said, “Please, I gotta talk to you. I can’t tell Elly, and I’m afraid it’s gonna hurt her.”

Well, when a bad dream starts threatening Elly, I listen. I sat up and discovered that the bad dream was only Jen, the nine-year-old. “Gimme half a chance, Jen,” I said, holding up one hand while I smeared my face around with the other, trying to stretch my eyes into focus so I could see my watch. My watch told me I’d had enough sleep to function rationally, so I levered myself up.

Jen’s eyes unpopped, squinched up, and started leaking enormous teardrops. She made a dash for the door, but by then I was awake and I caught her before she made her exit. “Hold on,” I said, “You don’t just tell me something’s out to hurt Elly and then disappear. Ain’t done.”

Still leaking tears, she wailed, “It’s supposed to be a secret.…”

Which she wanted somebody to force out of her. Okay, I could oblige, and she could tell the rest Mama Jason made her tell. I plopped her firmly on the edge of the bed. “Now wipe your nose and tell me what this is about. You’d think I was the chimera the way you’re staring.”

“You gotta promise not to hurt Monster. He’s Susan’s.”

I did nothing of the sort. I waited and she went on, “I didn’t know he was so big, Mama Jason!” She threw out those two skinny arms to show me just how big, which actually made it about three feet long tops, but I knew from the fingertip to fingertip glance that went with the arm fling that she meant much bigger. “Now I’m scared for Susan!”

“What do you mean, he’s Susan’s?”

“Susan sneaks out at night to feed him. I never saw him, but he must be awful. She calls him Monster and he gurgles.” She shivered.

I gathered her up and held her until the shivering stopped. Obviously all this had been going on for some time. She’d only broken silence because of Stirzaker’s panicky report. “Okay,” I said, still patting her, “I want you to let me know the next time Susan sneaks out to feed this Monster of hers—”

She blinked at me solemnly. “She’s out there now, Mama Jason.”

“Okay,” I said, “Out there where?”

The bellow off the loch cut me short and brought me to my feet. Unlike Leo, I knew that hadn’t been part of a dream. I was already headed for the window when the sound came again. I peered into the night.

Mirabile doesn’t have a moon, but for the moment we’ve got a decent nova. Not enough radiation to worry about, just enough to see glimmers in the dark.

Something huge rippled through the waters of the loch. I stared harder, trying to make it come clear, but it wouldn’t. It bellowed again, and an answering bellow came from the distant shore.

Whatever it was, it was huge, even bigger than the drifted otters I’d seen earlier. Had they chained up to something already? There was a splash and another bellow. I remember thinking Elly wouldn’t hear it from her room; she was on the downside of the slope, cushioned from the loch noises by the earth of the slope itself.

Then I got a second glimpse of it, a huge head, a long body. With a shock, I realized that it looked like nothing so much as those blurry flat photos of “Nessie.”

I turned to throw on some clothes and ran right into Jen, scaring her half to death. “Easy, easy. It’s just me,” I said, holding her by the shoulders, “Run get Leo—and tell him to bring his rifle.” I gave her a push for the door and that kid moved like a house-afire.

So did Leo. By the time I’d got my gear together, double-checking the flare gun to make sure it had a healthy charge left, he was on my doorstep, rifle in hand.

We ran down the steps together, pausing only once—to ask Jen which way Susan had gone. Jen said, “Down to the loch, she calls it your favorite place! I thought you’d know!” She was on the verge of another wail.

“I know,” I said. “Now you wait here. If we’re not back in two hours, you wake Elly and tell her to get on the phone to Mike.”

“Mike,” she repeated, “Mike. Two hours.” She plopped herself down on the floor directly opposite the clock. I knew I could count on her.

Leo and I switched on flashlights and started into the woods. I let him lead for the time being—he knew the paths better than I did and I wanted to move as fast as possible. We made no attempt to be quiet at it, either. In the dark and short-handed, I’ve always preferred scaring the creature off to facing it down.

We got to the boats in record time. Sure enough, one of them was gone. Leo and I pushed off and splashed across the loch, Leo rowing, me with the rifle in one hand and the flare gun in the other.

Nine times out of ten, the flare gun is enough to turn a Dragon’s Tooth around and head it away from you. The rifle’s there for that tenth time. Or in case it was threatening Susan.

A couple of large things rushed noisily through the woods to our far right. They might have been stag. They might not have been. Neither Leo nor I got a look at them.

“Duck,” said Leo and I did and missed being clobbered by one of those overhanging branches by about a quarter of an inch. Turning, I made out the boat Susan had used. There was just enough proper shore there that we could beach ours beside it.

“All right, Susan,” I said into the shadows. “Enough is enough. Come on out. At my age, I need my beauty sleep.”

Leo snorted.

There was a quiet crackle behind him and Susan crawled out from the undergrowth looking sheepish. “I only wanted it to be a surprise,” she said. She looked all around her and brightened. “It still is—you’ve scared them off!”

“When you’re as old and cranky as I am, there’s nothing you like less than a surprise,” I said.

“Oh.” She raked twigs out of her hair. “Then if I can get them to come out again, would you take your birthday present a month early?”

Leo and I glanced at each other. I knew we were both thinking about Jen, sitting in the hallway, worrying. “Two hours and not a minute more,” Leo said.

“Okay, Susan. See if you can get ’em out. I’ll want a cell sample too.” I rummaged through my gear for the snagger. Nice little gadget, that. Like an arrow on a string. Fire it off without a sound, it snaps at the critter with less than a fly sting (I know, I had Mike try it on me when he jury-rigged the first one), and you pull back the string with a sample on the end of it.

“Sit down then and be quiet.”

We did. Susan ducked into the undergrowth a second time and came out with half a loaf of Chris’s bread. She made the same chucking noise I’d heard her use to call her otters. She was expecting something low to the ground, I realized. Not the enormous thing I’d seen swimming in the loch.

I heard no more sounds from that direction, to my relief. I wish I could have thought I’d dreamed the entire thing but I knew I hadn’t. What’s worse, I picked that time to remember that one of the Nessie theories had made her out a displaced plesiosaur.

I was about to call a halt and get us all the hell out of there till daylight and a full team, when something stirred in the bushes. Susan chucked at it and held out a bit of bread.

It poked its nose into the circle of light from our flashes and blinked at us. It was the saddest-looking excuse for a creature I’d ever seen—the head was the shape of an old boot with jackass ears stuck on it.

“C’mon, Monster,” Susan coaxed. “You know how much you love Chris’s bread. Don’t worry about them. They’re noisy but they won’t hurt you.”

Sure enough, it humped its way out. It looked even worse when you saw the whole of it. What I’d thought was an otter wasn’t. Oh, the body was otter, all six feet of it, but the head didn’t go with the rest. After a moment’s hesitation, it made an uncertain lowing noise, then snuffled at Susan, and took the piece of bread in its otter paws and crammed it down its mouth.

Then it bellowed, startling all three of us.

“He just learned how to do that this year,” Susan said, a pleased sort of admiration in her voice. The undergrowth around us stirred.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Leo level his rifle. Susan looked at him, worried. “He won’t shoot unless something goes wrong, kiddo,” I said as softly as I could and still be heard. “He promised me.”

Susan nodded. “Okay, Monster. You can call them out then.”

She needn’t have said it. That bellow already had. There were maybe a dozen of them, all alike, all of them painfully ugly. No, that’s the wrong way to put it—they were all laughably ugly.

The one she’d dubbed “Monster” edged closer to me. Nosy like the otters, too. It whuffled at my hand. Damn if that head wasn’t purely herbivore. The teeth could give you a nasty nip from the looks of them, but it was deer family. The ugly branch of it anyhow.

A second one crawled into Leo’s lap. It was trying to make off with his belt buckle. Susan chucked at it and bribed it away with bread. “She’s such a thief. If you’re not careful, she’ll take anything that’s shiny. Like the otters, really.”

Yes, they were. The behavior was the same I’d seen from Susan’s otters—but now I understood why the otters had chased one of these away this afternoon. They were recognizably not otters, even if they thought they were. Like humans, otters are very conservative about what they consider one of them.

Pretty soon the bread was gone. Monster hustled up the troops and headed them out, with one last look over his shoulder at us.

I popped him neatly with the snagger before Susan could raise a protest. He grunted and gnawed for a moment at his hip, the way a dog would for a flea, then he spotted the snagger moving away from him and pounced.

I had a tug of war on my hands. Susan got into the act and so did a handful of Monster’s fellow monsters.

Leo laughed. It was enough to startle them away. I fell over and Susan landed on top of me. She was giggling too, but she crawled over and got up, triumphant, with the sample in her hands.

“You didn’t need it, Mama Jason,” Susan said, “but I’ve decided to forgive you. Monster thought it was a good game.” She giggled again and added impishly, “So did I.”

“Fine,” I said. “I hate to spoil the party, but it’s time we got back to the lodge. We’re all going to feel like hell in the morning.”

Susan yawned. “I spose so. They lose interest pretty fast once I run out of bread.”

“Susan, you row Leo back.”

“You’re not coming?” she said.

“Two boats,” I pointed out. Susan was sleepy enough that she didn’t ask why I wanted Leo in her boat. Leo blinked at me once, caught on, and climbed into the boat with his rifle across his knees.

By the time we reached the lodge, we were all pretty well knocked out. Jen gave us a big grin of relief to welcome us in. But two steps later we ran hard into Elly’s scowl, not to mention Chris’s, Ilanith’s, and a half dozen others.

“I found Jen sitting in the hall watching the clock,” Elly said. “She wouldn’t go to bed and she wouldn’t say why. Once I counted noses, I discovered the three of you were missing. So you”—that was me, of course—“owe me the explanation you wouldn’t let her give me.”

“There’s something in the loch,” I said, “We got a sample and I’ll check it out tomorrow. Right now, we all need some sleep.”

“Liar,” said Chris, “Who’s hungry? Midnight snacks”—she glanced at the clock and corrected—“whatever, food’s waiting.”

Everybody obligingly trooped into the kitchen, lured by the smell of chowder. I followed, knowing this meant I wasn’t going to get off the hook without a full explanation. That meant no way of covering Susan’s tracks.

We settled down and dived ravenously into the chowder. Chris poured a box of crackers into a serving tray. “There’s no bread,” she said with finality, eying Susan to let us all know who was responsible for this woeful state of affairs.

Susan squirmed. “Next time I’ll take them crackers. They like your bread better, though.”

“If you’d asked,” Chris said, “I’d have made a couple of extra loaves.”

“I wanted it to be a surprise for Mama Jason.” She looked around the table. “You know how hard it is to think up a birthday present for her!” She pushed away from the table. “Wait! I’ll be right back. I’ll show you!”

I concentrated on the chowder. Birthday present, indeed! As if I needed some present other than the fact of those kids themselves. If Susan hadn’t opened her mouth, Elly would’ve assumed I’d taken her along with us, as Elly’d suggested earlier. Glancing up, I saw Elly rest a sympathetic eye on me.

Well, I was off the hook, but Susan sure as hell wasn’t.

There was a clamor of footsteps on the stairs and Susan was back with a huge box, full to over-spilling with papers and computer tapes. Chris shoved aside the pot of chowder to make space for them.

Susan pulled out her pocket computer and plugged it into the wall modem. “I did it right, Mama Jason. See if I didn’t.”

The photo album wasn’t regulation but as the first page was a very pretty hologram (I recognized Ilanith’s work) that spelled out “Happy Birthday, Mama Jason!” in imitation fireworks I could hardly complain. The second page was a holo of a mother otter and her pups. The pup in the foreground was deformed—the same way the creatures Susan had fed Chris’s bread to were.

“That’s Monster,” Susan said, thrusting a finger at the holo. She peeled a strip of tape from beneath the holo and fed it to the computer. “That’s his gene-read.” She glanced at Chris. “I lured his mother away with bread to get the cell sample. The otters love your bread too. I never used the fresh bread, Chris, only the stale stuff.”

Chris nodded. “I know. I thought it was all going to the otters, though.”

“More like ‘odders,’” Leo put in, grinning. “Two dees.”

Susan giggled. “I like that. Let’s call ’em Odders, Mama Jason.”

“Your critters,” I said. “Naming it’s your privilege.”

“Odders is right.” Chris peered over my shoulder and said to Susan, “Why were you feeding Dragon’s Teeth?”

“He’s so ugly, he’s cute. The first ones got abandoned by their mothers. She”—Susan tapped the holo again—“decided to keep hers. Got ostracized for it, too, Mama Jason.”

I nodded absently. That happened often enough. I was well into the gene-read Susan had done on her Monster. It was a good, thorough piece of work. I couldn’t have done better myself.

Purely herbivorous—and among the things you could guarantee it’d eat were waterlilies and clogweed. That stopped me dead in my tracks. I looked up. “It eats clogweed!”

Susan dimpled. “It loves it! That’s why it likes Chris’s bread better than crackers.”

“Why you—” Chris, utterly outraged, stood up so suddenly Elly had to catch at her bowl to keep from slopping chowder on everything.

I laughed. “Down, Chris! She’s not insulting your bread! You use brandyflour in it—and brandyflour has almost the identical nutrients in it that clogweed has.”

“You mean I could use clogweed to make my bread?” The idea appealed to Chris. She sat down again and looked at Susan with full attention.

“No, you can’t,” Susan said. “It’s got a lot of things in it humans can’t eat.”

Leo said, “I’m not following again. Susan—?”

“Simple, Noisy. Clogweed’s a major nuisance. Mostly it’s taken care of by sheer heavy labor. Around Torville, everybody goes down to the canals and the irrigation ditches once a month or so and pulls the clogweed out by hand. When I saw Monster would eat clogweed, I figured he’d be worth keeping—if we could, that is.”

“Not bad,” said Ilanith. “I wondered why the intake valves had been so easy to clean lately.” She leaned over to look at Monster’s holo. “Two years old now, right?”

“Four,” said Susan. “Only one wouldn’t have made much difference. Mama Jason, I did a gene-read every year on them. Those’re on the next pages. In case I missed something the first time.”

I saw that. The whole EC was there too, along with more holos and her search for matches with ship’s records. There were no matches, so the thing was either a Dragon’s Tooth or an intermediate. Just this year, she’d started a careful check for secondary and tertiary helices.

She saw how far I’d gotten in her records and said, apologetically, “There’s a secondary helix, but I didn’t have a clue where to look for a match in ship’s records, so I had to do it by brute force.”

I handed her the sample I’d gotten from Monster little over a half hour ago. “Here, a fresh sample is always helpful.”

She took it, then looked up at me wildly. “You mean me? You want me to keep working on it?”

“You want me to work on my birthday present?” I might just as well have given her a present, the way she lit up.

I yawned—it was that or laugh. “I’m going to bed. But nobody’s to go down to the loch until Susan’s done with her gene-read.”

Elly frowned. “Annie? We’ve got to net tomorrow or Chris won’t have anything to cook.”

So there was no escaping it after all. “Take a holiday, Elly. There’s something in the loch that isn’t Susan’s clogweed eaters. Leo and I will do a little looking around tomorrow—armed.”

“Oh Mama Jason!” Susan looked distraught. “You don’t think Monster chained up to a real monster, do you?” Her eyes squinched up; she was close to tears.

“Hey!” I pulled her into a hug. For a moment I didn’t know what else to say, then I remembered the first time Mike had gotten a nasty alternative instead of what he wanted. “I’ll tell you just what I’ve said to Mike: sometimes you have to risk the bad to get the good.”

I pushed her a bit away to see if that had worked. Not really. “Listen, honey, do you know how Mike and I planned to spend our winter vacation this year?”

When she shook her head I knew I had her attention, no matter how distressed. I told her: “Cobbling together something that would eat clogweed. If all we have to do is stabilize your monsters, you’ve saved us years of work!”

I pulled her to for another hug. “Best birthday present I’ve had in years!”

That, finally, brought a smile from her. It was a little wan, but it was there.

“So here’s the game plan. You load the sample tonight while it’s fresh, then get a good night’s sleep and do the gene-read tomorrow while you’re fresh. Leo and I will do a little tracking as soon as it’s light enough. Everybody else gets to sleep late.”

That did nothing to take the worry out of Elly’s or Chris’s eyes but I could see they’d both go along with it, though they were still concerned somebody might decide the kids should be evacuated. “Elly,” I said, “we’ll work something out, I promise.”

That eased the tension in her eyes somewhat, even though I hadn’t the vaguest idea what we’d work out. Still, a good night’s sleep—even a short one—was always guaranteed to help. With a few more hugs, I stumbled off to bed.

Morning came the way it usually did for me this time of year—much too early. Leo, bless him, was up but quiet. The first thing I wanted was a good look at the otters’ playground. That was near enough to where I’d seen the creature that maybe we could find some tracks. This side of Loch Moose got its sunlight early if at all. Luckily, the day was a good one and the scenery was enough to make you glad you had eyes and ears and a nose.

I stood for a moment trying to orient myself, then pointed. “Somewhere around here. I’m pretty sure that’s where I heard it.” We separated.

Something that big should have left visible evidence of its passing. The popcorn tree was my first break. Something had eaten all the lower leaves from it and done some desultory gnawing at its bark into the bargain. That was several days earlier, from the look of the wood, so I didn’t find any tracks to go with it.

Now, the popcorn tree’s native to Mirabile, so we were dealing with a creature that either didn’t have long to live or was a Dragon’s Tooth suited to the EC. Still, it was an herbivore, unless it was one of those exceptions that nibbled trees for some reason other than nourishment.

But it was big! I might have discounted the height it could reach as something that stood on its hind feet and stretched, but this matched the glimpse I’d gotten by novalight.

Leo called and I went to see what he’d found. When I caught up with him, he was staring at the ground. “Annie, this thing weighs a ton!” He pointed.

Hoofprints sunk deep into the damp ground. He meant “ton” in the literal sense. I stooped for a closer look, then unshipped my backpack, and got out my gear. “Get me a little water, will you, Leo?” I handed him a folded container. “I want to make a plaster cast. Hey!” I added as an afterthought, “Keep your eyes open!”

He grinned. “Hard to miss something that size.”

“You have up to now,” I pointed out. I wasn’t being snide, just realistic. I’m happy to say he understood me.

I went back to examining the print. It was definitely not deer, though it looked related. The red deer survived by sticking to a strict diet of Earth authentic, which meant I couldn’t draw any real conclusions from the similarities. I was still betting herbivore, though maybe it was just because I was hoping.

I was purely tired of things that bit or mangled or otherwise made my life miserable. Seemed to me it was about time the Dragon’s Teeth started to balance out and produce something useful.

By the time we mixed the plaster and slopped it into the print, I’d decided that I should be grateful for Susan’s clogweed-eaters and Leo’s pansies and not expect too much of our huge surprise package.

“Leo, I think it’s an herbivore. That doesn’t mean it isn’t dangerous—you know what a bull can do—but it means I don’t want it shot on sight.”

“You wouldn’t want it shot on sight if it were a carnivore,” he said. “If I didn’t shoot the first beastly on sight, I’m not likely to shoot this without good reason.”

I fixed him with a look of pure disgust. The disgust was aimed at me, though. I knew the name Leonov Denness should have rung bells but I’d gotten distracted by the nickname.

Back when he was Leonov Opener Denness, he’d been the scout that opened and mapped all the new territory from Ranomafana to Goddamn! He brought back cell samples of everything he found, that being part of the job; but he’d also brought back a live specimen of the beastly, which was at least as nasty as the average kangaroo rex and could fly to boot. When Grandaddy Jason asked him why he’d gone to the trouble, he’d only shrugged and said, “Best you observe its habits as well as its genes.”

The decision on the beastly had been to push it back from the inhabited areas rather than to shoot on sight. Nasty as it was, it could be driven off by loud sounds (bronze bells, now that I thought of it!) and it made a specialty of hunting what passed for rats on Mirabile. Those rats were considerably worse than having to yell yourself hoarse when you traveled through the plains farmlands.

“If you’d jogged my memory earlier,” I said, “I wouldn’t have bothered to check your credentials with Elly.”

“Annie, I didn’t think bragging was in order.”

“Facts are a little different than brags. Now I can stop worrying about your health and get down to serious business.”

Leaving the plaster to harden, I headed him down to the boats. “Two boats today, Leonov Opener Denness. You stake out that side of the loch, I’ll stake out this. Much as I’d enjoy your company, this gives us two chances to spot something and the sooner we get this sorted out, the better it’ll be for Elly. Whistle if you spot anything. Otherwise, I’ll meet you back here an hour after dusk.”

We’d probably have to do a nighttime wait too, but I was hoping the thing wasn’t strictly nocturnal. If it was, I’d need more equipment, which meant calling Mike, which meant making it formal and public.

There’s nothing more irritating than waiting for a Dragon’s Tooth to rear its ugly head, even if you’re sure the head’s herbivorous. After all these years, I’m pretty good at it. Besides, there were otters and odders to watch and it was one of those perfect days on Loch Moose. I’d have been out contemplative fishing anyhow. This just took its toll of watching and waiting, which is not nearly as restful. Somewhere in the back of my mind, the plesiosaur still swam sinisterly in Loch Ness.

Susan’s odders, as ugly as they were, proved in action almost as much fun as the otters, though considerably sillier-looking. And observation proved her right—several times I saw them dive down and come up with a mouthful of lilies or clogweed.

A breeze came up—one of those lovely ones that Loch Moose is justly famous for—soft and sweet and smelling of lilies and pine and popcorn tree.

The pines began to smoke. I found myself grateful to the Dragon’s Tooth for putting me on the loch at the right time to see it.

The whole loch misted over with drifting golden clouds of pollen. I could scarcely see my hand in front of my face. That, of course, was when I heard it. First a soft thud of hooves, then something easing into the water. Something big. I strained to see, but the golden mist made it impossible.

I was damned glad Leo had told me his past history, otherwise I’d have worried. I knew he was doing exactly what I was doing at that moment—keeping dead silent and listening. I brought up my flare gun in one hand and my snagger in the other. Even if it was a plesiosaur, a flare right in the face should drive it off. I couldn’t bring myself to raise the rifle. Must be I’m mellowing in my old age.

I could still hear the splash and play of the otters and the odders on either side of me. That was a good sign as well. They’d decided it wasn’t a hazard to them.

My nerves were singing, though, as I heard the soft splashing coming toward me. I turned toward the sound, but still couldn’t see a thing. There was a gurgle, like water being sucked down a drain, and suddenly I couldn’t locate it by ear anymore. I guessed it had submerged, but that didn’t do a thing for my nerves.…

The best I could do was keep an eye on the surface of the water where it should have been heading if it had followed a straight line—and that was directly under my boat. Looking straight down, I could barely make out a dark bulk. I could believe the ton estimate.

It reached the other side. I lost sight of it momentarily. Then, with a surge that brought up an entire float of lilies and splattered water all over me, it surfaced not ten feet from my boat, to eye me with a glare.

I’d thought Susan’s odders were as ugly as things came, but this topped them without even trying. Even through the mist, I could see it now.

Like Susan’s Monster, it had that same old-boot-shaped head, the same flopping mule ears, streaming water now. What I’d taken for its head in the glimpse I’d gotten the previous night was actually the most unbelievable set of antlers I’d ever seen in my life, like huge gnarled up-raised palms. What Stirzaker had taken for grasping hands, I realized—only at the moment they were filled to the brim with a tangle of scarlet waterlilies. From its throat, a flap of flesh dangled dripping like a wet beard. It stared at me with solemn black eyes and munched thoughtfully on the nearest of the dangling lilies. The drifting pollen was slowly turning it to gold.

I swear I didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry.

For a moment, I just stared, and it stared back, looking away only long enough to tilt another lily into its mouth. Then I remembered what I was there for and raised the snagger. I got it first try, snapped the snagger to retrieve.

The thing jerked back, glared, then let out a bellow that Mike must have heard back in the lab. It started to swim closer.

“BACK OFF!” I bellowed. Truthfully, I didn’t think it was angered, just nosy, but I didn’t want to find out the hard way. I raised the flare gun.

From the distance came the sound of splashing oars. “Annie!” Leo yelled, “I’m coming. Hang on!”

The creature backpeddled in the water and cocked its head, lilies and all, toward the sound of Leo’s boat. Interested all over again, it started that way at a very efficient paddle. I got a glimpse of a hump just at the shoulders, followed by the curve of a rump, followed by a tiny flop of tail like a deer’s. The same view Pastides had gotten, no doubt.

Suddenly, from the direction of Leo’s boat there came the clamor of a bell. The creature back-peddled again, ears twitching.

With a splash of utter panic, the creature turned around in the water, dived for cover, and swam for shore. I could hear it crash into the undergrowth even over the clanging of the bell.

“Enough, Leo, enough! It’s gone!” He shut up with the bell and we called to each other until he found me through the mist. I’m sorry to say, by the time he pulled alongside, I was laughing so hard there were tears streaming down my cheeks.

Leo’s face—what I could see of it—went through about three changes of expression in as many seconds. He laid aside his bell—it was a big bronze beastly-scarebell—and sighed with relief. He too was gold from all the pollen.

I wiped my eyes and grinned at him. “I wish I could say, ‘Saved by the bell,’ but the thing wasn’t really a danger. Clumsy maybe. Possibly aggressive if annoyed, but—” I burst into laughter again.

Leo said amiably, “I’m sure you’ll tell me about it when you get your breath back.”

I nodded. Pulling in the sample the snagger had caught, I waved him toward the shore. When we were halfway up the hill to the lodge, I said, “Please, Leo, don’t ask until I can check my sample.”

He spread his hands. “At least I know it’s not a plesiosaur.”

I had the urge again—and found the laughter had worn down to hiccupping giggles.

When we got to the lodge, I didn’t have to yell for them—we got surrounded the moment we hit the porch. Elly did a full-body check on both of us, which meant she wound up as pollen-covered as we were.

“Susan,” I said through the chaos of a dozen questions at once, “run that for me. Let’s see what we’ve got.” I held out the sample.

“Me?” Susan squeaked.

“You,” I said. I took Leo’s arm, well above the rifle, and said, “We want some eats, and then I want to see Susan’s results from this morning.”

I cued the computer over a bowl of steaming chowder, calling up the odder sample Susan had been working on. She’d found some stuff in the twists all right.

All the possibilities were herbivorous though—and I was betting that one of them would match my silly-looking friend in the loch. I giggled again, I’m afraid. I had a pretty good idea what we were dealing with, but I had to be sure before I let those kids back out on the loch.

* * * *

By the time we’d finished our chowder, Susan had come charging down the stairs. She punched up the results on my monitor—she was not just fast, she was good.

I called up ship’s records and went straight to my best guess. At a glance, we had a match but I went through gene by gene and found the one drift.

“It’s a match!” Ilanith crowed from behind me. “First try, too, Mama Jason!”

Everybody focused on the monitor. “Look again, kiddo. Only ninety-nine percent match.” I pointed out the drifted genes. “Those mean it can eat your popcorn trees without so much as a stomach upset.”

Ilanith said, “That’s okay with me. Elly? Do you mind?”

“I don’t know,” Elly said. “What is it, Annie? Can we live with it?”

I called up ship’s records on the behavior patterns of the authentic creature and moved aside to let Elly have a look. “I suspect you’ll all have to carry Leo’s secret weapon when you go down to the loch to fish or swim but other than that I don’t see much of a problem.”

Leo thumped me on the back. “Damn you, woman, what is it?”

Elly’d gotten a film that might have been my creature’s twin. She looked taken aback at first, then she too giggled. “That’s the silliest thing I’ve seen in years! Come on, Annie, what is it?”

“Honey, Loch Moose has got its first moose.”

“No!” Leo shouted—but he followed it with a laugh as he crowded in with the rest to look at the screen.

Only Susan wasn’t laughing. She caught my hand and pulled me down to whisper, “Will they let us keep it if it’s only ninety-nine percent? It’s not good for anything, like the odders are.”

I patted her hand. “It’s good for a laugh. I say it’s a keeper.” I was not about to let this go the way of the kangaroo rex.

“Now I understand why I found her in that state,” Leo was saying. He pointed accusingly at me. “This woman was laughing so hard she could scarcely catch her breath.”

“You didn’t see the damn thing crowned with waterlilies and chewing on them while it contemplated the oddity in the boat. You’d have been as helpless as I was.”

“Unbelievable,” he said.

“Worse,” I told him, “in this case, seeing isn’t believing. I still can’t believe in something like that. The mind won’t encompass it.”

He laughed at the screen, then again at me. “Maybe that accounts for your granddaddy’s monster. It was so silly-looking anybody who saw it wouldn’t believe his own eyes.”

I couldn’t help it—I kissed him on the cheek. “Leo, you’re a genius!”

He squeaked like Susan. “Me? What did I do?”

“Elly,” I said, “Congratulations! You now have the only lodge on Mirabile with an Earth authentic Loch Ness monster.” I grinned at Susan, who caught on immediately. I swear her smile started at the mouth and ran all the way down to her toes.

Feeling rather smug, I went on, “Leo will make bells so your lodgers can scare it away if it gets too close to them, won’t you, Leo?”

“Oh!” said Leo. He considered the idea. “You know, Annie, it might just work. If everybody went to Loch Ness to try to get a glimpse of the monster, maybe they’ll come here too. Scary but safe.”

“Exactly.” I fixed him with a look. “Now how do we go about it?”

He grinned. “We follow our family traditions: we tell stories.”

“You think if I hang around for a week or so that’ll make it a safe monster?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Good,” I said. “Susan? What’s the verdict? Are you going off to the lab? If I’m going to stay here, somebody’ll have to help Mike coddle those red daffodils.”

No squeak this time. Her mouth dropped open but what came out was, “Uh, yes. Uh, Elly?”

Elly nodded with a smile, sad but proud all in one.

So while they bustled about packing, I had a chance to read through all the material in ship’s records on both moose and Nessie. By the time they were ready to leave for town, I had a pretty good idea of our game plan. I sent Susan off with instructions to run a full gene-read on both creatures. Brute force on the moose, to make sure it wouldn’t chain up to something bigger and nastier.

Then we co-opted the rest of Elly’s kids. Leo gave each of them a different version of our monster tale to tell.

Jen, I thought, did it best. She got so excited when she told it that her eyes popped and she got incoherent, greatly enhancing the tale of how Leonov Opener Denness had saved Annie Jason Masmajean from the monster in Loch Moose.

Leo brought bells from his workshop. They’d been intended to keep beastlies away in the northern territory, but there was no reason they wouldn’t do just as good a job against a monster that was Earth authentic.

* * * *

Two days later, the inn was full of over-nighters—much to Elly’s surprise and delight—all hoping for a glimpse of the Loch Moose monster.

In my room, late night and by nova-light, Leo got his first peek at the creature. Once again it was swimming in the loch. He stared long and hard out the window. After a long moment, he remembered the task we’d set ourselves. “Should I wake the rest of the lodgers, do you think?”

“No,” I said, “you just tell them about it at breakfast. Anybody who doesn’t see it tonight will stay another night, hoping.”

“You’re a wicked old lady.”

I raised Ilanith’s camera to the window. “Yup,” I said, and, twisting the lens deliberately out of focus, I snapped a picture.

“Hope that didn’t come out well,” I said.

MY FAIR PLANET, by Evelyn E. Smith

As Paul Lambrequin was clambering up the stairs of his rooming house, he met a man whose face was all wrong. “Good evening,” Paul said politely and was about to continue on his way when the man stopped him.

“You are the first person I have encountered in this place who has not shuddered at the sight of me,” he said in a toneless voice with an accent that was outside the standard repertoire.

“Am I?” Paul asked, bringing himself back from one of the roseate dreams with which he kept himself insulated from a not-too-kind reality. “I daresay that’s because I’m a bit near-sighted.” He peered vaguely at the stranger. Then he recoiled.

“What is incorrect about me, then?” the stranger demanded. “Do I not have two eyes, one nose and one mouth, the identical as other people?”

Paul studied the other man. “Yes, but somehow they seem to be put together all wrong. Not that you can help it, of course,” he added apologetically, for, when he thought of it, he hated to hurt people’s feelings.

“Yes, I can, for, of a truth, ’twas I who put myself together. What did I do amiss?”

Paul looked consideringly at him. “I can’t quite put my finger on it, but there are certain subtle nuances you just don’t seem to have caught. If you want my professional advice, you’ll model yourself directly on some real person until you’ve got the knack of improvisation.”

“Like unto this?” The stranger’s outline shimmered and blurred into an amorphous cloud, which then coalesced into the shape of a tall, beautiful young man with the face of an ingenuous demon. “Behold, is that superior?”

“Oh, far superior!” Paul reached up to adjust a stray lock of hair, then realized he was not looking into a mirror. “Trouble is—well, I’d rather you chose someone else to model yourself on. You see, in my profession, it’s important to look as unique as possible; helps people remember you. I’m an actor, you know. Currently I happen to be at liberty, but the year before last—”

“Well, whom should I appear like? Should I perhaps pick some fine upstanding figure from your public prints to emulate? Like your President, perhaply?”

“I—hardly think so. It wouldn’t do to model yourself on someone well known—or even someone obscure whom you might just happen to run into someday.” Being a kind-hearted young man, Paul added, “Come up to my room. I have some British film magazines and there are lots of relatively obscure English actors who are very decent-looking chaps.”

So they climbed up to Paul’s hot little room under the eaves and, after leafing through several magazines, Paul chose one Ivo Darcy as a likely candidate. Whereupon the stranger deliquesced and reformed into the personable simulacrum of young Mr. Darcy.

“That’s quite a trick,” Paul observed as it finally got through to him what the other had done. “It would come in handy in the profession—for character parts, you know.”

“I fear you would never be able to acquisition it,” the stranger said, surveying his new self in the mirror complacently. “It is not a trick but a racial ableness. You see, I feel I can trust you—”

“—Of course I’m not really a character actor; I’m a leading man, but I believe one should be versatile, because there are times when a really good character part comes along—”

“—I am not a human being. I am a native of the fifth planet circulating around the star you call Sirius, and we Sirians have the ableness to change ourselves into the apparition of any other livid form—”

“I thought that might be a near-Eastern accent!” Paul exclaimed, diverted. “Is Lebanese anything like it? Because I understand there’s a really juicy part coming up in—”

“I said Sirian, not Syrian; I do not come from Minor Asia but from outer space, from an other-where solar system. I am an outworlder, an extraterrestrial.”

“I hope you had a nice trip,” Paul said politely. “From Sirius, did you say? What’s the state of the theater there?”

“In its infanticide,” the stranger told him, “but—”

“Let’s face it,” Paul muttered bitterly, “it’s in its infancy here, too. No over-all planning. No appreciation of the fact that all the components that go to make up a production should be a continuing totality, instead of a tenuous coalition of separate forces which disintegrate—”

“You, I comprehend, are disemployed at current. I should—”

“You won’t find that situation in Russia!” Paul went on, pleased to discover a sympathetic audience in this intelligent foreigner. “Mind you,” he added quickly, “I disapprove entirely of their politics. In fact, I disapprove of all politics. But when it comes to the theater, in many respects the Russians—”

“—Like to make a proposal to our mutual advanceage—”

“—You wouldn’t find an actor there playing a lead role one season and then not be able to get any parts except summer stock and odd bits for the next two years. All right, so the show I had the lead in folded after two weeks, but the critics all raved about my performance. It was the play that stank!”

“Will you terminate the monologue and hearken unto me!” the alien shouted.

Paul stopped talking. His feelings were hurt. He had thought Ivo liked him; now he saw all the outworlder wanted to do was talk about his own problems.

“I desire to extend to you a position,” said Ivo.

“I can’t take a regular job,” Paul said sulkily. “I have to be available for interviews. Fellow I knew took a job in a store and, when he was called to read for a part, he couldn’t get away. The fellow who did get that part became a big star, and maybe the other fellow could have been a star, too, but now all he is is a lousy chairman of the board of some department store chain—”

“This work can be undergone at your convention between readings and interviews, whenever you have the timing. I shall pay you beautifully, being abundant with U.S.A. currency. I want you to teach me how to act.”

“Teach you how to act,” Paul repeated, rather intrigued. “Well, I’m not a dramatic coach, you know; however, I do happen to have some ideas on the subject. I feel that most acting teachers nowadays fail to give their students a really thorough grounding in all aspects of the dramatic art. All they talk about is method, method, method. But what about technique?”

“I have observed your species with great diligence and I thought I had acquisitioned your habits and speakings to perfectness. But I fear that, like my initial face, I have got them awry. I want you to teach me to act like a human being, to talk like a human being, to think like a human being.”

Paul’s attention was really caught. “Well, that is a challenge! I don’t suppose Stanislavsky ever had to teach an extraterrestrial, or even Strasberg—”

“Then we are in accordance,” Ivo said. “You will instruction me?” He essayed a smile.

Paul shuddered. “Very well,” he said. “We’ll start now. And I think the first thing we’d better start with is lessons in smiling.”

Ivo proved to be a quick study. He not only learned to smile, but to frown and to express surprise, pleasure, horror—whatever the occasion demanded. He learned the knack of counterfeiting humanity with such skill that, Paul was moved to remark one afternoon when they were leaving Brooks Brothers after a fitting, “Sometimes you seem even more human than I do, Ivo. I wish you’d watch out for that tendency to rant, though. You’re supposed to speak, not make speeches.”

“I try not to,” Ivo said, “but I keep getting carried away by enthusiasm.”

“Apparently I have a real flair for teaching,” Paul went on as, expertly camouflaged by Brooks, the two young men melted into the dense charcoal-gray underbrush of Madison Avenue. “I seem to be even more versatile than I thought. Perhaps I have been—well, not wasting but limiting my talents.”

“That may be because your talents have not been sufficiently appreciated,” his star pupil suggested, “or given enough scope.”

Ivo was so perceptive! “As a matter of fact,” Paul agreed, “it has often seemed to me that if some really gifted individual, equally adept at acting, directing, producing, playwriting, teaching, et al., were to undertake a thorough synthesis of the theater—ah, but that would cost money,” he interrupted himself, “and who would underwrite such a project? Certainly not the government of the United States.” He gave a bitter laugh.

“Perhaps, under a new regime, conditions might be more favorable for the artist—”

“Shhh!” Paul looked nervously over his shoulder. “There are Senators everywhere. Besides, I never said things were good in Russia, just better—for the actor, that is. Of course the plays are atrocious propaganda—”

“I was not referring to another human regime. The human being is, at best, save for certain choice spirits, unsympathetic to the arts. We outworlders have a far greater respect for things of the mind.”

Paul opened his mouth; Ivo continued without giving him a chance to speak, “No doubt you have often wondered just what I am doing here on Earth?”

The question had never crossed Paul’s mind. Feeling vaguely guilty, he murmured, “Some people have funny ideas of where to go for a vacation.”

“I am here on business,” Ivo told him. “The situation on Sirius is serious.”

“You know, that’s catchy! ‘The situation on Sirius is serious’,” Paul repeated, tapping his foot. “I’ve often thought of trying my hand at a musical com—”

“I mean we have had a ser—grave population problem for the last couple of centuries, hence our government has sent out scouts to look for other planets with similar atmosphere, climate, gravity and so on, where we can ship our excess population. So far, we have found very few.”

When Paul’s attention was focused, he could be as quick as anybody to put two and two together. “But Earth is already occupied. In fact, when I was in school, I heard something about our having a population problem ourselves.”

“The other planets we already—ah—took over were in a similar state,” Ivo explained. “We managed to surmount that difficulty.”

“How?” Paul asked, though he already suspected the answer.

“Oh, we didn’t dispose of all of the inhabitants. We merely weeded out the undesirables—who, by fortunate chance, happened to be in the majority—and achieved a happy and peaceful coexistence with the rest.”

“But, look,” Paul protested. “I mean to say——”

“For instance,” Ivo said suavely, “take the vast body of people who watch television and who have never seen a legitimate play in their lives and, indeed, rarely go to the motion pictures. Surely they are expendable.”

“Well, yes, of course. But even among them there might be—oh, say, a playwright’s mother—”

“One of the first measures our regime would take would be to establish a vast network of community theaters throughout the world. And you, Paul, would receive first choice of starring roles.”

“Now wait a minute!” Paul cried hotly. He seldom allowed himself to lose his temper, but when he did…he got angry! “I pride myself that I’ve gotten this far wholly on my own merits. I don’t believe in using influence to—”

“But, my dear fellow, all I meant was that, with an intelligently coordinated theater and an intellectually adult audience, your abilities would be recognized automatically.”

“Oh,” said Paul.

He was not unaware that he was being flattered, but it was so seldom that anyone bothered to pay him any attention when he was not playing a role that it was difficult not to succumb. “Are—are you figuring on taking over the planet single-handed?” he asked curiously.

“Heavens, no! Talented as I am, there are limits. I don’t do the—ah—dirty work myself. I just conduct the preliminary investigation to determine how powerful the local defenses are.”

“We have hydrogen bombs,” Paul said, trying to remember details of a newspaper article he had once read in a producer’s ante-room, “and plutonium bombs and—”

“Oh, I know about all those,” Ivo smiled expertly. “My job is checking to make sure you don’t have anything really dangerous.”

All that night, Paul wrestled with his conscience. He knew he shouldn’t just let Ivo go on. Yet what else could he do? Go to the proper authorities? But which authorities were the proper ones? And even if he found them, who would believe an actor offstage, delivering such improbable lines? He would either be laughed at or accused of being part of a subversive plot. It might result in a lot of bad publicity which could ruin his career.

So Paul did nothing about Ivo. He went back to the usual rounds of agents’ and producers’ offices, and the knowledge of why Ivo was on Earth got pushed farther into the back of his mind as he trudged from interview to reading to interview.

* * * *

It was an exceptionally hot October—the kind of weather when sometimes he almost lost his faith and began to wonder why he was batting his head against a stone wall, why he didn’t get a job in a department store somewhere or teaching school. And then he thought of the applause, the curtain calls, the dream of some day seeing his name in lights above the title of the play—and he knew he would never give up. Quitting the theater would be like committing suicide, for off the stage he was alive only technically. He was good; he knew he was good, so some day, he assured himself, he was bound to get his big break.

Toward the end of that month, it came. After the maximum three readings, between which his hopes alternately waxed and waned, he was cast as the male lead in The Holiday Tree. The producers were more interested, they said, in getting someone who fitted the role of Eric Everard than in a big name—especially since the female star preferred to have her luster undimmed by competition.

Rehearsals took up so much of his time that he saw very little of Ivo for the next five weeks—but by then Ivo didn’t need him any more. Actually, they were no longer teacher and pupil now but companions, drawn together by the fact that they both belonged to different worlds from the one in which they were living. Insofar as he could like anyone who existed outside of his imagination, Paul had grown rather fond of Ivo. And he rather thought Ivo liked him, too—but, because he couldn’t ever be quite sure of ordinary people’s reactions toward him, how could he be sure of an outworlder’s?

Ivo came around to rehearsals sometimes, but naturally it would be boring for him, since he wasn’t in the profession, and, after a while, he didn’t come around very often. At first, Paul felt a twinge of guilt; then he remembered that he need not worry. Ivo had his own work.

The whole Holiday Tree troupe went out of town for the tryouts, and Paul didn’t see Ivo at all for six weeks. Busy, happy weeks they were, for the play was a smash hit from the start. It played to packed houses in New Haven and Boston, and the box office in New York was sold out for months in advance before they even opened.

“Must be kinda fun—acting,” Ivo told Paul the morning after the New York opening, as Paul weltered contentedly on his bed—he had the best room in the house now—amid a pile of rave notices. At long last, he had arrived. Everybody loved him. He was a success.

And now that he had read the reviews and they were all favorable, he could pay attention to the strange things that had happened to his friend. Raising himself up on an elbow, Paul cried, “Ivo, you’re mumbling! After all I taught you about articulation!”

“I got t’hanging ’round with this here buncha actors while y’were gone,” Ivo said. “They say mumbling’s the comin’ thing. ’Sides, y’kept yapping that I declaimed, so—”

“But you don’t have to go to the opposite extreme and—Ivo!” Incredulously, Paul took in the full details of the other’s appearance. “What happened to your Brooks Brothers’ suits?”

“Hung ’em inna closet,” Ivo replied, looking abashed. “I did wear one las’ night, though,” he went on defensively. “Wooden come dressed like this to y’opening. But all the other fellas wear blue jeans ’n leather jackets. I mean, hell, I gotta conform more’n anybody. Y’know that, Paul.”

“And—” Paul sat bolt upright; this was the supreme outrage—“you’ve changed yourself! You’ve gotten younger!”

“This is an age of yout’,” Ivo mumbled. “An’ I figured I was ’bout ready for improvisation, like you said.”

“Look, Ivo, if you really want to go on the stage——”

“Hell, I don’ wanna be no actor!” Ivo protested, far too vehemently. “Y’know damn’ well I’m a—a spy, scoutin’ ’round t’see if y’have any secret defenses before I make m’report.”

“I don’t feel I’m giving away any government secrets,” Paul said, “when I tell you that the bastions of our defenses are not erected at the Actors’ Studio.”

“Listen, pal, you lemme spy the way I wanna an’ I’ll letcha act the way you wanna.”

Paul was disturbed by this change in Ivo because, although he had always tried to steer clear of social involvement, he could not help feeling that the young alien had become in a measure his responsibility—particularly now that he was a teen-ager. Paul would even have worried about Ivo, if there hadn’t been so many other things to occupy his mind. First of all, the producers of The Holiday Tree could not resist the pressure of an adoring public; although the original star sulked, three months after the play had opened in New York, Paul’s name went up in lights next to hers, over the title of the play. He was a star.

That was good. But then there was Gregory. And that was bad. Gregory was Paul’s understudy—a handsome, sullen youth who had, on numerous occasions, been heard to utter words to the effect of: “It’s the part that’s so good, not him. If I had the chance to play Eric Everard just once, they’d give Lambrequin back to the Indians.”

Sometimes he had said the words in Paul’s hearing; sometimes the remarks had been lovingly passed on by fellow members of the cast who felt that Paul ought to know.

“I don’t like that Gregory,” Paul told Ivo one Monday evening as they were enjoying a quiet smoke together, for there was no performance that night. “He used to be a juvenile delinquent, got sent to one of those reform schools where they use acting as therapy and it turned out to be his métier. But you never know when that kind’ll hear the call of the wild again.”

“Aaaah, he’s a good kid,” Ivo said. “He just never had a chanct.”

“Trouble is, I’m afraid he’s going to make himself a chanct—chance, that is.”

“Aaaah,” retorted Ivo, with prideful inarticulateness.

However, when at six-thirty that Friday, Paul fell over a wire stretched between the jambs of the doorway leading to his private bathroom and broke a leg, even Ivo was forced to admit that this did not look like an accident.

“Ivo,” Paul wailed when the doctor had left, “what am I going to do? I refuse to let Gregory go on in my place tonight!”

“Y’gonna hafta,” Ivo said, shifting his gum to the other side of his mouth. “He’s y’unnastudy.”

“But the doctor said it would be weeks before I can get around again. Either Gregory’ll take over the part completely with his interpretation and I’ll be left out in the cold, or more likely, he’ll louse up the play and it’ll fold before I’m on my feet.”

“Y’gotta have more confidence in y’self, kid. The public ain’t gonna forgetcha in a few weeks.”

But Paul knew far better than the idealistic Ivo how fickle the public can be. However, he chose an argument that would appeal to the boy. “Don’t forget, he booby-trapped me!”

“Cert’ny looks like it,” Ivo was forced to concede. “But watcha gonna do? Y’can’t prove it. ’Sides, the curtain’s gonna gwup in a li’l over a nour—”

Paul gripped Ivo’s sinewy wrist. “Ivo, you’ve got to go on for me!”

“Y’got rocks in y’head or somepin?” Ivo demanded, trying not to look pleased. “I ain’t gotta Nequity card, and even if I did, he’s y’unnastudy.”

“No, you don’t understand. I don’t want you to go on as Ivo Darcy playing Eric Everard. I want you to go on as Paul Lambrequin playing Eric Everard. You can do it, Ivo!”

“Good Lord, so I can!” Ivo whispered, temporarily neglecting to mumble. “I’d almost forgotten.”

“You know my lines, too. You’ve cued me in my part often enough.”

Ivo rubbed his hand over his forehead. “Yeah, I guess I do.”

“Ivo,” Paul beseeched him, “I thought we were—pals. I don’t want to ask any favors, but I helped you out when you were in trouble. I always figured I could rely on you. I never thought you’d let me down.”

“An’ I won’t.” Ivo gripped Paul’s hand. “I’ll go on t’night ’n play ’at part like it ain’t never been played before! I’ll—”

“No! No! Play it the way I played it. You’re supposed to be me, Ivo! Forget Strasberg; go back to Stanislavsky.”

“Okay, pal,” Ivo said. “Will do.”

“And promise me one thing, Ivo. Promise me you won’t mumble.”

Ivo winced. “Okay, but you’re the on’y one I’d do ’at for.”

Slowly, he began to shimmer. Paul held his breath. Maybe Ivo had forgotten how to transmute himself. But technique triumphed over method. Ivo Darcy gradually coalesced into the semblance of Paul Lambrequin. The show would go on!

“Well, how was everything?” Paul asked anxiously when Ivo came into his room shortly after midnight.

“Pretty good,” Ivo said, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “Gregory was extremely surprised to see me—asked me half a dozen times how I was feeling.” Ivo was not only articulating, Paul was gratified to notice; he was enunciating.

“But the show—how did that go? Did anyone suspect you were a ringer?”

“No,” Ivo said slowly. “No, I don’t think so. I got twelve curtain calls,” he added, staring straight ahead of him with a dreamy smile. “Twelve.”

“Friday nights, the audience is always enthusiastic.” Then Paul swallowed hard and said, “Besides, I’m sure you were great in the role.”

But Ivo didn’t seem to hear him. Ivo was still wrapped in his golden daze. “Just before the curtain went up, I didn’t think I was going to be able to do it. I began to feel all quivery inside, the way I do before I—I change.”

“Butterflies in the stomach is the professional term.” Paul nodded wisely. “A really good actor gets them before every performance. No matter how many times I play a role, there’s that minute when the house lights start to dim when I’m in an absolute panic—”

“—And then the curtain went up and I was all right. I was fine. I was Paul Lambrequin. I was Eric Everard. I was—everything.”

“Ivo,” Paul said, clapping him on the shoulder, “you’re a born trouper.”

“Yes,” Ivo murmured, “I’m beginning to think so myself.”

For the next four weeks, Paul Lambrequin lurked in his room while Ivo Darcy played Paul Lambrequin playing Eric Everard.

“It’s terrific of you to take all this time away from your duties, old chap,” Paul said to Ivo one day between the matinee and the evening performances. “I really do appreciate it. Although I suppose you’ve managed to squeeze some of them in. I never see you on non-matinee afternoons.”

“Duties?” Ivo repeated vacantly. “Yes, of course—my duties.”

“Let me give you some professional advice, though. Be more careful when you take off your makeup. There’s still some grease paint in the roots of your hair.”

“Sloppy of me,” Ivo agreed, getting to work with a towel.

“I can’t understand why you bother to put on the stuff at all,” Paul grinned, “when all you need to do is just change a little more.”

“I know.” Ivo rubbed his temples vigorously. “I suppose I just like the—smell of the stuff.”

“Ivo,” Paul laughed, “there’s no use trying to kid me; you are stagestruck. I’m sure I have enough pull now to get you a bit part somewhere, when I’m up and around again, and then you can get yourself an Equity card. Maybe,” he added amusedly, “I can even have you replace Gregory as my understudy.”

Later, in retrospect, Paul thought perhaps there had been a curious expression in Ivo’s eyes, but right then he’d had no inkling that anything untoward was up. He did not find out what had been at the back of Ivo’s mind until the Sunday before the Tuesday on which he was planning to resume his role.

“Lord, it’s going to be good to feel that stage under my feet again,” he said as he went through a series of complicated limbering-up exercises of his own devisement, which he had sometimes thought of publishing as The Lambrequin Time and Motion Studies. It seemed unfair to keep them from other actors.

Ivo turned around from the mirror in which he had been contemplating their mutual beauty, “Paul,” he said quietly, “you’re never going to feel that stage under your feet again.”

Paul sat on the floor and stared at him.

“You see, Paul,” Ivo said, “I am Paul Lambrequin now. I am more Paul Lambrequin than I was—whoever I was on my native planet. I am more Paul Lambrequin than you ever were. You learned the part superficially, Paul, but I really feel it.”

“It’s not a part,” Paul said querulously. “It’s me. I’ve always been Paul Lambrequin.”

“How can you be sure of that? You’ve had so many identities, why should this be the true one? No, you only think you’re Paul Lambrequin. I know I am.”

“Dammit,” Paul said, “that’s the identity in which I’ve taken out Equity membership. And be reasonable, Ivo—there can’t be two Paul Lambrequins.”

Ivo smiled sadly. “No, Paul, you’re right. There can’t.”

Of course Paul had known all along that Ivo was not a human being. It was only now, however, that full realization came to him of what a ruthless alien monster the other was, existing only to gratify his own purposes, unaware that others had a right to exist.

“Are—are you going to—dispose of me, then?” Paul asked faintly.

“To dispose of you, yes, Paul. But not to kill you. My kind has killed enough, conquered enough. We have no real population problem; that was just an excuse we made to salve our own consciences.”

“You have consciences, do you?” Paul’s face twisted in a sneer that he himself sensed right away was overly melodramatic and utterly unconvincing. Somehow, he could never be really genuine offstage.

Ivo made a sweeping gesture. “Don’t be bitter, Paul. Of course we do. All intelligent life-forms do. It’s one of the penalties of sentience!”

For a moment, Paul forgot himself. “Watch it, Ivo. You’re beginning to ham up your lines.”

“We can institute birth control,” Ivo went on, his manner subdued. “We can build taller buildings. Oh, there are many ways we can cope with the population increase. That’s not the problem. The problem is how to divert our creative energies from destruction to construction. And I think I have solved it.”

“How will your people know you have,” Paul asked cunningly, “since you say you’re not going back?”

“I am not going back to Sirius, Paul—you are. It is you who are going to teach my people the art of peace to replace the art of war.”

Paul felt himself turn what was probably a very effective white. “But—but I can’t even speak the language! I—”

“You will learn the language during the journey. I spent those afternoons I was away making a set of Sirian-in-a-Jiffy records for you. Sirian’s a beautiful language, Paul, much more expressive than any of your Earth languages. You’ll like it.”

“I’m sure I shall, but—”

“Paul, you are going to bring my people the outlet for self-expression they have always needed. You see, I lied to you. The theater on Sirius is not in its infancy; it has never been conceived. If it had been, we would never have become what we are today. Can you imagine—a race like mine, so superbly fitted to practice the dramatic art, remaining in blind ignorance that such an art exists!”

“It does seem a terrible waste,” Paul had to agree, although he could not be truly sympathetic just then. “But I am hardly equipped—”

“Who is better equipped than you to meet this mighty challenge? Can’t you see that at long last you will be able to achieve your great synthesis of the theatrical arts—as producer, teacher, director, actor, playwright, whatever you will, working with a cast of individuals who can assume any shape or form, who have no preconceived notions of what can be done and what cannot. Oh, Paul, what a glorious opportunity awaits you on Sirius V. How I envy you!”

“Then why don’t you do it yourself?” Paul asked.

Ivo smiled sadly again. “Unfortunately, I do not have your manifold abilities. All I can do is act. Superbly, of course, but that’s all. I don’t have the capacity to build a living theater from scratch. You do. I have talent, Paul, but you have genius.”

“It is a temptation,” Paul admitted. “But to leave my own world.…”

“Paul, Earth isn’t your world. You carry yours along with you wherever you go. Your world exists in the mind and heart, not in reality. In any real situation, you’re just as uncomfortable on Earth as you would be on Sirius.”

“Yes, but—”

“Think of it this way, Paul. You’re not leaving your world. You’re just leaving Earth to go on the road. It’s a longer road, but look at what’s waiting for you at the end of it.”

“Yes, look,” Paul said, reality very much to the fore in his mind and heart at that moment, “death or vivisection.”

“Paul, do you believe I’d do that to you?” There were tears in Ivo’s eyes. If he was acting, he was a great performer. I really am one hell of a good teacher, Paul thought, and with lots of raw material like Ivo to work with, I could.… Could he really mean what he’s saying?

“They won’t harm you, Paul, because you will come to Sirius bearing a message from me. You will tell my people that Earth has a powerful defensive weapon and you have come to teach them its secret. And it’s true, Paul. The theater is your world’s most powerful weapon, its best defense against the universal enemy—reality.”

“Ivo,” Paul said, “you really must check that tendency toward bombast. Especially with a purple speech like that; you’ve simply got to learn to underplay. You’ll watch out for that when I’m gone, won’t you?”

“I will!” Ivo’s face lighted up. “Oh, I will, Paul. I promise never to chew the scenery again. I won’t so much as nibble on a prop!”

The next day, the two of them went up to Bear Mountain where Ivo’s ship had been cached all those months. Ivo explained to Paul how the controls worked and showed him where the clean towels were.

Pausing in the airlock, Paul looked back toward Manhattan. “I’d dreamed so many years of seeing my name up in lights on Broadway,” he murmured, “and now, just when I made it—”

“I’ll keep it up there,” Ivo vowed. “I promise. And, meanwhile, you’ll be building a new Broadway up there in the stars!”

“Yes,” Paul said dreamily, “that is something to look forward to, isn’t it?” Fresh, enthusiastic audiences, performers untrammeled by tradition, a cooperative government, unlimited funds—why, there was a whole wonderful new world opening up before him.

“—In another ten years or so,” Ivo was saying, “Sirian actors will be coming to Earth in droves, making the native performers look sick—”

Paul smiled wisely. “Now, Ivo, you know Equity would never stand for that.”

“Equity won’t be able to help itself. Public pressure will surge upward in a mounting wave and—” Ivo stopped. “Sorry. I was ranting again, wasn’t I? It’s being out in the open air that does it. I need to be bounded by the four walls of a theater.”

“That’s a fallacy,” Paul began. “On the Greek stage—”

“Save that for the stars, fella,” Ivo smiled. “You’ve got to leave before it gets light.” Then he wrung Paul’s hand. “Good-by, kid,” he said. “You’ll knock ’em dead on Sirius.”

“Good-by, Ivo.” Paul returned the grip. Then he got inside and closed the airlock door behind him. He did hope Ivo would correct that tendency toward declamation; on the other hand, it was certainly better than mumbling.

Paul put a Sirian-in-a-jiffy record on the turntable, because he might as well start learning the language right away. Of course he’d have no one to talk to but himself for many months, but then, when all was said and done, he was his own favorite audience. He strapped himself into the acceleration couch and prepared for take-off.

“Next week, East Lynne,” he said to himself.

BEFORE EDEN, by Arthur C. Clarke

“I guess,” said Jerry Garfield, cutting the engines, “that this is the end of the line.” With a gentle sigh, the underjets faded out; deprived of its air cushion, the scout car Rambling Wreck settled down upon the twisted rocks of the Hesperian Plateau.

There was no way forward; neither on its jets nor its tractors could S.5—to give the Wreck its official name—scale the escarpment that lay ahead. The South Pole of Venus was only thirty miles away, but it might have been on another planet. They would have to turn back, and retrace their four-hundred-mile journey through this nightmare landscape.

The weather was fantastically clear, with visibility of almost a thousand yards. There was no need of radar to show the cliffs ahead; for once, the naked eye was good enough. The green auroral light, filtering down through clouds that had rolled unbroken for a million years, gave the scene an underwater appearance, and the way in which all distant objects blurred into the haze added to the impression. Sometimes it was easy to believe that they were driving across a shallow sea bed, and more than once Jerry had imagined that he had seen fish floating overhead.

“Shall I call the ship, and say we’re turning back?” he asked.

“Not yet,” said Dr. Hutchins. “I want to think.”

Jerry shot an appealing glance at the third member of the crew, but found no moral support there. Coleman was just as bad; although the two men argued furiously half the time, they were both scientists and therefore, in the opinion of a hard-headed engineer-navigator, not wholly responsible citizens. If Cole and Hutch had bright ideas about going forward, there was nothing he could do except register a protest.

Hutchins was pacing back and forth in the tiny cabin, studying charts and instruments. Presently he swung the car’s searchlight toward the cliffs, and began to examine them carefully with binoculars. Surely, thought Jerry, he doesn’t expect me to drive up there! S.5 was a hover-track, not a mountain goat…

Abruptly, Hutchins found something. He released his breath in a sudden explosive gasp, then turned to Coleman.

“Look!” he said, his voice full of excitement. “Just to the left of that black mark! Tell me what you see.” He handed over the glasses, and it was Coleman’s turn to stare.

“Well I’m damned,” he said at length. “You were right. There are rivers on Venus. That’s a dried-up waterfall.”

“So you owe me one dinner at the Bel Gourmet when we get back to Cambridge. With champagne.”

“No need to remind me. Anyway, it’s cheap at the price. But this still leaves your other theories strictly on the crackpot level.”

“Just a minute,” interjected Jerry. “What’s all this about rivers and waterfalls? Everyone knows they can’t exist on Venus. It never gets cold enough on this steam bath of a planet for the clouds to condense.”

“Have you looked at the thermometer lately?” asked Hutchins with deceptive mildness.

“I’ve been slightly too busy driving.”

“Then I’ve news for you. It’s down to two hundred and thirty, and still falling. Don’t forget—we’re almost at the Pole, it’s wintertime, and we’re sixty thousand feet above the lowlands. All this adds up to a distinct nip in the air. If the temperature drops a few more degrees, we’ll have rain. The water will be boiling, of course—but it will be water. And though George won’t admit it yet, this puts Venus in a completely different light.”

“Why?” asked Jerry, though he had already guessed.

“Where there’s water, there may be life. We’ve been in too much of a hurry to assume that Venus is sterile, merely because the average temperature’s over five hundred degrees. It’s a lot colder here, and that’s why I’ve been so anxious to get to the Pole. There are lakes up here in the highlands, and I want to look at them.”

“But boiling water!” protested Coleman. “Nothing could live in that!”

“There are algae that manage it on Earth. And if we’ve learned one thing since we started exploring the planets, it’s this: wherever life has the slightest chance of surviving, you’ll find it. This is the only chance it’s ever had on Venus.”

“I wish we could test your theory. But you can see for yourself—we can’t go up that cliff.”

“Perhaps not in the car. But it won’t be too difficult to climb those rocks, even wearing thermosuits. All we need do is walk a few miles toward the Pole; according to the radar maps, it’s fairly level once you’re over the rim. We could manage in—oh, twelve hours at the most. Each of us has been out for longer than that, in much worse conditions.”

That was perfectly true. Protective clothing that had been designed to keep men alive in the Venusian lowlands would have an easy job here, where it was only a hundred degrees hotter than Death Valley in midsummer.

“Well,” said Coleman, “you know the regulations. You can’t go by yourself, and someone has to stay here to keep contact with the ship. How do we settle it this time—chess or cards?”

“Chess takes too long,” said Hutchins, “especially when you two play it.” He reached into the chart table and produced a well-worn pack. “Cut them, Jerry.”

“Ten of spades. Hope you can beat it, George.”

“So do I. Damn—only five of clubs. Well, give my regards to the Venusians.”

Despite Hutchins’ assurance, it was hard work climbing the escarpment. The slope was not too steep, but the weight of oxygen gear, refrigerated thermosuit, and scientific equipment came to more than a hundred pounds per man. The lower gravity—thirteen percent weaker than Earth’s—gave a little help, but not much, as they toiled up screes, rested on ledges to regain breath, and then clambered on again through the submarine twilight. The emerald glow that washed around them was brighter than that of the full moon on Earth. A moon would have been wasted on Venus, Jerry told himself; it could never have been seen from the surface, there were no oceans for it to rule—and the incessant aurora was a far more constant source of light.

They had climbed more than two thousand feet before the ground levelled out into a gentle slope, scarred here and there by channels that had clearly been cut by running water. After a little searching, they came across a gulley wide and deep enough to merit the name of river bed, and started to walk along it.

“I’ve just thought of something,” said Jerry after they had travelled a few hundred yards. “Suppose there’s a storm up ahead of us? I don’t feel like facing a tidal wave of boiling water.”

“If there’s a storm,” replied Hutchins a little impatiently, “we’ll hear it. There’ll be plenty of time to reach high ground.”

He was undoubtedly right, but Jerry felt no happier as they continued to climb the gently shelving watercourse. His uneasiness had been growing ever since they had passed over the brow of the cliff and had lost radio contact with the scout car. In this day and age, to be out of touch with one’s fellow men was a unique and unsettling experience. It had never happened to Jerry before in all his life; even aboard the Morning Star, when they were a hundred million miles from Earth, he could always send a message to his family and get a reply back within minutes. But now, a few yards of rock had cut him off from the rest of mankind; if anything happened to them here, no one would ever know, unless some later expedition found their bodies. George would wait for the agreed number of hours; then he would head back to the ship—alone. I guess I’m not really the pioneering type, Jerry told himself. I like running complicated machines, and that’s how I got involved in space flight. But I never stopped to think where it would lead, and now it’s too late to change my mind…

They had travelled perhaps three miles toward the Pole, following the meanders of the river bed, when Hutchins stopped to make observations and collect specimens. “Still getting colder!” he said. “The temperature’s down to one hundred and ninety-nine. That’s far and away the lowest ever recorded on Venus. I wish we could call George and let him know.”

Jerry tried all the wave bands; he even attempted to raise the ship—the unpredictable ups and downs of the planet’s ionosphere sometimes made such long-distance reception possible—but there was not a whisper of a carrier wave above the roar and crackle of the Venusian thunderstorms.

“This is even better,” said Hutchins, and now there was real excitement in his voice. “The oxygen concentration’s way up—fifteen parts in a million. It was only five back at the car, and down in the lowlands you can scarcely detect it.”

“But fifteen in a million!” protested Jerry. “Nothing could breathe that!”

“You’ve got hold of the wrong end of the stick,” Hutchins explained. “Nothing does breathe it. Something makes it. Where do you think Earth’s oxygen comes from? It’s all produced by life—by growing plants. Before there were plants on Earth, our atmosphere was just like this one—a mass of carbon dioxide and ammonia and methane. Then vegetation evolved, and slowly converted the atmosphere into something that animals could breathe.”

“I see,” said Jerry, “and you think that the same process has just started here?”

“It looks like it. Something not far from here is producing oxygen—and plant life is the simplest explanation.”

“And where there are plants,” mused Jerry, “I suppose you’ll have animals, sooner or later.”

“Yes,” said Hutchins, packing his gear and starting up the gulley, “though it takes a few hundred million years. We may be too soon—but I hope not.”

“That’s all very well,” Jerry answered. “But suppose we meet something that doesn’t like us? We’ve no weapons.”

Hutchins gave a snort of disgust.

“And we don’t need them. Have you stopped to think what we look like? Any animal would run a mile at the sight of us.”

There was some truth in that. The reflecting metal foil of their thermosuits covered them from head to foot like flexible, glittering armour. No insects had more elaborate antennas than those mounted on their helmets and back packs, and the wide lenses through which they stared out at the world looked like blank yet monstrous eyes. Yes, there were few animals on Earth that would stop to argue with such apparitions; but any Venusians might have different ideas.

Jerry was still mulling this over when they came upon the lake. Even at that first glimpse, it made him think not of the life they were seeking, but of death. Like a black mirror, it lay amid fold of the hills; its far edge was hidden in the eternal mist, and ghostly columns of vapour swirled and danced upon its surface. All it needed, Jerry told himself, was Charon’s ferry waiting to take them to the other side—or the Swan of Tuonela swimming majestically back and forth as it guarded the entrance to the Underworld…

Yet for all this, it was a miracle—the first free water that men had ever found on Venus. Hutchins was already on his knees, almost in an attitude of prayer. But he was only collecting drops of the precious liquid to examine through his pocket microscope.

“Anything there?” asked Jerry anxiously.

Hutchins shook his head.

“If there is, it’s too small to see with this instrument. I’ll tell you more when we’re back at the ship.” He sealed a test tube and placed it in his collecting bag, as tenderly as any prospector who had just found a nugget laced with gold. It might be—it probably was—nothing more than plain water. But it might also be a universe of unknown, living creatures on the first stage of their billion-year journey to intelligence.

Hutchins had walked no more than a dozen yards along the edge of the lake when he stopped again, so suddenly that Garfield nearly collided with him.

“What’s the matter?” Jerry asked. “Seen something?”

“That dark patch of rock over there. I noticed it before we stopped at the lake.”

“What about it? It looks ordinary enough to me.”

“I think it’s grown bigger.”

All his life, Jerry was to remember this moment. Somehow he never doubted Hutchins’ statement; by this time he could believe anything, even that rocks could grow. The sense of isolation and mystery, the presence of that dark and brooding lake, the never-ceasing rumble of distant storms and the green flickering of the aurora—all these had done something to his mind, had prepared it to face the incredible. Yet he felt no fear; that would come later.

He looked at the rock. It was about five hundred feet away, as far as he could estimate. In this dim, emerald light it was hard to judge distances or dimensions. The rock—or whatever it was—seemed to be a horizontal slab of almost black material, lying near the crest of a low ridge. There was a second, much smaller, patch of similar material near it; Jerry tried to measure and memorise the gap between them, so that he would have some yardstick to detect any change.

Even when he saw that the gap was slowly shrinking, he still felt no alarm—only a puzzled excitement. Not until it had vanished completely, and he realised how his eyes had tricked him, did that awful feeling of helpless terror strike into his heart.

Here were no growing or moving rocks. What they were watching was a dark tide, a crawling carpet, sweeping slowly but inexorably toward them over the top of the ridge.

The moment of sheer, unreasoning panic lasted, mercifully, no more than a few seconds. Garfield’s first terror began to fade as soon as he recognised its cause. For that advancing tide had reminded him, all too vividly, of a story he had read many years ago about the army ants of the Amazon, and the way in which they destroyed everything in their path…

But whatever this tide might be, it was moving too slowly to be a real danger, unless it cut off their line of retreat. Hutchins was staring at it intently through their only pair of binoculars; he was the biologist, and he was holding his ground. No point in making a fool of myself, thought Jerry, by running like a scalded cat, if it isn’t necessary.

“For heaven’s sake,” he said at last, when the moving carpet was only a hundred yards away and Hutchins had not uttered a word or stirred a muscle. “What is it?”

Hutchins slowly unfroze, like a statue coming to life.

“Sorry,” he said. “I’d forgotten all about you. It’s a plant, of course. At least, I suppose we’d better call it that.”

“But it’s moving!”

“Why should that surprise you? So do terrestrial plants. Ever seen speeded-up movies of ivy in action?”

“That still stays in one place—it doesn’t crawl all over the landscape.”

“Then what about the plankton plants of the sea? They can swim when they have to.”

Jerry gave up; in any case, the approaching wonder had robbed him of words.

He still thought of the thing as a carpet—a deep-pile one, ravelled into tassels at the edges. It varied in thickness as it moved; in some parts it was a mere film; in others, it heaped up to a depth of a foot or more. As it came closer and he could see its texture, Jerry was reminded of black velvet. He wondered what it felt like to the touch, then remembered that it would burn his fingers even if it did nothing else to them. He found himself thinking, in the light-headed nervous reaction that often follows a sudden shock: “If there are any Venusians, we’ll never be able to shake hands with them. They’d burn us, and we’d give them frostbite.”

So far, the thing had shown no signs that it was aware of their presence. It had merely flowed forward like the mindless tide that it almost certainly was. Apart from the fact that it climbed over small obstacles, it might have been an advancing flood of water.

And then, when it was only ten feet away, the velvet tide checked itself. On the right and the left, it still flowed forward; but dead ahead it slowed to a halt.

“We’re being encircled,” said Jerry anxiously. “Better fall back, until we’re sure it’s harmless.”

To his relief, Hutchins stepped back at once. After a brief hesitation, the creature resumed its flow advance and the dent in its front line straightened out.

Then Hutchins stepped forward again—and the thing slowly withdrew. Half a dozen times the biologist advanced, only to retreat again, and each time the living tide ebbed and flowed in synchronism with his movements. I never imagined, Jerry told himself, that I’d live to see a man waltzing with a plant…

“Thermophobia,” said Hutchins. “Purely automatic reaction. It doesn’t like our heat.”

“Our heat!” protested Jerry. “Why, we’re living icicles by comparison.”

“Of course—but our suits aren’t, and that’s all it knows about.”

Stupid of me, thought Jerry. When you were snug and cool inside your thermosuit, it was easy to forget that the refrigeration unit on your back was pumping a blast of heat out into the surrounding air. No wonder the Venusian plant had shied away…

“Let’s see how it reacts to light,” said Hutchins. He switched on his chest lamp, and the green auroral glow was instantly banished by the flood of pure white radiance. Until Man had come to this planet, no white light had ever shone upon the surface of Venus, even by day. As in the seas of Earth, there was only a green twilight, deepening slowly to utter darkness.

The transformation was so stunning that neither man could check a cry of astonishment. Gone in a flash was the deep, sombre black of the thick-piled velvet carpet at their feet. Instead, as far as their lights carried, lay a blazing pattern of glorious, vivid reds, laced with streaks of gold. No Persian prince could ever have commanded so opulent a tapestry from his weavers, yet this was the accidental product of biological forces. Indeed, until they had switched on their floods, these superb colours had not even existed, and they would vanish once more when the alien light of Earth ceased to conjure them into being.

“Tikov was right,” murmured Hutchins. “I wish he could have known.”

“Right about what?” asked Jerry, though it seemed almost a sacrilege to speak in the presence of such loveliness.

“Back in Russia, fifty years ago, he found that plants living in very cold climates tended to be blue and violet, while those from hot ones were red or orange. He predicted that the Martian vegetation would be violet, and said that if there were plants on Venus they’d be red. Well, he was right on both counts. But we can’t stand here all day—we’ve work to do.”

“You’re sure it’s quite safe?” asked Jerry, some of his caution reasserting itself.

“Absolutely—it can’t touch our suits even if it wants to. Anyway, it’s moving past us.”

That was true. They could see now that the entire creature—if it was a single plant, and not a colony—covered a roughly circular area about a hundred yards across. It was sweeping over the ground, as the shadow of a cloud moves before the wind—and where it had rested, the rocks were pitted with innumerable tiny holes that might have been etched by acid.

“Yes,” said Hutchins, when Jerry remarked about this. “That’s how some lichens feed; they secrete acids that dissolve rock. But no questions, please—not till we get back to the ship. I’ve several lifetimes’ work here, and a couple of hours to do it in.”

This was botany on the run… The sensitive edge of the huge plant-thing could move with surprising speed when it tried to evade them. It was as if they were dealing with an animated flapjack, an acre in extent. There was no reaction—apart from the automatic avoidance of their exhaust heat—when Hutchins snipped samples or took probes. The creature flowed steadily onward over hills and valleys, guided by some strange vegetable instinct. Perhaps it was following some vein of mineral; the geologists could decide that, when they analysed the rock samples that Hutchins had collected both before and after the passage of the living tapestry.

There was scarcely time to think or even to frame the countless questions that their discovery had raised. Presumably these creatures must be fairly common, for them to have found one so quickly. How did they reproduce? By shoots, spores, fission, or some other means? Where did they get their energy? What relatives, rivals, or parasites did they have? This could not be the only form of life on Venus—the very idea was absurd, for if you had one species, you must have thousands…

Sheer hunger and fatigue forced them to a halt at last. The creature they were studying could eat its way around Venus—though Hutchins believed that it never went very far from the lake, as from time to time it approached the water and inserted a long, tubelike tendril into it—but the animals from Earth had to rest.

It was a great relief to inflate the pressurised tent, climb in through the air lock, and strip off their thermosuits. For the first time, as they relaxed inside their tiny plastic hemisphere, the true wonder and importance of the discovery forced itself upon their minds. This world around them was no longer the same; Venus was no longer dead—it had joined Earth and Mars.

For life called to life, across the gulfs of space. Everything that grew or moved upon the face of any planet was a portent, a promise that Man was not alone in this universe of blazing suns and swirling nebulae. If as yet he had found no companions with whom he could speak, that was only to be expected, for the light-years and the ages still stretched before him, waiting to be explored. Meanwhile, he must guard and cherish the life he found, whether it be upon Earth or Mars or Venus.

So Graham Hutchins, the happiest biologist in the solar system, told himself as he helped Garfield collect their refuse and seal it into a plastic disposal bag. When they deflated the tent and started on the homeward journey, there was no sign of the creature they had been examining. That was just as well; they might have been tempted to linger for more experiments, and already it was getting uncomfortably close to their deadline.

No matter; in a few months they would be back with a team of assistants, far more adequately equipped and with the eyes of the world upon them. Evolution had laboured for a billion years to make this meeting possible; it could wait a little longer.

For a while nothing moved in the greenly glimmering, fog-bound landscape; it was deserted by man and crimson carpet alike. Then, flowing over the wind-carved hills, the creature reappeared. Or perhaps it was another of the same strange species; no one would ever know.

It flowed past the little cairn of stones where Hutchins and Garfield had buried their wastes. And then it stopped.

It was not puzzled, for it had no mind. But the chemical urges that drove it relentlessly over the polar plateau were crying: Here, here! Somewhere close at hand was the most precious of all the foods it needed—phosphorous, the element without which the spark of life could never ignite. It began to nuzzle the rocks, to ooze into the cracks and crannies, to scratch and scrabble with probing tendrils. Nothing that it did was beyond the capacity of any plant or tree on Earth—but it moved a thousand times more quickly, requiring only minutes to reach its goal and pierce through the plastic film.

And then it feasted, on food more concentrated than any it had ever known. It absorbed the carbohydrates and the proteins and the phosphates, the nicotine from the cigarette ends, the cellulose from the paper cups and spoons. All these it broke down and assimilated into its strange body, without difficulty and without harm.

Likewise it absorbed a whole microcosm of living creatures—the bacteria and viruses which, upon an older planet, had evolved into a thousand deadly strains. Though only a very few could survive in this heat and this atmosphere, they were sufficient. As the carpet crawled back to the lake, it carried contagion to all its world.

Even as the Morning Star set its course for her distant home, Venus was dying. The films and photographs and specimens that Hutchins was carrying in triumph were more precious even than he knew. They were the only record that would ever exist of life’s third attempt to gain a foothold in the solar system.

Beneath the clouds of Venus, the story of Creation was ended.

SEQUENCE, by Carl Jacobi

By noon Carston had made his daily inspection circuit of the drome. He had surveyed the commissary, loitered past the new structure that was to house the courts and exchanged a few pleasantries with the sergeant of the constabulary. He had checked the oxygen and humidity gauges on the big board outside the power building. And he had climbed to the drome’s Central Observation Platform within the quartz bubble, where he stood now, gazing out at the incredible landscape of Nida 255.

A jigsaw pattern of tumbled monolithic rocks in a myriad of pastel colors stretched before him as far as he could see. Off to the left where the rock formations descended into a low bluish plain, a mass of girders and steel ribs crouched like some huge spider—all that was left of the Centauria. As Carston looked at the dismantled space ship now, a wave of repugnance swept over him.

Ten years! Ten years he had spent in that ugly hulk while it had bored through space, crossing the incalculable distances from Earth to this planet. He had lived perhaps an eighth of his life imprisoned with two thousand others in a man-constructed projectile that was such a leviathan not even he nor his officers had completely explored its galleries, its courts, its corridors, its great hydroponic growing chambers.

But success, such as it was, could partially be claimed theirs. They had reached this new System and they had landed on Nida 255, not because conditions were ideal—they were far from that—but because the planet was on the outer fringe of the unknown. Beyond lay mystery. Here they could establish a base for deeper exploration, and here they would perhaps be sighted by the next vessel from Earth, if one ever came.

Carston prided himself that his company of two thousand had accomplished a lot since their landing five months ago. First and foremost, they had erected this huge drome over the settlement, protecting themselves against the outside rarified atmosphere and the fierce herds of two legged goat-like creatures that seemed to migrate constantly from one pole to the other. Second they had maintained their social structure without a hitch. Five marriages, one divorce, three petty crimes—all had been settled, including an election of minor officials, in as smooth a procedure as if they had been still back on Earth. Within the drome, houses had been built, streets laid out, shrubbery planted. But at a cost!

Material for the drome had been obtained by ologizing a form of igneous rock that was abundant on the planet and spinning it into a film-like composition that slowly hardened when exposed to light. The superstructure that was required to support this huge envelope, however, had to be taken from their ship, the Centauria. It had meant dismantling the vessel, and it had meant burning their last bridge behind them. They were marooned on Nida 255 now, for better or for worse.

A buzzer sounded abruptly and a light glowed on a small panel at Carston’s side. He pushed a stud and watched the view panel illuminate with the likeness of young Stewart who was on duty at East Tower. Stewart had been a lad of eleven playing hand ball in the upper galleries when the Centauria had started its voyage. Now he was a fine strapping young man of twenty-one. It didn’t seem possible…

“Yes?” Carston spoke into the disc.

“Hello, Davis, you old walrus. How’s tricks? Hourly report. Stewart speaking.”

Carston smiled. “Davis isn’t here,” he said. “I gave him temporary relief. This is Captain Carston.” He switched on his own reflector screen.

There was a pause and Stewart’s face grimaced in embarrassment at his blunder. “Oh, beg pardon, sir. I didn’t…”

“All right, Stewart,” Carston smiled again. “Go on with your report. I’ll take it.”

“Yes, sir. East Tower 12:15. Visibility… five. Sectors one, two, three, and four… okay. Probascope reading: zero-zero.”

“All right, Stewart,” acknowledged Carston. “I’ll record it. Yes, what’s wrong?”

On the panel, the young watch-officer’s face showed some anxiety. “If you please, sir, I’d like to have someone take my place for a few hours. My eyes have been bothering me a bit, sir.”

“Scanner strain?”

“I don’t think so. I seem to see streamers of white light, little pin points, that is. It’s probably only a temporary condition.”

Carston personally gave the order for Stewart’s relief, and then sat there a moment, frowning. At twelve thirty West Tower reported in, and Carston recorded it as he had Stewart’s. When the watch-officer had finished, Carston asked:

“How’re your eyes, McIver?”

There was a moment’s hesitation. Then: “Now that you mention it, sir, they’ve been giving me a little trouble. Little streaks of light. I expect it will pass shortly.”

By now Carston’s worst fears were realized, and he went into action at once. He pulled over the mike of the P. A. system, and an instant later heard his voice go resounding over the entire drome-settlement.

“Attention! It is quite possible we are being observed by enemy craft. I want each one of you to remain calm but be ready for any emergency. The settlement is now under martial law and will remain so until further orders from Central Tower.”

Twice he repeated this statement, then clicked off the mike and glanced at the general view screen. It gave him a feeling of satisfaction to see that his orders had produced no hysteria. Like a well-oiled machine the settlement dropped its civil routine and geared itself for the unexpected.

Carston remained in Central Tower three hours more, watching the wan daylight cast by Nida’s distant sun slowly fade. With the coming of darkness he went down the lift to the street level, and walked the short distance to his quarters. He had left word to be called at the first sign of any trouble, but what sort of trouble did he expect? He had said ‘enemy craft’ but he had used that expression for mundane rationalization only. They were on the brink of the unknown. Who could tell what cosmic horrors lay out there? Or had he suddenly become over-cautious?

At eleven fifty-two a call from Central Tower brought him to that watch post on the double. He arrived to find Williamson, the night watch officer in a state of tense excitement.

“We spotted them, sir, but so far there’s only one ship. That is, I guess you could call it a ship. It’s an odd looking disc with a cylinder-like midsection and at intervals it gives off a powerful light.”

Carston looked through the probascope, and for a moment saw nothing but black sky and the myriads of stars that paraded through it. Then a lighter shadow focused itself in his vision, advancing toward him slowly it seemed, but at a rate which he could not even estimate.

“Where do you suppose they’re from?” Williamson asked nervously.

Carston said nothing. He was thinking, curiously, of his home back on Earth and the sunlit mornings he had tramped down a dusty road with the call of a meadowlark sounding in his ears. He was thinking of green fields and red-roofed houses and the fragrant honey locust trees in blossom. Williamson’s voice cut into his reverie.

“They’re heading directly toward us, sir.”

“Light the landing platter,” Carston ordered. “Full power. Light all tower beacons.”

One look at the powerful ship had convinced him that the settlement’s defenses—two comparatively small ato-guns taken from the dismantled Centauria, one weakened warp-impinger—were inadequate and a bold move of welcoming the stranger the only alternative.

But somehow as he waited for the ship to acknowledge his signal, his mind kept reverting to the past. Ten years ago he had not had to face any emergencies such as this. He was a military man, yes, but a military man retired from active service at the age of thirty-two because of a bad left arm, caused ironically, by a fall down a flight of stairs. Then had come the Centauria and a recommendation for him to command by his old friend, Senator Stanley. His jaw tightened suddenly. He didn’t intend to lose everything now that the project was on the verge of accomplishment. He would use trickery, cunning, diplomacy, everything at his command, if the approaching craft were hostile, and somehow he would… he must… win out.

And now the strange ship had checked its forward impetus and was hovering just above them. Gently as a falling leaf, it descended to the landing platter and came to a standstill. A drum-shaped object protruded from a trap on the side and slowly revolved while a diffused red light gleamed above it.

“Testing us for something,” mused the Captain. “Perhaps they’ll attack without coming out.”

Presently, however, the hatch opened, a ladder was slung over the side and two figures climbed down. They were heavily encased in queer-shaped space suits with rectangular helmets. Carston, staring in the glare of the white lights, could not be sure whether or not the two figures were human, though they seemed man-size with four appendages. Three more figures climbed out, and then the five began to move slowly, cautiously across the platter to the drome entrance chamber.

Not until then did Carston leave his post. He rode down the lift quickly and hurried across to the drome-side door. Before entering, he touched a lever on a panel, saw a dull-surfaced metal wall roll across from one side to the other effectively dividing the room into two parts. That wall was constructed of the new aluminum alloy that would permit him to see and hear everything on the opposite side of that wall and yet remain invisible to the strangers, as well as safe from any weapon discharge. He took his place in the chair behind the metal desk and waited.

A moment later the five strangers entered the chamber on the other side of the wall. They remained standing, one slightly in advance of the others. Their helmets presented a solid metal surface completely hiding their features. Carston reached out, pulled over the thought transcriber on its bracket and began to direct his thoughts into it.

“You are on an inhabited planet. As commanding officer of this settlement, I bid you welcome. Will you please state your mission and where you are from.”

He was following the Spaceways Manual to the letter, following the paragraph which read: In contacting any form of alien life suspected of not previously being in contact with Earthians, reveal as little about yourself as possible but attempt to elicit at once such information as will enable you to appraise those aliens with a view to a common ‘esprit de corps’.

But the leader of the strangers was likewise noncommittal. The transcriber recorded his reply,

“We have lost our way and are not sure of our present position. What planet is this and to what race do you belong?”

“Do you come from far?” Carston parried.

“From far and near. Our origin is far out in space. Will you reveal yourself, sir?”

“Where?” Carston persisted.

The strangers bent their heads together, held a consultation. At last the helmeted leader looked up. Slowly the transcriber recorded his answer.

“We come from a planet called Earth.”

Earth! A pulse began to throb in Carston’s temple. He stared at the transcriber, half rose in his chair while beads of perspiration broke out on his forehead. So the cycle was complete. Not one but two ships had crossed the trackless void. The expedition could now be considered a success from all angles. Carston reached toward the panel at his side. Move back that damned wall and greet your fellow men with the warmth and hospitality they deserved. Shake their hands! Clap their backs! …But wait…!

Earthmen wore no such outlandish space suits, did not build queer disc-shaped ships like that one out on the platter. Another paragraph in the Manual came back to him. In contacting aliens always establish positive identity and beware of false claims of origin. Cases have been known where outlanders learning of conditions on Earth, have attempted to pose as inhabitants of our System. All at once Carston’s brain became crystal clear, and he weighed the facts and sought the truth. The Centauria had landed here but five months ago. At the time of their departure from Earth no other ship capable of making such a voyage had been in process of construction. On the other hand the strangers had all the attributes of Earthmen in spite of their shapeless suits.

Far back in Carston’s mind an impossible thought began to whisper for recognition. He turned to the transcriber again.

“Your place of departure on the planet, Earth, of which you speak… It has a name?”

“Carstonville,”

Cold sweat bathed the Captain from head to foot.

“Your date of departure?” he demanded.

“July sixth, just forty-nine days ago. Our ship is equipped with the new Ganlor Drive, of course, or this speed would not have been possible.”

Behind the metal desk Carston was staring with glazed eyes. A mirthless laugh sounded in his throat.

“Ten years…” he muttered hoarsely. “Ten years…”

PREFERRED RISK, by Frederik Pohl and Lester del Rey

CHAPTER I

The liner from Port Lyautey was comfortable and slick, but I was leaning forward in my seat as we came in over Naples. I had been on edge all the way across the Atlantic. Now as the steward came through the compartments to pick up our Blue Plate ration coupons for the trip, I couldn’t help feeling annoyed that I hadn’t eaten the food they represented. For the Company wanted everyone to get the fullest possible benefit out of his policies—not only the food policies, but Blue Blanket, Blue Bolt and all the others.

We whooshed in to a landing at Carmody Field, just outside of Naples. My baggage was checked through, so I didn’t expect to have any difficulty clearing past the truce-team Customs inspectors. It was only a matter of turning over my baggage checks, and boarding the rapido that would take me into Naples.

But my luck was low. The man before me was a fussbudget who insisted on carrying his own bags, and I had to stand behind him a quarter of an hour, while the truce-teams geigered his socks and pajamas.

While I fidgeted, though, I noticed that the Customs shed had, high up on one wall, a heroic-sized bust of Millen Carmody himself. Just standing there, under that benevolent smile, made me feel better. I even managed to nod politely to the traveler ahead of me as he finally got through the gate and let me step up to the uniformed Company expediter who checked my baggage tickets.

And the expediter gave me an unexpected thrill. He leafed through my papers, then stepped back and gave me a sharp military salute. “Proceed, Adjuster Wills,” he said, returning my travel orders. It hadn’t been like that at the transfer point at Port Lyautey—not even back at the Home Office in New York. But here we were in Naples, and the little war was not yet forgotten; we were under Company law, and I was an officer of the Company.

It was all I needed to restore my tranquility. But it didn’t last.

* * * *

The rapido took us through lovely Italian countryside, but it was in no hurry to do it. We were late getting into the city itself, and I found myself almost trotting out of the little train and up into the main waiting room where my driver would be standing at the Company desk.

I couldn’t really blame the Neapolitans for the delay—it wasn’t their fault that the Sicilians had atomized the main passenger field at Capodichino during the war, and the rapido wasn’t geared to handling that volume of traffic from Carmody Field. But Mr. Gogarty would be waiting for me, and it wasn’t my business to keep a Regional Director waiting.

I got as far as the exit to the train shed. There was a sudden high, shrill blast of whistles and a scurrying and, out of the confusion of persons milling about, there suddenly emerged order.

At every doorway stood three uniformed Company expediters; squads of expediters formed almost before my eyes all over the train shed; single expediters appeared and took up guard positions at every stairwell and platform head. It was a triumph of organization; in no more than ten seconds, a confused crowd was brought under instant control.

But why?

There was a babble of surprised sounds from the hurrying crowds; they were as astonished as I. It was reasonable enough that the Company’s expediter command should conduct this sort of surprise raid from time to time, of course. The Company owed it to its policyholders; by insuring them against the hazards of war under the Blue Bolt complex of plans, it had taken on the responsibility of preventing war when it could. And ordinarily it could, easily enough.

How could men fight a war without weapons—and how could they buy weapons, particularly atomic weapons, when the Company owned all the sources and sold only to whom it pleased, when it pleased, as it pleased? There were still occasional outbreaks—witness the recent strife between Sicily and Naples itself—but the principle remained… Anyway, surprise raids were well within the Company’s rights.

I was mystified, though—I could not imagine what they were looking for here in the Naples railroad terminal; with geigering at Carmody Field and every other entry point to the Principality of Naples, they should have caught every fissionable atom coming in, and it simply did not seem reasonable that anyone in the principality itself could produce nuclear fuel to make a bomb.

Unless they were not looking for bombs, but for people who might want to use them. But that didn’t tie in with what I had been taught as a cadet at the Home Office.

* * * *

There was a crackle and an unrecognizable roar from the station’s public-address system. Then the crowd noises died down as people strained to listen, and I began to understand the words: “…where you are in an orderly fashion until this investigation is concluded. You will not be delayed more than a few minutes. Do not, repeat, do not attempt to leave until this man has been captured. Attention! Attention! All persons in this area! Under Company law, you are ordered to stop all activities and stand still at once. An investigation is being carried out in this building. All persons will stand still and remain where you are in an orderly fashion until this investigation…”

The mounting babble drowned the speaker out again, but I had heard enough.

I suppose I was wrong, but I had been taught that my duty was to serve the world, by serving the Company, in all ways at all times. I walked briskly toward the nearest squad of expediters, who were already breaking up into detachments and moving about among the halted knots of civilians, peering at faces, asking questions.

I didn’t quite make it; I hadn’t gone more than five yards when a heavy hand fell on my shoulder, and a harsh voice snarled in the Neapolitan dialect, “Halt, you! Didn’t you hear the orders?”

I spun, staggering slightly, to face an armed expediter-officer. I stood at attention and said crisply, “Sorry. I’m Thomas Wills, Claims Adjuster. I thought I might be able to help.”

The officer stared at me for a moment. His cheeks moved; I had the impression that, under other circumstances, he would have spat on the floor at my feet. “Papers!” he ordered.

I passed him my travel orders. He looked them over briefly, then returned them. Like the Customs expediter at Carmody Field, he gave me a snap salute, militarily precise and, in a way I could not quite define, contemptuous. “You should just stay here, Adjuster Wills,” he advised—in a tone that made it a command. “This will be over in a moment.”

He was gone, back to his post. I stood for a moment, but it was easier to listen to his orders than to obey them; the Neapolitan crowd didn’t seem to take too well to discipline, and though there was no overt resistance to the search squads, there was a sort of Brownian movement of individuals in the throng that kept edging me back and away from where I had been standing. It made me a little uncomfortable; I was standing close to the edge of a platform, and a large poster announced that the Milan Express was due to arrive on that track at any moment. In fact, I could hear the thin, effeminate whistle of its Diesel locomotive just beyond the end of the platform. I tried to inch my way from the edge. I dodged around an electric baggage-cart, and trod heavily on someone’s foot.

* * * *

“Excuse me,” I said quickly, looking at the man. He glared back at me. There was a bright spark in his eyes; I could tell little about his expression because, oddly enough in that country of clean-shaven faces, he wore a heavy, ragged, clipped beard. He wore the uniform of a porter. He mumbled something I could not quite catch, and moved as if to push me away. I suppose I put up my arm. My papers, with the Company seal bright gold upon them, were still in my hand, and the bearded man caught sight of them.

If there had been anger in his eyes before, there was now raging fury. He shrilled, “Beast! Animal!” He thrust at me blindly and leaped past me, out of the shelter of the bags; he went spinning furiously through the crowd, men and women ricocheting off him.

I heard a harsh bellow: “There he goes! Zorchi! Zorchi!” And I could hear the bearded man shrieking curses as he hurtled up the platform, up toward the oncoming train, over to the edge—and off the platform to the tracks!

He fell less than a yard in front of the slim nose of the Diesel. I don’t suppose the speed of the train was even five miles an hour, but the engineer hadn’t a chance in the world to stop.

While I watched, struck motionless, along with all the others on that platform, the engine passed over the huddled form. The brakes were shrieking, but it was much, much too late. Even in that moment I thought he would not be killed—not instantly, at least, unless he died of loss of blood. The trunk of his body was safely in the well between the tracks. But his legs were sprawled over a rail. And the slow click-click of the wheels didn’t stop until his uniformed body was far out of sight.

It was shocking, sickening, unbelievable.

And it didn’t stop there. A strange thing happened. When the man had dived into the path of the train, there was a sudden fearful hush; it had happened too suddenly for anyone to cry out. And when the hush ended, there was only a momentary, instinctive gasp of horror. Then there was a quick, astonished babble of voices—and then cheers! And applause, and ringing bravos!

I didn’t understand.

The man had thrown himself deliberately under the train. I was sure of it.

Was that something to cheer?

* * * *

I finally made it to where the Regional Director was waiting for me—nearly an hour late.

It was at a hotel overlooking the Bay, and the sight was thrilling enough to put the unpleasant accident I had seen out of my mind for a moment. There was nothing so beautiful in all the world, I thought, as the Bay of Naples at sunset. It was not only my own opinion; I had seen it described many times in the travel folders I had pored over, while my wife indulgently looked over my shoulder, back in those remote days of marriage. “La prima vista del mundo,” the folders had called it—the most beautiful sight of the world. They had said: “See Naples, and die.”

I hadn’t known, of course, that Marianna would die first…

But that was all behind me. After Marianna’s death, a lot of things had happened, all in a short time, and some of them very bad. But good or bad, I had laid down a law for myself: I would not dwell on them. I had started on a new life, and, I was going to put the past in a locked compartment in my mind. I had to!

I was no longer an ordinary civilian, scraping together his Blue Heaven premiums for the sake of a roof over his head, budgeting his food policies, carrying on his humdrum little job. I was a servant of the human race and a member of the last surviving group of gentleman-adventurers in all the world: I was an Insurance Claims Adjuster for the Company!

All the same, I couldn’t quite forget some of the bad things that had happened, as I walked into the hotel dining room to meet the Regional Director.

* * * *

Regional Director Gogarty was a huge, pale balloon of a man. He was waiting for me at a table set for four. As he greeted me, his expression was sour. “Glad to meet you, Wills. Bad business, this. Bad business. He got away with it again.”

I coughed. “Sir?” I asked.

“Zorchi!” he snapped. And I remembered the name I had heard on the platform. The madman! “Zorchi, Luigi Zorchi, the human jellyfish. Wills, do you know that that man has just cashed in on his twelfth disability policy? And not a thing we could do to stop him! You were there. You saw it, didn’t you?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Thought so. The twelfth! And your driver said on the phone it was both legs this time. Both legs—and on a common carrier. Double indemnity!” He shook his enormous head. “And with a whole corps of expediters standing by to stop him!”

I said with some difficulty, “Sir, do you mean that the man I saw run over by the train was—”

“Luigi Zorchi. That’s who he was. Ever hear of him, Wills?”

“Can’t say I have.”

Gogarty nodded his balloonlike head. “The Company has kept it out of the papers, of course, but you can’t keep anything from being gossiped about around here. This Zorchi is practically a national hero in Naples. He’s damn near a millionaire by now, I guess, and every lira of it has come right out of the Company’s indemnity funds. And do you think we can do anything about it? Not a thing! Not even when we’re tipped off ahead of time—when, what, and where!

“He just laughs at us. I know for a fact,” Gogarty said bitterly, “that Zorchi knew we found out he was going to dive in front of that express tonight. He was just daring us to stop him. We should have! We should have figured he might disguise himself as a porter. We should—”

I interrupted, “Mr. Gogarty, are you trying to tell me this man deliberately maims himself for the accident insurance?” Gogarty nodded sourly. “Good heavens,” I cried, “that’s disloyal!”

Gogarty laughed sharply and brought me up standing. There was a note to the way he laughed that I didn’t like; for a moment there, I thought he was thinking of my own little—well, indiscretion. But he said only, “It’s expensive, too.” I suppose he meant nothing by it. But I was sensitive on the subject.

Before I could ask him any more questions, the massive face smoothed out in a smile. He rose ponderously, greeting someone. “Here they are, Wills,” he said jovially. “The girls!”

The headwaiter was conducting two young ladies toward us. I remembered my manners and stood up, but I confess I was surprised. I had heard that discipline in the field wasn’t the same as at the Home Office, but after all—Gogarty was a Regional Director!

It was a little informal of him to arrange our first meeting at dinner, in the first place. But to make a social occasion of it was—in the straitlaced terms of the Home Office where I had been trained—almost unthinkable.

And it was apparent that the girls were mere decoration. I had a hundred eager questions to ask Gogarty—about this mad Zorchi, about my duties, about Company policy here in the principality of Naples—but it would be far out of line to bring up Company matters with these females present. I was not pleased, but I managed to be civil.

The girls were decorative enough, I had to admit.

Gogarty said expansively, all trace of ill humor gone, “This is Signorina dell’Angela and Miss Susan Manchester. Rena and Susan, this is Tom Wills.”

I said stiffly, “Delighted.”

Susan was the blonde one, a small plump girl with the bubbly smile of a professional model. She greeted Gogarty affectionately. The other was dark and lovely, but with a constant shadow, almost glowering, in her eyes.

So we had a few drinks. Then we had a few more. Then the captain appeared with a broad menu, and I found myself in an embarrassing position. For Gogarty waved the menu aside with a gesture of mock disgust. “Save it for the peasants,” he ordered. “We don’t want that Blue Plate slop. We’ll start with those little baby shrimps like I had last night, and then an antipasto and after that—”

I broke in apologetically, “Mr. Gogarty, I have only a Class-B policy.”

Gogarty blinked at me. “What?”

I cleared my throat. “I have only Class-B coverage on my Blue Plate policy,” I repeated. “I, uh, I never went in much for such—”

He looked at me incredulously. “Boy,” he said, “this is on the Company. Now relax and let me order. Blue Plate coverage is for the peasants; I eat like a human being.”

It shook me a little. Here was a Regional Director talking about the rations supplied under the Company’s Blue Plate coverage as “slop.” Oh, I wasn’t naive enough to think that no one talked that way. There were a certain number of malcontents anywhere. I’d heard that kind of talk, and even worse, once in a while from the Class-D near-uninsurables, the soreheads with a grudge against the world who blamed all their troubles on the Company and bleated about the “good old days.” Mostly they did their bleating when it was premium time, I’d noticed.

But I certainly never expected it from Gogarty.

Still—it was his party. And he seemed like a pretty nice guy. I had to allow him the defects of his virtues, I decided. If he was less reverent to the Company than he should have been, at least by the same token he was friendly and democratic. He had at least twenty years seniority on me, and back at the Home Office a mere Claims Adjuster wouldn’t have been at the same table with a Regional Director.

And here he was feeding me better than I had ever eaten in my life, talking as though we were equals, even (I reminded myself) seeing to it that we had the young ladies to keep us company.

* * * *

We were hours at dinner, hours and endless glasses of wine, and we talked continually. But the conversation never came close to official business.

The girl Rena was comfortable to be with, I found. There was that deep, eternal sadness in her eyes, and every once in a while I came up against it in the middle of a laugh; but she was soft-voiced and pleasant, and undeniably lovely. Marianna had been prettier, I thought, but Marianna’s voice was harsh Midwest while Rena’s—

I stopped myself.

When we were on our after-dinner liqueurs, Rena excused herself for a moment and, after a few minutes, I spotted her standing by a satin-draped window, looking wistfully out over a balcony. Gogarty winked.

I got up and, a little unsteadily, went over to her. “Shall we look at this more closely?” I asked her. She smiled and we stepped outside.

Again I was looking down on the Bay of Naples—a scene painted in moonlight this time, instead of the orange hues of sunset. It was warm, but the Moon was frosty white in the sky. Even its muddled reflection in the slagged waters was grayish white, not yellow. There was a pale orange halo over the crater of Mount Vesuvius, to our left; and far down the coast a bluish phosphorescence, over the horizon, marked Pompeii. “Beautiful,” I said.

She looked at me strangely. All she said was, “Let’s go back inside.”

Gogarty greeted us. “Looking at the debris?” he demanded jovially. “Not much to see at night. Cheer up, Tom. You’ll see all the damage you want to see over the next few days.”

I said, “I hope so, sir.”

Gogarty shook his head reprovingly. “Not ‘sir,’ Tom. Save that for the office. Call me Sam.” He beamed. “You want to know what it was like here during the war? You can ask the girls. They were here all through. Especially Susan—she was with the Company’s branch here, even before I took over. Right, Susan?”

“Right, Sam,” she said obediently.

Gogarty nodded. “Not that Rena missed much either, but she was out of town when the Sicilians came over. Weren’t you?” he demanded, curiously intent. Rena nodded silently. “Naples sure took a pasting,” Gogarty went on. “It was pretty tough for a while. Did you know that the Sicilians actually made a landing right down the coast at Pompeii?”

“I saw the radioactivity,” I said.

“That’s right. They got clobbered, all right. Soon’s the barges were in, the Neapolitans let them have it. But it cost them. The Company only allowed them five A-bombs each, and they had to use two more to knock out Palermo. And—well, they don’t like to tell this on themselves, but one of the others was a dud. Probably the only dud A-bomb in history, I guess.”

He grinned at Rena. Astonishingly, Rena smiled back.

She was, I thought, a girl of many astonishing moments; I had not thought that she would be amused at Gogarty’s heavy-handed needling.

* * * *

Gogarty went on and on. I was interested enough—I had followed the Naples-Sicily war in the papers and, of course, I’d been briefed at the Home Office before coming over—but the girls seemed to find it pretty dull. By the time Gogarty finished telling me about the Sicilian attempt to trigger Mt. Vesuvius by dropping an A-bomb into its crater, Rena was frankly bored and even Susan was yawning behind her palm.

We finally wound up under the marquee of the restaurant. Gogarty and the blonde politely said good night, and disappeared into a cab. It was clearly up to me to take Rena home.

I hailed a cab. When I made up my new insurance schedule at the Home Office before coming over, I splurged heavily on transportation coverage. Perhaps I was making up for the luxuries of travel that life with Marianna hadn’t allowed me. Anyway, I’d taken out Class AA policies. And as the cab driver clipped my coupons he was extremely polite.

Rena lived a long way from the hotel. I tried to make small talk, but she seemed to have something on her mind. I was in the middle of telling her about the terrible “accident” I had seen that evening at the station—suitably censored, of course—when I observed she was staring out the window.

She hadn’t been paying attention while I talked, but she noticed the silence when I stopped. She gave a little shake of the head and looked at me. “I’m sorry, Mr. Wills,” she said. “I am being rude.”

“Not at all,” I said gallantly.

“Yes.” She nodded and smiled, but it was a thoughtful, almost a sad, smile. “You are too polite, you gentlemen of the Company. Is that part of your training?”

“It’s easy to be polite to you, Miss dell’Angela,” I said by rote. Yes, it was part of our training: A Claims Adjuster is always courteous. But what I said was true enough, all the same. She was a girl that I enjoyed being polite to.

“No, truly,” she persisted. “You are an important officer in the Company, and you must have trained long for the post. What did they teach you?”

“Well—” I hesitated—“just the sort of thing you’d expect, I guess. A little statistical mathematics—enough so we can understand what the actuaries mean. Company policies, business methods, administration. Then, naturally, we had a lot of morale sessions. A Claims Adjuster—” I cleared my throat, feeling a little self-conscious—“a Claims Adjuster is supposed to be like Caesar’s wife, you know. He must always set an example to his staff and to the public. I guess that sounds pretty stuffy. I don’t mean it to be. But there is a lot of emphasis on tradition and honor and discipline.”

She asked, rather oddly, “And is there a course in loyalty?”

“Why, I suppose you might say that. There are ceremonies, you know. And it’s a matter of cadet honor to put the Company ahead of personal affairs.”

“And do all Claims Adjusters live by this code?”

For a moment I couldn’t answer. It was like a blow in the face. I turned sharply to look at her, but there was no expression on her face, only a mild polite curiosity.

I said with difficulty, “Miss dell’Angela, what are you getting at?”

“Why, nothing!” Her face was as angelic as her name.

“I don’t know what you mean or what you may have heard about me, Miss dell’Angela, but I can tell you this, if you are interested. When my wife died, I went to pieces. I admit it. I said a lot of things I shouldn’t have, and some of them may have reflected against the Company. I’m not trying to deny that but, you understand, I was upset at the time. I’m not upset now.” I took a deep breath. “To me, the Company is the savior of humanity. I don’t want to sound like a fanatic, but I am loyal to the Company, to the extent of putting it ahead of my personal affairs, to the extent of doing whatever job the Company assigns to me. And, if necessary, to the extent of dying for it if I have to. Is that clear?”

Well, that was a conversation-stopper, of course. I hadn’t meant to get all wound up about it, but it hurt to find out that there had been gossip. The dell’Angela girl merely said: “Quite clear.”

We rode in silence for a while. She was staring out the window again, and I didn’t especially want to talk just then. Maybe I was too sensitive. But there was no doubt in my mind that the Company was the white hope of the world, and I didn’t like being branded a traitor because of what I’d said after Marianna died. I was, in a way, paying the penalty for it—it had been made pretty clear to me that I was on probation. That was enough.

As I said, she lived a long way from the Gran Reale. I had plenty of time for my flare-up, and for brooding, and for getting over it.

But we never did get around to much idle conversation on that little trip. By the time I had simmered down, I began to have disturbing thoughts. It suddenly occurred to me that I was a man, and she was a girl, and we were riding in a cab.

I don’t know how else to say it. At one moment I was taking her home from a dinner; and at the next, I was taking her home from a date. Nothing had changed—except the way I looked at it.

All of a sudden, I began to feel as though I were fourteen years old again. It had been quite a long time since I had had the duty of escorting a beautiful girl—and by then I realized this was a really beautiful girl—home at the end of an evening. And I was faced with the question that I had thought would never bother me again at least a decade before. Should I kiss her good night?

It was a problem, and I thought about it, feeling a little foolish but rather happy about it. But all my thinking came to nothing. She decided for me.

The cab stopped in front of a white stucco wall. Like so many of the better Italian homes, the wall enclosed a garden, and the house was in the middle of the garden. It was an attractive enough place—Class A at least, I thought—though it was hard to tell in the moonlight.

I cleared my throat and sort of halfway leaned over to her.

Then she turned and was looking up at me, and the moonlight glinted brightly off what could only have been tears in her eyes.

I stared.

She didn’t say a word. She shook her head briefly, opened the door and was gone behind the gate.

It was a puzzlement. Why had she been crying? What had I done?

I reviewed my conduct all the way back to the hotel, but nothing much came of it. Perhaps I had been brusque—but brusque enough to bring tears? I couldn’t believe it.

Curious new life! I fell asleep with the pale moon shining in the window, brooding about the life I was just beginning, and about the old life behind me that was buried in the same grave with Marianna.

CHAPTER II

The Naples branch of the Company lay in the heart of the city. I took a cab to a sort of dome-roofed thing called a galleria, and walked under its skeletal steel ceiling to my new office. Once the galleria had been roofed with glass, but the glass had powdered down from the concussion of the Mt. Vesuvius bomb, or the Capodichino bomb, or one of the other hammerblows the Sicilians had rained on the principality of Naples in the recent unpleasantness.

I entered the office and looked around. The blonde girl named Susan appeared to double as the office receptionist. She nodded efficiently and waved me to a fenced-off enclosure where Sam Gogarty sat, plump and untroubled, at an enormous desk.

I pushed open the swinging gate.

Gogarty looked at me icily. “You’re late,” he said.

He had no hangover, it was clear. I said apologetically, “Sorry, I’m—”

“Never mind. Just don’t let it happen again.” It was clear that, in the office, business was business; the fact that we had been drinking together the night before would not condone liberties the morning after. Gogarty said, “Your desk is over there, Wills. Better get started.”

I felt considerably deflated as I sat down at my desk and stared unhappily at the piles of blue and yellow manifolds before me.

The Company had trained me well. I didn’t need to be coached in order to get through the work; it was all a matter of following established techniques and precedents. I checked the coverage, reduced the claim to tape-code, fed the tapes into a machine.

If the claim was legitimate, the machine computed the amounts due and issued a punch-card check. If there was anything wrong, the machine flashed a red light and spat the faulty claim out into a hopper.

And there were plenty of claims. Every adult in Naples, of course, carried the conventional War-and-Disaster policy—the so-called Blue Bolt coverage. Since few of them had actually been injured in the war, the claims were small—mostly for cost of premiums on other policies, under the disability clauses. (For if war prevented a policyholder from meeting his Blue Plate premiums, for instance, the Company itself under Blue Bolt would keep his policies paid—and the policyholder fed.)

But there were some big claims, too. The Neapolitan government had carried the conventional Blue Bolt policies and, though the policy had been canceled by the Company before hostilities broke out—thus relieving the Company of the necessity of paying damages to the principality of Naples itself—still there were all the subsidiary loss and damage claims of the Neapolitan government’s bureaus and departments, almost every one of them non-canceling.

It amounted to billions and billions of lire. Just looking at the amounts on some of the vouchers before me made my head swim. And the same, of course, would be true in Sicily. Though that would naturally be handled by the Sicilian office, not by us.

However, the cost of this one brief, meager little war between Naples and Sicily, with less than ten thousand casualties, lasting hardly more than a week, must have set the Company’s reserves back hundreds of millions of dollars.

And to think that some people didn’t like the Company! Why, without it, the whole peninsula of Italy would have been in financial ruin, the solvent areas dragged down with the combatants!

Naturally, the Regional Office was understaffed for this volume of work—which is why they had flown in new Adjusters like myself.

* * * *

I looked up from my desk, surprised. Susan was standing next to me, an aspirin and a paper cup of water in her hand. “You look like you might need this,” she whispered. She winked and was gone.

I swallowed it gratefully, although my hangover was almost gone. I was finding in these dry papers all the romance and excitement I had joined the Company’s foreign service for. Here before me were human lives, drama, tragedy, even an occasional touch of human-interest comedy.

For the Company was supporting most of Naples and whatever affected a Neapolitan life showed up somehow in the records of the Company.

It was a clean, dedicated feeling to work for the Company. The monks of the Middle Ages might have had something of the same positive conviction that their work in the service of a mighty churchly empire was right and just, but surely no one since.

I attacked the mountain of forms with determination, taking pleasure in the knowledge that every one I processed meant one life helped by the Company.

It was plain in history, for all to see. Once the world had been turbulent and distressed, and the Company had smoothed it out. It had started with fires and disease. When the first primitive insurance companies—there were more than one, in the early days—began offering protection against the hazards of fire, they had found it wise to try to prevent fires. There were the advertising campaigns with their wistful-eyed bears pleading with smokers not to drop their lighted cigarettes in the dry forest; the technical bureaus like the Underwriter’s Laboratory, testing electrical equipment, devising intricate and homely gimmicks like the underwriter’s knot; the Fire Patrol in the big cities that followed up the city-owned Fire Department; the endless educational sessions in the schools… And fires decreased.

Then there was life insurance. Each time a death benefit was paid, a digit rang up on the actuarial scoreboard. Was tuberculosis a major killer? Establish mobile chest X-rays; alert the people to the meaning of a chronic cough. Was it heart disease? Explain the dangers of overweight, the idiocy of exercise past forty. People lived longer.

Health insurance followed the same pattern. It had begun by paying for bills incurred during sickness, and ended by providing full medical sickness prevention and treatment for all. Elaborate research programs reduced the danger of disease to nearly nothing. Only a few rare cases, like that of Marianna…

I shook myself away from the thought. Anyway, it was neither fire nor health insurance that concerned me now, but the Blue Bolt anti-war complex of the Company’s policies. It was easy enough to see how it had come about. For with fire and accident and disease ameliorated by the strong protecting hand of the Company, only one major hazard remained—war.

And so the Company had logically and inevitably resolved to wipe out war.

* * * *

I looked up. It was Susan again, this time with a cardboard container of coffee.

“You’re an angel,” I said. She set the coffee down and turned to go. I looked quickly around to make sure that Gogarty was busy, and stopped her. “Tell me something?”

“Sure.”

“About this girl, Rena. Does she work for the Company?”

Susan giggled. “Heavens, no. What an idea!”

“What’s so strange about it?”

She straightened out her face. “You’d better ask Sam—Mr. Gogarty, that is. Didn’t you have a chance to talk to her last night? Or were you too busy with other things?”

“I only want to know how she happened to be with you.”

Susan shrugged. “Sam thought you’d like to meet her, I guess. Really, you’ll have to ask him. All I know is that she’s been in here quite a lot about some claims. But she doesn’t work here, believe me.” She wrinkled her nose in amusement. “And I won’t work here either, if I don’t get back to my desk.”

I took the hint. By lunch time, I had got through a good half of the accumulation on my desk. I ate briefly and not too well at a nearby trattoria with a “B” on the Blue Plate medallion in its window. After the dinner of the night before, I more than half agreed with Gogarty’s comments about the Blue Plate menus.

Gogarty called me over when I got back to the office. He said, “I haven’t had a chance to talk to you about Luigi Zorchi.”

I nodded eagerly. I had been hoping for some explanations.

Gogarty went on, “Since you were on the scene when he took his dive, you might as well follow up. God knows you can’t do worse than the rest of us.”

I said dubiously, “Well, I saw the accident, if that’s what you mean.”

“Accident! What accident? This is the twelfth time he’s done it, I tell you.” He tossed a file folder at me. “Take a look! Loss of limbs—four times. Internal injuries—six times. Loss of vision, impaired hearing, hospitalization and so on—good lord, I can’t count the number of separate claims. And, every one, he has collected on. Go ahead, look it over.”

I peered at the folder. The top sheet was a field report on the incident I had watched, when the locomotive of the Milan express had severed both legs. The one below it, dated five weeks earlier, was for flash burns suffered in the explosion of a stove, causing the loss of the right forearm nearly to the elbow.

Curious, I thought, I hadn’t noticed anything when I saw the man on the platform. Still, I hadn’t paid too much attention to him at first, and modern prosthetic devices were nearly miraculous. I riffled through the red-bordered sheets. The fifth claim down, nearly two years before, was—

I yelped, “Mr. Gogarty! This is a fraud!”

“What?”

“Look at this! ‘On 21st October, the insured suffered severe injuries while trapped in a rising elevator with faulty safety equipment, resulting in loss of both legs above knees, multiple lacerations of—’ Well, never mind the rest of it. But look at that, Mr. Gogarty! He already lost both legs! He can’t lose them twice, can he?”

Gogarty sat back in his chair, looking at me oddly. “You startled me,” he complained. “Wills, what have I been trying to tell you? That’s the whole point, boy! No, he didn’t lose his legs twice. It was five times!”

I goggled at him. “But—”

“But, but. But he did. Wait a minute—” he held up a hand to stop my questions—“just take a look through the folder. See for yourself.” He waited while, incredulously, I finished going through the dossier. It was true. I looked at Gogarty wordlessly.

He said resentfully, “You see what we’re up against? And none of the things you are about to say would help. There is no mistake in the records—they’ve been double and triple-checked. There is no possibility that another man, or men, substituted for Zorchi—fingerprints have checked every time. The three times he lost his arms, retina-prints checked. There is no possibility that the doctors were bribed, or that he lost a little bit more of his leg, for instance, in each accident—the severed sections were recovered, and they were complete. Wills, this guy grows new arms and legs like a crab!”

I looked at him in a daze. “What a fantastic scientific discovery!” I said.

He snorted. “Fantastic pain in the neck! Zorchi can’t go on like this; he’ll bankrupt the Company. We can’t stop him. Even when we were tipped off this time—we couldn’t stop him. And I’ll tell you true, Wills, that platform was loaded with our men when Zorchi made his dive. You weren’t the only Adjuster of the Company there.”

He picked a folded sheet of paper out of his desk. “Here. Zorchi is still in the hospital; no visitors allowed today. But I want you to take these credentials and go to see him tomorrow. You came to us with a high recommendation from the Home Office, Wills—” That made me look at him sharply, but his expression was innocent. “You’re supposed to be a man of intelligence and resourcefulness. See if you can come up with some ideas on dealing with that situation. I’d handle it myself, but I’ve got—” he grimaced—“certain other minor administrative difficulties to deal with. Oh, nothing important, but you might as well know that there appears to be a little, well, popular underground resentment toward the Company around here.”

“Incredible!” I said.

He looked at me thoughtfully for a moment. “Well,” he said, “it’s quitting time. See you in the morning.”

I had a lonely dinner at the same cheap restaurant where I’d had my lunch. I spent an hour in my room with my Company-issued Adjuster’s Handbook, looking for some precedent that had some sort of bearing on the case of a man who could grow new arms and legs. There wasn’t anything, of course. I went out for a walk…and still it wasn’t nearly time for me to retire to bed.

So I did what I had been avoiding doing. I looked in the phone book for Rena dell’Angela’s number. There was, it developed, a Benedetto dell’Angela at the address she’d given the cab driver; but the phone was disconnected.

So I wandered around some more, and then I went to sleep, dreaming about Benedetto dell’Angela. I saw him as a leather-faced, white-bearded and courtly old gentleman. Rena’s father, surely. Possibly even her elder brother. Certainly not her husband.

It was a dull finish to the first full day of my rich, exciting new life…

* * * *

The “minor administrative difficulties” got major. So I didn’t get to see Zorchi the next day, after all.

A Junior Adjuster named Hammond—he was easily sixty, but the slow-moving, unenterprising type that would stay junior till the day he died—came white-faced into the office a few minutes after opening and huddled with Gogarty for a quarter of an hour.

Then Gogarty called me over. He said, “We’re having a spot of trouble. Hammond needs a little help; you’re elected. Draw what you need, take a couple of expediters along, report back to me this evening.”

Hammond and I stopped at the cashier’s office to draw three dispatch-cases full of lira-notes. Outside, an armored car was waiting for us, with a full crew of six uniformed expediters. We raced off down the narrow streets with the sirens wailing, climbing the long hill road past the radioactive remains of Capodichino, heading out toward the farmlands.

Hammond worriedly filled me in on the way. He had got in early to his branch office that morning, but no earlier than the first of a long line of policyholders. There had, it appeared, been some kind of rumor spread that the Company was running out of money. It was preposterous on the face of it—after all, who printed the money?—but you can’t argue with a large group of people and, before the official hour of opening the branch, there were more than a hundred in the knotted line outside the door.

Hammond had rushed into the Naples office for help, leaving his staff to do the best they could. He said gloomily, staring out through the view-slits at the farmlands and vineyards we were passing through, “I just hope we still have a branch office. This is a bad spot, Wills. Caserta. It got bombed out, you know; the whole southern end of the town is radioactive. And it has a long history of trouble. Used to be the summer royal seat of the old Italian monarchy; then the Americans used it for a command headquarters in the war Mussolini got into—the first atom war. It’s been fought over time and again.”

I said reasonably, “But don’t they know the Company has all the resources in the world?”

“Sure they do—when they’re thinking. Right now they’re not thinking. They’ve got it in their heads that the Company isn’t going to pay off. They’re scared. You can’t tell them anything. You can’t even give them checks—they want cash on the line.”

I said, “That’s pretty silly, isn’t it? I mean—ugh!” I retched, as I suddenly got a whiff of the most unpleasant and penetrating odor I had ever encountered in my life. It was like death and destruction in gaseous form; a sickly sweet, clinging stink that oozed in through the pores of my skin to turn my stomach. “Wow!” I said, gasping.

Hammond looked at me in bewilderment; then he grinned sourly. “New here, aren’t you?” he inquired. “That’s hemp. They grow the stuff for the fibers; and to get the fibers out, they let it get good and rotten. You’ll get used to it,” he promised.

I tried. I tried pretty hard to get used to it; I hardly heard a word he said all the rest of the way in to Caserta, I was trying so hard. But I didn’t get used to it.

Then I had my mind taken off my troubles. The branch was still doing business when we got there, though there were easily three or four hundred angrily shouting policyholders milling around in front of it. They scattered before us as the armored car came racing in; we skidded to a stop, siren blasting, and the expediters leaped out with their weapons at the ready.

Hammond and I climbed out of the armored car with our bags of money. There was an audible excitement in the crowd as the word spread back that the Company had brought in enormous stores of lire, more than any man had ever seen, to pay off the claims. We could hear the chatter of many voices, and we almost could feel the tension slack off.

It looked like the trouble was over.

Then there was a shrill whistle. It sounded very much like the alarm whistle of one of our expediters but, thinking back, I have never been sure.

Perhaps it was a nervous expediter, perhaps it was an agent provocateur in the crowd. But, whoever pulled the trigger, the explosion went off.

There was a ragged yell from the crowd, and rocks began whizzing through the air. The pacifists in the mob began heading for the doorways and alleys around; women screamed, men shouted and bellowed, and for a moment it looked like we would be swamped. For not very many of them were pacifists, and there were at least a hundred screaming, gesticulating men lunging at us.

One cobblestone shattered the theoretically unbreakable windshield of the truck next to my head; then the expediters, gas guns spitting, were ringing around us to protect the money.

It was a short fight but vicious. By the time the first assault was repulsed there were at least fifty persons lying motionless in the street.

I had never seen that sort of violence before. It did something to my stomach. I stood weaving, holding to the armored car, while the expediters circled the area around the branch office, firing hurry-up shots at the running rioters. Hammond looked at me questioningly.

“That smell,” I said apologetically.

He said only, “Sure.” True, the fetid aroma from the hemp fields was billowing all around us, but he knew as well as I that it was not the smell that was bothering me.

In a few moments, as we were locking the bags of money into the office safe, red-crossed vehicles bearing the Company insignia appeared in the street outside, and medics began tending to the victims. Each one got a shot of something—an antidote to the sleep-gas from the expediters’ guns, I guessed—and was loaded unceremoniously into the ambulances.

Hammond appeared beside me. “Ready for business?” he asked. “They’ll be back any minute now, the ones that can still walk. We’ll be paying off until midnight, the way it looks.”

I said, “Sure. That—that gas doesn’t hurt them any, does it? I mean, after they go to the hospital they’ll be all right, won’t they?”

Hammond, twirling a pencil in his fingers, stared broodingly at the motionless body of one policyholder. He was a well-dressed man of fifty or so, with a reddish mustache, unusual in that area, and shattered rimless glasses. Not at all the type I would expect to see in a street fight; probably, I thought, a typical innocent bystander.

Hammond said absently, “Oh, sure. They’ll be all right. Never know what hit them.” There was a tiny sharp crack and the two halves of the pencil fell to the floor. He looked at it in surprise. “Come on, Wills. Let’s get to work.”

CHAPTER III

Of course I still believed in the Company.

But all the same, it was the first time since I went to work for the Company that I had even had to ask myself that question.

That long, long day in Hammond’s puny little branch office, sweltering in the smell of the hemp fields, pushing across the mountains of lire to the grimfaced policyholders left me a little less sure of things. Nearly all of the first hundred or so to pass my desk had been in the crowd that the expediters had fired on. A few had fresh bandages to show where stones had missed the expediters, but found targets all the same. Nearly all of them were hostile. There was no casual conversation, very few “Grazies” as they received their payments.

But at last the day was at an end. Hammond snapped an order to one of the clerks, who shoved his way through the dwindling line to close the door and bang down the shutters. I put through the last few applications, and we were through.

It was hot and muggy out in the streets of New Caserta. Truce teams of expediters were patrolling the square, taken off their regular assignments of enforcing the peace between Naples and Sicily to keep down Caserta’s own mobs. Hammond suggested dinner, and we went to a little Blue Plate in the palace itself.

Hammond held Class-A food policies, but he was politeness itself; he voluntarily led the way to the Class-B area. We presented our policy-cards to the waiter for canceling, and sat back to enjoy the air conditioning.

I was still troubled over the violence. I said, “Has there been any trouble around here before?”

Hammond said ruefully, “Plenty. All over Europe, if you want my opinion. Of course, you never see it in the papers, but I’ve heard stories from field workers. They practically had a revolution in the Sudeten strip after the Prague-Vienna affair.” He stopped talking as the waiter set his Meal-of-the-Day in front of him. Hammond looked at it sourly. “Oh, the hell with it, Wills,” he said. “Have a drink with me to wash this stuff down.”

* * * *

We ordered liquor, and Hammond shoved his Class-A card at the waiter. I am not a snoop, but I couldn’t help noticing that the liquor coupons were nearly all gone; at his present rate, Hammond would use up his year’s allotment by the end of the summer, and be paying cash for his drinks.

Dinner was dull. Hammond made it dull, because he was much more interested in his drinking than in me. Though I was never much of a drinker, I’d had a little experience in watching others tank up; Hammond I classified as the surly and silent type. He wasn’t quite rude to me, but after the brandy with his coffee, and during the three or four straight whiskies that followed that, he hardly spoke to me at all.

We left the Blue Plate in a strained silence and, after the cooled restaurant, the heat outside was painful. The air was absolutely static, and the odor from the hemp fields soaked into our clothes like a bath in a sewer.

Overhead it was nearly dark, and there were low black clouds. “We’d better get going,” I ventured. “Looks like rain.”

Hammond said nothing, only grunted. He lurched ahead of me toward the narrow street that led back to the branch office, where our transport was waiting.

The distance was easily half a mile. Now I am not terribly lazy, and even in the heat I was willing enough to walk. But I didn’t want to get caught in a rain. Maybe it was superstition on my part—I knew that the danger was really slight—but I couldn’t forget that three separate atomic explosions had gone off in the area around Caserta and Naples within only a few months, and there was going to be a certain amount of radioactivity in every drop of rain that fell for a hundred miles around.

I started to tell Hammond about it, but he made a disgusted noise and stumbled ahead.

It wasn’t as if we had to walk. Caserta was not well equipped with cabs, but there were a few; and both Hammond and myself ranked high enough in the Company to have been able to get a lift from one of the expediter cars that were cruising about.

There was a flare of lightning over the eastern mountains and, in a moment, the pounding roll of thunder. And a flat globule of rain splattered on my face.

I said, “Hammond, let’s wait here for a lift.”

Surprisingly he came along with me.

If he hadn’t, I would have left him in the street.

* * * *

We were in a street of tenements. It was almost deserted; I rapped on the nearest door. No answer, no sound inside. I rapped again, then tried the door. It was locked.

The next door—ancient and rickety as the first—was also locked, and no one answered. The third door, no one answered. By then it was raining hard; the knob turned under my fingers, and we stepped inside.

We left the door ajar, on the chance that a squad car or cab might pass, and for light. It was almost dark outside, apart from the light from the lightning flashes, but even so it was darker within. There was no light at all in the narrow, odorous hall; not even a light seeping under the apartment doors.

In the lightning flare, Hammond’s face was pale. He was beginning to sober up, and his manner was uneasy.

We were there perhaps half an hour in that silent hall, watching the rain sleet down and the lightning flare and listening to the thunder. Two or three times, squad cars passed, nosing slowly down the drenched streets, but though Hammond looked longingly at them, I still didn’t want to get wet.

Then the rain slowed and almost simultaneously a civilian cab appeared at the head of the block. “Come on,” I said, tugging at his arm.

He balked. “Wait for a squad car,” he mumbled.

“Why? Come on, Hammond, it may start to pour again in a minute.”

“No!”

His behavior was exasperating me. Clearly it wasn’t that he was too niggardly to pay for the cab; it was almost as if he were delaying going back to the branch office for some hidden reason. But that was ridiculous, of course.

I said, “Look, you can stay here if you want to, but I’m going.” I jumped out of the doorway just in time to flag the cab; it rolled to a stop, and the driver backed to where I was standing. As I got in, I looked once more to the doorway where Hammond was standing, his face unreadable.

He made a gesture of some sort, but the lightning flashed again and I skipped into the cab. When I looked again he was invisible inside the doorway, and I told the driver to take me to the branch office of the Company.

Curious; but it was not an end to curious things that night. At the branch office, my car was waiting to take me back to Naples.

I surrendered my travel coupons to the cab driver and jumped from one vehicle to the other.

Before my driver could start, someone appeared at the window of the car and a sharp voice said, “Un momento, Signore ’Ammond!”

I stared at the man, a rather badly dressed Neapolitan. I said angrily, “Hammond isn’t here!”

The man’s expression changed. It had been belligerent; it now became astonished and apologetic. “A thousand times excuse me,” he said. “The Signore ’Ammond, can you say where he is?”

I hesitated, but only for a moment. I didn’t like the little man peering in my window, however humble and conciliatory he had become. I said abruptly, “No.” And my driver took off, leaving the man standing there.

I turned to look back at him as we drove off.

It was ridiculous, but the way he was standing as we left, holding one hand in his pocket, eyes narrowed and thoughtful, made me think that he was carrying a gun.

But, of course, that was impossible. The Company didn’t permit lethal weapons, and who in all the world would challenge a rule of the Company?

* * * *

When I showed up in the Naples office the next morning, Susan had my coffee ready and waiting for me. I said gratefully, “Bless you.”

She chuckled. “That’s not all,” she said. “Here’s something else you might like. Just remember though, if anyone asks, you got it out of the files yourself.”

She slipped a folder under the piles of forms on my desk and disappeared. I peered at it curiously. It was labeled: “Policy BNT-3KT-890776, Blue Bolt Comprehensive. Insuree: Renata dell’Angela”

I could have been no more grateful had she given me the Company Mint.

But I had no chance to examine it. Gogarty was calling for me. I hastily swallowed my coffee and reported for orders.

They were simple enough. The appointment with Zorchi that I hadn’t been able to keep the day before was set up for right then. I was already late and I had to leave without another glance at Rena’s file.

The hospital Zorchi honored with his patronage was a marble-halled palace on the cliffs that rimmed the southern edge of the Bay of Naples. It was a luxurious, rich man’s hospital, stuffy with its opulence; but the most opulent of all was the plush-lined three-room suite where Zorchi was.

A white-robed sister of some religious order led me into a silent elevator and along a statued hall. She tapped on a door, and left me in the care of a sharp-faced young man with glasses who introduced himself as Mr. Zorchi’s secretary.

I explained my business. He contemptuously waved me to a brocaded chair, and left me alone for a good half hour.

By the time Zorchi was ready to see me, I was boiling. Nobody could treat a representative of the Company like an errand boy! I did my best to take into consideration the fact that he had just undergone major surgery—first under the wheels of the train, then under the knives of three of Naples’ finest surgeons.

I said as pleasantly as I could, “I’m glad to see you at last.”

The dark face on the pink embroidered pillow turned coldly toward me. “Che volete?” he demanded. The secretary opened his mouth to translate.

I said quickly, “Scusí; parlo un po’ la lingua. Non bisogno un traduttore.”

Zorchi said languidly in Italian, “In that case, Mario, you may go. What do you want with me, Weels?”

I explained my duties as a Claims Adjuster for the Company, pointing out that it was my task, indeed my privilege, to make settlement for injuries covered by Company policies. He listened condescendingly. I watched him carefully while I talked, trying to estimate the approach he might respond to if I was to win his confidence.

He was far from an attractive young man, I thought. No longer behind the shabby porter’s uniform he had worn on the platform of the station, he still had an unkempt and slipshod appearance, despite the heavy silken dressing gown he wore and the manifest costliness of his room. The beard was still on his face; it, at least, had not been a disguise. It was not an attractive beard. It had been weeks, at the least, since any hand had trimmed it to shape and his hair was just as shaggy.

Zorchi was not impressed with my friendly words. When I had finished, he said coldly, “I have had claims against the Company before, Weels. Why is it that this time you make speeches at me?”

I said carefully, “Well, you must admit you are a rather unusual case.”

“Case?” He frowned fiercely. “I am no case, Weels. I am Zorchi, if you please.”

“Of course, of course. I only mean to say that—”

“That I am a statistic, eh?” He bobbed his head. “Surely. I comprehend. But I am not a statistic, you see. Or, at best, I am a statistic which will not fit into your electronic machines, am I not?”

I admitted, “As I say, you are a rather unusual ca—a rather unusual person, Mr. Zorchi.”

He grinned coldly. “Good. We are agreed. Now that we have come to that understanding, are we finished with this interview?”

I coughed. “Mr. Zorchi, I’ll be frank with you.” He snorted, but I went on, “According to your records, this claim need not be paid. You see, you already have been paid for total disability, both a lump sum and a continuing settlement. There is no possibility of two claims for the loss of your legs, you must realize.”

He looked at me with a touch of amusement. “I must?” he asked. “It is odd. I have discussed this, you understand, with many attorneys. The premiums were paid, were they not? The language of the policy is clear, is it not? My legs—would you like to observe the stumps yourself?”

He flung the silken covers off. I averted my eyes from the white-bandaged lower half of his torso, hairy and scrawny and horribly less than a man’s legs should be.

I said desperately, “Perhaps I spoke too freely. I do not mean, Mr. Zorchi, that we will not pay your claim. The Company always lives up to the letter of its contracts.”

He covered himself casually. “Very well. Give the check to my secretary, please. Are you concluded?”

“Not quite.” I swallowed. I plunged right in. “Mr. Zorchi, what the hell are you up to? How do you do it? There isn’t any fraud, I admit it. You really lost your legs—more than once. You grew new ones. But how? Don’t you realize how important this is? If you can do it, why not others? If you are in some way pecu—that is, if the structure of your body is in some way different from that of others, won’t you help us find out how so that we can learn from it? It isn’t necessary for you to live as you do, you know.”

He was looking at me with a hint of interest in his close-set, dull eyes. I continued, “Even if you can grow new legs, do you enjoy the pain of having them cut off? Have you ever stopped to think that someday, perhaps, you will miscalculate, and the wheels of the train, or the truck, or whatever you use, may miss your legs and kill you? That’s no way for a man to live, Mr. Zorchi. Why not talk freely to me, let me help you? Why not take the Company into your confidence, instead of living by fraud and deceit and—”

I had gone too far. Livid, he snarled, “Ass! That will cost your Company, I promise. Is it fraud for me to suffer like this? Do I enjoy it, do you think? Look, ass!” He flung the covers aside again, ripped at the white bandages with his hands— Blood spurted. He uncovered the raw stumps and jerked them at me.

I do not believe any sight of my life shocked me as much as that; it was worse than the Caserta hemp fields, worse than the terrible gone moment when Marianna died, worse than anything I could imagine.

He raved, “See this fraud, look at it closely! Truly, I grow new legs, but does that make it easier to lose the old? It is the pain of being born, Weels, a pain you will never know! I grow legs, I grow arms, I grow eyes. I will never die! I will live on like a reptile or a fish.”

His eyes were staring. Ignoring the blood spurting from his stumps, ignoring my attempts to say something, he pounded his abdomen. “Twelve times I have been cut—do you see even a scar? My appendix, it is bad; it traps filth, and the filth makes me sick. And I have it cut out—and it grows again; and I have it cut out again, and it grows back. And the pain, Weels, the pain never stops!” He flung the robe open, slapped his narrow, hairy chest.

I gasped. Under the scraggly hair was a rubble of boils and wens, breaking and matting the hair as he struck himself in frenzy. “Envy me, Weels!” he shouted. “Envy the man whose body defends itself against everything! I will live forever, I promise it, and I will always be in pain, and someone will pay for every horrible moment of it! Now get out, get out!”

I left under the hating eyes of the sharp-faced secretary who silently led me to the door.

* * * *

I had put Zorchi through a tantrum and subjected myself to as disagreeable a time as I’d ever had. And I hadn’t accomplished a thing. I knew that well enough. And if I hadn’t known it by myself, I would have found out.

Gogarty pointed it out to me, in detail. “You’re a big disappointment to me,” he moaned sourly. “Ah, the hell with it. What were you trying to accomplish, anyway?”

I said defensively, “I thought I might appeal to his altruism. After all, you didn’t give me very explicit instructions.”

“I didn’t tell you to remember to wipe your nose either,” he said bitterly. He shook his head, the anger disappearing. “Well,” he said disconsolately, “I don’t suppose we’re any worse off than we were. I guess I’d better try this myself.” He must have caught a hopeful anticipatory gleam in my eye, because he said quickly, “Not right now, Wills. You’ve made that impossible. I’ll just have to wait until he cools off.”

I said nothing; just stood there waiting for him to let me go. I was sorry things hadn’t worked out but, after all, he had very little to complain about. Besides, I wanted to get back to my desk and the folder about Rena dell’Angela. It wasn’t so much that I was interested in her as a person, I reminded myself. I was just curious…

Once again, I had to stay curious for a while. Gogarty had other plans for me. Before I knew what was happening, I was on my way out of the office again, this time to visit another Neapolitan hospital, where some of the severely injured in the recent war were waiting final settlement of their claims. It was a hurry-up matter, which had been postponed too many times already; some of the injured urgently required major medical treatment, and the hospital was howling for approval of their claims before they’d begin treatment.

This one was far from a marble palace. It had the appearance of a stucco tenement, and all of the patients were in wards. I was a little surprised to see expediters guarding the entrance.

I asked one of them, “Anything wrong?”

He looked at me with a flicker of astonishment, recognizing the double-breasted Claim Adjuster uniform, surprised, I think, at my asking him a question. “Not as long as we’re here, sir,” he said.

“I mean, I was wondering what you were doing here.”

The surprise became overt. “Vaults,” he said succinctly.

I prodded no further. I knew what he meant by vaults, of course. It was part of the Company’s beneficent plan for ameliorating the effects of even such tiny wars as the Naples-Sicily affair that those who suffered radiation burns got the best treatment possible. And the best treatment, of course, was suspended animation. The deadly danger of radiation burns lay in their cumulative effect; the first symptoms were nothing, the man was well and able to walk about. Degeneration of the system followed soon, the marrow of the bone gave up on its task of producing white corpuscles, the blood count dropped, the tiny radiant poisons in his blood spread and worked their havoc. If he could be gotten through the degenerative period he might live. But, if he lived, he would still die. That is, if his life processes continued, the radiation sickness would kill him. The answer was to stop the life process, temporarily, by means of the injections and deep-freeze in the vaults. It was used for more than radiation, of course. Marianna, for instance—

Well, anyway, that was what the vaults were. These were undoubtedly just a sort of distribution point, where local cases were received and kept until they could be sent to the main Company vaults up the coast at Anzio.

I wasn’t questioning the presence of vaults there; I was only curious why the Company felt they needed guarding.

I found myself so busy, though, that I had no time to think about it. A good many of the cases in this shabby hospital really needed the Company’s help. But a great many of them were obvious attempts at fraud.

There was a woman, for instance, in the maternity ward. During the war, she’d had to hide out after the Capodichino bombing and hadn’t been able to reach medical service. So her third child was going to be a girl, and she was asking indemnity under the gender-guarantee clause. But she had only Class-C coverage and her first two had been boys; a daughter was permissive in any of the first four pregnancies. She began swearing at me before I finished explaining these simple facts to her.

I walked out of the ward, hot under the collar. Didn’t these people realize we were trying to help them? They didn’t appear to be aware of it. Only the terribly injured, the radiation cases, the amputees, the ones under anesthetic—only these gave me no arguments, mainly because they couldn’t talk.

Most of them were on their way to the vaults, I found. My main job was revision of their policies to provide for immobilization. Inevitably, there are some people who will try to take advantage of anything.

The retirement clause in the basic contract was the joker here. Considering that the legal retirement age under the universal Blue Heaven policy was seventy-five years—calendar years, not metabolic years—there were plenty of invalids who wanted a few years in the vaults for reasons that had nothing to do with health. If they could sleep away two or three decades, they could, they thought, emerge at a physical age of forty or so and live idly off the Company the rest of their lives.

They naturally didn’t stop to think that if any such practice became common the Company would simply be unable to pay claims. And they certainly didn’t think, or care that, if the Company went bankrupt, the world as we knew it would end.

It was a delicate problem; we couldn’t deny them medical care, but we couldn’t permit them the vaults unless they were either in clearly urgent need, or were willing to sign an extension waiver to their policies…

I saw plenty of that, that afternoon. The radiation cases were the worst, in that way, because they still could talk and argue. Even while they were being loaded with drugs, even while they could see with their own eyes the blood-count graph dipping lower and lower, they still complained at being asked to sign the waiver.

There was even some fear of the vaults themselves—though every living human had surely seen the Company’s indoctrination films that showed how the injected drugs slowed life processes and inhibited the body’s own destructive enzymes; how the apparently lifeless body, down to ambient air temperature, would be slipped into its hermetic plastic sack and stacked away, row on row, far underground, to sleep away the months or years or, if necessary, the centuries. Time meant nothing to the suspendees. It was hard to imagine being afraid of as simple and natural a process as that!

Although I had to admit that the vaults looked a lot like morgues…

I didn’t enjoy it. I kept thinking of Marianna. She had feared the vaults too, in the childish, unreasoning, feminine way that was her characteristic. When the Blue Blanket technicians had turned up the diagnosis of leukemia, they had proposed the sure-thing course of putting her under suspension while the slow-acting drugs—specially treated to operate even under those conditions—worked their cure, but she had refused. There had been, they admitted, a ninety-nine and nine-tenths percent prospect of a cure without suspension…

It just happened that Marianna was in the forlorn one-tenth that died.

I couldn’t get her out of my mind. The cases who protested or whined or pleaded or shrieked that they were being tortured and embalmed alive didn’t help. I was glad when the afternoon was over and I could get back to the office.

* * * *

As I came in the door, Gogarty was coming in, too, from the barbershop downstairs. He was freshly shaved and beaming.

“Quitting time, Tom,” he said amiably, though his eyes were memorizing the pile of incomplete forms on my desk. “All work and no play, you know.” He nudged me. “Not that you need reminding, eh? Still, you ought to tell your girl that she shouldn’t call you on office time, Tom.”

“Call me? Rena called me?”

He nodded absently, intent on the desk. “Against Company rules, you know. Say, I don’t like to push you, but aren’t you running a little behind here?”

I said with some irritation, “I don’t have much chance to catch up, the way I’ve been racing around the country, you know. And there’s plenty to be done.”

He said soothingly, “Now, take it easy, Tom. I was only trying to say that there might be some easier way to handle these things.” He speared a form, glanced over it casually. He frowned. “Take this, for instance. The claim is for catching cold as a result of exposure during the evacuation of Cerignola. What would you do with that one?”

“Why—pay it, I suppose.”

“And put in the paper work? Suppose it’s a phony, Tom? Not one case of coryza in fifty is genuine.”

“What would you do?” I asked resentfully.

He said without hesitation, “Send it back with Form CBB-23A192. Ask for laboratory smear-test reports.”

I looked over the form. A long letter was attached; it said in more detail than was necessary that there had been no laboratory service during the brief war, at least where the policyholder happened to be, and therefore he could submit only the affidavits of three registered physicians. It looked like a fair claim to me. If it was up to me, I would have paid it automatically.

I temporized. “Suppose it’s legitimate?”

“Suppose it is? Look at it this way, Tom. If it’s phony, this will scare him off, and you’d be saving the Company the expense and embarrassment of paying off a fraudulent claim. If it’s legitimate, he’ll resubmit it—at a time when, perhaps, we won’t be so busy. Meanwhile that’s one more claim handled and disposed of, for our progress reports to the Home Office.”

I stared at him unbelievingly. But he looked back in perfect calm, until my eyes dropped. After all, I thought, he was right in a way. The mountain of work on my desk was certainly a logjam, and it had to be broken somehow. Maybe rejecting this claim would work some small hardship in an individual case, but what about the hundreds and thousands of others waiting for attention? Wasn’t it true that no small hardship to an individual was as serious as delaying all those others?

It was, after all, that very solicitude for the people at large that the Company relied on for its reputation—that, and the ironclad guarantee of prompt and full settlement.

I said, “I suppose you’re right.”

He nodded, and turned away. Then he paused. “I didn’t mean to bawl you out for that phone call, Tom,” he said. “Just tell her about the rule, will you?”

“Sure. Oh, one thing.” He waited. I coughed. “This girl, Rena. I don’t know much about her, you know. Is she, well, someone you know?”

He said, “Heavens, no. She was making a pest out of herself around here, frankly. She has a claim, but not a very good one. I don’t know all the details, because it’s encoded, but the machines turned it down automatically. I do know that she, uh—” he sort of half winked—“wants a favor. Her old man is in trouble. I’ll look it up for you some time, if you want, and get the details. I think he’s in the cooler—that is, the clinic—up at Anzio.”

He scratched his plump jowls. “I didn’t think it was fair to you for me to have a girl at dinner and none for you; Susan promised to bring someone along, and this one was right here, getting in the way. She said she liked Americans, so I told her you would be assigned to her case.” This time he did wink. “No harm, of course. You certainly wouldn’t be influenced by any, well, personal relationship, if you happened to get into one. Oh, a funny thing. She seemed to recognize your name.”

That was a jolt. “She what?”

Gogarty shrugged. “Well, she reacted to it. ‘Thomas Wills,’ I said. She’d been acting pretty stand-offish, but she warmed up quick. Maybe she just likes the name, but right then is when she told me she liked Americans.”

I cleared my throat. “Mr. Gogarty,” I said determinedly, “please get me straight on something. You say this girl’s father is in some kind of trouble, and you imply she knows me. I want to know if you’ve ever had any kind of report, or even heard any kind of rumor, that would make you think that I was in the least sympathetic to any anti-Company groups? I’m aware that there were stories—”

He stopped me. “I never heard any, Tom,” he said definitely.

I hesitated. It seemed like a good time to open up to Gogarty; I opened my mouth to start, but I was too late. Susan called him off for what she claimed was an urgent phone call and, feeling let-down, I watched him waddle away.

Because it was, after all, time that I took down my back hair with my boss.

* * * *

Well, I hadn’t done anything too terribly bad—anyway, I hadn’t meant to do anything bad. And the circumstances sort of explained it, in a way. And it was all in the past, and—

And nothing. I faced the facts. I had spent three solid weeks getting blind drunk, ranting and raving and staggering up to every passerby who would listen and whining to him that the Company was evil, the Company was murderous, the Company had killed my wife.

There was no denying it. And I had capped it all off one bleary midnight, with a brick through the window of the Company branch office that served my home. It was only a drunken piece of idiocy, I kept telling myself. But it was a drunken piece of idiocy that landed me in jail, that had been permanently indorsed on every one of my policies, that was in the confidential pages of my Company service record. It was a piece of idiocy that anyone might have done. But it would have meant deep trouble for me, if it hadn’t been for the intercession of my wife’s remote relative, Chief Underwriter Defoe.

It was he who had bailed me out. He had never told me how he had found out that I was in jail. He appeared, read the riot-act to me and got me out. He put me over the coals later, yes, but he’d bailed me out. He’d told me I was acting like a child—and convinced me of it, which was harder. And when he was convinced I had snapped out of it, he personally backed me for an appointment to the Company’s school as a cadet Claims Adjuster.

I owed a considerable debt of gratitude to my ex-remote-in-law, Chief Underwriter Defoe.

* * * *

While I still was brooding, Gogarty came back. He looked unhappy. “Hammond,” he said bitterly. “He’s missing. Look, was he drunk when you left him last night?” I nodded. “Thought so. Never showed up for work. Not at his quarters. The daily ledger’s still open at his office, because there’s no responsible person to sign it. So naturally I’ve got to run out to Caserta now, and what Susan will say—” He muttered away.

I remembered the file that was buried under the papers on my desk, when he mentioned Susan’s name.

As soon as he was out of the office, I had it open.

And as soon as I had it open, I stared at it in shock.

The title page of the sheaf inside was headed: Signorina Renata dell’Angela. Age 22; daughter of Benedetto dell’Angela; accepted to general Class-AA; no employment. There were more details.

But across all, in big red letters, was a rubber stamp: Policy Canceled. Reassigned Class-E.

It meant that the sad-eyed Rena was completely uninsurable.

CHAPTER IV

Phone or no phone, I still had her address.

It was still daylight when I got out of the cab, and I had a chance for a good look at the house. It was a handsome place by day; the size of the huge white stucco wall didn’t fit the uninsurable notation on Rena’s claim. That wall enclosed a garden; the garden could hardly hold less than an AA house. And Class-Es were ordinarily either sent to public hostels—at the Company’s expense, to be sure—or existed on the charity of friends or relatives. And Class-Es seldom had friends in Class-AA houses.

I knocked at the gate. A fat woman, age uncertain but extreme, opened a little panel and peered at me. I asked politely, “Miss dell’Angela?”

The woman scowled. “Che dice?”

I repeated: “May I see Miss dell’Angela? I’m a Claims Adjuster for the Company. I have some business with her in connection with her policies.”

“Ha!” said the woman. She left it at that for a moment, pursing her lips and regarding me thoughtfully. Then she shrugged apathetically. “Momento,” she said wearily, and left me standing outside the gate.

From inside there was a muttering of unfamiliar voices. I thought I heard a door open, and the sound of steps, but when the fat woman came back she was alone.

Silently she opened the door and nodded me in. I started automatically up the courtyard toward the enclosed house, but she caught my arm and motioned me toward another path. It led down a flowered lane through a grape arbor to what might, at one time, have been a caretaker’s hut.

I knocked on the door of the hut, comprehending where Rena dell’Angela lived as a Class-E uninsurable.

Rena herself opened it, her face flushed, her expression surprised—apprehensive, almost, I thought at first. It was the first time I had seen her by daylight. She was—oh, there was no other word. She was lovely.

She said quickly, “Mr. Wills! I didn’t expect you.”

I said, “You phoned me. I came as soon as I could.”

She hesitated. “I did,” she admitted. “It was—I’m sorry, Mr. Wills. It was an impulse. I shouldn’t have done it.”

“What was it, Rena?”

She shook her head. “I am sorry. It doesn’t matter. But I am a bad hostess; won’t you come in?”

The room behind the door was long and narrow, with worn furniture and a door that led, perhaps, to another room behind. It seemed dusty and, hating myself as a snooping fool, I took careful note that there was a faint aroma of tobacco. I had been quite sure that she didn’t smoke, that evening we had met.

She gestured at a chair—there only were two, both pulled up to a crude wooden table, on which were two poured cups of coffee. “Please sit down,” she invited.

I reminded myself that it was, after all, none of my business if she chose to entertain friends—even friends who smoked particularly rancid tobacco. And if they preferred not to be around when I came to the door, why, that was their business, not mine. I said cautiously, “I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

“Interrupt me?” She saw my eyes on the cups. “Oh—oh, no, Mr. Wills. That other cup is for you, you see. I poured it when Luisa told me you were at the gate. It isn’t very good, I’m afraid,” she said apologetically.

I made an effort to sip the coffee; it was terrible. I set it down. “Rena, I just found out about your policies. Believe me, I’m sorry. I hadn’t known about it, when we had dinner together; I would have— Well, I don’t know what I would have done. There isn’t much I can do, truthfully; I don’t want you thinking I have any great power. But I wish I had known—I might not have made you cry, at any rate.”

She smiled an odd sort of smile. “That wasn’t the reason, Mr. Wills.”

“Please call me Tom. Well, then, why did you cry?”

“It is of no importance. Please.”

I coughed and tried a different tack. “You understand that I do have some authority. And I would like to help you if I can—if you’ll let me.”

“Let you? How could I prevent it?”

Her eyes were deep and dark. I shook myself and pulled the notes I’d made on her policies from my pocket. In the most official voice I could manage, I said, “You see, there may be some leeway in interpreting the facts. As it stands, frankly, there isn’t much hope. But if you’ll give me some information—”

“Certainly.”

“All right. Now, your father—Benedetto dell’Angela. He was a casualty of the war with Sicily; he got a dose of radiation, and he is at present in a low-metabolism state in the clinic at Anzio, waiting for the radiogens to clear out of his system. Is that correct?”

“It is what the Company’s report said,” she answered.

Her tone was odd. Surely she wasn’t doubting a Company report!

“As his dependent, Rena, you applied for subsistence benefits on his Blue Blanket policies, as well as war-risk benefits under the Blue Bolt. Both applications were refused; the Blue Blanket because your father is technically not hospitalized; the Blue Bolt, as well as all your other personal policies, was cancelled, because of—” I stuttered over it—“of activities against the best interest of the Company. Specifically, giving aid and comfort to a known troublemaker whose name is given here as Slovetski.” I showed her the cancellation sheet I had stolen from the files.

She shrugged. “This much I know, Tom,” she said.

“Why?” I demanded. “This man is believed to have been instrumental in inciting the war with Sicily!”

She flared, “Tom, that’s a lie! Slovetski is an old friend of my father’s—they studied together in Berlin, many years ago. He is utterly, completely against war—any war!”

I hesitated. “Well, let’s put that aside. But you realize that, in view of this, the Company can maintain—quite properly in a technical sense—that you contributed to the war, and therefore you can’t collect Blue Bolt compensation for a war you helped bring about. You were warned, you see. You can’t even say that you didn’t know what you were doing.”

“Tom,” Rena’s voice was infinitely patient and sad. “I knew what I was doing.”

“In that case, Rena, you have to admit that it seems fair enough. Still, perhaps we can get something for you—even if only a refund of your premiums. The Company doesn’t always follow the letter of the law, there are always exceptions, so—”

Her expression stopped me. She was smiling, but it was the tortured smile of Prometheus contemplating the cosmic jest that was ripping out his vitals.

I asked uncertainly, “Don’t you believe me?”

“Believe you, Tom? Indeed I do.” She laughed out loud that time. “After what happened to my father, I assure you, Tom, I am certain that the Company doesn’t always follow the law.”

I shook my head quickly. “No, you don’t understand. I—”

“I understand quite well.” She studied me for a moment, then patted my hand. “Let us talk of something else.”

“Won’t you tell me why your policy was cancelled?”

She said evenly, “It’s in the file. Because I was a bad girl.”

“But why? Why—”

“Because, Tom. Please, no more. I know you are trying to be just as helpful as you can, but there is no help you can give.”

“You don’t make it easy, Rena.”

“It can’t be easy! You see, I admit everything. I was warned. I helped an old friend whom the Company wanted to—shall we say—treat for radiation sickness? So there is no question that my policy can be cancelled. All legal. It is not the only one of its kind, you know. So why discuss it?”

“Why shouldn’t we?”

Her expression softened. “Because—because we do not agree. And never shall.”

I stared at her blankly. She was being very difficult. Really, I shouldn’t be bothering with her, someone I barely knew, someone I hadn’t even heard of until—

That reminded me. I said, “Rena, how did you know my name?”

Her eyes went opaque. “Know your name, Tom? Why, Mr. Gogarty introduced us.”

“No. You knew of me before that. Come clean, Rena. Please.”

She said flatly, “I don’t know what you mean.” She was beginning to act agitated. I had seen her covertly glancing at her watch several times; now she held it up openly—ostentatiously, in fact. “I am sorry, but you’d better go,” she said with a hint of anxiety in her voice. “Please excuse me.”

Well, there seemed no good reason to stay. So I went—not happily; not with any sense of accomplishment; and fully conscious of the figure I cut to the unseen watcher in the other room, the man whose coffee I had usurped.

Because there was no longer a conjecture about whether there had been such a person or not. I had heard him sneeze three times.

* * * *

Back at my hotel, a red light was flashing on the phone as I let myself in. I unlocked the playback with my room key and got a recorded message that Gogarty wanted me to phone him at once.

He answered the phone on the first ring, looking like the wrath of God. It took me a moment to recognize the symptoms; then it struck home.

The lined gray face, the jittery twitching of the head, the slow, tortured movements; here was a man with a classic textbook case of his ailment. The evidence was medically conclusive. He had been building up to a fancy drinking party, and something made him stop in the middle.

There were few tortures worse than a grade-A hangover, but one of those that qualified was the feeling of having the drink die slowly, going through the process of sobering up without the anesthetic of sleep.

He winced as the scanning lights from the phone hit him. “Wills,” he said sourly. “About time. Listen, you’ve got to go up to Anzio. We’ve got a distinguished visitor, and he wants to talk to you.”

“Me?”

“You! He knows you—his name is Defoe.”

The name crashed over me; I hadn’t expected that, of all things. He was a member of the Council of Underwriters! I thought they never ventured far from the Home Office. In fact, I thought they never had a moment to spare from the awesome duties of running the Company.

Gogarty explained. “He appeared out of nowhere at Carmody Field. I was still in Caserta! Just settling down to a couple of drinks with Susan, and they phoned me to say Chief Underwriter Defoe is on my doorstep!”

I cut in, “What does he want?”

Gogarty puffed his plump cheeks. “How do I know? He doesn’t like the way things are going, I guess. Well, I don’t like them either! But I’ve been twenty-six years with the Company, and if he thinks… Snooping and prying. There are going to be some changes in the office, I can tell you. Somebody’s been passing on all kinds of lying gossip and—” He broke off and stared at me calculatingly as an idea hit him.

Then he shook his head. “No. Couldn’t be you, Wills, could it? You only got here, and Defoe’s obviously been getting this stuff for weeks. Maybe months. Still— Say, how did you come to know him?”

It was none of his business. I said coldly, “At the Home Office. I guess I’ll take the morning plane up to Anzio, then.”

“The hell you will. You’ll take the night train. It gets you there an hour earlier.” Gogarty jerked his head righteously—then winced and clutched his temple. He said miserably, “Oh, damn. Tom, I don’t like all of this. I think something happened to Hammond.”

I repeated, “Happened? What could happen to him?”

“I don’t know. But I found out a few things. He’s been seen with some mighty peculiar people in Caserta. What’s this about somebody with a gun waiting at the office for him when you were there?”

It took a moment for me to figure out what he was talking about. “Oh,” I said, “you mean the man at the car? I didn’t know he had a gun, for certain.”

“I do,” Gogarty said shortly. “The expediters tried to pick him up today, to question him about Hammond. He shot his way out.”

I told Gogarty what I knew, although it wasn’t much. He listened abstractedly and, when I had finished, he sighed. “Well, that’s no help,” he grumbled. “Better get ready to catch your train.”

I nodded and reached to cut off the connection. He waved half-heartedly. “Oh, yes,” he added, “give my regards to Susan if you see her.”

“Isn’t she here?”

He grimaced. “Your friend Defoe said he needed a secretary. He requisitioned her.”

* * * *

I boarded the Anzio train from the same platform where I had seen Zorchi dive under the wheels. But this was no sleek express; it was an ancient three-car string that could not have been less than fifty years out of date. The cars were not even air-conditioned.

Sleep was next to impossible, so I struck up a conversation with an expediter-officer. He was stand-offish at first but, when he found out I was a Claims Adjuster, he mellowed and produced some interesting information.

It was reasonable that Defoe would put aside his other duties and make a quick visit to Anzio, because Anzio seemed to need someone to do something about it pretty badly. My officer was part of a new levy being sent up there; the garrison was being doubled; there had been trouble. He was vague about what kind of “trouble” it had been, but it sounded like mob violence. I mentioned Caserta and the near-riot I had been in; the officer’s eyes hooded over, and about five minutes after that he pointedly leaned back and pulled his hat over his eyes. Evidently it was not good form to discuss actual riots.

I accepted the rebuke, but I was puzzled in my mind as I tried to get some sleep for myself.

What kind of a place was this Naples, where mobs rioted against the Company and even intelligent-seeming persons like Renata dell’Angela appeared to have some reservations about it?

CHAPTER V

I slept, more or less, for an hour or so in that cramped coach seat. I was half asleep when the train-expediter nudged my elbow and said, “Anzio.”

It was early—barely past daybreak. It was much too early to find a cab. I got directions from a drowsing stationmaster and walked toward the vaults.

The “clinic,” as the official term went, was buried in the feet of the hills just beyond the beaches. I was astonished at the size of it. Not because it was so large; on the contrary. It was, as far as I could see, only a broad, low shed.

Then it occurred to me that the vaults were necessarily almost entirely underground, for the sake of economy in keeping them down to the optimum suspendee temperature. It was safe enough and simple enough to put a man in suspended animation but, as I understood it, it was necessary to be sure that the suspendees never got much above fifty degrees temperature for any length of time. Above that, they had an unwelcome tendency to decay.

This was, I realized, the first full-scale “clinic” I had ever seen. I had known that the Company had hundreds, perhaps thousands, of them scattered all over the world.

I had heard that the Company had enough of them, mostly in out-of-the-way locations, to deep-freeze the entire human race at once, though that seemed hardly reasonable.

I had even heard some ugly, never-quite-made-clear stories about why the Company had so many clinics…but when people began hinting at such ridiculous unpleasantness, I felt it was my duty to make it clear that I wanted to hear no subversive talk. So I had never got the details—and certainly would never have believed them for a moment if I had.

* * * *

It was very early in the morning, as I say, but it seemed that I was not the first to arrive at the clinic. On the sparse grass before the main entrance, half a dozen knots of men and women were standing around apathetically. Some of them glared at me as I came near them, for reasons I did not understand; others merely stared.

I heard a hoarse whisper as I passed one group of middle-aged women. One of them was saying, “Benedetto non é morte.” She seemed to be directing it to me; but it meant nothing. The only comment that came to my somewhat weary mind was, “So what if Benedetto isn’t dead?”

A huge armed expediter, yawning and scratching, let me in to the executive office. I explained that I had been sent for by Mr. Defoe. I had to wait until Mr. Defoe was ready to receive me and was finally conducted to a suite of rooms.

This might have once been an authentic clinic; it had the aseptic appearance of a depressing hospital room. One for, say, Class-Cs with terminal myasthenia. Now, though, it had been refitted as a private guest suite, with an attempt at luxurious drapes and deep stuffed armchairs superimposed on the basic adjustable beds and stainless steel plumbing.

I hadn’t seen Defoe in some time, but he hadn’t changed at all. He was, as always, the perfect model of a Company executive of general-officer rank. He was formal, but not unyielding. He was tall, distinguished-gray at the temples, spare, immaculately outfitted in the traditional vest and bow tie.

I recalled our first meeting. He was from the side of Marianna’s family that she talked about, and she fluttered around for three whole days, checking our Blue Plate policies for every last exotic dish we could squeeze out to offer him, planning the television programs allowed under our entertainment policies, selecting the most respectable of our friends—“acquaintances” would be a better description; Marianna didn’t make friends easily—to make up a dinner party. He’d arrived at the stroke of the hour he was due, and had brought with him what was undoubtedly his idea of a princely gift for newlyweds—a paid-up extra-coverage maternity benefit rider on our Blue Blanket policies.

We thanked him effusively. And, for my part, sincerely. That was before I had known Marianna’s views on children; she had no intentions of raising a family.

* * * *

As I walked in on Defoe in his private suite at the clinic, he was standing with his back to me, at a small washstand, peering at his reflection in a mirror. He appeared to have finished shaving. I rubbed my own bristled chin uneasily.

He said over his shoulder, “Good morning, Thomas. Sit down.”

I sat on the edge of an enormous wing chair. He pursed his lips, stretched the skin under his chin and, when he seemed perfectly satisfied the job was complete, he said as though he were continuing a conversation, “Fill me in on your interview with Zorchi, Thomas.”

It was the first I’d known he’d ever heard of Zorchi. I hesitantly began to tell him about the meeting in the hospital. It did not, I knew, do me very much credit, but it simply didn’t occur to me to try to make my own part look better. I suppose that if I thought of the matter at all, I simply thought that Defoe would instantly detect any attempt to gloss things over. He hardly seemed to be paying attention to me, though; he was preoccupied with the remainder of his morning ritual—carefully massaging his face with something fragrant, brushing his teeth with a maddening, old-fashioned insistence on careful strokes, combing his hair almost strand by strand.

Then he took a small bottle with a daub attached to the stopper and touched it to the distinguished gray at his temples.

I spluttered in the middle of a word; I had never thought of the possibility that the handsomely grayed temples of the Company’s senior executives, as inevitable as the vest or the watch chain, were equally a part of the uniform! Defoe gave me a long inquiring look in the mirror; I coughed and went on with a careful description of Zorchi’s temper tantrum.

Defoe turned to me and nodded gravely. There was neither approval nor disapproval. He had asked for information and the information had been received.

He pressed a communicator button and ordered breakfast. The microphone must have been there, but it was invisible. He sat down at a small, surgical-looking table, leaned back and folded his hands.

“Now,” he said, “tell me what happened in Caserta just before Hammond disappeared.”

Talking to Defoe had something of the quality of shouting down a well. I collected my thoughts and told him all I knew on the riot at the branch office.

While I was talking, Defoe’s breakfast arrived. He didn’t know I hadn’t eaten anything, of course—I say “of course” because I know he couldn’t have known, he didn’t ask. I looked at it longingly, but all my looking didn’t alter the fact that there was only one plate, one cup, one set of silverware.

He ate his breakfast as methodically as he’d brushed his teeth. I doubt if it took him five minutes. Since I finished the Caserta story in about three, the last couple of minutes were in dead silence, Defoe eating, me sitting mute as a disconnected jukebox.

Then he pushed the little table away, lit a cigarette and said, “You may smoke if you wish, Thomas. Come in, Susan.”

He didn’t raise his voice; and when, fifteen seconds later, Susan Manchester walked in, he didn’t look at all impressed with the efficiency of his secretary, his intercom system, or himself. The concealed microphone, it occurred to me, had heard him order breakfast and request his secretary to walk in. It had undoubtedly heard—and most probably recorded—every word I had said.

How well they did things on the upper echelon of the Company!

Susan looked—different. She was as blonde and pretty as ever. But she wasn’t bubbly. She smiled at me in passing and handed Defoe a typed script, which he scanned carefully.

He asked, “Nothing new on Hammond?”

“No, sir,” she said.

“All right. You may leave this.” She nodded and left. Defoe turned back to me. “I have some news for you, Thomas. Hammond has been located.”

“That’s good,” I said. “Not too badly hung over, I hope.”

He gave me an arctic smile. “Hardly. He was found by a couple of peasants who were picking grapes. He’s dead.”

CHAPTER VI

Hammond dead! He had had his faults, but he was an officer of the Company and a man I had met. Dead!

I asked, “How? What happened?”

“Perhaps you can tell me that, Thomas,” said Defoe.

I sat startledly erect, shocked by the significance of the words. I said hotly, “Damn it, Mr. Defoe, you know I had nothing to do with this! I’ve been all over the whole thing with you and I thought you were on my side! Just because I said a lot of crazy things after Marianna died doesn’t mean I’m anti-Company—and it certainly doesn’t mean I’d commit murder. If you think that, then why the devil did you put me in cadet school?”

Defoe merely raised his hand by bending the wrist slightly; it was enough to stop me, though. “Gently, Thomas. I don’t think you did it—that much should be obvious. And I put you in cadet school because I had work for you.”

“But you said I knew something I was holding back.”

Defoe waggled the hand reprovingly. “I said you might be able to tell me who killed Hammond. And so you might—but not yet. I count heavily on you for help in this area, Thomas. There are two urgent tasks to be done. Hammond’s death—” he paused and shrugged, and the shrug was all of Hammond’s epitaph—“is only an incident in a larger pattern; we need to work out the pattern itself.”

He glanced again at the typed list Susan had handed him. “I find that I can stay in the Naples area for only a short time; the two tasks must be done before I leave. I shall handle one myself. The other I intend to delegate to you.

“First we have the unfortunate situation in regard to the state of public morale. Unfortunate? Perhaps I should say disgraceful. There is quite obviously a nucleus of troublemakers at work, Thomas, and Gogarty has not had the wit to find them and take the appropriate steps. Someone else must. Second, this Zorchi is an unnecessary annoyance. I do not propose to let the Company be annoyed, Thomas. Which assignment would you prefer?”

I said hesitantly, “I don’t know if Mr. Gogarty would like me to—”

“Gogarty is an ass! If he had not blundered incessantly since he took over the district, I should not have had to drop important work to come here.”

I thought for a second. Digging out an undercover ring of troublemakers didn’t sound particularly easy. On the other hand, I had already tried my luck with Zorchi.

“Perhaps you’d better try Zorchi,” I said.

“Try?” Defoe allowed himself to look surprised. “As you wish. I think you will learn something from watching me handle it, Thomas. Shall we join Signore Zorchi now?”

“He’s here?”

Defoe said impatiently, “Of course, Thomas. Come along.”

* * * *

Zorchi’s secretary was there, too. He was in a small anteroom, sitting on a hard wooden chair; as we passed him, I saw the hostility in his eyes. He didn’t say a word.

Beyond him, in an examination room, was Zorchi, slim, naked and hideous, sitting on the edge of a surgical cot and trying not to look ill at ease. He had been shaved from head to knee stumps. Esthetically, at least, it had been a mistake. I never saw such a collection of skin eruptions on a human.

He burst out, faster than my language-school Italian could follow, in a stream of argument and abuse. Defoe listened icily for a moment, then shut him up in Italian as good as his own, “Answer questions; otherwise keep quiet. I will not warn you again.”

I don’t know if even Defoe could have stopped Zorchi under normal conditions. But there is something about being naked in the presence of fully dressed opponents that saps the will; and I guessed, too, that the shaving had made Zorchi feel nakeder than ever before in his life. I could see why he’d worn a beard and I wished he still had it.

“Dr. Lawton,” said Defoe, “have you completed your examination of the insured?”

A youngish medical officer of the Company said, “Yes, sir. I have the slides and reports right here; they just came up from the laboratory.” He handed a stapled collection of photographic prints and papers to Defoe, who took his own good time to examine them while the rest of us stood and waited.

Defoe finally put the papers down and nodded. “In a word, this bears out our previous discussion.”

Lawton nodded. “If you will observe his legs, you will see that the skin healing is complete; already a blastema has formed and—”

“I know,” Defoe said impatiently. “Signore Zorchi, I regret to say that I have bad news for you.”

Zorchi waved his hand defiantly. “You are the bad news.”

Defoe ignored him. “You have a grave systemic imbalance. There is great danger of serious ill effects.”

“To what?” snarled Zorchi. “The Company’s bank account?”

“No, Zorchi. To your life.” Defoe shook his head. “There are indications of malignancy.”

“Malignancy?” Zorchi looked startled. “What kind? Do you mean cancer?”

“Exactly.” Defoe patted his papers. “You see, Zorchi, healthy human flesh does not grow like a salamander’s tail.”

The phone rang; impeccable in everything, Defoe waited while Dr. Lawton nervously answered it. Lawton said a few short words, listened for a moment and hung up, looking worried.

He said: “The crowd outside is getting rather large. That was the expediter-captain from the main gate. He says—”

“I presume he has standing orders,” Defoe said. “We need not concern ourselves with that, need we?”

“Well—” The doctor looked unhappy.

“Now, Zorchi,” Defoe went on, dismissing Lawton utterly, “do you enjoy life?”

“I despise it!” Zorchi spat to emphasize how much.

“But you cling to it. You would not like to die, would you? Worse still, you would not care to live indefinitely with carcinoma eating you piece by piece.”

Zorchi just glowered suspiciously.

“Perhaps we can cure you, however,” Defoe went on reflectively. “It is by no means certain. I don’t want to raise false hopes. But there is the possibility—”

“The possibility that you will cure me of collecting on my policies, eh?” Zorchi demanded belligerently. “You are crazy, Defoe. Never!”

Defoe looked at him for a thoughtful moment. To Lawton, he said: “Have you this man’s claim warranty? It has the usual application for medical treatment, I presume?” He nodded as Lawton confirmed it. “You see, Mr. Zorchi? As a matter of routine, no claim can be paid unless the policyholder submits to our medical care. You signed the usual form, so—”

“One moment! You people never put me through this before! Did you change the contract on me?”

“No, Signore Zorchi. The same contract, but this time we will enforce it. I think I should warn you of something, though.”

He riffled through the papers and found a photographic print to show Zorchi. “This picture isn’t you, Signore. It is a picture of a newt. The doctor will explain it to you.”

The print was an eight-by-ten glossy of a little lizard with something odd about its legs. Puzzled, Zorchi held it as though the lizard were alive and venomous. But as the doctor spoke, the puzzlement turned into horror and fury.

“What Mr. Defoe means,” said Lawton, “is that totipotency—that is, the ability to regenerate lost tissues, as you can, even when entire members are involved—is full of unanswered riddles. We have found, for instance, that X-ray treatment on your leg helps a new leg to form rapidly, just as it does on the leg of the salamanders. The radiation appears to stimulate the formation of the blastema, which—well, never mind the technical part. It speeds things up.”

His eyes gleamed with scientific interest. “But we tried the experiment of irradiating limbs that had not been severed. It worked the same way, oddly enough. New limbs were generated even though the old ones were still there. That’s why the salamander in the photo has four hands on one of its limbs—nine legs altogether, counting that half-formed one just beside the tail. Curious-looking little beast, isn’t it?”

Defoe cleared his throat. “I only mention, Signore, that the standard treatment for malignancy is X-radiation.”

Zorchi’s eyes flamed—rage battling it out with terror. He said shrilly, “But you can’t make a laboratory animal out of me! I’m a policyholder!”

“Nature did it, Signore Zorchi, not us,” Defoe said.

Zorchi’s eyes rolled up in his head and closed; for a moment, I thought he had fainted and leaped forward to catch him rather than let his legless body crash to the floor. But he hadn’t fainted. He was muttering, half aloud, sick with fear, “For the love of Mary, Defoe! Please, please, I beg you! Please!”

It was too much for me. I said, shaking with rage, “Mr. Defoe, you can’t force this man to undergo experimental radiation that might make a monster out of him! I insist that you reconsider!”

Defoe threw his head back. “What, Thomas?” he snapped.

I said firmly, “He has no one here to advise him—I’ll take the job. Zorchi, listen to me! You’ve signed the treatment application and he’s right enough about that—you can’t get out of it. But you don’t have to take this treatment! Every policyholder has the right to refuse any new and unguaranteed course of treatment, no matter what the circumstances. All you’ve got to do is agree to go into suspension in the va—in the clinic here, pending such time as your condition can be infallibly cured. Do it, man! Don’t let them make you a freak—demand suspension! What have you got to lose?”

I never saw a man go so to pieces as Zorchi, when he realized how nearly Defoe had trapped him into becoming a guinea pig. Whimpering thanks to me, he hastily signed the optional agreement for suspended animation and, as quickly as I could, I left him there.

Defoe followed me. We passed the secretary in the anteroom while Dr. Lawton was explaining the circumstances to him; the man was stricken with astonishment, almost too paralyzed to sign the witnessing form Defoe had insisted on. I knew the form well—I had been about to sign one for Marianna when, at the last moment, she decided against the vaults in favor of the experimental therapy that hadn’t worked.

Outside in the hall, Defoe stopped and confronted me. I braced myself for the blast to end all blasts.

I could hardly believe my eyes. The great stone face was smiling!

“Thomas,” he said inexplicably, “that was masterful. I couldn’t have done better myself.”

CHAPTER VII

We walked silently through the huge central waiting room of the clinic.

There should have been scores of relatives of suspendees milling around, seeking information—there was, I knew, still a steady shipment of suspendees coming in from the local hospitals; I had seen it myself. But there were hardly more than a dozen or so persons in sight, with a single clerk checking their forms and answering their questions.

It was too quiet. Defoe thought so, too; I saw his frown.

Now that I had had a few moments to catch my breath, I realized that I had seen a master judoist at work. It was all out of the textbooks—as a fledgling Claims Adjuster, I had had the basic courses in handling difficult cases—but not one man in a million could apply textbook rules as skillfully and successfully as Defoe did with Zorchi.

Push a man hard and he will lunge back; push him hard enough and persistently enough, and he will lunge back farther than his vision carries him, right to the position you planned for him in the first place. And I, of course, had been only a tool in Defoe’s hand; by interceding for Zorchi, I had tricked the man into the surrender Defoe wanted.

And he had complimented me for it!

I couldn’t help wondering, though, whether the compliment Defoe gave me was part of some still subtler scheme…

Defoe nodded curtly to the expediter-captain at the door, who saluted and pressed the teleswitch that summoned Defoe’s limousine.

Defoe turned to me. “I have business in Rome and must leave at once. You will have to certify Zorchi’s suspension this afternoon; since I won’t be here, you’ll have to come back to the clinic for it. After that, Thomas, you can begin your assignment.”

I said uncertainly, “What—where shall I begin?”

One eyebrow lifted a trifle. “Where? Wherever you think proper, Thomas. Or must I handle this myself?”

The proper answer, and the one I longed to make, was “Yes.” Instead I said, “Not at all, Mr. Defoe. It’s only that I didn’t even know there was an undercover group until you told me about it a few moments ago; I don’t know exactly where to start. Gogarty never mentioned—”

“Gogarty,” he cut in, “is very likely to be relieved as District Administrator before long. I should like to replace him with someone already on the scene—” he glanced at me to be sure I understood—“provided, that is, that I can find someone of proven competence. Someone who has the ability to handle this situation without the necessity of my personal intervention.”

The limousine arrived then, with an armed expediter riding beside the chauffeur. Defoe allowed me to open the door for him and follow him in.

“Do you understand me?” he asked as the driver started off.

“I think so,” I said.

“Good. I do not suppose that Gogarty has given you any information about the malcontents in this area.”

“No.”

“It may be for the best; his information is clearly not good.” Defoe stared broodingly out the window at the silent groups of men and women on the grass before the clinic. “Your information is there,” he said as they passed out of sight. “Learn what you can. Act when you know enough. And, Thomas—”

“Yes?”

“Have you given thought to your future?”

I shifted uncomfortably. “Well, I’ve only been a Claims Adjuster a little while, you know. I suppose that perhaps I might eventually get promoted, even become a District Administrator—”

He looked at me impersonally. “Dream higher,” he advised.

* * * *

I stood watching after Defoe’s limousine, from the marquee of the hotel where he had left me to take a room and freshen up. Dream higher. He had the gift of intoxication.

Higher than a District Administrator! It could mean only—the Home Office.

Well, it was not impossible, after all. The Home Office jobs had to go to someone; the supermen who held them now—the Defoes and the Carmodys and the dozen or more others who headed up departments or filled seats on the Council of Underwriters—couldn’t live forever. And the jobs had to be filled by someone.

Why not me? Only one reason, really. I was not a career man. I hadn’t had the early academy training from adolescence on; I had come to the service of the Company itself relatively late in life. The calendar legislated against me.

Of course, I thought to myself, I was in a pretty good position, in a way, because of Defoe’s evident interest in me. With him helping and counseling me, it might be easier.

I thought that and then I stopped myself, shocked. I was thinking in terms of personal preferment. That was not the Company way! If I had learned anything in my training, I had learned that Advancement was on merit alone.

Advancement had to be on merit alone…else the Company became an oligarchy, deadly and self-perpetuating.

Shaken, I sat in the dingy little hotel room that was the best the town of Anzio had for me and opened my little Black Book. I thumbed through the fine-printed pages of actuarial tables and turned to the words of Millen Carmody, Chief Underwriter, in the preface. They were the words that had been read to me and the others at our graduation at the Home Office, according to the tradition:

Remember always that the Company serves humanity, not the reverse. The Company’s work is the world’s work. The Company can end, forever, the menace of war and devastation; but it must not substitute a tyranny of its own. Corruption breeds tyrants. Corruption has no place in the Company.

They were glorious words. I read them over again, and stared at the portrait of Underwriter Carmody that was the frontispiece of the handbook. It was a face to inspire trust—wise and human, grave, but with warmth in the wide-spaced eyes.

Millen Carmody was not a man you could doubt. As long as men like him ran the Company—and he was the boss of them all, the Chief Underwriter, the highest position the Company had to offer—there could be no question of favoritism or corruption.

* * * *

After eating, I shaved, cleaned up a little and went back to the clinic.

There was trouble in the air, no question of it. More expediters were in view, scattered around the entrance, a dozen, cautious yards away from the nearest knots of civilians. Cars with no official company markings, but with armor-glass so thick that it seemed yellow, were parked at the corners. And people were everywhere.

People who were quiet. Too quiet. There were some women—but not enough to make the proportion right. And there were no children.

I could almost feel the thrust of their eyes as I entered the clinic.

Inside, the aura of strain was even denser. If anything, the place looked more normal than it had earlier; there were more people. The huge waiting room was packed and a dozen sweating clerks were interviewing long lines of persons. But here, as outside, the feeling was wrong; the crowds weren’t noisy enough; they lacked the nervous boisterousness they should have had.

Dr. Lawton looked worried. He greeted me and showed me to a small room near the elevators. There was a cocoon of milky plastic on a wheeled table; I looked closer, and inside the cocoon, recognizable through the clear plastic over the face, was the waxlike body of Luigi Zorchi. The eyes were closed and he was completely still. I would have thought him dead if I had not known he was under the influence of the drugs used in the suspension of life in the vaults.

I said: “Am I supposed to identify him or something?”

“We know who he is,” Lawton snorted. “Sign the commitment, that’s all.”

I signed the form he handed me, attesting that Luigi Zorchi, serial number such-and-such, had requested and was being granted immobilization and suspension in lieu of cash medical benefits. They rolled the stretcher-cart away, with its thick foam-plastic sack containing the inanimate Zorchi.

“Anything else?” I asked. Lawton shook his head moodily. “Nothing you can help with. I told Defoe this was going to happen!”

“What?”

He glared at me. “Man, didn’t you just come in through the main entrance? Didn’t you see that mob?”

“Well, I wouldn’t call it a mob,” I began.

“You wouldn’t now,” he broke in. “But you will soon enough. They’re working themselves up. Or maybe they’re waiting for something. But it means trouble, I promise, and I warned Defoe about it. And he just stared at me as if I was some kind of degenerate.”

I said sharply, “What are you afraid of? Right outside, you’ve got enough expediters to fight a war.”

“Afraid? Me?” He looked insulted. “Do you think I’m worried about my own skin, Wills? No, sir. But do you realize that we have suspendees here who need protection? Eighty thousand of them. A mob like that—”

“Eighty thousand?” I stared at him. The war had lasted only a few weeks!

“Eighty thousand. A little more, if anything. And every one of them is a ward of the Company as long as he’s suspended. Just think of the damage suits, Wills.”

I said, still marveling at the enormous number of casualties out of that little war, “Surely the suspendees are safe here, aren’t they?”

“Not against mobs. The vaults can handle anything that might happen in the way of disaster. I don’t think an H-bomb right smack on top of them would disturb more than the top two or three decks at most. But you never know what mobs will do. If they once get in here— And Defoe wouldn’t listen to me!”

As I went back into the hall, passing the main entrance, the explosion burst.

I stared out over the heads of the dreadfully silent throng in the entrance hall, looking toward the glass doors, as was everyone else inside. Beyond the doors, an arc of expediters was retreating toward us; they paused, fired a round of gas-shells over the heads of the mob outside, and retreated again.

Then the mob was on them, in a burst of screaming fury. Hidden gas guns appeared, and clubs, and curious things that looked like slingshots. The crowd broke for the entrance. The line of expediters wavered but held. There was a tangle of hand-to-hand fights, each one a vicious struggle. But the expediters were professionals; outnumbered forty to one, they savagely chopped down their attackers with their hands, their feet and the stocks of their guns. The crowd hesitated. No shot had yet been fired, except toward the sky.

The air whined and shook. From low on the horizon, a needle-nosed jet thundered in. A plane! Aircraft never flew in the restricted area over the Company’s major installations. Aircraft didn’t barrel in at treetop height, fast and low, without a hint of the recognition numbers every aircraft had to carry.

From its belly sluiced a silvery milt of explosives as it came in over the heads of the mob, peeled off and up and away, then circled out toward the sea for another approach. A hail of tiny blasts rattled in the clear space between the line of expediters and the entrance. The big doors shook and cracked.

* * * *

The expediters stared white-faced at the ship. And the crowd began firing. An illegal hard-pellet gun peppered the glass of the doors with pockmarks. The guarding line of expediters was simply overrun.

Inside the waiting room, where I stood frozen, hell broke out. The detachment of expediters, supervising the hundreds inside leaped for the doors to fight back the surging mob. But the mob inside the doors, the long orderly lines before the interviewing clerks, now split into a hundred screaming, milling centers of panic. Some rushed toward the doors; some broke for the halls of the vaults themselves. I couldn’t see what was going on outside any more. I was swamped in a rush of women panicked out of their senses.

Panic was like a plague. I saw doctors and orderlies struggling against the tide, a few scattered expediters battling to turn back the terrified rush. But I was swept along ahead of them all, barely able to keep my feet. An expediter fell a yard from me. I caught up his gun and began striking out. For this was what Lawton had feared—the mob loose in the vaults!

I raced down a side corridor, around a corner, to the banked elevators that led to the deeps of the clinic. There was fighting there, but the elevator doors were closed. Someone had had the wit to lock them against the mob. But there were stairs; I saw an emergency door only a few yards away. I hesitated only long enough to convince myself, through the fear, that my duty was to the Company and to the protection of its helpless wards below. I bolted through the door and slammed it behind me, spun the levers over and locked it. In a moment, I was running down a long ramp toward the cool immensities of the vaults.

If Lawton had not mentioned the possible consequences of violence to the suspendees, I suppose I would have worried only about my own skin. But here I was. I stared around, trying to get my bearings. I was in a sort of plexus of hallways, an open area with doors on all sides leading off to the vaults. I was alone; the noise from above and outside was cut off completely.

No, I was not alone! I heard running footsteps, light and quick, from another ramp. I turned in time to see a figure speed down it, pause only a second at its base, and disappear into one of the vaults. It was a woman, but not a woman in nurse’s uniform. Her back had been to me, yet I could see that one hand held a gas gun, the other something glittering and small.

I followed, not quite believing what I had seen. For I had caught only a glimpse of her face, far off and from a bad angle—but I was as sure as ever I could be that it was Rena dell’Angela!

She didn’t look back. She was hurrying against time, hurrying toward a destination that obsessed her thoughts. I followed quietly enough, but I think I might have thundered like an elephant herd and still been unheard.

We passed a strange double-walled door with a warning of some sort lettered on it in red; then she swung into a side corridor where the passage was just wide enough for one. On either side were empty tiers of shelves waiting for suspendees. I speeded up to reach the corner before she could disappear.

But she wasn’t hurrying now. She had come to a bay of shelves where a hundred or so bodies lay wrapped in their plastic sacks, each to his own shelf. Dropping to her knees, she began checking the tags on the cocoons at the lowest level.

She whispered something sharp and imploring. Then, straightening abruptly, she dropped the gas gun and took up the glittering thing in her other hand. Now I could see that it was a hypodermic kit in a crystal case. From it she took a little flask of purplish liquid and, fingers shaking, shoved the needle of the hypodermic into the plastic stopper of the vial.

Moving closer, I said: “It won’t work, Rena.”

She jumped and swung to face me, holding the hypodermic like a stiletto. Seeing my face, she gasped and wavered.

I stepped by her and looked down at the tag on the cocooned figure. Benedetto dell’Angela, Napoli, it said, and then the long string of serial numbers that identified him.

It was what I had guessed.

“It won’t work,” I repeated. “Be smart about this, Rena. You can’t revive him without killing him.”

Rena half-closed her eyes. She whispered, “Would death be worse than this?”

I hadn’t expected this sort of superstitious nonsense from her. I started to answer, but she had me off guard. In a flash, she raked the glittering needle toward my face and, as I stumbled back involuntarily, her other hand lunged for the gas gun I had thrust into my belt.

Only luck saved me. Not being in a holster, the gun’s front sight caught and I had the moment I needed to cuff her away. She gasped and spun up against the tiers of shelves. The filled hypodermic shattered against the floor, spilling the contents into a purple, gleaming pool of fluorescence.

Rena took a deep breath and stood erect. There were tears in her eyes again.

She said in a detached voice: “Well done, Mr. Wills.”

“Are you crazy?” I crackled. “This is your father. Do you want to kill him? It takes a doctor to revive him. You’re an educated woman, Rena, not a witch-ridden peasant! You know better than this!”

She laughed—a cold laugh. “Educated! A peasant woman would have kicked you to death and succeeded. I’m educated, all right! Two hundred men, a plane, twenty women risking themselves up there to get me through the door. All our plans—and I can’t remember a way to kill you in time. I’m too educated to hate you, Claims Adjuster Wills!” She choked on the words. Then she shook her head dully. “Go ahead, turn me in and get it over with.”

I took a deep breath. Turn her in? I hadn’t thought that far ahead. True, that was the obvious thing to do; she had confessed that the whole riot outside was a diversion to get her down in the vaults, and anyone who could summon up that sort of organized anti-Company violence was someone who automatically became my natural enemy.

But perhaps I was too educated and too soft as well. There had been tears on her face, over her father’s body. I could not remember having heard that conspirators cried.

And I sympathized a little. I had known what it was like to weep over the body of someone I loved. Despite our difficulties, despite everything, I would have done anything in the world to bring Marianna back to life. I couldn’t. Rena—she believed—could revive her father.

I didn’t want to turn her in.

I shouldn’t turn her in. It was my duty not to turn her in, for hadn’t Defoe himself ordered me to investigate the dissident movement of which she was clearly a part? Wouldn’t it be easier for me to win her confidence, and trick her into revealing its secrets, than to have her arrested?

The answer, in all truth, was No. She was not a trickable girl, I was sure. But it was, at least, a rationale, and I clung to it.

I coughed and said: “Rena, will you make a bargain?”

She stared drearily. “Bargain?”

“I have a room at the Umberto. If I get you out of here, will you go to my room and wait for me there?”

Her eyes narrowed sharply for a second. She parted her lips to say something, but only nodded.

“Your word, Rena? I don’t want to turn you in.”

She looked helplessly at the purple spilled pool on the floor, and wistfully at the sack that held her father. Then she said, “My word on it. But you’re a fool, Tom!”

“I know it!” I admitted.

I hurried her back up the ramp, back toward the violence upstairs. If it was over, I would have to talk her out of the clinic, somehow cover up the fact that she had been in the vaults. If it was still going on, though—

It was.

We blended ourselves with the shouting, rioting knots. I dragged her into the main waiting room, saw her thrust through the doors. Things were quieting even then. And I saw two women hastening toward her through the fight, and I do not think it was a coincidence that the steam went out of the rioters almost at once.

I stayed at the clinic until everything was peaceful again, though it was hours.

I wasn’t fooling myself. I didn’t have a shred of real reason for not having her arrested. If she had information to give, I was not the type to trick it out of her—even if she really was waiting at the Umberto, which was, in itself, not likely. If I had turned her in, Defoe would have had the information out of her in moments; but not I.

She was an enemy of the Company.

And I was unable to betray her.

CHAPTER VIII

Dr. Lawton, who seemed to be Chief Medical Officer for Anzio Clinic, said grimly: “This wasn’t an accident. It was planned. The question is, why?”

The expediters had finished driving the rioters out of the clinic itself, and gas guns were rapidly dispersing the few left outside the entrance. At least thirty unconscious forms were scattered around—and one or two that were worse than unconscious.

I said, “Maybe they were hoping to loot the clinic.” It wasn’t a very good lie. But then, I hadn’t had much practice in telling lies to an officer of the Company.

Lawton pursed his lips and ignored the suggestion. “Tell me something, Wills. What were you doing down below?”

I said quickly, “Below? You mean a half an hour ago?”

“That’s what I mean.” He was gentle, but—well, not exactly suspicious. Curious.

I improvised: “I—I thought I saw someone running down there. One of the rioters. So I chased after her—after him.” I corrected, swallowing the word just barely in time.

He nodded. “Find anything?”

It was a tough question. Had I been seen going in or coming out? If it was coming out—Rena had been with me.

I took what we called a “calculated risk”—that is, I got a firm grip on my courage and told a big fat and possibly detectable lie. I said, “Nobody that I could find. But I still think I heard something. The trouble is, I don’t know the vaults very well. I was afraid I’d get lost.”

Apparently it was on the way in that I had been spotted, for Lawton said thoughtfully, “Let’s take a look.”

We took a couple of battered expediters with us—I didn’t regard them as exactly necessary, but I couldn’t see how I could tell Lawton that. The elevators were working again, so we came out in a slightly different part of the vaults than I had seen before; it was not entirely acting on my part when I peered around.

Lawton accepted my statement that I wasn’t quite sure where I had heard the noises, without argument. He accepted it all too easily; he sent the expediters scouring the corridors at random.

And, of course, one of them found the pool of spilled fluorescence from the hypodermic needle I had knocked out of Rena’s hand.

We stood there peering at the smear of purplish color, the shattered hypodermic, Rena’s gas gun.

Lawton mused, “Looks like someone’s trying to wake up some of our sleepers. That’s our standard antilytic, if I’m not mistaken.” He scanned the shelves. “Nobody missing around here. Take a look in the next few sections of the tiers.”

The expediters saluted and left.

“They won’t find anyone missing,” Lawton predicted, “And that means we have to take a physical inventory of the whole damn clinic. Over eighty thousand suspendees to check.” He made a disgusted noise.

I said, “Maybe they were scared off before they finished.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. We’ll have to check, that’s all.”

“Are you sure that stuff is to revive the suspendees?” I persisted. “Couldn’t it just have been someone wandering down here by mistake during the commotion and—”

“And carrying a hypodermic needle by mistake, and armed with a gas gun by mistake. Sure, Wills.”

The expediters returned and Lawton looked at them sourly.

They shook their heads. He shrugged. “Tell you what, Wills,” he said. “Let’s go back to the office and—”

He stopped, peering down the corridor. The last of our expediters was coming toward us—not alone.

“Well, what do you know!” said Lawton. “Wills, it looks like he’s got your fugitive!”

The expediter was dragging a small writhing figure behind him; we could hear whines and pleading. For a heart-stopping second, I thought it was Rena, against all logic.

But it wasn’t. It was a quavery ancient, a bleary-eyed wreck of a man, long past retirement age, shabbily dressed and obviously the sort who cut his pension policies to the barest minimum—and then whined when his old age was poverty-stricken.

Lawton asked me: “This the man?”

“I—I couldn’t recognize him,” I said.

Lawton turned to the weeping old man. “Who were you after?” he demanded. All he got was sobbing pleas to let him go; all he was likely to get was more of the same. The man was in pure panic.

We got him up to one of the receiving offices on the upper level, half carried by the expediters. Lawton questioned him mercilessly for half an hour before giving up. The man was by then incapable of speech.

He had said, as nearly as we could figure it out, only that he was sorry he had gone into the forbidden place, he didn’t mean to go into the forbidden place, he had been sleeping in the shadow of the forbidden place when fighting began and he fled inside.

It was perfectly apparent to me that he was telling the truth—and, more, that any diversionary riot designed to get him inside with a hypodermic and gas gun would have been planned by maniacs, for I doubted he could have found the trigger of the gun. But Lawton seemed to think he was lying.

It was growing late. Lawton offered to drive me to my hotel, leaving the man in the custody of the expediters. On the way, out of curiosity, I asked: “Suppose he had succeeded? Can you revive a suspendee as easily as that, just by sticking a needle in his arm?”

Lawton grunted. “Pretty near, that and artificial respiration. One case in a hundred might need something else—heart massage or an incubator, for instance. But most of the time an antilytic shot is enough.”

Then Rena had not been as mad as I thought.

I said: “And do you think that old man could have accomplished anything?”

Lawton looked at me curiously. “Maybe.”

“Who do you suppose he was after?”

Lawton said off-handedly. “He was right near Bay 100, wasn’t he?”

“Bay 100?” Something struck a chord; I remembered following Rena down the corridor, passing a door that was odd in some way. Was the number 100 on that door? “Is that the one that’s locked off, with the sign on it that says anybody who goes in is asking for trouble?”

“That’s the one. Though,” he added, “nobody is going to get in. That door is triple-plate armor; the lock opens only to the personal fingerprint pattern of Defoe and two or three others.”

“What’s inside it that’s so important?”

He said coldly, “How would I know? I can’t open the door.” And that was the end of the conversation. I knew he was lying.

* * * *

I had changed my bet with myself on the way. I won it. Rena was in the room waiting for me. She was sound asleep, stretched out on the bed. She looked as sober-faced and intent in her sleep as a little girl—a look I had noticed in Marianna’s sleeping face once.

It was astonishing how little I thought about Marianna anymore.

I considered very carefully before I rang for a bellboy, but it seemed wisest to let her sleep and take my chances with the house detective, if any. There was none, it turned out. In fact, the bellboy hardly noticed her—whether out of indifference or because he was well aware that I had signed for the room with an official travel-credit card of the Company, it didn’t much matter. He succeeded in conveying, without saying a word, that the Blue Sky was the limit.

I ordered dinner, waving away the menu and telling him to let the chef decide. The chef decided well. Among other things, there was a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice.

Rena woke up slowly at first, and then popped to a sitting position, eyes wide. I said quickly, “Everything’s all right. No one saw you at the clinic.”

She blinked once. In a soft voice, she said, “Thank you.” She sighed a very small sigh and slipped off the bed.

I realized as Rena was washing up, comparisons were always odious, but— Well, if a strange man had found Marianna with her dress hitched halfway up her thigh, asleep on his bed, he’d have been in for something. What the “something” would be might depend on circumstances; it might be a raging order to knock before he came in, it might only be a storm of blushes and a couple of hours of meticulously prissy behavior. But she wouldn’t just let it slide. And Rena, by simply disregarding it, was as modest as any girl could be.

After all, I told myself, warming to the subject, it wasn’t as if I were some excitable adolescent. I could see a lovely girl’s legs without getting all stirred up. For that matter, I hardly even noticed them, come to think of it. And if I did notice them, it was certainly nothing of any importance; I had dismissed it casually, practically forgotten it, in fact.

She came back and said cheerfully, “I’m hungry!” And so, I realized, was I.

We started to eat without much discussion, except for the necessary talk of the table. I felt very much at ease sitting across from her, in spite of the fact that she had placed herself in opposition to the Company. I felt relaxed and comfortable; nothing bothered me. Certainly, I went on in my mind, I was as free and easy with her as with any man; it didn’t matter that she was an attractive girl at all. I wasn’t thinking of her in that way, only as someone who needed some help.

I came to. She was looking at me with friendly curiosity. She said, “Is that an American idiom, Tom, when you said, ‘Please pass the legs’?”

* * * *

We didn’t open the champagne: it didn’t seem quite appropriate. We had not discussed anything of importance while we were eating, except that I had told her about the old man; she evidently knew nothing about him. She was concerned, but I assured her he was safe with the Company—what did she think they were, barbarians? She didn’t answer.

But after dinner, with our coffee, I said: “Now let’s get down to business. What were you doing in the clinic?”

“I was trying to rescue my father,” she said.

“Rescue, Rena? Rescue from what?”

“Tom, please. You believe in the Company, do you not?”

“Of course!”

“And I do not. We shall never agree. I am grateful to you for not turning me in, and I think perhaps I know what it cost you to do it. But that is all, Tom.”

“But the Company—”

“When you speak of the Company, what is it you see? Something shining and wonderful? It is not that way with me; what I see is—rows of my friends, frozen in the vaults or the expediters and that poor old man you caught.”

There was no reasoning with her. She had fixed in her mind that all the suspendees were the victims of some sinister brutality. Of course, it wasn’t like that at all.

Suspension wasn’t death; everyone knew that. In fact, it was the antithesis of death. It saved lives by taking the maimed and sick and putting them mercifully to sleep, until they could be repaired.

True, their bodies grew cold, the lungs stopped pumping, the heart stopped throbbing; true, no doctor could tell, on sight, whether a suspendee was “alive” or “dead.” The life processes were not entirely halted, but they were slowed enormously—enough so that chemical diffusion in the jellylike blood carried all the oxygen the body needed. But there was a difference: The dead were dead, whereas the suspendees could be brought back to life at any moment the Company chose.

But I couldn’t make her see that. I couldn’t even console her by reminding her that the old man was a mere Class E. For so was she.

I urged reasonably: “Rena, you think something is going on under the surface. Tell me about it. Why do you think your father was put in suspension?”

“To keep him out of the way. Because the Company is afraid of him.”

I played a trump card: “Suppose I told you the real reason he’s in the vaults.”

She was hit by that, I could tell. She was staring at me with wonder in her eyes.

“You don’t have to speculate about it, Rena. I looked up his record, you see.”

“You—you—”

I nodded. “It’s right there in black and white. They’re trying to save his life. He has radiation poisoning. He was a war casualty. It’s standard medical practice in cases like his to put them in suspension for a while, until the level of radioactivity dies down and they can safely be revived. Now what do you say?”

She merely stared at me.

I pressed on persuasively: “Rena, I don’t mean to call your beliefs superstitions or anything like that. Please understand me. You have your own cultural heritage and—well, I know that it looks as though he is some kind of ‘undead,’ or however you put it, in your folk stories. I know there are legends of vampires and zombies and so on, but—”

She was actually laughing. “You’re thinking of Central Europe, Tom, not Naples. And anyway—” she was laughing only with her eyes now—“I do not believe that the legends say that vampires are produced by intravenous injections of chlorpromazine and pethidine in a lytic solution—which is, I believe, the current technique at the clinics.”

I flared peevishly: “Damn it, don’t you want him saved?”

The laughter was gone. She gently touched my hand. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be a shrew and that remark wasn’t kind. Must we discuss it?”

“Yes!”

“Very well.” She faced me, chin out and fierce. “My father does not have radiation poisoning, Tom.”

“He does.”

“He does not! He is a prisoner, not a patient. He loved Naples. That’s why he was put to sleep—for fifty years, or a hundred, until everything he knew and loved grows away from him and nobody cares what he has to say anymore. They won’t kill him—they don’t have to! They just want him out of the way, because he sees the Company for what it is.”

“And what is that?”

“Tyranny, Tom,” she said quietly.

I burst out, “Rena, that’s silly! The Company is the hope of the world. If you talk like that, you’ll be in trouble. That’s dangerous thinking, young lady. It attacks the foundations of our whole society!”

“Good! I was hoping it would!”

We were shouting at each other like children. I took time to remember one of the priceless rules out of the Adjusters’ Handbook: Never lose your temper; think before you speak. We glared at each other in furious silence for a moment before I forced myself to simmer down.

Only then did I remember that I needed to know something she might be able to tell me. Organization, Defoe had said—an organization that opposed the Company, that was behind Hammond’s death and the riot at the clinic and more, much more.

“Rena, why did your friends kill Hammond?”

Her poise was shaken. “Who?” she asked.

“Hammond. In Caserta. By a gang of anti-Company hoodlums.”

Her eyes flashed, but she only said: “I know nothing of any killings.”

“Yet you admit you belong to a subversive group?”

“I admit nothing,” she said shortly.

“But you do. I know you do. You said as much to me, when you were prevented from reviving your father.”

She shrugged.

I went on: “Why did you call me at the office, Rena? Was it to get me to help you work against the Company?”

She looked at me for a long moment. Then she said: “It was. And would you like to know why I picked you?”

“Well, I suppose—”

“Don’t suppose, Tom.” Her nostrils were white. She said coldly: “You seemed like a very good bet, as far as we could tell. I will tell you something you don’t know. There is a memorandum regarding you in the office of the Chief of Expediters in Naples. I do not choose to tell you how I know of it, but even your Mr. Gogarty doesn’t know it exists. It is private and secret, and it says of you, ‘Loyalty doubtful. Believed in contact with underground movement. Keep under close but secret surveillance’.”

That one rocked me, I admit. “But that’s all wrong!” I finally burst out. “I admit I went through a bad time after Marianna died, but—”

She was smiling, though still angry. “Are you apologizing to me?”

“No, but—” I stopped. That was a matter to be taken up with Defoe, I told myself, and I was beginning to feel a little angry, too.

“All right,” I said. “There’s been a mistake; I’ll see that it’s straightened out. But even if it was true, did you think I was the kind of man to join a bunch of murderers?”

“We are not murderers!”

“Hammond’s body says different.”

“We had nothing to do with that, Tom!”

“Your friend Slovetski did.” It was a shot in the dark. It missed by a mile.

She said loftily: “If he is such a killer, how did you escape? When I had my interview with you, and it became apparent that the expediters were less than accurate, the information came a little late. You could easily have given us trouble—Slovetski was in the next room. Why didn’t he shoot you dead?”

“Maybe he didn’t want to be bothered with my body.”

“And maybe you are all wrong about us!”

“No! If you’re against the Company, I can’t be wrong. The Company is the greatest blessing the world has ever known—it’s made the world a paradise!”

“It has?” She made a snorting sound. “How?”

“By bringing countless blessings to all of us. Countless!”

She was shaking with the effort of controlling her temper. “Name one!”

I swore in exasperation. “All right,” I said. “It ended war.”

She nodded—not a nod of agreement, but because she had expected that answer. “Right out of the textbooks and propaganda pieces, Tom. Tell me, why is my father in the vaults?”

“Because he has radiation poisoning!”

“And how did he get this radiation poisoning?”

“How?” I blinked at her. “You know how, Rena. In the war between Naples and—the war—”

Rena said remorselessly, “That’s right, Tom, the war. The war that couldn’t have existed, because the Company ended war—everybody knows that. Ah, Tom! For God, tell me, why is the world blind? Everyone believes, no one questions. The Company ended war—it says so itself. And the blind world never sees the little wars that rage, all the time, one upon the heels of another. The Company has ended disease. But how many deaths are there? The Company has abolished poverty. But am I living in riches, Tom? Was the old man who ran into the vaults?”

I stammered, “But—but, Rena, the statistical charts show very clearly—”

“No, Tom,” she said, gentle again. “The statistical charts show less war, not no war. They show less disease.”

She rubbed her eyes wearily—and even then I thought: Marianna wouldn’t have dared; it would have smeared her mascara.

“The trouble with you, Tom, is that you’re an American. You don’t know how it is in the world, only in America. You don’t know what it was like after the Short War, when America won and the flying squads of Senators came over and the governments that were left agreed to defederate. You’re used to a big and united country, not little city-states. You don’t have thousands of years of intrigue and tyranny and plot behind you, so you close your eyes and plunge ahead, and if the charts show things are getting a little better, you think they are perfect.”

She shook her head. “But not us, Tom. We can’t afford that. We walk with eyes that dart about, seeking danger. Sometimes we see ghosts, but sometimes we see real menace. You look at the charts and you see that there are fewer wars than before. We—we look at the charts and we see our fathers and brothers dead in a little war that hardly makes a ripple on the graph. You don’t even see them, Tom. You don’t even see the disease cases that don’t get cured—because the techniques are ‘still experimental,’ they say. You don’t—Tom! What is it?”

I suppose I showed the pain of remembrance. I said with an effort, “Sorry, Rena. You made me think of something. Please go on.”

“That’s all of it, Tom. You in America can’t be blamed. The big lie—the lie so preposterous that it cannot be questioned, the thing that proves itself because it is so unbelievable that no one would say it if it weren’t true—is not an American invention. It is European, Tom. You aren’t inoculated against it. We are.”

I took a deep breath. “What about your father, Rena? Do you really think the Company is out to get him?”

She looked at me searchingly, then looked hopelessly away. “Not as you mean it, Tom,” she said at last. “No, I am no paranoid. I think he is—inconvenient. I think the Company finds him less trouble in the deepfreeze than he would be walking around.”

“But don’t you agree that he needs treatment?”

“For what? For the radiation poisoning that he got from the atomic explosion he was nowhere near, Tom? Remember, he is my father! I was with him in the war—and he never stirred a kilometer from our home. You’ve been there, the big house where my aunt Luisa now lives. Did you see bomb craters there?”

“That’s a lie!” I had to confess it to myself: Rena was beginning to mean something to me. But there were emotional buttons that even she couldn’t push. If she had been a man, any man, I would have had my fist in her face before she had said that much; treason against the Company was more than I could take. “You can’t convince me that the Company deliberately falsifies records. Don’t forget, Rena, I’m an executive of the Company! Nothing like that could go on!” Her eyes flared, but her lips were rebelliously silent.

I said furiously: “I’ll hear no more of that. Theoretical discussions are all right; I’m as broadminded as the next man. But when you accuse the Company of outright fraud, you—well, you’re mistaken.”

We glowered at each other for a long moment. My eyes fell first.

I said sourly, “I’m sorry if I called you a liar. I—I didn’t mean to be offensive.”

“Nor I, Tom.” she hesitated. “Will you remember that I asked you not to make me discuss it?”

She stood up. “Thank you very much for a dinner. And for listening. And most of all, for giving me another chance to rescue my father.”

I looked at my watch automatically—and incredulously. “It’s late, Rena. Have you a place to stay?”

She shrugged. “N—yes, of course, Tom. Don’t worry about me; I’ll be all right”

“Are you sure?”

“Very sure.”

Her manner was completely confident—so much so that I knew it for an act.

I said: “Please, Rena, you’ve been through a tough time and I don’t want you wandering around. You can’t get back to Naples tonight.”

“I know.”

“Well?”

“Well what, Tom?” she said. “I won’t lie to you—I haven’t a place to go to here. I would have had, this afternoon, if I had succeeded. But by now, everything has changed. They—that is, my friends will assume that I have been captured by the Company. They won’t be where I could find them, Tom. Say they are silly if you wish. But they will fear that the Company might—request me to give their names.”

I said crisply, “Stay here, Rena. No—listen to me. You stay here. I’ll get another room.”

“Thank you, Tom, but you can’t. There isn’t a room in Anzio; there are families of suspendees sleeping in the grass tonight.”

“I can sleep in the grass if I have to.”

She shook her head. “Thank you,” she repeated.

I stood between her and the door. “Then we’ll both stay here. I’ll sleep on the couch. You can have the bed.” I hesitated, then added, “You can trust me, Rena.”

She looked at me gravely for a moment. Then she smiled. “I’m sure I can, Tom. I appreciate your offer. I accept.”

* * * *

I am built too long for a hotel-room couch, particularly a room in a Mediterranean coastal fleabag. I lay staring into the white Italian night; the Moon brightened the clouds outside the window, and the room was clearly enough illuminated to show me the bed and the slight, motionless form in it. Rena was not a restless sleeper, I thought. Nor did she snore.

Rena was a most self-possessed girl, in fact. She had overruled me when I tried to keep the bellboy from clearing away the dinner service. “Do you think no other Company man ever had a girl in his room?” she innocently asked. She borrowed a pair of the new pajamas Defoe’s thoughtful expediters had bought and put in the bureau. But I hadn’t expected that, while the bellboy was clearing away, she would be softly singing to herself in the bath.

He had seemed not even to hear.

He had also leaped to conclusions—not that it was much of a leap, I suppose. But he had conspicuously not removed the bottle of champagne and its silver bucket of melting ice.

It felt good, being in the same room with Rena.

I shifted again, hunching up my torso to give my legs a chance to stretch out. I looked anxiously to see if the movement had disturbed her.

There is a story about an animal experimenter who left a chimpanzee in an empty room. He closed the door on the ape and bent to look through the keyhole, to see what the animal would do. But all he saw was an eye—because the chimp was just as curious about the experimenter.

In the half-light, I saw a sparkle of moonlight in Rena’s eye; she was watching me. She half-giggled, a smothered sound.

“You ought to be asleep,” I accused.

“And you, Tom.”

I obediently closed my eyes, but I didn’t stop seeing her.

If only she weren’t a fanatic.

And if she had to be a fanatic, why did she have to be the one kind that was my natural enemy, a member of the group of irresponsible troublemakers that Defoe had ordered me to “handle”?

What, I wondered, did he mean by “handle”? Did it include chlorpromazine in a lytic solution and a plastic cocoon?

I put that thought out of my mind; there was no chance whatever that her crazy belief, that the Company was using suspension as a retaliatory measure, was correct. But thinking of Defoe made me think of my work. After all, I told myself, Rena was more than a person. She was a key that could unlock the whole riddle. She had the answers—if there was a movement of any size, she would know its structure.

I thought for a moment and withdrew the “if.” She had admitted the riot of that afternoon was planned. It had to be a tightly organized group.

And she had to have the key.

* * * *

At last, I had been getting slightly drowsy, but suddenly I was wide awake.

There were two possibilities. I faced the first of them shakily—she might be right. Everything within me revolted against the notion, but I accepted it as a theoretical possibility. If so, I would, of course, have to revise some basic notions.

On the other hand, she might be wrong. I was certain she was wrong. But I was equally certain she was no raddled malcontent and if she was wrong, and I could prove it to her, she herself might make some revisions.

Propped on one elbow, I peered at her. “Rena?” I whispered questioningly.

She stirred. “Yes, Tom?”

“If you’re not asleep, can we take a couple more minutes to talk?”

“Of course.” I sat up and reached for the light switch, but she said, “Must we have the lights? The Moon is very bright.”

“Sure.” I sat on the edge of the couch and reached for a cigarette. “Can I offer you a deal, Rena?”

“What sort of deal?”

“A horse trade. You think the Company is corrupt and your father is not a casualty, right?”

“Correct, Tom.”

“And I think the Company is not corrupt and your father has radiation poisoning. One of us has to be wrong, right?”

“Correct, Tom.”

“Let’s find out. There are ways of testing for radiation sickness. I’ll go into the clinic in the morning and get the answer.”

She also lifted up on one elbow, peering at me, her long hair braided down her back. “Will you?”

“Sure. And we’ll make bets on it, Rena. If you are wrong—if your father has radiation poisoning—I want you to tell me everything there is to tell about the riot today and the people behind it. If I’m wrong—” I swallowed—“if I’m wrong, I’ll get your father out of there for you. Somehow. I promise it, Rena.”

There was absolute silence for a long time. Then she swung out of the bed and hurried over to me, her hands on mine. She looked at me and again I saw tears. “Will you do that, Tom?” she asked, hardly audible.

“Why, sure,” I said awkwardly. “But you have to promise—”

“I promise!”

She was staring at me, at arm’s length. And then something happened. She wasn’t staring and she wasn’t at arm’s length.

Kissing her was like tasting candied violets; and the Moon made her lovelier than anything human; and the bellboy had not been so presumptuous, after all, when he left us the champagne.

CHAPTER IX

Dr. Lawton was “away from his desk” the next morning. That was all to the good. I was not a hardened enough conspirator to seek out chances to make mistakes, and although I had a perfectly good excuse for wanting to go down into the vaults again, I wasn’t anxious to have to use it. The expediter-officer in charge, though, didn’t even ask for reasons. He furnished me with what I wanted—a map of the vaults and a radiation-counter—and turned me loose.

Looking at the map, I was astonished at the size of this subterranean pyramid. Lawton had said we had eighty-odd thousand sleepers filed away and that had surprised me, but by the chart I held in my hand, there was space for perhaps ten times that many. It was beyond belief that so much space was really needed, I thought—unless there was some truth to Rena’s belief that the Company used the clinics for prisons…

I applied myself to the map. And, naturally, I read it wrong. It was very simple; I merely went to the wrong level, that was all.

It looked wrong as soon as I stepped out of the elevator. An elderly, officious civilian with a British accent barred my way. “You aren’t one of us, are you?”

I said, “I doubt it.”

“Then would you mind?” he asked politely, and indicated a spot on the side of the hall. Perhaps I was suggestible, but I obeyed his request without question. It was just as well, because a sort of procession rounded a bend and came down the corridor. There was a wheeled stretcher, with three elderly civilians puttering around it, and a bored medic following with a jar of something held aloft, feeding through a thin plastic tube into the arm of the man on the stretcher, as well as half a dozen others of more nondescript types.

The man who had stopped me nearly ran to meet the stretcher. He stared into the waxy face and whispered, “It’s he! Oh, absolutely, it is he!”

I looked and the face was oddly familiar. It reminded me of my childhood; it had a link with school days and the excitement of turning twelve. By the way the four old men were carrying on, however, it meant more than that to them. It meant, if not the Second Coming, at least something close to it.

By then I had figured out that this was that rare event in the day of a clinic—a revival. I had never seen one. I suppose I could have got out of the way and gone about my conspiratorial business, and it is no credit to me as a conspirator that I did not. But I was fascinated.

Too fascinated to wonder why revivals were so rare…

* * * *

The medic looked at his watch and, with careless efficiency, plucked the tube out of the waxy man’s arm.

“Two minutes,” he said to one of the civilians. “Then he’ll be as good as he ever was. You’ve got his clothes and release papers?”

“Oh, definitely,” said the civilian, beaming.

“Okay. And you understand that the Company takes no responsibility beyond the policy covering? After all, he was one of the first men suspended. We think we can give him another year or so—which is a year more than he would have had, at that—but he’s not what you’d call a Grade A risk.”

“Certainly,” agreed the civilian. “Can we talk to him now?”

“As soon as he opens his eyes.”

The civilian bent over the man, who no longer looked waxy. His face was now a mottled gray and his eyelids were flickering. He had begun to breathe heavily and irregularly, and he was mumbling something I couldn’t understand. The civilian whispered in his ear and the revived man opened his eyes and looked at him.

It was like seeing the dead come to life. It was exactly that, in fact; twenty minutes before, no chemical test, no stethoscope or probing thumb in the eye socket could have detected the faint living glow in the almost-dead cells. And yet—now he looked, he breathed, he spoke.

“I made it,” were his first understandable words.

“Indeed you did!” crowed the civilian in charge, while all of the others murmured happily to each other. “Sir, it is my pleasure to welcome you back to us. You are in Anzio, Italy. And I am Thomas Welbourne, at your service.”

The faint eyes sparkled. Dead, near-dead or merely decrepit, this was a man who wanted to enjoy life. Minutes out of the tomb, he said: “No! Not young Tommy Welbourne!”

“His grandson, sir,” said the civilian.

I had it just then—that face had watched me through a whole year of school. It had been in a frame at the front of the room, with half a dozen other faces. It had a name under it, which, try as I might, I couldn’t recall; but the face was there all the same. It was an easy one to keep in mind—strong though sunken, ancient but very much alive.

He was saying, in a voice as confident as any youth’s, “Ah, Tommy, I’ve lived to see it! Tell me, have you been to Mars? What is on the other side of the Moon? And the Russians—what are the Russians up to these days?”

The civilian coughed and tried to interrupt, but the figure on the stretcher went on heedlessly: “All those years gone—what wonders must we have. A tunnel under the Atlantic, I’ll wager! And ships that fly a hundred times the speed of sound. Tell me, Tommy Welbourne! Don’t keep an old man waiting!”

The civilian said reluctantly, but patiently, “Perhaps it will take a little explaining, sir. You see, there have been changes—”

“I know it, boy! That’s what I’m asking you!”

“Well, not that sort of changes, sir. We’ve learned new virtues since your time—patience and stability, things of that sort. You see—”

The interesting part was over and the glances of the others in the party reminded me that I didn’t belong here. I stole off, but not before the man on the stretcher noticed me and made a sort of clumsy two-fingered salute of hail and farewell as I left. It was exactly like the gesture in his picture on that schoolroom wall, up next to the presidents and the greatest of kings.

I found a staircase and climbed to another level of the boxlike clinic.

The local peasants called the vaults “coolers” or “ice cubes.” I suppose the reason had something to do with the fact that they were cool and rectangular, on the whole—perhaps because, like icebergs, the great bulk of the vaults was below the surface. But whatever you called them, they were huge. And the clinic at Anzio was only one out of hundreds scattered all over the world.

It was all a matter of viewpoint. To me, the clinics were emblems of the Company’s concern for the world. In any imaginable disaster—even if some fantastic plague struck the entire race at once—the affected population could be neatly and effectively preserved until medicine could catch up with their cures.

To Rena, they were prisons big enough to hold the human race.

It was time to find out which of us was right. I hurried through the corridors, between the tiers of sleepers, almost touching them on both sides. I saw the faint purplish gleam where Rena had spilled the fluid, and knelt beside the cocoon that held her father.

The UV sterilizers overhead made everything look ghastly violet, but in any light, the waxy face under the plastic would have looked dead as death itself. I couldn’t blame Rena for weeping.

I took out the little radiation counter and looked at it awkwardly. There was nothing complicated about the device—fortunately, because I had had little experience with them. It was a cylinder with a flaring snout at one end, a calibrated gauge at the side, marked in micro-roentgens. The little needle flickered in the green area of the dial. I held it to myself and the reading didn’t change. I pointed it up and pointed it down; it didn’t change.

I held it to the radiation-seared body of Benedetto dell’Angela.

And it didn’t change.

Radiation-seared? Not unless the instrument lied! If dell’Angela had ever in his life been within the disaster radius of an atomic explosion, it had been so long before that every trace of radioactive byproduct was gone!

Rena was right!

* * * *

I worked like a machine, hardly thinking. I stood up and hurriedly touched the ion-tasting snout of the counter to the body on the shelf above Benedetto, the one above that, a dozen chosen at random up and down the aisle.

Two of them sent the needle surging clear off the scale; three were as untainted by radioactivity as Benedetto himself. A few others gave readings from “mild” to “lethal”—but all in the danger area.

Most were as untainted by radiation as Benedetto himself.

It was possible, I told myself frantically, that there were mysteries here I did not understand. Perhaps after a few months or a year, the radiation level would drop, so that the victim was still in deadly danger while the emitted radiation of his body was too slight to affect the counter. I didn’t see how, but it was worth a thought. Anything was worth a thought that promised another explanation to this than the one Rena had given!

There had been, I remembered, a score or more of new suspendees in the main receiving vault at the juncture of the corridors. I hurried back to it. Here were fresh cases, bound to show on the gauge.

I leaned over the nearest one, first checking to make sure its identification tag was the cross-hatched red one that marked “radiation.” I brought the counter close to the shriveled face—

But I didn’t read the dial, not at first. I didn’t have to. For I recognized that face. I had seen it, contorted in terror, mumbling frantic pleas for mercy, weeping and howling, on the old Class E uninsurable the expediters had found hiding in the vaults.

He had no radiation poisoning…unless a bomb had exploded in these very vaults in the past twelve hours.

It wasn’t pleasant to stand there and stare around the vaults that were designed for the single purpose of saving human life—and to wonder how many of the eighty thousand souls it held were also prisoners.

And it wasn’t even tolerable to think the thought that followed. If the Company was corrupt, and I had worked to do the Company’s business, how much of this guilt was mine?

The Company, I had said and thought and tried to force others to agree, was the hope of humanity—the force that had permanently ended war (almost), driven out disease (nearly), destroyed the threat to any human of hunger or homelessness (in spite of the starving old man who slept in the shadow of the crypt, and others like him).

But I had to face the facts that controverted the Big Lie. If war was ended, what about Naples and Sicily, and Prague and Vienna, and all the squabbles in the Far East? If there was no danger from disease, why had Marianna died?

Rena had said that if there was no danger of disaster, no one would have paid their premiums. Obviously the Company could not have wanted that, but why had I never seen it before? Sample wars, sample deaths—the Company needed them. And no one, least of all me, fretted about how the samples felt about it.

Well, that was behind me. I’d made a bet with Rena, and I’d lost, and I had to pay off.

I opened the cased hypodermic kit Rena had given me and examined it uncomfortably. I had never used the old-fashioned sort of needle hypodermic; I knew a little something about the high-pressure spray type that forced its contents into the skin without leaving a mark, but I was very far from sure that I could manage this one without doing something wrong. Besides, there wasn’t much of the fluid left, only the few drops left in the bottom of the bottle after Rena had loaded the needle that had been smashed.

I hurried back along the corridor toward Benedetto dell’Angela. I neared again the red-labeled door marked Bay 100, glanced at it in passing—and stopped.

This was the door that only a handful of people could open. It was labeled in five languages: “Entrance Strictly Prohibited. Experimental Section.”

Why was it standing ajar?

And I heard a faint whisper of a moan: “Aiutemi, aiutemi.”

Someone inside was calling for help!

If I had been a hardened conspirator, I would never have stopped to investigate. But, of course, I wasn’t. I pushed the door aside, against resistance, and peered in.

And that was my third major shock in the past quarter of an hour, because, writhing feebly just inside the door, staring up at me with an expression of pain and anger, was Luigi Zorchi.

He propped himself up on his hands, the rags of his plastic cocoon dangling from his shoulders.

“Oho,” he said faintly. “The apprentice assassin again.”

I found water for him at a bubble-fountain by the ramp; he drank at least a quart before I made him stop. Then he lay back, panting, staring at me. Except for the shreds of plastic and the bandages around the stumps of his legs, he was nude, like all the other suspendees inside their sacks. The luxuriant hair had already begun to grow back.

He licked his lips. More vigorous now, he snarled: “The plan fails, does it not? You think you have Zorchi out of the way, but he will not stay there.”

I said, “Zorchi, I’m sorry about all this. I—I know more now than I did yesterday.”

He gaped. “Yesterday? Only yesterday?” He shook his head. “I would have thought a month, at the least. I have been crawling, assassin. Crawling for days, I thought.” He tried to shrug—not easy, because he was leaning on his elbows. “Very well, Weels. You may take me back to finish the job now. Sticking me with a needle and putting me on ice will not work. Perhaps you should kill me outright.”

“Listen, Zorchi, I said I was sorry. Let’s let it go at that for a moment. I—I admit you shouldn’t be here. The question is, how do you come to be awake?”

“How not? I am Zorchi, Weels. Cut me and I heal; poison me and I cure myself.” He spat furiously. “Starve me, however, and I no doubt will die, and it is true that you have come very near to starving me down here.” He glowered at the shelves of cocooned bodies in the locked bay. “A pity, with all this pork and beef on the rack, waiting for me, but I find I am not a monster, Weels. It is a weakness; I do not suppose it would stop any Company man for a moment.”

“Look, Zorchi,” I begged, “take my word for it—I want to help you. You might as well believe me, you know. You can’t be any worse off than you are.”

He stared at me sullenly for a moment. Then, “True enough,” he admitted. “What then, Weels?”

I said hesitantly, “Well, I’d like to get you out of here…”

“Oh, yes. I would like that, too. How shall we do it?”

I rubbed the back of my neck thoughtfully, staring at him. I had had a sort of half-baked, partly worked out plan for rescuing Benedetto. Wake him up with the needle; find a medical orderly’s whites somewhere; dress him; and walk him out.

It wasn’t the best of all possible plans, but I had rank enough, particularly with Defoe off in Rome, to take a few liberties or stop questions if it became necessary. And besides, I hadn’t really thought I’d have to do it. I had fully expected—as recently as half an hour ago!—that I would find Benedetto raddled with gamma rays, a certainty for death if revived before the half-life period of the radioelements in his body had brought the level down to safety.

That plan might work for Benedetto. But Zorchi, to mention only one possible obstacle, couldn’t walk. And Benedetto, once I took off his beard with the razor Rena had insisted I bring for that purpose, would not be likely to be recognized by anyone.

Zorchi, on the other hand, was very nearly unforgettable.

I said honestly, “I don’t know.”

He nodded! “Nor do I, Weels. Take me then to your Defoe.” His face wrinkled in an expression of fury and fear. “Die I can, if I must, but I do not wish to starve. It is good to be able to grow a leg, but do you understand that the leg must come from somewhere? I cannot make it out of air, Weels—I must eat. When I am in my home at Naples, I eat five, six, eight times a day; it is the way my body must have it. So if Defoe wishes to kill me, we will let him, but I must leave here now.”

I shook my head. “Please understand me, Zorchi—I can’t even do that for you. I can’t have anybody asking me what I was doing down in this level.” I hesitated only briefly; then, realizing that I was already in so deeply that secrecy no longer mattered, I told him about Benedetto dell’Angela, and the riot that failed, and my promise.

His reaction was incredulity. “You did not know, Weels? The arms and legs of the Company do not know what thoughts pass through its brain? Truly, the Company is a wonderful thing! Even the peasants know this much—the Company will do anything it must.”

“I admit I never guessed. Now what?”

“That is up to you, Weels. If you try to take the two of us out, it endangers you. It is for you to decide.”

So, of course, I could decide only one way.

I hid the hypodermic behind one of the bodies in Bay 100; it was no longer useful to me. I persuaded Zorchi to lie quietly in one of the tiers near Benedetto, slammed the heavy door to Bay 100, and heard the locks snap. That was the crossing of the Rubicon. You could open that door easily enough from inside—that was to protect any personnel who might be caught in there. But only Defoe and a couple of others could open it from without, and the hypodermic was now as far out of reach as the Moon.

I opened Benedetto dell’Angela’s face mask and shaved him, then sealed it again. I found another suspendee of about the same build, made sure the man was not radioactive, and transferred them. I switched tags: Benedetto dell’Angela was now Elio Barletteria. Then I walked unsteadily to the ramp, picked up the intercom and ordered the medical officer in charge to come down.

* * * *

It was not Dr. Lawton who came, fortunately, but one of his helpers who had seen me before. I pointed to the pseudo-Barletteria. “I want this man revived.”

He sputtered, “You—you can’t just take a suspendee out of his trance, Mr. Wills. It’s a violation of medical ethics! These men are sick. They—”

“They’ll be sicker still if we don’t get some information from this one,” I said grimly. “Are you going to obey Mr. Defoe’s orders or not?”

He sputtered some more, but he gave in. His orderlies took Benedetto to the receiving station at the foot of the vault; one of them stood by while the doctor worriedly went through his routine. I sat and smoked, watching the procedure.

It was simple enough. One injection, a little chafing of the hands and feet by the bored orderly while the doctor glowered and I stonily refused to answer his questions, and a lot of waiting. And then the “casualty” stirred and moaned.

All the stand-by apparatus was there—the oxygen tent and the pulmotor and the heart stimulator and so on. But none of it was needed.

I said: “Fine, Doctor. Now send the orderly to have an ambulance standing by at the main entrance, and make out an exit pass for this casualty.”

“No!” the doctor shouted. “This is against every rule, Mr. Wills. I insist on calling Dr. Lawton—”

“By all means,” I said. “But there isn’t much time. Make out the pass and get the ambulance, and we’ll clear it with Dr. Lawton on the way out.” He was all ready to say no again when I added: “This is by direct order of Mr. Defoe. Are you questioning his orders?”

He wasn’t—not as long as I was going to clear it with Dr. Lawton. He did as I asked. One of the advantages of the Company’s rigid regulations was that it was hard to enforce strict security on its personnel. If you didn’t tell the staff that they were working for something needing covering up, you couldn’t expect them to be constantly on guard.

When the orderly was gone and the doctor had scrawled out the pass, I said cordially, “Thank you, Doctor. Now would you like to know what all the fuss was about?”

“I certainly would,” he snapped. “If you think—”

“I’m sorry,” I apologized. “Come over here and take a look at this man.”

I juggled the radiation counter in my hand as he stalked over. “Take a look at his eyes,” I invited.

“Are you trying to tell me that this is a dangerously radioactive case? I warn you, Mr. Wills—”

“No, no,” I said. “See for yourself. Look at the right eye, just beside the nose.”

He bent over the awakening body, searchingly.

I clonked him with the radiation counter on the back of the head. They must have retired that particular counter from service after that; it wasn’t likely to be very accurate any more.

The orderly found me bending over the doctor’s body and calling for help. He bent, too, and he got the same treatment. Benedetto by then was awake; he listened to me and didn’t ask questions. The blessings of dealing with conspirators—it was not necessary to explain things more than once.

And so, with a correctly uniformed orderly, who happened to be Benedetto dell’Angela, pushing the stretcher, and with myself displaying a properly made out pass to the expediter at the door, we rolled the sham-unconscious body of Luigi Zorchi out to a waiting ambulance.

I felt my pulse hammering as we passed the expediter at the door. I had thrown my coat over the place where legs should have been on “Barletteria,” and Benedetto’s old plastic cocoon, into which we had squeezed Zorchi, concealed most of him.

* * * *

I needn’t have worried. The expediter not only wasn’t suspicious, he wasn’t even interested.

Benedetto and I lifted Zorchi into the ambulance. Benedetto climbed in after him and closed the doors, and I went to the front. “You’re dismissed,” I told the driver. “I’ll drive.”

As soon as we were out of sight of the clinic, I found a phone, got Rena at the hotel, told her to meet me under the marquee. In five minutes, she was beside me and we were heading for the roads to the north.

“You win,” I told her. “Your father’s in back—along with somebody else. Now what? Do we just try to get lost in the hills somewhere?”

“No, Tom,” she said breathlessly. “I—I have made arrangements.” She giggled. “I walked around the square and around, until someone came up to me. You do not know how many gentlemen came before that! But then one of my—friends showed up, to see if I was all right, and I arranged it. We go up the Rome highway two miles and there will be a truck.”

“Fine,” I said, stepping on the gas. “Now do you want to climb back and tell your father—”

I stopped in the middle of the word. Rena peered at me. “Tom,” she asked anxiously, “is something wrong?”

I swallowed, staring after a disappearing limousine in the rearview mirror. “I—hope not,” I said. “But your friends had better be there, because we don’t have much time. I saw Defoe in the back of that limousine.”

CHAPTER X

Rena craned her neck around the door and peered into the nave of the church. “He’s kissing the Book,” she reported. “It will be perhaps twenty minutes yet.”

Her father said mildly, “I am in no hurry. It is good to rest here. Though truthfully, Mr. Wills, I thought I had been rested sufficiently by your Company.”

I think we were all grateful for the rest. It had been a hectic drive up from Anzio. Even though Rena’s “friends” were thoughtful people, they had not anticipated that we would have a legless man with us.

They had passports for Rena and myself and Benedetto; for Zorchi they had none. It had been necessary for him to hide under a dirty tarpaulin in the trunk of the ancient charcoal-burning car, while Rena charmed the Swiss Guards at the border. And it was risky. But the Guards charmed easily, and we got through.

Zorchi did not much appreciate it. He swore a ragged blue streak when we stopped in the shade of an olive grove and lugged him to the front seat again, and he didn’t stop swearing until we hit the Appian Way. When the old gas-generator limped up a hill, he swore at its slowness; when it whizzed along the downgrades and level stretches, he swore at the way he was being bounced around.

I didn’t regret rescuing Zorchi from the clinic—it was a matter of simple justice since I had helped trick him into it. But I did wish that it had been some more companionable personality that I had been obligated to.

Benedetto, on the other hand, shook my hand and said: “For God, I thank you,” and I felt well repaid. But he was in the back seat being brought up to date by his daughter; I had the honor of Zorchi’s company next to me…

There was a long Latin period from the church, a response from the altar boy, and then the final Ite, missa est. We heard the worshipers moving out of the church.

The priest came through the room we were waiting in, his robes swirling. He didn’t look around, or give any sign that he knew we were there, though he almost stepped on Zorchi, sitting propped against a wall.

A moment later, another man in vaguely clerical robes entered and nodded to us. “Now we go below,” he ordered.

Benedetto and I flanked Zorchi and carried him, an arm around each of our necks. We followed the sexton, or whatever he was, back into the church, before the altar—Benedetto automatically genuflected with the others, nearly making me spill Zorchi onto the floor—to a tapestry-hung door. He pushed aside the tapestry, and a cool, musty draft came up from darkness.

The sexton lit a taper with a pocket cigarette lighter and led us down winding, rickety steps. There was no one left in the church to notice us; if anyone had walked in, we were tourists, doing as countless millions of tourists had done before us over the centuries.

We were visiting the Catacombs.

Around us were the bones of the Christians of a very different Rome. Rena had told me about them: How they rambled under the modern city, the only entrances where churches had been built over them. How they had been nearly untouched for two thousand years. I even felt a little as though I really were a tourist as we descended, she had made me that curious to see them.

But I was disappointed. We lugged the muttering Zorchi through the narrow, musty corridors, with the bones of martyrs at our elbows, in the flickering light of the taper, and I had the curious feeling that I had been there before.

As, in a way, I had: I had been in the vaults of the Company’s clinic at Anzio, in some ways very closely resembling these Catacombs—

Even to the bones of the martyrs.

I was almost expecting to see plastic sacks.

We picked our way through the warrens for several minutes, turning this way and that. I was lost in the first minute. Then the sexton stopped before a flat stone that had a crude, faded sketch of a fish on it; he leaned on it, and the stone discovered itself to be a door. We followed him through it into a metal-walled, high-ceilinged tunnel, utterly unlike the meandering Catacombs. I began to hear sounds; we went through another door, and light struck at our eyes.

I blinked and focused on a long room, half a dozen yards wide, almost as tall, at least fifty yards long. It appeared to be a section of an enormous tunnel; it appeared to be, and it was. Benedetto and I set Zorchi—still cursing—down on the floor and stared around.

There were people in the tunnel, dozens of them. There were desks and tables and file cabinets; it looked almost like any branch of the Company, with whirring mimeographs and clattering typewriters.

The sexton pinched out the taper and dropped it on the floor, as people came toward us.

“So now you are in our headquarters in Rome,” said the man dressed as a sexton. “It is good to see you again, Benedetto.”

“And it is much better to see you, Slovetski,” the old man answered warmly.

* * * *

This man Slovetski—I do not think I can say what he looked like.

He was, I found, the very leader of the “friends,” the monarch of this underground headquarters. But he was a far cry from the image I had formed of a bearded agitator. There was a hint of something bright and fearful in his eyes, but his voice was warm and deep, his manner was reassuring, his face was friendly. Still—there was that cat-spark in his eyes.

Slovetski, that first day, gave me an hour of his time. He answered some of my questions—not all. The ones he smiled at, and shook his head, were about numbers and people. The ones he answered were about principles and things.

He would tell me, for instance, what he thought of the Company—endlessly. But he wouldn’t say how many persons in the world were his followers. He wouldn’t name any of the persons who were all around us. But he gladly told me about the place itself.

“History, Mr. Wills,” he said politely. “History tells a man everything he needs to know. You look in the books, and you will learn of Mussolini, when this peninsula was all one state; he lived in Rome, and he started a subway. The archives even have maps. It is almost all abandoned now. Most of it was never finished. But the shafts are here, and the wiring that lights us still comes from the electric mains.”

“And the only entrance is through the Catacombs?”

The spark gleamed bright in his eye for a second. Then he shrugged. “Why shouldn’t I tell you? No. There are several others, but they are not all convenient.” He chuckled. “For instance, one goes through a station on the part of the subway that is still in operation. But it would not have done for you, you see; Rena could not have used it. It goes through the gentlemen’s washroom.”

We chuckled, Slovetski and I. I liked him. He looked like what he once had been: a history teacher in a Company school, somewhere in Europe. We talked about History, and Civilization, and Mankind, and all the other capitalized subjects. He was very didactic and positive in what he said, just like a history teacher. But he was understanding. He made allowances for my background; he did not call me a fool. He was a patient monk instructing a novice in the mysteries of the order, and I was at ease with him.

But there was still that spark in his eye.

Rena disappeared almost as soon as we were safely in the tunnels. Benedetto was around, but he was as busy as Slovetski, and just as mysterious about what occupied him. So I had for company Zorchi.

We had lunch. “Food!” he said, and the word was an epithet. “They offer this to me for food! For pigs, Weels. Not for Zorchi!” He pushed the plate away from him and stared morosely at the table.

We were given a room to share, and one of Slovetski’s men fixed up a rope-and-pulley affair so Zorchi could climb into his bed unaided. He was used to the help of a valet; the first time he tried it, he slipped and fell on the stumps of his legs. It must have hurt.

He shrieked, “Assassins! All of them! They put me in a kennel with the apprentice assassin, and the other assassins make a guillotine for me to kill myself on!”

We had a long talk with Slovetski, on the ideals and principles of his movement. Zorchi stared mutinously at the wall. I found the whole thing very interesting—shocking, but interesting. But Zorchi was immune to shock—“Perhaps it is news to you, Weels, that the Company is a big beast?”—and he was interested in nothing in all the world but Zorchi.

By the end of the second day I stopped talking to him entirely. It wasn’t kind. He disliked me, but he hated everyone else in the tunnel, so he had no one to talk to. But it was either that or hit him in the face, and—although many of my mores had changed overnight—I still did not think I could strike a man without legs.

And besides, the less I saw of Zorchi, the more time I had to think about Rena.

* * * *

She returned on the third day, without a word of explanation to me of where she had been or what she had done. She greeted me and disappeared again, this time only for hours. Then she came back and said, “Now I am through, for a time. How have you liked our little hideaway?”

I said, “It gets lonesome.”

“Lonesome?” Her brown eyes were wide and perfectly serious. “I had thought it would be otherwise, Tom. So many of us in this little space, how could you be lonesome?”

I took her hand. “I’m not lonesome now,” I told her. We found a place to sit in a corner of the communal dining hall. Around us the life of the underground movement buzzed and swirled. It was much like a branch of the Company, as I have said; the work of this secret section seemed to be mostly a record-keeping depot for the activities that took place on the surface. But no one paid much attention to Rena and me.

What did we talk about? What couples have always talked about: Each other, and everything, and nothing. The only thing we did not talk about was my basic beliefs in regard to the Company. For I was too troubled in my mind to talk about them, and Rena sensitive enough not to bring them up.

For I had, with all honor, sworn an oath of allegiance to the Company; and I had not kept it.

I could not, even then, see any possibility of a world where the Company did not exist. For what the Company said of itself was true: Before the Company existed, men lived like beasts. There was always the instant danger of war and disease. No plan could be made, no hope could be held, that could not be wiped out by blind accident.

And yet, were men better off today? I could not doubt the truths I had been told. The Company permitted wars—I had seen it. The Company permitted disease—my own wife had died.

Somewhere there was an answer, but I couldn’t find it. It was not, I was sure, in Slovetski’s burning hatred of everything the Company stood for. But it could not be, either, in the unquestioning belief that I had once given.

But my views, it turned out, hardly mattered anymore; the die was cast. Benedetto appeared in the entrance to the dining hall, peering about. He saw us and came over, his face grave.

“I am sorry, Mr. Wills,” he said. “I have been listening to Radio Napoli. It has just come over the air: A description of you, and an order for your arrest. The charge is—murder!”

I gaped at him, hardly believing. “Murder! But that’s not true; I certainly never—”

Benedetto laid a hand on my shoulder. “Of course not, Mr. Wills. It is a fiction of the Company’s, beyond doubt. But it is a fiction that may cause your death if you are discovered, do not doubt that.”

I swallowed. “Who—whom did I murder?”

Benedetto shrugged. “I do not know who he is. The name they gave was Elio Barletteria.”

That was the suspendee whose place Zorchi had usurped. I sat back, bewildered. It was true, at least, that I had had some connection with the man. But—kill him? Was it possible, I asked myself, that the mere act of taking him out of his plastic sack endangered his life? I doubted it, but still—

I asked Benedetto. He frowned. “It is—possible,” he admitted at last. “We do not know much about the suspendees, Mr. Wills. The Company has seen to that. It is my opinion—only an opinion, I am afraid—that if this man Barletteria is dead, it had nothing to do with anything you did. Still—” he shrugged—“what difference does it make? If the Company calls you a murderer, you must be one, for the Company is always right. Is that not so?”

We left it at that, but I was far from easy in my mind. The dining hall filled, and we ate our evening meal, but I hardly noticed what I ate and I took no part in the conversation. Rena and her father considerately left me alone; Zorchi was, it seemed, sulking in our room, for he did not appear. But I was not concerned with him, for I had troubles of my own. I should have been…

After dinner was over, I excused myself and went to the tiny cubicle that had been assigned to Zorchi and myself. He wasn’t there. Then I began to think: Would Zorchi miss a meal?

The answer was unquestionably no. With his metabolism, he needed many times the food of an ordinary person; his performance at table, in fact, was spectacular.

Something was wrong. I was shaken out of my self-absorption; I hurried to find Benedetto dell’Angela, and told him that Zorchi was gone.

It didn’t take long for us to find the answer. The underground hideout was not large; it had only so many exits. It was only a matter of moments before one of the men Benedetto had ordered to search returned with an alarmed expression.

The exit that led through the subway station was ajar. Somehow Zorchi had hitched himself, on his stumps, down the long corridor and out the exit. It had to be while we were eating; he could never have made it except when everyone was in one room.

How he had done it did not matter. The fact remained that Zorchi was gone and, with him, the secrecy of our hiding place.

CHAPTER XI

We had to move. There was no way out of it.

“Zorchi hates the Company,” I protested. “I don’t think he’ll go to them and—”

“No, Wills.” Slovetski patiently shook his head. “We can’t take a chance. If we had been able to recapture him, then we could stay here. But he got clean away.” There was admiration in his eyes. “What a conspirator he would have made! Such strength and determination! Think of it, Wills, a legless man in the city of Rome. He cannot avoid attracting attention. He can barely move by himself. And yet, our men track him into the subway station, to a telephone…and that is all. Someone picks him up. Who? A friend, one supposes—certainly not the Company, or they would have been here before this. But to act so quickly, Wills!”

Benedetto dell’Angela coughed. “Perhaps more to the point, Slovetski, is how quickly we ourselves shall now act.”

Slovetski grinned. “All is ready,” he promised. “See, evacuation already has begun!”

Groups of men were quickly placing file folders into cartons and carrying them off. They were not going far, I found later, only to a deserted section of the ancient Roman Catacombs, from which they could be retrieved and transported, little by little, at a later date.

By sundown, Rena and I were standing outside the little church which contained the entrance to the Catacombs. The two of us went together; only two. It would look quite normal, it was agreed, for a young man and a girl to travel together, particularly after my complexion had been suitably stained and my Company clothes discarded and replaced with a set of Rome’s best ready-to-wears.

It did not occur to me at the time, but Rena must have known that her own safety was made precarious by being with me. Rena alone had nothing to fear, even if she had been caught and questioned by an agent of the Company. They would suspect her, because of her father, but suspicion would do her no harm. But Rena in the company of a wanted “murderer”—and one traveling in disguise—was far less safe…

We found an ancient piston-driven cab and threaded through almost all of Rome. We spun around the ancient stone hulk of the Colosseum, passed the balcony where a sign stated the dictator, Mussolini, used to harangue the crowds, and climbed a winding, expensive-looking street to the Borghese Gardens.

Rena consulted her watch. “We’re early,” she said. We had gelati in an open-air pavilion, listening to the wheezing of a sweating band; then, in the twilight, we wandered hand in hand under trees for half an hour.

Then Rena said, “Now it is time.” We walked to the far end of the Gardens where a small copter-field served the Class-A residential area of Rome. A dozen copters were lined up at the end of the take-off hardstand. Rena led me to the nearest of them.

I looked at it casually, and stopped dead.

“Rena!” I whispered violently. “Watch out!” The copter was black and purple; it bore on its flank the marking of the Swiss Guard, the Roman police force.

She pressed my hand. “Poor Tom,” she said. She walked boldly up to one of the officers lounging beside the copter and spoke briefly to him, too low for me to hear.

It was only when the big vanes overhead had sucked us a hundred yards into the air, and we were leveling off and heading south, that she said: “These are friends too, you see. Does it surprise you?”

I swallowed, staring at the hissing jets at the ends of the swirling vanes. “Well,” I said, “I’m not exactly surprised, but I thought that your friends were, well, more likely to be—”

“To be rabble?” I started to protest, but she was not angry. She was looking at me with gentle amusement. “Still you believe, Tom. Deep inside you: An enemy of the Company must be, at the best, a silly zealot like my father and me—and at the worst, rabble.” She laughed as I started to answer her. “No, Tom, if you are right, you should not deny it; and if you are wrong—you will see.”

I sat back and stared, disgruntled, at the purple sunset over the Mediterranean. I never saw such a girl for taking the wind out of your sails.

* * * *

Once across the border, the Guards had no status, and it was necessary for them to swing inland, threading through mountains and passes, remaining as inconspicuous as possible.

It was little more than an hour’s flight until I found landmarks I could recognize. To our right was the bright bowl of Naples; far to our left, the eerie glow that marked bombed-out New Caserta. And ahead, barely visible, the faint glowing plume that hung over Mount Vesuvius.

Neither Rena nor the Guards spoke, but I could feel in their tense attitudes that this was the danger-point. We were in the lair of the enemy. Undoubtedly we were being followed in a hundred radars, and the frequency-pattern would reveal our copter for what it was—a Roman police plane that had no business in that area. Even if the Company let us pass, there was always the chance that some Neapolitan radarman, more efficient, or more anxious for a promotion, than his peers would alert an interceptor and order us down. Certainly, in the old days, interception would have been inevitable; for Naples had just completed a war, and only short weeks back an unidentified aircraft would have been blasted out of the sky.

But we were ignored.

And that, I thought to myself, was another facet to the paradox. For when, in all the world’s years before these days of the Company, was there such complacency, such deep-rooted security, that a nation just out of a war should have soothed its combat-jangled nerves overnight? Perhaps the Company had not ended wars. But the fear of wars was utterly gone.

We fluttered once around the volcano, and dipped in to a landing on a gentle hump of earth halfway up its slope, facing Naples and the Bay. We were a few hundred yards from a cluster of buildings—perhaps a dozen, in all.

I jumped out, stumbling and recovering myself. Rena stepped lightly into my arms. And without a word, the Guards fed fuel to the jets, the rotor whirled, and the copter lifted away from us and was gone.

Rena peered about us, getting her bearings. There was a sliver of a moon in the eastern sky, enough light to make it possible to get about. She pointed to a dark hulk of a building far up the slope. “The Observatory. Come, Tom.”

* * * *

The volcanic soil was rich, but not very useful to farmers. It was not only the question of an eruption of the cone, for that sort of hazard was no different in kind than the risk of hailstorm or drought. But the mountain sides did not till easily, its volcanic slopes being perhaps steeper than those of most mountains.

The ground under our feet had never been in cultivation. It was pitted and rough, and grown up in a tangle of unfamiliar weeds. And it was also, I discovered with considerable shock, warm to the touch.

I saw a plume of vapor, faintly silver in the weak light, hovering over a hummock. Mist, I thought. Then it occurred to me that there was too much wind for mist. It was steam! I touched the soil. Blood heat, at least.

I said, with some difficulty, “Rena, look!”

She laughed. “Oh, it is an eruption, Tom. Of course it is. But not a new one. It is lava, you see, from the little blast the Sicilians touched off. Do not worry about it…”

We clambered over the slippery cogs of a funicular railway and circled the ancient stone base of the building she had pointed to. There was no light visible; but Rena found a small door, rapped on it and presently it opened.

Out of the darkness came Slovetski’s voice: “Welcome.”

Once this building had been the Royal Vulcanological Observatory of the Kingdom of Italy. Now it was a museum on the surface, and underneath another of the hideouts of Rena’s “friends.”

But this was a hideout somewhat more important than the one in the Roman Catacombs, I found. Slovetski made no bones about it.

He said, “Wills, you shouldn’t be here. We don’t know you. We can’t trust you.” He held up a hand. “I know that you rescued dell’Angela. But that could all be an involved scheme of the Company. You could be a Company spy. You wouldn’t be the first, Wills. And this particular installation is, shall I say, important. You may even find why, though I hope not. If we hadn’t had to move so rapidly, you would never have been brought here. Now you’re here, though, and we’ll make the best of it.” He looked at me carefully, then, and the glinting spark in the back of his eyes flared wickedly for a moment. “Don’t try to leave. And don’t go anywhere in this building where Rena or dell’Angela or I don’t take you.”

And that was that. I found myself assigned to the usual sort of sleeping accommodations I had come to expect in this group. Underground—cramped—and a bed harder than the Class-C Blue Heaven minimum.

* * * *

The next morning, Rena breakfasted with me, just the two of us in a tower room looking down over the round slope of Vesuvius and the Bay beneath. She said: “The museum has been closed since the bomb landed near, so you can roam around the exhibits if you wish. There are a couple of caretakers, but they’re with us. The rest of us will be in conference. I’ll try to see you for lunch.”

And she conducted me to an upper level of the Observatory and left me by myself. I had my orders—stay in the public area of the museum. I didn’t like them. I wasn’t used to being treated like a small boy, left by his mother in a Company day nursery while she busied herself with the important and incomprehensible affairs of adults.

Still, the museum was interesting enough, in a way. It had been taken over by the Company, it appeared, and although the legend frescoed around the main gallery indicated that it was supposed to be a historical museum of the Principality of Naples, it appeared by examination of the exhibits that the “history” involved was that of Naples vis-a-vis the Company.

Not, of course, that such an approach was entirely unfair. If it had not been for the intervention of the Company, after the Short War, it is more than possible that Naples as an independent state would never have existed.

It was the Company’s insistence on the dismantling of power centers (as Millen Carmody himself had described it) that had created Naples and Sicily and Prague and Quebec and Baja California and all the others.

Only the United States had been left alone—and that, I think, only because nobody dared to operate on a wounded tiger. In the temper of the nation after the Short War, the Company would have survived less than a minute if it had proposed severing any of the fifty-one states…

The museum was interesting enough, for anyone with a taste for horrors. It showed the changes in Neapolitan life over the past century or so. There was a reconstruction of a typical Neapolitan home of the early Nineteen-forties: a squalid hovel, packed ten persons to the room, with an American G.I., precursor of the Company expediters, spraying DDT into the bedding. There was, by comparison, a typical Class-B Blue Heaven modern allotment—with a certain amount of poetic license; few Class-B homes really had polyscent showers and autocooks.

It was the section on warfare, however, that was most impressive. It was in the far back of the building, in a large chamber anchored to bedrock. It held a frightening display of weapons, from a Tiger Tank to a gas-gun. Bulking over everything else in the room, even the tank, was the thirty-foot height of a Hell-bomb in a four-story display. I looked at it a second time, vaguely disturbed by something I hadn’t quite placed—an indigo gleam to the metal of the warhead, with a hint of evil under its lacquered sheen…

It was cobalt. I bent to read the legend: This is the casing of the actual cobalt bomb that would have been used on Washington if the Short War had lasted one more day. It is calculated that, loaded with a Mark XII hydrogen-lithium bomb, sufficient radioactive Cobalt-60 would have been transmuted to end all life on Earth within thirty days.

I looked at it again, shuddering.

Oh, it was safe enough now. Until the hydrogen reaction could turn the ordinary cobalt sheathing into the deadly isotope-60, it was just such stuff as was used to alloy magnets and make cobalt glass. It was even more valuable as a museum piece than as the highly purified metal.

Score one for the Company. They’d put a stop to that danger. Nobody would have a chance to arm it and send it off now. No small war would find it more useful than the bomb it would need—and no principality would risk the Company’s wrath in using it. And while the conspiracy might have planes and helicopters, the fissionable material was too rigidly under Company control for them to have a chance. The Super Hell-bomb would never go off. And that was something that might mean more to the Company’s credit than anything else.

Maybe it was possible that in this controversy both sides were right. And, of course, there was the obvious corollary.

I continued my wandering, looking at the exhibits, the rubble of the museum’s previous history. The cast of the Pompeiian gladiator, caught by the cinder-fall in full flight, his straining body reproduced to every contorted line by the incandescent ashes that had encased him. The carefully chipped and labeled samples from the lava flows of the past two centuries. The awe-inspiring photographs of Vesuvius in eruption.

But something about the bomb casing kept bothering me. I wandered around a bit longer and then turned back to the main exhibit. The big casing stretched upward and downward, with narrow stairs leading down to the lower level at its base. It was on the staircase I’d noticed something before. Now I hesitated, trying to spot whatever it was. There was a hint of something down there. Finally, I shrugged and went down to inspect it more closely.

Lying at the base was a heavy radiation glove. A workman’s glove, used and dirty with grease. And as my eyes darted up, I could see that the bolts on the lower servicing hatches were half-unscrewed.

Radiation gloves and tampering with the casing!

There were two doors to the pit for the bomb casing, but either one was better than risking the stairs again where someone might see me. Or so I figured. If they found I’d learned anything…

I grabbed for the nearer door, threw it open. I knew it was a mistake when the voice reached my ears.

“—after hitting the Home office with a Thousand-kiloton bomb. It’s going to take fast work. Now the schedule I’ve figured out so far—God’s damnation! How did you get in here, Wills?”

It was Slovetski, leaning across a table, staring at me. Around the table were Benedetto and four or five others I did not recognize. All of them looked at me as though I were the Antichrist, popped out of the marble at St. Peter’s Basilica on Easter Sunday.

The spark was a raging flame in Slovetski’s eyes. Benedetto dell’Angela said sharply, “Wait!” He strode over to me, half shielding me from Slovetski. “Explain this, Thomas,” he demanded.

“I thought this was the hall door,” I stammered, spilling the first words I could while I tried to find any excuse…

“Wills! I tell you, answer me!”

I said, “Look, did you expect me to carry a bell and cry unclean? I didn’t mean to break in. I’ll go at once…”

In a voice that shook, Slovetski said: “Wait one moment.” He pressed a bell-button on the wall; we all stood there silent, the five of them staring at me, me wishing I was dead.

There was a patter of feet outside, and Rena peered in. She saw me and her hand went to her heart.

“Tom! But—”

Slovetski said commandingly, “Why did you permit him his liberty?”

Rena looked at him wide-eyed. “But, please, I asked you. You suggested letting him study the exhibits.”

Benedetto nodded. “True, Slovetski,” he said gravely. “You ordered her to attend until our—conference was over.”

The flame surged wildly in Slovetski’s eyes—not at me. But he got it under control. He said, “Take him away.” He did not do me the courtesy of looking my way again. Rena took me by the hand and led me off, closing the door behind us.

As soon as we were outside, I heard a sharp babble of argument, but I could make out no words through the door. I didn’t need to; I knew exactly what they were saying.

This was the proposition: Resolved, that the easiest thing to do is put Wills out of the way permanently. And with Slovetski’s fiery eyes urging the positive, what eager debater would say him nay?

* * * *

Rena said: “I can’t tell you, Tom. Please don’t ask me!”

I said, “This is no kid’s game, Rena! They’re talking about bombing the Home Office!”

She shook her head. “Tom, Tom. You must have misunderstood.”

“I heard them!”

“Tom, please don’t ask me any more questions.”

I slammed my hand down on the table and swore. It didn’t do any good. She didn’t even look up from the remains of her dinner.

It had been like that all afternoon. The Great Ones brooded in secret. Rena and I waited in her room, until the museum’s public visiting hours were over and we could go up into the freer atmosphere of the reception lounge. And then we waited there.

I said mulishly: “Ever since I met you, Rena, I’ve been doing nothing but wait. I’m not built that way!”

No answer.

I said, with all of my patience: “Rena, I heard them talking about bombing the Home Office. Do you think I am going to forget that?”

Leadenly: “No, Tom.”

“So what does it matter if you tell me more? If I cannot be trusted, I already know too much. If I can be trusted, what does it matter if I know the rest?”

Again tears. “Please don’t ask me!”

I yelled: “At least you can tell me what we’re waiting for!”

She dabbed at her eyes. “Please, Tom, I don’t know much more than you do. Slovetski, he is like this sometimes. He gets, I suppose you would say, thoughtful. He concentrates so very much on one thing, you see, that he forgets everything around him. It is possible that he has forgotten that we are waiting. I don’t know.”

I snarled, “I’m tired of this. Go in and remind him!”

“No, Tom!” There was fright in her voice; and I found that she had told me one of the things I wanted to know. If it was not wise to remind Slovetski that I was waiting his pleasure, the probability was that it would not be pleasant for me when he remembered.

I said, “But you must know something, Rena. Don’t you see that it could do no harm to tell me?”

She said miserably, “Tom, I know very little. I did not—did not know as much as you found out.” I stared at her. She nodded. “I had perhaps a suspicion, it is true. Yes, I suspected. But I did not really think, Tom, that there was a question of bombing. It is not how we were taught. It is not what Slovetski promised, when we began.”

“You mean you didn’t know Slovetski was planning violence?”

She shook her head. “And even now, I think, perhaps you heard wrong, perhaps there was a mistake.”

I stood up and leaned over her. “Rena, listen to me. There was no mistake. They’re working on that casing. Tell me what you know!”

She shook her head, weeping freely.

I raged: “This is asinine! What can there be that you will not tell? The Company supply base that Slovetski hopes to raid to get a bomb? The officers he plans to bribe, to divert some other nation’s quota of plutonium?”

She took a deep breath. “Not that, Tom.”

“Then what? You don’t mean to say that he has a complete underground separator plant—that he is making his own plutonium!”

She was silent for a long time, looking at me. Then she sighed. “I will tell you, Tom. No, he does not have a plant. He doesn’t need one, you see. He already has a bomb.”

I straightened. “That’s impossible.”

She was shaking her head. I protested, “But the—the quotas, Rena. The Company tracks every milligram of fissionable material from the moment it leaves the reactor! The inspections! Expediters with Geiger counters cover every city in the world!”

“Not here, Tom. You remember that the Sicilians bombed Vesuvius? There is a high level of radioactivity all up and down the mountain. Not enough to be dangerous, but enough to mask a buried bomb.” She closed her eyes. “And—well, you are right, Tom. I might as well tell you. In that same war, you see, there was a bomb that did not explode. You recall?”

“Yes, but—”

“But it couldn’t explode, Tom. It was a dummy. Slovetski is a brilliant man. Before that bomb left the ground, he had diverted it. What went up was a hollow shell. What is left—the heart of the bomb—is buried forty feet beneath us.”

I stared at her, the room reeling. I was clutching at straws. I whispered, “But that was only a fission bomb, Rena. Slovetski—I heard him—he said a Thousand-kiloton bomb. That means hydrogen, don’t you see? Surely he hasn’t tucked one of those away.”

Rena’s face was an agony of regret. “I do not understand all these things, so you must bear with me. I know this; there has been secret talk about the Milanese generators, and I know that the talk has to do with heavy water. And I am not stupid altogether, I know that from heavy water one can get what is used in a hydrogen bomb. And there is more, of course—lithium, perhaps? But he has that. You have seen it, I think. It is on a pedestal in this building.”

I sat down hard. It was impossible. But it all fell into place. Given the fissionable core of the bomb—plus the deuterium, plus the lithium-bearing shell—it was no great feat to put the parts together and make a Hell-bomb.

The mind rejected it; it was too fantastic. It was frightful and terrifying, and worst of all was that something lurking at the threshold of memory, something about that bomb on display in the museum…

And, of course, I remembered.

“Rena!” I said, struggling for breath. I nearly could not go on, it was too dreadful to say. “Rena! Have you ever looked at that bomb? Have you read the placard on it? That bomb is cobalt!”

CHAPTER XII

From the moment I had heard those piercing words from Slovetski’s mouth, I had been obsessed with a vision. A Hell-bomb on the Home Office. America’s eastern seaboard split open. New York a hole in the ocean, from Kingston to Sandy Hook; orange flames spreading across Connecticut and the Pennsylvania corner.

That was gone—and in its place was something worse.

Radiocobalt bombing wouldn’t simply kill locally by a gout of flaring radiation. It would leave the atmosphere filled with colloidal particles of deadly, radioactive Cobalt-60. A little of that could be used to cure cancers and perform miracles. The amount released from the sheathing of cobalt—normal, “safe” cobalt—around a fissioning hydrogen bomb could kill a world. A single bomb of that kind could wipe out all life on Earth, as I remembered my schooling.

I’m no physicist; I didn’t know what the quantities involved might mean, once the equations came off the drafting paper and settled like a ravening storm on the human race. But I had a glimpse of radioactive dust in every breeze, in every corner of every land. Perhaps a handful of persons in Cambodia or Vladivostok or Melbourne might live through it. But there was no question in my mind: If that bomb went off, it was the end of our civilization.

I saw it clearly.

And so, having betrayed the Company to Slovetski’s gang, I came full circle.

Even Judas betrayed only One.

* * * *

Getting away from the Observatory was simple enough, with Rena shocked and confused enough to look the other way. Finding a telephone near Mount Vesuvius was much harder.

I was two miles from the mountain before I found what I was looking for—a Blue Wing fully-automatic filling station. The electronic scanners clucked worriedly, as they searched for the car I should have been driving, and the policy-punching slot glowed red and receptive, waiting for my order. I ignored them.

What I wanted was inside the little unlocked building—a hushaphone-booth with vision attachment. The important thing was to talk direct to Defoe and only to Defoe. In the vision screen, impedance mismatch would make the picture waver if there was anyone uninvited listening in.

But I left the screen off while I put through my call. The office servo-operator (it was well after business hours) answered blandly, and I said: “Connect me with Defoe, crash priority.”

It was set to handle priority matters on a priority basis; there was neither fuss nor argument, though a persistent buzzing in the innards of the phone showed that, even while the robot was locating Defoe for me, it was double-checking the connection to find out why there was no vision on the screen.

It said briskly, “Stand by, sir,” and I was connected with Defoe’s line—on a remote hookup with the hotel where he was staying, I guessed. I flicked the screen open.

But it wasn’t Defoe on the other end of the line. It was Susan Manchester, with that uncharacteristic, oddly efficient look she had shown at the vaults.

She said crisply, and not at all surprised: “Tom Wills.”

“That’s right,” I said, thinking quickly. Well, it didn’t much matter. I should have realized that Defoe’s secretary, howsoever temporary, would be taking his calls. I said rapidly: “Susan, I can’t talk to you. It has to be Defoe. Take my word for it, it’s important. Please put him on.”

She gave me no more of an argument than the robot had.

In a second, Defoe was on the screen, and I put Susan out of my mind. She must have said something to him, because the big, handsome face was unsurprised, though the eyes were contracted. “Wills!” he snapped. “You fool! Where are you?”

I said, “Mr. Defoe, I have to talk to you. It’s a very urgent matter.”

“Come in and do it, Wills! Not over the telephone.”

I shook my head. “No, sir. I can’t. It’s too, well, risky.”

“Risky for you, you mean!” The words were icily disgusted. “Wills, you have betrayed me. No man ever got away with that. You’re imposing on me, playing on my family loyalty to your dead wife, and I want to tell you that you won’t get away with it. There’s a murder charge against you, Wills! Come in and talk to me—or else the police will pick you up before noon.”

I said with an effort, “I don’t mean to impose on any loyalty, but, in common decency, you ought to hear—”

“Decency!” His face was cold. “You talk about decency! You and that dell’Angela traitor you joined. Decency! Wills, you’re a disgrace to the memory of a decent and honest woman like Marianna. I can only say that I am glad—glad, do you hear me?—that she’s dead and rid of you.”

I said, “Wait a minute, Defoe! Leave Marianna out of this. I only—”

“Don’t interrupt me! God, to think a man I trusted should turn out to be Judas himself! You animal, the Company has protected you from the day you were born, and you try to destroy it. Why, you pitiful idiot, you aren’t fit to associate with the dogs in the kennel of a decent human being!”

There was more. Much, much more. It was a flow of abuse that paralyzed me, less because of what he said than because of who was saying it. Suave, competent Defoe, ranting at me like a wounded Gogarty! I couldn’t have been more astonished if the portrait of Millen Carmody had whispered a bawdy joke from the frontispiece of the Handbook.

I stood there, too amazed to be furious, listening to the tirade from the midget image in the viewplate. It must have lasted for three or four minutes; then, almost in mid-breath, Defoe glanced at something outside my range of vision, and stopped his stream of abuse. I started to cut in while I could, but he held up one hand quickly.

He smiled gently. Very calmly, as though he had not been damning me a moment before, he said: “I shall be very interested to hear what you have to say.”

That floored me. It took me a second to shake the cobwebs out of my brain before I said waspishly, “If you hadn’t gone through all that jabber, you would have heard it long ago.”

The midget in the scanner shrugged urbanely. “True,” he conceded. “But then, Thomas, I wouldn’t have had you.”

And he reached forward and clicked off the phone. Tricked! Tricked and trapped! I cursed myself for stupidity. While he kept me on the line, the call was being traced—there was no other explanation. And I had fallen for it!

I slapped the door of the booth open and leaped out.

I got perhaps ten feet from the booth.

Then a rope dropped over my shoulders. Its noose yanked tight around my arms, and I was being dragged up, kicking futilely. I caught a glimpse of the broad Latin faces gaping at me from below, then two men on a rope ladder had me.

I was dragged in through the bottom hatch of a big helicopter with no markings. The hatch closed. Facing me was a lieutenant of expediters.

The two men tumbled in after me and reeled in the rope ladder, as the copter dipped and swerved away. I let myself go limp as the rope was loosened around me; when my hands were free I made my bid.

I leaped for the lieutenant; my fist caught him glancingly on the throat, sending him reeling and choking backward. I grabbed for the hard-pellet gun at his hip—he was pawing at it—and we tumbled across the floor.

It was, for one brief moment, a chance. I was no copter pilot, but the gun was all the pilot I’d need—if only I got it out.

But the expediters behind me were no amateurs. I ducked as the knotted end of the rope whipped savagely toward me. Then one of the other expediters was on my back; the gun came out, and flew free. And that was the end of that.

I had, I knew, been a fool to try it. But I wasn’t sorry. They had too much rough-and-tumble training for me to handle. But that one blow had felt good.

It didn’t seem as worthwhile a few moments later. I was fastened to a seat, while the wheezing lieutenant gave orders in a strangled voice. “Not too many marks on him,” he was saying. “Try it over the kidneys again…”

I never even thought of maintaining a heroic silence. They had had plenty of experience with the padded club, too, and I started to black out twice before finally I went all the way down.

* * * *

I came to with a light shining in my eyes.

There was a doctor putting his equipment away. “He’ll be all right, Mr. Defoe,” he said, and snapped his bag shut and left the circle of light.

I felt terrible, but my head was clearing.

I managed to focus my eyes. Defoe was there, and a couple of other men. I recognized Gogarty, looking sick and dejected, and another face I knew—it was out of my Home Office training—an officer whose name I didn’t recall, wearing the uniform of a lieutenant-general of expediters. That meant at least an expediter corps in Naples!

I said weakly, “Hi.”

Defoe stood over me. He said, “I’m very glad to see you, Thomas. Coffee?”

He steadied my hands as I gulped it. When I had managed a few swallows, he took the cup away.

“I did not think you would resist arrest, Thomas,” he said in a parental tone.

I said, “Damn it, you didn’t have to arrest me! I came down here of my own free will!”

“Down?” His eyebrows rose. “Down from where do you mean, Thomas?”

“Down from Mount—” I hesitated, then finished. “All right. Down from Mount Vesuvius. The museum, where I was hiding out with the ringleaders of the anti-Company movement. Is that what you want to know?”

Defoe crackled: “Manning!” The lieutenant-general saluted and left the room. Defoe said, “That was the first thing I wanted, yes. But now I want much more. Please begin talking, Thomas. I will listen.”

I talked. There was nothing to stop me. Even with my body a mass of aches and pains from the tender care of the Company’s expediters, I still had to side with the Company in this. For the Cobalt-bomb ended all loyalties.

I left nothing important out, not even Rena. I admitted that I had taken Benedetto from the clinic, how we had escaped to Rome, how we had fled to Vesuvius…and what I had learned. I made it short, skipping a few unimportant things like Zorchi.

And Defoe sat sipping his coffee, listening, his warm eyes twinkling.

I stopped. He pursed his lips, considering.

“Silly,” he said at last.

“Silly? What’s silly!”

He said, “Thomas, I don’t care about your casual affairs. And I would have excused your—precipitousness—since you have brought back certain useful information. Quite useful. I don’t deny it. But I don’t like being lied to, Thomas.”

“I haven’t lied!”

He said sharply, “There is no way to get fissionable material except through the Company!”

“Oh, hell!” I shook my head. “How about a dud bomb, Defoe?”

For the first time he looked puzzled. “Dud bomb?”

Gogarty looked sick. “There’s—there’s a report on your desk, Mr. Defoe,” he said worriedly. “We—well—figured the half-masses just got close enough to boil instead of to explode. We—”

“I see.” Defoe looked at him for a long moment. Then, disregarding Gogarty, he turned back to me, shoved the coffee at me. “All right, Thomas. They’ve got the warhead. Hydrogen? Cobalt? What about fuel?”

I told him what I knew. Gogarty, listening, licked his lips. I didn’t envy him. I could see the worry in him, the fear of Defoe’s later wrath. For in Defoe, as in Slovetski, there was that deadly fire. It blazed only when it was allowed to; but what it touched withered and died. I had not seen Defoe as tightly concentrated, as drivingly intent, before. I was sorry for Gogarty when at last, having drained me dry, Defoe left. But I was glad for me.

* * * *

He was gone less than an hour—just time for me to eat a Class-C meal a silent expediter brought.

He thrust the door open and stared at me with whitely glaring eyes. “If I thought you were lying, Thomas…” His voice was cracking with suppressed emotion.

“What happened?” I demanded.

“Don’t you know?” He stood trembling, staring at me. “You told the truth—or part of the truth. There was a hideout on Vesuvius. But an hour ago they got away—while you were wasting time. Was it a stall, Thomas? Did you know they would run?”

I said, “Defoe, don’t you see, that’s all to the good? If they had to run, they couldn’t possibly take the bomb with them. That means—”

He was shaking his head. “Oh, but you’re wrong, Thomas. According to the director of the albergo down the hill, three skyhook helicopters came over—big ones. They peeled the roof off, as easy as you please, and they lifted the bomb out and then flew away.”

I said stupidly, “Where?”

He nodded. There was no emotion in his voice, only in his eyes. He might have been discussing the weather. “Where? That is a good question. I hope we will find it out, Thomas. We’re checking the radar charts; they can’t hide for long. But how did they get away at all? Why did you give them the time?”

He left me. Perversely, I was almost glad. It was part of the price of switching allegiance, I was learning, that shreds and tatters of loyalties cling to you and carry over. When I went against the Company to rescue Benedetto, I still carried with me my Adjusters’ Handbook. And I confess that I never lost the habit of reading a page or two in it, even in the Catacombs, when things looked bad. And when I saw the murderous goal that Slovetski’s men were marching toward, and I returned to Defoe, I still could feel glad that Benedetto, at least, had got away.

But not far.

It was only a few hours, but already broad daylight when Gogarty, looking shaken, came into the room. He said testily, “Damn it, Wills, I wish I’d never seen you! Come on! Defoe wants you with us.”

“Come on where?” I got up as he gestured furiously for haste.

“Where do you think? Did you think your pals would be able to stay out of sight forever? We’ve got them pinpointed, bomb and all.”

He was almost dragging me down the corridor, toward a courtyard. I limped out into the bright morning and blinked. The court was swarming with armed expediters, clambering into personnel-carrying copters marked with the vivid truce-team insignia of the Company. Gogarty hustled me into the nearest and the jets sizzled and we leaped into the air.

I shouted, over the screaming of the jets, “Where are we going?”

Gogarty spat and pointed down the long purple coastline. “To their hideout—Pompeii!”

CHAPTER XIII

No one discussed tactics with me, but it was clear that this operation was carefully planned. Our copter was second in a long string of at least a dozen that whirled down the coastline, past the foothills of Vesuvius, over the clusters of fishing villages and vineyards.

I had never seen Pompeii, but I caught a glimpse of something glittering and needle-nosed, upthrust in the middle of a cluster of stone buildings that might have been the ruins.

Then the first ten of the copters spun down to a landing, while two or three more flew a covering mission overhead.

The expediters, hard-pellet guns at the ready, leaped out and formed in a skirmish line. Gogarty and a pair of expediters stayed close by me, behind the line of attack; we followed the troops as they dog-trotted through a field of some sort of grain, around fresh excavations, down a defile into the shallow pit that held the ruins of first-century Pompeii.

I had no time for archeology, but I remember tripping over wide, shallow gutters in the stone-paved streets, and cutting through a tiny villa of some sort whose plaster walls still were decorated with faded frescoes.

Then we heard the spatter of gunfire and Gogarty, clutching at me, skidded to a halt. “This is specialist work,” he panted. “Best thing we can do is stay out of it.”

I peered around a column and saw a wide open stretch. Beyond it was a Roman arch and the ruined marble front of what once had been a temple of some sort; in the open ground lay the three gigantic copters Defoe had mentioned.

The vanes of one of them were spinning slowly, and it lurched and quivered as someone tried to get it off the ground under fire. But the big thing was in the middle of the area: The bomb, enormous and terrifying as its venomous nose thrust up into the sky. By its side was a tank truck, the side of it painted with the undoubtedly untrue legend that it contained crude olive oil. Hydrazine, more likely!

Hoses connected it with the base of the guided-missile bomb; and a knot of men were feverishly in action around it, some clawing desperately at the fittings of the bomb, some returning the skirmish fire of the expediters.

We had the advantage of surprise, but not very much of that. From the top of the ancient temple a rapid-fire pellet gun sprayed into the flank of the skirmish line, which immediately broke up as the expediters leaped for cover.

One man fell screaming out of the big skyhook copter, but someone remained inside, for it lurched and dipped and roared crazily across the field in as ragged a takeoff as I ever saw, until its pilot got it under control. It bobbed over the skirmish line under fire, but returning the fire as whatever few persons were inside it leaned out and strafed the expediters. Then the skyhook itself came under attack as the patrol copters swooped in.

The big ship staggered toward the nearest of them. It must have been intentional: We could see the faint flare of muzzle-blast as the two copters fired on each other; they closed, and there was a brutal rending noise as they collided. They were barely a hundred feet in the air; they crashed in a breath, and flames spread out from the wreckage.

And Slovetski’s resources still had not run out. There was a roar and a screech of metal, and a one-man cobra tank slithered out of one of the buildings and came rapidly across the field toward the expediters.

Gogarty, beside me, was sobbing with fear; that little tank carried self-loading rockets. It blasted a tiny shrine into rubble, spun and came directly toward us.

We ran. I didn’t even see the second expediter aircraft come whirling in and put the cobra tank out of action with its heavy weapons. I heard the firing, but it was swallowed up in a louder screaming roar.

Gogarty stared at me from the drainage trench we had flung ourselves into. We both leaped up and ran back toward the open field.

There was an explosion as we got there—the fake “olive-oil” truck, now twenty yards from the bomb, had gone up in a violent blast. But we hardly noticed. For at the base of the bomb itself red-purple fire was billowing out. It screamed and howled and changed color to a blinding blue as the ugly squat shape danced and jiggled. The roar screamed up from a bull-bass to a shrieking coloratura and beyond as the bomb lifted and gained speed and, in the blink of an eye, was gone.

I hardly noticed that the sound of gunfire died raggedly away. We were not the only ones staring unbelievingly at the sky where that deadly shape had disappeared. Of the scores of men on both sides in that area, not a single eye was anywhere else.

The bomb had been fueled; we were too late. Its servitors, perhaps at the cost of their own lives, had torched it off. It was on its way.

The cobalt bomb—the single weapon that could poison the world and wipe out the human race—was on its way.

CHAPTER XIV

What can you do after the end? What becomes of any plot or plan, when an indigo-gleaming missile sprays murder into the sky and puts a period to planning?

I do not think there ever was a battlefield as abruptly quiet as that square in old Pompeii. Once the bomb had gone, there was not a sound. The men who had been firing on each other were standing still, jaws hanging, eyes on the sky.

But it couldn’t last. For one man was not surprised; one man knew what was happening and was ready for it.

A crouching figure at the top of the ruined temple gesticulated and shouted through a power-megaphone: “Give it up, Defoe! You’ve lost, you’ve lost!” It was Slovetski, and beside him a machine-gun crew sighted in on the nearest knot of expediters.

Pause, while the Universe waited. And then his answer came; it was a shot that screamed off a cracked capital, missing him by millimeters. He dropped from sight, and the battle was raging.

Human beings are odd. Now that the cause of the fight was meaningless, it doubled in violence. There were fewer than a hundred of Slovetski’s men involved, and not much more than that many expediters. But for concentrated violence I think they must have overmatched anything in the Short War’s ending.

I was a non-combatant; but the zinging of the hard-pellet fire swarmed all around me. Gogarty, in his storm sewer, was safe enough, but I was more exposed. While the rapid-fire weapons pattered all around me, I jumped up and zigzagged for the shelter of a low-roofed building.

The walls were little enough protection, but at least I had the illusion of safety. Most of all, I was out of sight.

I wormed my way through a gap in the wall to an inner chamber. It was as tiny a room as ever I have been in; less than six feet in its greatest dimension—length—and with most of its floor area taken up by what seemed to be a rude built-in bed. Claustrophobia hit me there; the wall on the other side was broken too, and I wriggled through.

The next room was larger; and it was occupied.

A man lay, panting heavily, in a corner. He pushed himself up on an elbow to look at me. In a ragged voice he said: “Thomas!” And he slumped back, exhausted by the effort, blood dripping from his shirt.

I leaped over to the side of Benedetto dell’Angela. The noise of the battle outside rose to a high pitch and dwindled raggedly away.

* * * *

I suppose it was inertia that kept me going—certainly I could see with my mind’s vision no reason to keep struggling. The world was at an end. There was no reason to try again to escape from the rubber hoses of the expediters—and, after I had seen the resistance end, and an expediter-officer appeared atop the temple where Slovetski had shouted his defiance, no possibility of rejoining the rebels.

Without Slovetski, they were lost.

But I kept on.

Benedetto helped. He knew every snake-hole entrance and exit of all the hideouts of Slovetski’s group. They had not survived against the strength of the Company without acquiring skill in escape routes; and here, too, they had a way out. It required a risky dash across open ground but, even with Benedetto on my back, I made it.

And then we were in old Pompeii’s drainage sewer, the arched stone tunnel that once had carried sewage from the Roman town to the sea. It was a hiding place, and then a tunnel to freedom, for the two of us.

We waited there all of that day, Benedetto mumbling almost inaudibly beside me. In lucid moments, he told me the name of the hotel where Rena had gone when the Observatory was abandoned, but there seemed few lucid moments. Toward evening, he began to recover.

We found our way to the seashore just as darkness fell. There was a lateen-rigged fishing vessel of some sort left untended. I do not suppose the owner was far away, but he did not return in time to stop us.

Benedetto was very weak. He was muttering to himself, words that I could hardly understand. “Wasted, wasted, wasted,” was the burden of his complaint. I did not know what he thought was wasted—except, perhaps, the world.

We slipped in to one of the deserted wharves under cover of darkness, and I left Benedetto to find a phone. It was risky, but what risk mattered when the world was at an end?

Rena was waiting at the hotel. She answered at once. I did not think the call had been intercepted—or that it would mean anything to anyone if it had. I went back to the boat to wait with Benedetto for Rena to arrive, in a rented car. We didn’t dare chance a cab.

Benedetto was sitting up, propped rigidly against the mast, staring off across the water. Perhaps I startled him as I came to the boat; he turned awkwardly and cried out weakly.

Then he saw that it was I. He said something I could not understand and pointed out toward the west, where the Sun had gone down long before.

But there was still light there—though certainly not sunset.

Far off over the horizon was a faint glow! I couldn’t understand at first, since I was sure the bomb had been zeroed-in on the Home Offices in New York; but something must have happened. From that glow, still showing in the darkness so many hours after the explosion as the dust particles gleamed bluely, it must have gone off over the Atlantic.

There was no doubt in my mind any longer. The most deadly weapon the world had ever known had gone off!

CHAPTER XV

The hotel was not safe, of course, but what place was when the world was at an end? Rena and I, between us, got her father, Benedetto, upstairs into her room without attracting too much attention. We put him on the bed and peeled back his jacket.

The bullet had gone into his shoulder, a few inches above the heart. The bone was splintered, but the bleeding was not too much. Rena did what she could and, for the first time in what seemed like years, we had a moment’s breathing space.

I said, “I’ll phone for a doctor.”

Benedetto said faintly, “No, Thomas! The Company!”

I protested, “What’s the difference? We’re all dead, now. You’ve seen—” I hesitated and changed it. “Slovetski has seen to that. There was cobalt in that bomb.”

He peered curiously at me. “Slovetski? Did you suppose it was Slovetski who planned it so?” He shook his head—and winced at the pain. He whispered, “Thomas, you do not understand. It was my project, not Slovetski’s. That one, he proposed to destroy the Company’s Home Office; it was his thought that killing them would bring an end to evil. I persuaded him there was no need to kill—only to gamble.”

I stared at him. “You’re delirious!”

“Oh, no.” He shook his head and succeeded in a tiny smile. “Do you not see it, Thomas? The great explosion goes off, the world is showered with particles of death. And then—what then?”

“We die!”

“Die? No! Have you forgotten the vaults of the clinics?”

It staggered me. I’d been reciting all the pat phrases from early schooling about the bomb! If it had gone off in the Short War, of course, it would have ended the human race! But I’d been a fool.

The vaults had been built to handle the extreme emergencies that couldn’t be foreseen—even one that knocked out nearly the whole race. They hadn’t expected that a cobalt-cased bomb would ever be used. Only the conspirators would have tried, and how could they get fissionables? But they were ready for even that. I’d been expecting universal doom.

“The clinics,” Benedetto repeated as I stared at him.

It was the answer. Even radio-poisons of cobalt do not live forever. Five years, and nearly half of them would be gone; eleven years, and more than three-quarters would be dissipated. In fifty years, the residual activity would be down to a fraction of one per cent—and the human race could come back to the surface.

“But why?” I demanded. “Suppose the Company can handle the population of the whole world? Granted, they’ve space enough and one year is the same as fifty when you’re on ice. But what’s the use?”

He smiled faintly. “Bankruptcy, Thomas,” he whispered. “So you see, we do not wish to fall into the Company’s hands right now. For there is a chance that we will live…and perhaps the very faintest of chances that we will win!”

* * * *

It wasn’t even a faint chance—I kept telling myself that.

But, if anything could hurt the Company, the area in which it was vulnerable was money. Benedetto had been intelligent in that. Bombing the Home Office would have been an inconvenience, no more. But to disrupt the world’s work with a fifty-year hiatus, while the air purged itself of the radioactive cobalt from the bomb, would mean fifty years while the Company lay dormant; fifty years while the policies ran their course and became due.

For that was the wonder of Benedetto’s scheme: The Company insured against everything. If a man were to be exposed to radiation and needed to be put away, he automatically went on “disability” benefits, while his policy paid its own premiums!

Multiply this single man by nearly four billion. The sum came out to a bankrupt Company.

It seemed a thin thread with which to strangle a monster. And yet, I thought of the picture of Millen Carmody in my Adjuster’s Manual. There was the embodiment of honor. Where a Defoe might cut through the legalities and flout the letter of the agreements, Carmody would be bound by his given word. The question, then, was whether Defoe would dare to act against Carmody.

Everything else made sense. Even exploding the bomb high over the Atlantic: It would be days before the first fall-out came wind-borne to the land, and in those days there would be time for the beginnings of the mass migration to the vaults.

Wait and see, I told myself. Wait and see. It was flimsy, but it was hope, and I had thought all hope was dead.

We could not stay in the hotel, and there was only one place for us to go. Slovetski captured, the Company after our scalps, the whole world about to be plunged into confusion—we had to get out of sight.

* * * *

It took time. Zorchi’s hospital gave me a clue; I tracked it down and located the secretary.

The secretary spat at me over the phone and hung up, but the second time I called him he grudgingly consented to give me another number to call. The new number was Zorchi’s lawyer. The lawyer was opaque and uncommunicative, but proposed that I call him back in a quarter of an hour. In a quarter of an hour, I was on the phone. He said guardedly: “What was left in Bay 100?”

“A hypodermic and a bottle of fluid,” I said promptly.

“That checks,” he confirmed, and gave me a number.

And on the other end of that number I reached Zorchi.

“The junior assassin,” he sneered. “And calling for help? How is that possible, Weels? Did my avocatto lie?”

I said stiffly, “If you don’t want to help me, say so.”

“Oh—” he shrugged. “I have not said that. What do you want?”

“Food, a doctor, and a place for three of us to hide for a while.”

He pursed his lips. “To hide, is it?” He frowned. “That is very grave, Weels. Why should I hide you from what is undoubtedly your just punishment?”

“Because,” I said steadily, “I have a telephone number. Which can be traced. Defoe doesn’t know you’ve escaped, but that can be fixed!”

He laughed angrily. “Oh-ho. The assassin turns to blackmail, is that it?”

I said furiously, “Damn you, Zorchi, you know I won’t turn you in. I only point out that I can—and that I will not. Now, will you help us or not?”

He said mildly, “Oh, of course. I only wished you to say ‘please’—but it is not a trick you Company men are good at. Signore, believe me, I perish with loneliness for you and your two friends, whoever they may be. Listen to me, now.” He gave me an address and directions for finding it. And he hung up.

Zorchi’s house was far outside the city, along the road to New Caserta. It lay at the bend of the main highway, and I suppose I could have passed it a hundred thousand times without looking inside, it was so clearly the white-stuccoed, large but crumbling home of a mildly prosperous peasant. It was large enough to have a central court partly concealed from the road.

The secretary, spectacles and all, met us at the door—and that was a shock. “You must have roller skates,” I told him.

He shrugged. “My employer is too forgiving,” he said, with ice on his voice. “I had hoped to reach him before he made an error. As you see, I was too late.”

We lifted Benedetto off the seat; he was just barely conscious by now, and his face was ivory under the Mediterranean tan. I shook the secretary off and held Benedetto carefully in my arms as Rena held the door before me.

The secretary said, “A moment. I presume the car is stolen. You must dispose of it at once.”

I snarled over my shoulder, “It isn’t stolen, but the people that own it will be looking for it all right. You get rid of it.”

He spluttered and squirmed, but I saw him climbing into the seat as I went inside. Zorchi was there waiting, in a fancy motorized wheelchair. He had legs! Apparently they were not fully developed as yet, but in the short few days since I had rescued him something had grown that looked like nearly normal limbs. He had also grown, in that short time, a heavy beard.

The sneer, however, was the same.

I made the error of saying, “Signore Zorchi, will you call a doctor for this man?”

The thick lips writhed under the beard. “Signore it is now, is it? No longer the freak Zorchi, the case Zorchi, the half-man? God works many miracles, Weels. See the greatest of them all—it has transmuted the dog into a signore!”

I grated, “For God’s sake, Zorchi, call a doctor!”

He said coldly, “You mentioned this over the phone, did you not? If you would merely walk on instead of bickering, you would find the doctor already here.”

* * * *

Plasma and antibiotics: They flowed into Benedetto from half a dozen plastic tubes like oil into the hold of a tanker. And I could see, in the moments when I watched, the color come back into his face, and the sunken eyes seem to come back to life.

The doctor gave him a sedative that made him sleep, and explained to us that Benedetto was an old man for such goings-on. But if he could be kept still for three or four weeks, the doctor said, counting the lire Zorchi’s secretary paid him, there was no great danger.

If he could be kept still for three or four weeks. In scarcely ten days, the atmosphere of the planet would be death to breathe! Many things might happen to Benedetto in that time, but remaining still was not one of them.

Zorchi retired to his own quarters once the doctor was gone, and Rena and I left Benedetto to sleep.

We found a television set and turned it on, listening for word of the cobalt-bomb. We got recorded canzoni sung by a reedy tenor. We dialed, and found the Neapolitan equivalent of a soap opera, complete with the wise, fat old mother and the sobbing new daughter-in-law. It was like that on all the stations, while Rena and I stared at each other in disbelief.

Finally, at the regular hourly newscast, we got a flicker: “An unidentified explosion,” the announcer was saying, “far out at sea, caused alarm to many persons last night. Although the origins are not known, it is thought that there is no danger. However, there has been temporary disturbance to all long-lines communications, and air travel is grounded while the explosion is being investigated.”

We switched to the radio: it was true. Only the UHF television bands were on the air.

I said, “I can’t figure that. If there’s enough disturbance to ruin long-distance transmission, it ought to show up on the television.”

Rena said doubtfully, “I do not remember for sure, Tom, but is there not something about television which limits its distance?”

“Well—I suppose so, yes. It’s a line of sight transmission, on these frequencies at any rate. I don’t suppose it has to be, except that all the television bands fall in VHF or UHF channels.”

“Yes. And then, is it not possible that only the distance transmission is interrupted? On purpose, I mean?”

I slammed my hand on the arm of the chair. “On purpose! The Company—they are trying to keep this thing localized. But the idiots, don’t they know that’s impossible? Does Defoe think he can let the world burn up without doing anything to stop it—just by keeping the people from knowing what happened?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know, Tom.”

I didn’t know either, but I suspected—and so did she. It was out of the question that the Company, with its infinite resources, its nerve-fibers running into every part of the world, should not know just what that bomb was, and what it would do. And what few days the world had—before the fallout became dangerous—were none too many.

Already the word should have been spread, and the first groups alerted for movement into the vaults, to wait out the day when the air would be pure again. If it was being delayed, there could be no good reason for it.

The only reason was Defoe. But what, I asked myself miserably, was Millen Carmody doing all this while? Was he going to sit back and placidly permit Defoe to pervert every ideal of the Company?

I could not believe it. It was not possible that the man who had written the inspiring words in the Handbook could be guilty of genocide.

Rena excused herself to look in on her father. Almost ashamed of myself, I took the battered book from my pocket and opened it to check on Millen Carmody’s own preface.

It was hard to reconcile the immensely reassuring words with what I had seen. And, as I read them, I no longer felt safe and comforted.

* * * *

There seemed to be no immediate danger, and Rena needed to get out of that house. There was nothing for Benedetto to do but wait, and Zorchi’s servants could help him when it was necessary.

I took her by the arm and we strolled out into the garden, breathing deeply. That was a mistake. I had forgotten, in the inconspicuous air conditioning of Zorchi’s home, that we were in the center of the hemp fields that had nearly cost me my dinner, so long ago, with Hammond. I wondered if I ever would know just why Hammond was killed. Playing both ends against the middle, it seemed—he had undoubtedly been in with Slovetski’s group. Rena had admitted as much, and I was privately certain that he had been killed by them.

But of more importance was the stench in our nostrils. “Perhaps,” said Rena, “across the road, in the walnut grove, it will not be as bad.”

I hesitated, but it felt safe in the warm Italian night, and so we tried it. The sharp scent of the walnut trees helped a little; what helped even more was that the turbinates of the nostril can stand just so much, and when their tolerance is exceeded they surrender. So that it wasn’t too long before, though the stench was as strong as ever, we hardly noticed it.

We sat against the thick trunk of a tree, and Rena’s head fitted naturally against my shoulder. She was silent for a time, and so was I—it seemed good to have silence, after violent struggle and death.

Then she said: “Strange man.”

“Me?”

“No. Oh, yes, Tom, if it comes to that, you, too. But I was thinking just now of Zorchi. Is it true, what you told me of his growing legs and arms so freely?”

“I thought everyone in Naples knew that. I thought he was a national hero.”

“Of course, but I have never really known that the stories were true. How does it happen, Tom?”

I shrugged. “Heaven knows, I don’t. I doubt if even Zorchi knows. His parents might have been involved in some sort of atomic business and got radiated, and so they produced a mutation. It’s perfectly possible, you know.”

“I have heard so, Tom.”

“Or else it just happened. Something in his diet, in the way his glands responded to a sickness, some sort of medicine. No one knows.”

“Cannot scientists hope to tell?”

“Well—” it was beginning to sound like the seeds of one of our old arguments—“well, I suppose so. Pure research isn’t much encouraged these days.”

“But it should be, you think?”

“Of course it should. The only hope of the world—” I trailed off. Through the trees was a bright, distant glare, and I had just remembered what it was.

“Is what, Tom?”

“There isn’t any,” I said, but only to myself. She didn’t press me; she merely burrowed into my arm.

Perhaps the wind shifted, and the smell of the hemp fields grew stronger; perhaps it was only the foul thought that the glaring sky had triggered that contaminated my mood. But where I had been happy and relaxed—the C-bomb completely out of my mind for the moment—now I was too fully aware of what was ahead for all of us.

“Let’s go back, Rena,” I said. She didn’t ask why. Perhaps she, too, was feeling the weight of our death sentence.

* * * *

We caught the evening newscast; its story varied little from the early ones.

Benedetto still slept, but Zorchi joined us as we watched it.

The announcer, face stamped with the careful blend of gravity and confidence that marks telecasters all over the world, was saying: “Late word on the bomb exploded over the North Atlantic indicates that there is some danger that radioactive ash may be carried to this area. The danger zones are now being mapped and surveyed, and residents of all such sections will be evacuated or placed in deep sleep until the danger is over.

“Blue Bolt policies give you complete protection against all hazards from this explosion. I repeat, Blue Bolt policies give you complete protection against all hazards from this explosion. Check your policies and be sure of your status. There is absolutely no risk for any person carrying the basic Blue Bolt minimum coverage or better.”

I clicked off the set. “I wonder what the people in Shanghai are hearing tonight,” I said.

Zorchi had only listened without comment, when I told him about the bomb that afternoon; he listened without comment now.

Rena said: “Tom, I’ve been wondering. You know, I—I don’t have any insurance. Neither has my father, since we were canceled. And we’re not the only ones without it, either.”

I patted her hand. “We’ll straighten this out,” I promised. “You’ll get your coverage back.”

She gave me a skeptical look, but shook her head. “I don’t mean just about father and me. What about all of the uninsurables, all over the world? The bomb goes off, and everybody with a policy files down into the vaults, but what about the others?”

I explained, “There are provisions for them. Some of them can be cared for under the dependency clauses in the policies of their next of kin. Others have various charitable arrangements—some localities, for instance, carry blanket floater policies for their paupers and prisoners and so on. And—well, I don’t suppose it would ever come to that, but if someone turned up who had no coverage at all, he could be cared for out of the loss-pool that the Company carries for such contingencies. It wouldn’t be luxurious, but he’d live. You see,” I went on, warming to my subject, “the Company is set up so the actual premiums paid are meaningless. The whole objective of the Company is service; the premiums are only a way to that goal. The Company has no interest other than the good of the world, and—”

I stopped, feeling like a fool. Zorchi was laughing raucously.

I said resentfully, “I guess I asked for that, Zorchi. Well, perhaps what I said sounds funny. But, before God, Zorchi, that’s the way the Company is set up. Here—” I picked the Handbook from the end table beside me and tossed it to him—“read what Millen Carmody says. I won’t try to convince you. Just read it.”

He caught it expertly and dropped it on the floor before him. “So much for your Chief Assassin,” he remarked pleasantly. “The words are no doubt honied, Weels, but I am not at this moment interested to read them.”

I shrugged. It was peculiar how even a reasonable man—I have always thought of myself as a reasonable man—could make a fool of himself. It was no sin that habit had betrayed me into exalting the Company; but it was, at the least, quite silly of me to take offense when my audience disagreed with me.

I said, in what must have been a surly tone, “I don’t suppose you are—why should you? You hate the Company from the word go.”

He shook his head mildly. “I? No, Weels. Believe me, I am the Company’s most devoted friend. Without it, how would I feed my five-times-a-day appetite?”

I sneered at him. “If you’re a friend to the Company, then my best buddy is a tapeworm.”

“Meaning that Zorchi is a parasite?” His eyes were furious. “Weels, you impose on me too far! Be careful! Is it the act of a tapeworm that I bleed and die, over and over? Is it something I chose, did I pray to the saints, before my mother spawned me, that I should be born a monster? No, Weels! We are alike, you gentlemen of the Company and I—we live on blood money, it is true. But the blood I live on, man—it is my own!”

I said mollifyingly, “Zorchi, I’ve had a hard day. I didn’t mean to be nasty. I apologize.”

“Hah!”

“No, really.”

He shrugged, abruptly quiet. “It is of no importance,” he said. “If I wished to bear you a grudge, Weels, I would have more than that to give me cause.” He sighed. “It all looked quite simple twenty-four hours ago, Weels. True, I had worked my little profession in this area as far as it might go—with your help, of course. But the world was before me—I had arranged to fly next week to the Parisian Anarch, to change my name and, perhaps within a month, with a new policy, suffer a severe accident that would provide me with francs for my hobbies. Why is it that you bring bad news always?”

I said, “Wasn’t I of some little assistance to you at one time?”

“In helping me from the deepfreeze? Oh, yes, perhaps. But didn’t you help me into it in the first place, as well? And surely you have already had sufficient credit for aiding my escape—I observe the young lady looking at you with the eyes of one who sees a hero.”

I said in irritation, “You’re infuriating, Zorchi. I suppose you know that. I never claimed any credit for helping you out of the clinic. As a matter of fact, I don’t think I ever mentioned it. Everyone assumed that I had just happened to bring you along—no one questioned it.”

He flared, “You let them assume, Weels? You let them assume that Zorchi was as helpless a side of pork as those other dead ones—you let them guess that you stuck me with a needle, so that it would seem how brave you were? Is it not true that I had revived by myself, Weels?”

I felt myself growing angry. “Of course! But I just didn’t see any reason to—”

“To divide the credit, is that it, Weels? No, say no more; I have closed the subject. However, I point out that there is a difference between the rescue of a helpless hulk and the mere casual assistance one may be invited to give to a Zorchi.”

I let it go at that. There was no point in arguing with that man, ever.

So I left the room—ostensibly to look in on Benedetto, actually to cool off a little. Benedetto seemed fine—that is, the dressings were still in place, he had not moved, his breath and pulse were slow and regular. I took my time before I went back to the room where Zorchi still sat waiting.

He had taken advantage of the time to improve his mind. The man’s curiosity was insatiable; the more he denied it, the more it stuck out all over him. He had thrown the Handbook on the floor when I gave it to him, but as soon as I was out of sight he was leafing through it. He had it open on his lap, face down, as he faced me.

“Weels.” There was, for once, no sardonic rasp to his voice. And his face, I saw, was bone-white. “Weels, permit me to be sure I understand you. It is your belief that this intelligent plan of seeding the world with poison to make it well will succeed, because you believe that a Signore Carmody will evict Defoe from power?”

I said, “Well, not exactly—”

“But almost exactly? That is, you require this Millen Carmody for your plan?”

“It wasn’t my plan. But you’re right about the other.”

“Very good.” He extended the Handbook to me. “There is here a picture which calls itself Millen Carmody. Is that the man?”

I glanced at the familiar warm eyes on the frontispiece. “That’s right. Have you seen him?”

“I have, indeed.” The shaggy beard was twitching—I did not know whether with laughter or the coming of tears. “I saw him not long ago, Weels. It was in what they call Bay 100—you remember? He was in a little bag like the pasta one carries home from a store. He was quite sound asleep, Weels, in the shelf just below the one I woke up in.”

CHAPTER XVI

So now at last I knew why Millen Carmody had permitted Defoe to turn the Company into a prison cell for the world. He couldn’t forbid it, because the dead can forbid nothing, and Carmody was sleeping with the dead. No wonder Defoe was so concerned with the Naples sector!

How long? How long had Carmody been quietly out of the way, while Defoe made his plans and took his steps, and someone in a little room somewhere confected “statements” with Millen Carmody’s signature on them and “interviews” that involved only one man?

It could not have been less than five or six years, I thought, counting back to the time when Defoe’s name first began to register with me as an ordinary citizen, before I had married his cousin. Six years. That was the date of the Prague-Vienna war. And the year following, Hanoi clashed with Cebu. And the year after that, Auckland and Adelaide.

What in God’s name was Defoe’s plan? Nothing as simple as putting Carmody out of the way so that he could loot the Company. No man could wish to be that rich! It was meaningless…

Defoe could be playing for only one thing—power.

But it didn’t matter; all that mattered was that now I knew that Carmody was an enemy to Defoe. He was therefore an ally to Rena and to me, and we needed allies. But how might we get Carmody out of Bay 100?

There weren’t any good answers, though Rena and I, with the help of grumbling comments from Zorchi, debated it until the morning light began to shine. Frontal assault on the clinic was ridiculous. Even a diversionary raid such as Rena had staged to try to rescue her father—only ten days before!—would hardly get us in through the triple-locked door of Bay 100. Even if Slovetski’s movement had still been able to muster the strength to do it, which was not likely.

It was maddening. I had hidden the hypodermic Rena had brought in Bay 100 to get it out of the way. Undoubtedly it was there still—perhaps only a few yards from Millen Carmody. If fifty cubic centimeters of a watery purplish liquid could have been plucked from the little glass bottle and moved the mere inches to the veins of his arms, the problem would be solved—for he could open the door from inside as easily as Zorchi had, and certainly once he was that far we could manage to get him out.

But the thing was impossible, no matter how we looked at it.

* * * *

I suppose I fell asleep sitting in that chair, because I woke up in it. It was in the middle of a crazy nightmare about an avenging angel with cobalt-blue eyes burning at me out of heaven; and I wanted to run from him, but I was frozen by a little man with a hypodermic of ice. I woke up, and I was facing the television set. Someone—Rena, I suppose—had covered me with a light spread. The set was blaring a strident tenor voice. Zorchi was hunched over, watching some opera; I might as well have been a thousand miles away.

I lay blearily watching the tiny figures flickering around the screen, not so much forgetting all the things that were on my mind as knowing what they were and that they existed, but lacking the strength to pick them up and look at them. The opera seemed to concern an Egyptian queen and a priest of some sort; I was not very interested in it, though it seemed odd that Zorchi should watch it so eagerly.

Perhaps, after all, there was something to his maudlin self-pity—perhaps I really did think of him as a monster or a dog, for I was as uneasy to see him watching an opera as I would have been to see an ape play the flute.

I heard trucks going by on the highway. By and by it began to penetrate through the haze that I was hearing a lot of trucks going by on the highway. I had no idea how heavily traveled the Naples-Caserta road might be, but from the sound, they seemed nearly bumper to bumper, whizzing along at seventy or eighty miles an hour.

I got up stiffly and walked over to the window.

I had not been far wrong. There was a steady stream of traffic in both directions—not only trucks but buses and private cars, everything from late-model gyromaxions to ancient piston-driven farm trucks.

Zorchi heard me move, and turned toward me with a hooded expression. I pointed to the window.

“What’s up?” I asked.

He said levelly, “The end of the world. It is now official; it has been on the television. Oh, they do not say it in just so many words, but it is there.”

I turned to the television set and flicked off the tape-relay switch—apparently the opera had been recorded. Zorchi glared, but didn’t try to stop me as I hunted on the broadcast bands for a news announcer.

I didn’t have far to hunt. Every channel was the same: The Company was issuing orders and instructions. Every man, woman and child was to be ready within ten days for commitment to the clinic…

I tried to imagine the scenes of panic and turmoil that would be going on in downtown Naples at that moment.

* * * *

The newscaster was saying: “Remember, if your Basic Blue Bolt policy number begins with the letters A, B or C—if it begins with the letters A, B or C—you are to report to the local first aid or emergency post at six hundred hours tomorrow. There is no danger. I repeat, there is no danger. This is merely a precaution taken by the Company for your protection.” He didn’t really look as though there were no danger, however. He looked like a man confronted by a ghost.

I switched to another channel. An equally harried-looking announcer: “—reported by a team of four physicists from the Royal University to have produced a serious concentration of radioactive byproducts in the upper atmosphere. It is hoped that the cloud of dangerous gases will veer southward and pass harmlessly through the Eastern Mediterranean; however, strictly as a precautionary measure, it is essential that every person in this area be placed in a safety zone during the danger period, the peak of which is estimated to come within the next fourteen days. If there is any damage, it will be only local and confined to livestock—for which you will be reimbursed under your Blue Bolt coverage.”

I switched to another channel. Local damage! Local to the face of the Earth!

I tried all the channels; they were all the same.

The Company had evidently decided to lie to the human race. Keep them in the dark—make each little section believe that only it was affected—persuade them that they would be under for, at most, a few weeks or months.

Was that, I wondered, Defoe’s scheme? Was he planning to try somehow to convince four billion people that fifty years were only a few weeks? It would never work—the first astronomer to look at a star, the first seaman to discover impossible errors in his tide table, would spot the lie.

More likely he was simply proceeding along what must always have been his basic assumption: The truth is wasted on the people.

Zorchi said with heavy irony, “If my guest is quite finished with the instrument, perhaps he will be gracious enough to permit me to resume Aïda.”

* * * *

I woke Rena and told her about the evacuation. She said, yawning, “But of course, Tom. What else could they do?” And she began discussing breakfast.

I went with her, but not to eat; in the dining hall was a small television set, and on it I could listen to the same repeat broadcasts over and over to my heart’s content. It was—in a way—a thrilling sight. It is always impressive to see a giant machine in operation, and there was no machine bigger than the Company.

The idea of suspending a whole world, even piecemeal, was staggering. But if there had been panic at first in the offices of the Company, none of it showed. The announcers were harried and there was bustle and strain, but order presided.

Those long lines of vehicles outside the window; they were going somewhere; they were each one, I could see by the medallion slung across each radiator front, on the payroll of the Company.

Perhaps the trick of pretending to each section that only it would be affected was wise—I don’t know. It was working, and I suppose that is the touchstone of wisdom. Naples knew that something was going on in Rome, of course, but was doubtful about the Milanese Republic. The Romans were in no doubt at all about Milan, but weren’t sure about the Duchy of Monaco, down the Riviera shore. And the man on the street, if he gave it a thought at all, must have been sure that such faraway places as America and China were escaping entirely.

I suppose it was clever—there was no apparent panic. The trick took away the psychological horror of world catastrophe and replaced it with only a local terror, no different in kind than an earthquake or a flood. And there was always the sack of gold at the end of every catastrophe: Blue Bolt would pay for damage, with a free and uncounting hand.

Except that this time, of course, Blue Bolt would not, could not, pay at all.

* * * *

By noon, Benedetto was out of bed.

He shouldn’t have been, but he was conscious and we could not make him stay put—short of chains.

He watched the television and then listened as Rena and I brought him up to date. Like me, he was shocked and then encouraged to find that Millen Carmody was in the vaults—encouraged because it was at least a handle for us to grasp the problem with; if we could get at Carmody, perhaps we could break Defoe’s usurped power. Without him, Defoe would simply use the years while the world slept to forge a permanent dictatorship.

We got the old man to lie down, and left him. But not for long. Within the hour he came tottering to where we were sitting, staring at the television. He waved aside Rena’s quick protest.

“There is no time for rest, my daughter,” he said. “Do not scold me. I have a task.”

Rena said worriedly, “Dear, you must stay in bed. The doctor said—”

“The doctor,” Benedetto said formally, “is a fool. Shall I allow us to die here? Am I an ancient idiot, or am I Benedetto dell’Angela who with Slovetski led twenty thousand men?”

Rena said, “Please! You’re sick!”

“Enough.” Benedetto wavered, but stood erect. “I have telephoned. I have learned a great deal. The movement—” he leaned against the wall for support—“was not planned by fools. We knew there might be bad days; we do not collapse because a few of us are put out of service by the Company. I have certain emergency numbers to call; I call them. And I find—” he paused dramatically—“that there is news. Slovetski has escaped!”

I said, “That’s impossible! Defoe wouldn’t let him go!”

“Perhaps Slovetski did not consult him,” Benedetto said with dignity. “At any rate, he is free and not far from here. And he is the answer we have sought, you understand.”

“How?” I demanded. “What can he do that we can’t?”

Benedetto smiled indulgently, though the smile was strained. His wound must have been giving him hell; it had had just enough time to stiffen up. He said, “Leave that to Slovetski, Thomas. It is his métier, not yours. I shall go to him now.”

Well, I did what I could; but Benedetto was an iron-necked old man. I forbade him to leave and he laughed at me. I begged him to stay and he thanked me—and refused. Finally I abandoned him to Rena and Zorchi.

Zorchi gave up almost at once. “A majestic man!” he said admiringly, as he rolled into the room where I was waiting, on his little power cart. “One cannot reason with him.”

And Rena, in time, gave up, too. But not easily. She was weeping when she rejoined me.

* * * *

She had been unable even to get him to let her join him, or to consider taking someone else with him; he said it was his job alone. She didn’t even know where he was going. He had said it was not permissible, in so critical a situation, for him to tell where Slovetski was.

Zorchi coughed. “As to that,” he said, “I have already taken the liberty of instructing one of my associates to be ready. If the Signore has gone to meet Slovetski, my man is following him…”

So we waited, while the television announcers grew more and more grim-lipped and imperative.

I listened with only half my mind. Part of my thoughts were with Benedetto, who should have been in a hospital instead of wandering around on some dangerous mission. And partly I was still filled with the spectacle that was unfolding before us.

It was not merely a matter of preserving human lives. It was almost as important to provide the newly awakened men and women, fifty years from now, with food to eat and the homes and tools and other things that would be needed.

Factories and transportation gear—according to the telecasts—were being shut down and sealed to stand up under the time that would pass—“weeks,” according to the telecast, but who needed to seal a tool in oil for a few weeks? Instructions were coming hourly over the air on what should be protected in each home, and how it was to be done. Probably even fifty years would not seriously damage most of the world’s equipment—if the plans we heard on the air could be efficiently carried out.

But the farms were another matter. The preserving of seeds was routine, but I couldn’t help wondering what these flat Italian fields would look like in fifty untended years. Would the radiocobalt sterilize even the weeds? I didn’t think so, but I didn’t know. If not, would the Italian peninsula once again find itself covered with the dense forests that Caesar had marched through, where Spartacus and his runaway slaves had lurked and struck out against the Senators?

And how many millions would die while the forests were being cleared off the face of the Earth again to make way for grain? Synthetic foods and food from the sea might solve that—the Company could find a way. But what about the mines—three, four and five thousand feet down—when the pumps were shut off and the underground water seeped in? What about the rails that the trains rode on? You could cosmoline the engines, perhaps, but how could you protect a million miles of track from the rains of fifty years?

So I sat there, watching the television and waiting. Rena was too nervous to stay in one place. Zorchi had mysterious occupations of his own. I sat and stared at the cathode screen.

Until the door opened behind me, and I turned to look.

Rena was standing there. Her face was an ivory mask. She clutched the door as her father had a few hours before; I think she looked weaker and sicker than he.

I said, for the first time, “Darling!” She stood silent, staring at me. I asked apprehensively, “What is it?”

The pale lips opened, but it was a moment before she could frame the words. Then her voice was hard to hear. “My father,” she said. “He reached the place where he was meeting Slovetski, but the expediters were there before him. They shot him down in the street. And they are on their way here.”

CHAPTER XVII

It was quick and brutal. Somehow Benedetto had been betrayed; the expediters had known where he had come from. And that was the end of that.

They came swarming down on us in waves, at least a hundred of them, to capture a man, a girl and a cripple—Zorchi’s servants had deserted us, melting into the hemp fields like roaches into a garbage dump. Zorchi had a little gun, a Beretta; he fired it once and wounded a man.

The rest was short and unpleasant.

They bound us and gagged us and flew us, trussed like game for the spit, to the clinic. I caught a glimpse of milling mobs outside the long, low walls as we came down. Then all I could see was the roof of the copter garage.

We were brought to a tiny room where Defoe sat at a desk. The Underwriter was smiling. “Hello, Thomas,” he said, his eyes studying the bruise on my cheek. He turned toward Rena consideringly. “So this is your choice, eh, Thomas?” He studied Rena coolly. “Hardly my type. Still, by sticking with me, you could have had a harem.”

Bound as I was, I started forward. Something hit me in the back at my first step, driving a hot rush of agony up from my kidneys. Defoe watched me catch my breath without a change of expression.

“My men are quite alert, Thomas. Please do not try that again. Once is amusing, but twice would annoy me.” He sighed. “I seem to have been wrong about you, Thomas. Perhaps because I needed someone’s help, I overestimated you. I thought long ago that beneath your conditioning you had brains. Manning is a machine, good for taking orders. Dr. Lawton is loyal, but not intelligent. And between loyalty and intelligence, I’ll take brains. Loyalty I can provide for myself.” He nodded gravely at the armed expediters.

Zorchi spat. “Kill us, butcher,” he ordered. “It is enough I die without listening to your foolish babbling.”

Defoe considered him. “You interest me, Signore. A surprise, finding you revived and with Wills. Before we’re finished, you must tell me about that.”

I saw Zorchi bristle and open his mouth, but a cold, suddenly calculating idea made me interrupt. “To get dell’Angela out as an attendant, I needed a patient for him to wheel. Zorchi had money, and I expected gratitude when I revived him later. It wasn’t hard getting Lawton’s assistant to stack his cocoon near Benedetto’s.”

“Lawton!” Defoe grimaced, but seemed to accept the story. He smiled at me suddenly. “I had hopes for you, then. That escape was well done—simple, direct. A little crude, but a good beginning. You could have been my number one assistant, Thomas. I thought of that when I heard of the things you were saying after Marianna died—I thought you might be awaking.”

I licked my lips. “And when you picked me up after Marianna’s death, and bailed me out of jail, you made sure the expediter corps had information that I was possibly not reliable. You made sure the information reached the underground, so they would approach me and I could spy for you. You wanted a patsy!”

The smile was gleaming this time. “Naturally, until you could prove yourself. And of course, I had you jailed for the things you said because I wanted it that way. A pity all my efforts were wasted on you, Thomas. I’m afraid you’re not equipped to be a spy.”

It took everything I had, but this time I managed to smile back. “On which side, Defoe? How many spies know you’ve got Millen Carmody down in Bay—”

That hit him. But I didn’t have time to enjoy it. He made a sudden gesture, and the expediters moved. This time, when they dragged me down, it was very bad.

* * * *

When I came to, I was in another room. Zorchi and Rena were with me, but not Defoe. It was a preparation chamber, racked with instruments, furnished with surgical benches.

A telescreen was flickering and blaring unheeded at one end of the room. I caught a glimpse of scenes of men, women and children standing in line, going in orderly queues through the medical inspections, filing into the clinic and its local branch stations for the sleep drug. The scenes were all in Naples; but they must have been, with local variations, on every telescreen on the globe.

Dr. Lawton appeared. He commanded coldly: “Take your clothes off.”

I think that was the most humiliating moment of all.

It was, of course, only a medical formality. I knew that the suspendees had to be nude in their racks. But the very impersonality of the proceeding made it ugly. Reluctantly I began to undress, as did Rena, silent and withdrawn, and Zorchi, sputtering anger and threats. My whole body was a mass of redness; in a few hours the red would turn to purple and black, where the hoses of the expediters had caressed me.

Or did a suspendee bruise? Probably not. But it was small satisfaction.

Lawton was looking smug; no doubt he had insisted on the privilege of putting us under himself after I’d blamed him for Zorchi’s escape. I couldn’t blame him; I would have returned the favor with great joy.

Well, I had wanted to reach Millen Carmody, and Defoe was granting my wish. We might even lie on adjacent racks in Bay 100. After what I’d told Defoe, we should rate such reserved space!

Lawton approached with the hypospray, and a pair of expediters grabbed my arms. He said: “I want to leave one thought with you, Wills. Maybe it will give you some comfort.” His smirk told me that it certainly would not. “Only Defoe and I can open Bay 100,” he reminded me. “I don’t think either of us will; and I expect you will stay there a long, long time.”

He experimentally squirted a faint mist from the tip of the hypospray and nodded satisfaction. He went on: “The suspension is effective for a long time—several hundred years, perhaps. But not forever. In time the enzymes of the body begin to digest the body itself.” He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I don’t know if the sleeping brain knows it is pain or not. If it does, you’ll know what it feels like to dissolve in your own gutwash…”

He smiled. “Good night,” he crooned, and bent over my arm.

The spray from the end of the hypo felt chilly, but not at all painful. It was as though I had been touched with ice; the cold clung, and spread.

I was vaguely conscious of being dumped on one of the surgical tables, even more vaguely aware of seeing Rena slumping across another.

The light in the room yellowed, flickered and went out.

I thought I heard Rena’s voice…

Then I heard nothing. And I saw nothing. And I felt nothing, except the penetrating cold, and then even the cold was gone.

CHAPTER XVIII

My nerves throbbed with the prickling of an infinity of needles. I was cold—colder than I had ever been. And over everything else came the insistent, blurred voice of Luigi Zorchi.

“Weels! Weels!”

At first it was an annoyance. Then, abruptly, full consciousness came rushing back, bringing some measure of triumph with it. It had worked! My needling of Defoe and my concealing of Zorchi’s ability to revive himself had succeeded in getting us all put into Bay 100, where the precious hypodermic and fluid were hidden. After being pushed from pillar to post and back, even that much success was enough to shock me into awareness.

My heart was thumping like a rusty cargo steamer in a high sea. My lungs ached for air and burned when they got it. But I managed to open my eyes to see Zorchi bending over me. Beyond him, I saw the blue-lighted sterilizing lamps, the door that opened from inside, and the racked suspendees of Bay 100.

“It is time! But now finally you awake, you move!” Zorchi grumbled. “The body of Zorchi does not surrender to poisons; it throws them off. But then because of these small weak legs, I must wait for you! Come, Weels, no more dallying! We have still work to do to escape this abomination!”

I sat up clumsily, but the drugs seemed to have been neutralized. I was on the bottom tier, and I managed to locate the floor with my legs and stand up. “Thanks, Zorchi,” I told him, trying to avoid looking at his ugly, naked body and the things that were almost his legs.

“Thanks are due,” he admitted. “I am a modest man who expects no praise, but I have done much. I cannot deny it. It took greatness to crawl through this bay to find you. On my hands and these baby knees, Weels, I crawled. Almost, I am overcome with wonder at so heroic— But I digress. Weels, waste no more time in talking. We must revive the others who are above my reach. Then let us, for God, go and find food.”

Somehow, though I was still weak, I managed to follow Zorchi and drag down the sacks containing Rena and Carmody. And while waiting for them to revive, I began to realize how little chance we would have to escape this time, naked and uncertain of what state affairs were in. I also realized what might happen if Lawton or Defoe decided to check up on Bay 100 now!

For the few minutes while Rena revived and recognized me, and while I explained how I’d figured it out, it was worth any risk. Then finally, Carmody stirred and sat up. Maybe we looked enough like devils in a blue hell to justify his first expression.

He wasn’t much like my mental image of the great Millen Carmody. His face was like his picture, but it was an older face and haggard under the ugly light. Age was heavy on him, and he couldn’t have been a noble figure at any time. Now he was a pot-bellied little man with scrawny legs and a faint tremble to his hands.

But there was no fat in his mind as he tried to absorb our explanations while he answered our questions in turn. He’d come to Naples, bringing his personal physician, Dr. Lawton. His last memory was of Lawton giving him a shot to relieve his indigestion.

It must have been rough to wake up here after that and find what a mess had been made of the world. But he took it, and his questions became sharper as he groped for the truth. Finally he sat back, nodding sickly. “Defoe!” he said bitterly. “Well, what do we do now, Mr. Wills?”

It shook me. I’d unconsciously expected him to take over at once. But the eyes of Rena and Zorchi also turned to me. Well, there wasn’t much choice. We couldn’t stay here and risk discovery. Nor could we hide anywhere in the clinic; when Defoe found us gone, no place would be safe.

“We pray,” I decided. “And if prayers help, maybe we’ll find some way out.”

“I can help,” Carmody offered. He grimaced. “I know this place and the combination to the private doors. Would it help if we reached the garage?”

I didn’t know, but the garage was half a mile beyond the main entrance. If we could steal a car, we might make it. We had to try.

There were sounds of activity when we opened the door, but the section we were in seemed to be filled, and the storing of suspendees had moved elsewhere.

We shut and relocked the door and followed Carmody through the seemingly endless corridors, with Zorchi hobbling along, leaning on Rena and me and sweating in agony. We offered to carry him, but he would have none of that. We moved further and further back, while the sight of Carmody’s round, bare bottom ahead ripped my feeling of awe for him into smaller and smaller shreds.

He stopped at a door I had almost missed and his fingers tapped out something on what looked like an ornamental pattern. The door opened to reveal stairs that led down two flights, winding around a small elevator shaft. At the bottom was a long corridor that must be the one leading underground to the garage. Opposite the elevator was another door, and Carmody worked its combination to reveal a storeroom, loaded with supplies the expediters might need.

He ripped a suit of the heavy gray coveralls off the wall and began donning them. “Radiation suits,” he explained. They were ugly things, but better than nothing. Anyone seeing us in them might think we were on official business. Zorchi shook off our help and somehow got into a pair. Then he grunted and began pulling hard-pellet rifles and bandoliers of ammunition off the wall.

* * * *

“Now, Weels, we are prepared. Let them come against us. Zorchi is ready!”

“Ready to kill yourself!” I said roughly. “Those things take practice!”

“And again I am the freak—the case who can do nothing that humans can do, eh, Weels?” He swore thickly, and there was something in his voice that abruptly roughened it. “Never Zorchi the man! There are Sicilians who would tell you different, could they open dead mouths to speak of their downed planes!”

“He was the best jet pilot Naples had,” Rena said quietly.

It was my turn to curse. He was right; I hadn’t thought of him as a man, or considered that he could do anything but regrow damaged tissues. “I’m sorry, Luigi!”

“No matter.” He sighed, and then shrugged. “Come, take arms and ammunition and let us be out of this place. Even the nose of Zorchi can stand only so much of the smell of assassins!”

We moved down the passage, staggering along for what seemed to be hours, expecting every second to run into some official or expediter force. But apparently the passage wasn’t being used much during the emergency. We finally reached stairs at the other end and headed up, afraid to attract attention by taking the waiting elevator.

At the top, Carmody frowned as he studied the side passages and doors. “Here, I guess,” he decided. “This may still be a less used part of the garage.” He reached for the door.

I stopped him. “Wait a minute. Is there any way back in, once we leave?”

“The combination will work—the master combination used by the Company heads. Otherwise, these doors are practically bomb-proof!” He pressed the combination and opened the door a crack.

Outside, I could see what seemed to be a small section of the Company car pool. There were sounds of trucks, but none were moving nearby. I saw a few men working on trucks a distance from us. Maybe luck was on our side.

I pointed to the nearest expediter patrol wagon—a small truck, really, enclosed except for the driver’s seat. “That one, if there’s fuel. We’ll have to act as if we had a right to it, and hope for the best. Zorchi, can you manage it that far?”

“I shall walk like a born assassin,” he assured me, but sweat began popping onto his forehead at what he was offering. Yet there was no sign of the agony he must have felt as he followed and managed to climb into the back with Rena and Carmody.

The fuel gauge was at the half mark and, as yet, there was no cry of alarm. I gunned the motor into life, watching the nearest workmen. They looked up casually, and then went back to their business. Ahead, I could see a clear lane toward the exit, with a few other trucks moving in and out. I headed for it, my hair prickling at the back of my neck.

We reached the entrance, passed through it, and were soon blending into the stream of cars that were passing the clinic on their way out for more suspension cases.

The glass doors of the entrance were gone now, and workmen were putting up huge steel ones in their place, even while a steady stream of cases were hobbling or being carried into the clinic. Most of them were old or shabby, I noticed. The class-D type. The last ones to be admitted. We must have spent more time in the vault than I’d thought, and zero hour was drawing near.

Beyond the clinic, the whole of Anzio was a mass of abandoned cars that seemed to stretch for miles, and the few buildings not boarded up were obviously class-D dwellings, too poor to worry about. I cursed my way through a jam-up of trucks, and managed to find one of the side roads.

Then I pressed down on the throttle as far as I dared without attracting attention, until I could find a safe place to turn off with no other cars near to see me.

“Where to?” I asked. We couldn’t go back to Zorchi’s, since any expediter investigation would start there. Maybe we’d never be missed, but I couldn’t risk it. If we had to, we could use some abandoned villa and hide out, but I was hoping for a better suggestion.

Zorchi looked blank, and Rena shrugged. “If we could only find Nikolas—” she suggested doubtfully.

I shook my head. I’d had a chance to think about that a little while the expediters took us to see Defoe, and I didn’t like it. The leader of the revolution had apparently been captured by Defoe. According to Benedetto dell’Angela, he’d escaped. Yet Defoe hadn’t tried to pump us about him. And when Benedetto set out to meet him, the expediters had descended at once.

It made an ugly picture. I had no wish to go looking for the man.

“There’s my place,” Carmody said finally. “I had places all over the world, kept ready for me and stocked. If Defoe let it be thought that I had retired, he must have kept them all up as I’d have done. Wait, let me orient myself. Up that road.”

Places all over the world, with food that was wasted, and with servants who might never see their master! And I’d been brought up believing that the Underwriters were men of quiet, simple tastes! Carmody’s clay feet were beginning to crumble up to the navel!

* * * *

The villa was surrounded by trees, on a low hill that overlooked an artificial lake. It had been sealed off, but the combination lock yielded to Carmody’s touch. There were beds made up and waiting, freezers stocked with food that sent Zorchi into ecstasy, and even a complete file of back issues of the Company paper. Carmody headed for those, with the look of a man hunting his lost past. He had a lot of catching up to do.

But it was the television set that interested me. It was still working, with taped material being broadcast. The appeal had been stepped up, asking for order and cooperation; I recognized the language as being pitched toward the lower classes now, though. And the clicking of a radiation-counter sounded as a constant background, with occasional shots of its meter, the needle well into the danger area.

Zorchi joined me and Rena, dribbling crumbs of meat down his beard. He snorted as he caught sight of the counter. “There is a real one in the other room, and it registers higher,” he said. “It is interesting. For me, of no import. Doctors whom I trust have said Defoe is wrong; my body can resist damage from radiation—and perhaps even from old age. But for you and the young lady…”

He shut up at my expression, but the tape cut off and a live announcer came on before I could say anything. “A bulletin just in,” he said, “shows that the government of Naples has unanimously passed a moratorium on all contracts, obligations and indebtedness for the duration of the emergency. The Company has just followed this with a declaration that it will extend the moratorium to include all crimes against the Company. During the emergency, the clinics will be available to all without prejudice, Director Defoe said today.”

“A trap,” Rena guessed. “We wouldn’t have a chance, anyhow. But, Tom, does the other mean that—”

“It means your father was wrong,” I answered. “As of right now—and probably in every government at the same time—the Company has been freed from any responsibility.”

It didn’t make any difference, of course. Benedetto had expected that everyone must secretly hate the Company as he did; he hadn’t realized that men who have just been saved from the horrible danger of radiation death aren’t going to turn against the agency that saved them. And damn it, the Company was saving them, after its opponents had risked annihilation of the race. Defoe would probably make sure the suspendees were awakened at a rate where he could keep absolute power, but not from any danger of bankruptcy.

* * * *

Carmody had come out and listened, attracted by the broadcast radiation clicking, apparently. Now he asked enough questions to discover Benedetto’s idea, and shook his head.

“It wouldn’t work,” he agreed with me. “Even if I still had control, I couldn’t permit such a thing. What good would it do? Could money payments make food for a revived world, Miss dell’Angela? Would bankrupting the only agency capable of rebuilding the Earth be a thing of honor? Besides, even with what I’ve read, I can see no hope. There’s nothing we can do.”

“But if you can arouse the other Underwriters against Defoe,” she insisted, “at least you can prevent his type of world!”

He shook his head. “How? All communications are in his hands. Even if I could fly to the Home Office, most of the ones I could trust—and there apparently are a few Defoe hasn’t been able to retire—would be scattered, out of my reach. A week ago, there might have been a chance. Now, it’s impossible. Impossible.”

He shook his head sadly and wandered back toward the library. I could see that in his secret thoughts, he was wishing we’d left him safely in the vault. Maybe it would have been just as well.

“Cheer up,” I told Rena. “Carmody’s an old man—too old to think in terms of direct action, even when it’s necessary. Defoe doesn’t own the world yet!”

But later, when I located the books I wanted in the library and went out into the vine-covered bower in the formal garden, I wasn’t as confident as I’d pretended.

Thinking wasn’t a pleasant job, after all the years when I’d let others do my thinking for me. But now I had to do it for myself. Otherwise, the only alternative was to plan some means of quick death for us all before the radiation got too intense. And I couldn’t accept that.

Rena had managed something Marianna couldn’t have conceived—she’d quietly relinquished her fate into my hands, gambling on me with everything she had. Whether I wanted to or not, I’d taken the responsibility. Carmody was an old man; one who hadn’t been able to keep Defoe from taking over in the first place. And Zorchi—well, he was Zorchi.

That night, the radiation detector suddenly took a sharp lift, its needle crossing over into the red. It was probably only a local rise. But it didn’t make my thinking any more comfortable.

* * * *

It was at breakfast that next morning when I finally took it up with Carmody. “Just what will the situation be at the clinic after they close down? How many will be kept awake? And what about their defenses?”

He frowned, trying to see my idea. Then he shrugged. “Too many, Tom. We had plotted out a course for such things as this a number of times in Planning. And our mob psychologists warned that there’d inevitably be a few who for one reason or another wouldn’t come in in time, but who would then grow desperate and try to break in. Outlaws, looters, procrastinators, fanatics. That sort. So for some time, there should be at least twenty guards kept alert. And that’s enough to defend a clinic. Atomic cannon at every entrance, of course, and the clinics are bombproof.”

“Twenty, eh? And how about Defoe and Lawton? Will they sleep?” It seemed logical that they couldn’t stay out of suspension for the whole fifty years or so. There’d be no profit to gaining a world after they were too old to use it.

“Not at first. There’s a great deal of final administrative work to be done. There’s a chamber equipped to keep a hundred or so men awake with radiation washed from the air, and containing adequate supplies, in cable contact with other clinics. They’ll be there. Later, they’ll take shifts, with only a couple of men awake at a time, I suppose. They may age a little that way, but not much.”

He frowned again, and then slowly nodded. “It could be done, if we had some way to wait safely for six months. Getting back in is no problem for me.”

“It’s going to be done,” I told him. “And a lot sooner. Are you willing to take the chance?”

“Have I any choice?” He shrugged again. “Do you think I haven’t been sick at the idea of a man like Defoe in command of the Company for as long as he lives? Tom, my family started the Company. I’ve got an obligation to restore it to its right course. If there’s any chance of keeping Defoe from being emperor of the world, I’ve got to take it. If you can put me in a position where I can get the honest Underwriters together again, where we can set up the Company as it was—”

“Why? So this will happen all over again?”

He looked shocked at Rena’s question. “I don’t blame you for being bitter, Miss dell’Angela. But with Defoe gone—”

“The Company made Defoe possible. In fact, it made him and Slovetski inevitable,” I told him flatly. “That’s its one great crime. Whenever you take power completely out of the hands of the many, it winds up in fewer and fewer hands. Those histories I was reading last night prove that. Carmody, what do you know about your own Company? Or the world? Leave the consolidation of power in Company hands out of it, and what has happened to progress?”

He frowned. “Well, we’ve leveled off a bit. We had to. We couldn’t risk—”

“Exactly. You couldn’t risk research that would lead to increased longevity—too many pensioners. You couldn’t risk going to Mars—unpredictable dangers. You had to make the world fit actuarial charts. I remember seeing one of the first suspendees awakened. He expected things we could have done fifty years ago—and never will do. How many men today work their way out of their class? And why have classes so rigidly stratified? I’ve been reading your own speeches of nearly fifty years ago. I’ve got them here, together with some tables. Like to see them?”

He took the papers silently and began going through them, his shock giving way to a grudging realization. Maybe without the jolt of his awakening, he’d have laughed them off, but nothing was easy to dismiss with the hell brewing outside. At last he looked up.

“Tom, I’ll admit the many times when I’ve been worried. I’ve considered starting research again countless times. I’ve been aware that dependence was growing too heavy on the Company. But we can’t just toss it aside. It did bring an end to major war, when such a war would have ruined the Earth completely. It showed that nobody had to starve—that hardly anyone had to lack for any necessity, or die for lack of care. You can’t throw that away.”

“You can throw away its unrelated power.” I knew I didn’t have the answers. All this had been growing slowly in my mind since I’d first found Benedetto a political prisoner, but a lifetime wasn’t enough to think it out, even with the books I’d found.

But I had to try. “In the middle ages, they had morality and politics tied into one bundle, Carmody. The church ruled. It wasn’t good and they finally had to divorce church and state. Maybe the same applies to administrative politics and economics. The Company has shown what can be done economically. The church has survived as a great moral force outside material power. Now let’s see if we can’t put things in perspective.

“There’s a precedent. The United States—the old government—was set up on the idea of balance of power: an elected Congress for the people to handle legislative tasks, a selected President to handle executive affairs, and a Judiciary mostly independent. On a world scale, as it can be done today—since the Company has really made it one world—the same can be done, with something like the Company to insure economics.”

“I suppose every man who had any idealism has thought the same,” Carmody said slowly. He sighed softly. “I remember trying to preach it to my father when I was just out of college. You’re right. But can you set up such a perfect government? Can I? Tell me how, Tom, and I’ll give you your chance, if I can.”

Zorchi laughed cynically, but that was what I’d hoped Carmody might say.

“All right,” I told him. “We can’t do it. No one man is fit to rule, ever, or to establish rule. Oh, I had wish-dreams, a few days ago, I suppose, about what I’d do, if! But men have set out to establish new systems before, and done good jobs of it. Read the Constitution—a system put together artificially by expert political thinkers, and good for two hundred years, at least! And they didn’t have our opportunities. For the first time, the world has to wait. Get the best minds you can, Carmody. Give them twenty-five years to work it out. They can come up with an answer. And then, when the world is awakened, you can start with it, fresh, without upsetting any old order. Is that your answer?”

“Most of it.” There was a sudden light in his old eyes. “Yes, the sleep does make the chance possible. But how are you going to get the experts and assemble them?”

I pointed to Zorchi. “Hermes, the messenger of the gods. He’s a jet pilot who can get all over the world. And he can move outside, without needing to worry about radiation.”

“So?” Zorchi snorted again. “So, I am now your messenger, Weels! Do you think I would trouble myself so much for all of you, Weels?”

I grinned at him. “You defiantly speak of being a man. That makes you part of the human race. I’m simply taking you at your word.”

“So?” he repeated, his face wooden. “Such a messenger would have much power, Weels. Suppose I choose to be Zorchi the ruler?”

“Not while Zorchi the man is also Zorchi the freak,” I said with deliberate cruelty. “Go look at yourself.”

And suddenly he smiled, his lips drawing back from his teeth. “Weels, for the first time you are honest. And for that as well as that I am a man, I will be Zorchi the messenger. But first, should we not decide on a plan of action? Or do we first rule and then conquer?”

“We wait first,” I told him.

On the wall, the radiation indicator clicked steadily, its needle moving further into the red.

CHAPTER XIX

The second day, the television went off the air with the final curt announcement that anyone not inside the clinics at noon would be left outside permanently. Then the set went dead, leaving only the clucking and beeping of our own radiation indicator. I’d thrown it out twice and brought it back both times.

Civilization had ended on the third day, though all the conveniences in the villa went on smoothly, except for the meter reading that told us nothing could be smooth. It was higher than the predictions I had heard, though I still hoped that was only a sporadic local phenomenon that would level out later. In the face of that, it was hard to believe that even a few men would remain outside the clinics, though I was counting on it.

We waited another twenty-four hours, forcing ourselves to sit in the villa, discussing plans, when our nerves were yelling for action. We had only an estimate to go on. If we got there too soon, there would be more awake than we could handle. Too late and we’d be radiation cases, good for nothing but the vaults.

It was a relief to leave at last, taking our weapons in the truck. We were wearing the radiation suits, hoping they’d protect us, and Zorchi spent the last two days devising pads and straps to cushion and strengthen his developing legs.

The world was dead. Cars had been abandoned in the middle of the road, making driving difficult.

The towns and villas were deserted, boarded up or simply abandoned. We might have been the last men on Earth, and we felt that we were as we headed for Anzio. This wasn’t just a road, or Naples—or all of Italy. It was the world.

Then Rena pointed. Ahead, a boy was walking beside a dog, the animal’s left rear leg bound and splintered as if it had been broken. I started to slow, then forced myself to drive on. As we passed, I saw that the boy was about fourteen, and his face was dirty and tear-streaked. He shook one fist at us, and came trudging on.

“If we win, we’ll have the door open when he gets there,” Rena said. “For him and his dog! If not, it won’t matter how long it takes him. You couldn’t stop, Tom.”

It didn’t make me feel any better. But now dusk was falling, and we slowed, waiting until it was dark to park quietly near the garage. In front of the entrance, I could see a small ring of fires, and by their light a few figures moving about. They were madmen, of course—and yet, probably less mad than others who must be prowling through the towns, looting for things they could never use.

It seemed incredible that anyone could be outside, but the psychologists had apparently been right. These were determined men, willing to wait for the forlorn chance that some miracle might give them a futile, even more forlorn chance to try battering down the great doors. Maybe somewhere in the world, such a group might succeed. But not here. As I watched, there was a crackle of automatic gunfire from the entrance. The guards were awake, all right, and not taking chances on any poor devil getting too close.

* * * *

There were no guards in the vault garage. We were prepared in case someone might be stationed inside the private entrance, as much prepared as we could be; since Carmody had been listed as still living, an ordinary guard who recognized him would probably let us in first and then try to report—giving us time to handle him. But we were lucky. The door opened to Carmody’s top-secret combination.

“We designed such combinations into a few doors in case of internal revolution locally while no Underwriters were around. We never considered having an Underwriter lead a revolution from outside,” he whispered to us.

The underground passage was deserted, and this time Carmody led through another corridor, to a stairs that seemed to wind up forever. Zorchi groaned, then caught himself.

“It leads to the main reception room,” Carmody said.

With the men outside, most of the guards who still remained awake might be there. But we had to chance it. We stopped when we reached the top, catching our breath while Zorchi sank to the floor, writhing silently.

Then Rena threw back the door, Zorchi’s rifle poked through, and I was leaping for the main door controls, hoping the memory I had was accurate. I was nearly to them when the two guards standing beside them turned.

They yelled, just as my rifle spat. At that range, I couldn’t miss. And behind, I heard Zorchi’s gun spit. The second guard slumped sickly to the floor, holding his stomach. I grabbed for the controls, while other yells sounded, and feet began pounding toward me.

There was no time to look back. The doors were slowly moving apart and Carmody was beside me, smashing a maul from the storeroom onto the electronic controls of the atomic cannon. I twisted between the opening doors.

“We’ve seized the vaults,” I shouted. “We need help. Any man who joins us will be saved!”

I couldn’t wait to watch, but I heard a hoarse, answering shout, and the sound of feet.

Carmody’s maul had ruined the door controls. But the other guards were nearly on us. I saw two more sprawled on the floor. Zorchi hadn’t missed. Then Carmody’s fingers had found another of the private doors that looked like simple panels here. Rena and Carmody were through, and I yanked Zorchi after me, just as a bullet whined over his head. Behind us, I heard uncontrolled yelling as men from outside began pouring in.

It was our only hope. They had to take care of the guards, who were still probably shocked at finding us inside. We headed for the private quarters where Defoe would be, praying that there would be only a few there.

* * * *

This passage was useless to us, though. It led from office to office for the doctors who superintended here. We came out into an office, watching our chance for the hall we had to take. I could see the men who had been outside in action now. A few had guns of some kind, but the clubs in the hands of the others were just as deadly in such a desperation attack; men who had seen themselves already dead weren’t afraid of chances. About a score of the expediter guards were trying to hold off at least twice their number.

Then the hall seemed clear and we leaped into it. Suddenly gongs began ringing everywhere. Some guard had finally reached or remembered the alarm system. Carmody cursed, and tried to move faster.

The small private vault for the executives lay through the administration quarters and down several levels, before it was entered through a short passageway. Carmody had mapped it for me often enough. But he knew it by physical memory, which was better than my training. He’d also taught me the combination, but I left the door to his practiced fingers when we came to it.

The elevator wasn’t up. We couldn’t wait. We raced down the stairs that circled it. Here Carmody’s age told against him, and he fell behind. Rena and I were going down neck and neck with Zorchi throwing himself along with us. He had dropped his rifle and picked up a submachine gun from one of the fallen guards, and he clung to it now, using only one hand on the rail.

It was a reflection on a gun-barrel that saved us. The picked expediters were hidden in the dark mouth of the passageway, waiting for us to turn the stairs. But I caught a gleam of metal, and threw up my gun. Instantly, Zorchi was beside me, the submachine spitting as quickly as I could fire the first shot. “Aim for the wall. Ricochet!”

The ambushers had counted too much on surprise. They weren’t ready to have the tables turned, nor for the trick Zorchi had suggested. Here we couldn’t fire directly, but the bouncing shots worked almost as well. There were screams of men being hit, and the crazed pandemonium of others suddenly afraid.

Shots came toward us, but the wall that protected them—or was supposed to—ruined their shooting.

Zorchi abruptly dropped, landing with a thud on his side. I grunted sickly, thinking he was hit.

Then I saw the submachine gun point squarely into the passageway. It began spitting out death. By the time we could reach him, the expediters were dead or dying. There had been seven of them.

Zorchi staggered into the passage, through the bodies, crying something. I jumped after him, blinking my eyes to make out what he had seen. Then I caught sight of a door at the back being silently closed. It was a thick, massive slab, like the door to a bank vault.

Zorchi made a final leap that brought a sob of anguish as he landed on his weak legs, but his gun barrel slapped into the slit of opening. The door ground against it, strained and stopped. Zorchi pulled the trigger briefly.

For a second, then, there was silence. A second later, Defoe’s voice came out through the thin slit. “You win. Dr. Lawton and I are alone and unarmed. We’re coming out.”

The door began opening again, somewhat jerkily this time. I watched it, expecting a trick, but there was none.

Inside the vault, the first room was obviously for guards and for the control of the equipment needed to wash all contamination out of the air and to provide the place with security for a century, even if all the rest of the Earth turned into a radioactive hell.

Lawton was slumped beside the controls, his head cradled in his arms. But at the sight of us, he stood up groggily, his mouth open, and shock on his face.

Defoe’s eyes widened a trifle, but he stood quietly, and the bleak smile never faltered. “Congratulations, Thomas,” he said. “My one fault again—I underrated the opposition. I wasn’t expecting miracles. Hello, Millen. Fancy meeting you here.”

“Search the place,” I ordered.

Carmody went past the two without looking at them, with Rena close behind. A minute later, I heard a triumphant shout. They came back with a cringing man who seemed totally unlike the genial Sam Gogarty who had first introduced me to fine food and to Rena. His eyes were on Carmody, and his skin was gray white. He started to babble incoherently.

Carmody grinned at him. “You’ve got things twisted, Gogarty. Tom Wills is in charge of this affair.” He turned toward one of the smaller offices. “As I remember it, there should be a transmitting setup in here. I want to make sure it works. If it does, some of the Underwriters are going to get a surprise, unless they’re suspended.”

Gogarty watched him go, and then sank slowly to a chair, shaking his head as he looked up at me. His lips twisted into bitter resignation. “You wouldn’t understand, Tom. All my life, worked for things. Class-C, digging in a mine, eating Class-D, getting no fun, so I could buy Class-B employment. Then Class-A. Not many can do it, but I sweated it out. Thirty years living like a dog and killing myself with work and study. Not even a real woman until I met Susan, and she went to Defoe. But I wanted it easier for the young men. I wanted everybody to have a good life. No harm to anyone. Pull together, and forget the tough times. Then you had to come and blow the roof off…”

* * * *

I felt sick. It was probably all true, and few men could make it. But if that’s what it took to advance under the Company rules, it was justification enough for our fight. “You’ll be all right, Sam,” I told him. “You’ll go to sleep with the others. And when you wake up, you may have to work like hell again, but it’ll be to rebuild the Earth, not to ruin it. Maybe there’ll even be a chance with Susan again.”

Defoe laughed sardonically. “Very nice, Thomas. And I suppose you mean it. What’s in the future for me?”

“Suspension until the new government gets organized and can decide your case. I’d like to vote now for permanent suspension.”

His face lost some of his amusement. Then he shrugged. “All right, I suppose I knew that. But now will you satisfy my curiosity? Just how did you work the business with Bay 100?”

“What happened to Slovetski?” I asked. I couldn’t be sure about some of my suspicions over Benedetto’s death, but I couldn’t take chances that the man might still be loose somewhere, or else hiding out here until we were off guard.

He shook his head. “I can answer, but I’m waiting for a better offer.”

“Sam?” I asked.

Gogarty nodded slowly. “All right, Tom. I guess you’re the boss now. And I think I’m even glad of it. I always liked you. I’ll answer about Slovetski.”

Defoe snarled and swung, then saw my rifle coming up, and straightened again. “You win once more, Thomas. Your great international rebel cooperated with us very nicely after we caught him. We arranged for him to receive all calls to his most secret hideout right here in this room. It netted us his fellow conspirators—including your father, Miss dell’Angela!”

She gasped faintly, but her head came up at once. “Nikolas was no traitor. You’re lying!”

“Why should I lie?” he asked. “With the right use of certain drugs, any man can become a traitor. And Dr. Lawton is an expert on drugs.”

“Where is he?” I asked.

He shrugged. “How should I know? He wanted a radioactive world, so I let him enjoy it. We put him outside just before we closed the doors permanently.”

Gogarty nodded confirmation. I turned it over. He might even have been one of the men waiting outside. But it wouldn’t matter. Without his organization and with a world where life outside was impossible, Slovetski’s power was finished.

I turned to Zorchi. “The men who broke in will be going crazy soon,” I told him. “While Rena finds the paging system and reassures them they’ll all be treated in the reception room, how about getting Lawton to locate and revive a couple of the doctors you know and trust?”

* * * *

Rena came back from the paging system, and Zorchi prodded Lawton with the gun, heading him toward the files that would show the location of the doctors. Gogarty stood up doubtfully, but I shook my head. Zorchi was able to handle a man of Lawton’s type, even without full use of his legs, and I couldn’t trust Gogarty yet.

“You can give me a hand with Defoe, Sam,” I suggested. “We’d better strap him down first.”

Gogarty nodded, and then suddenly let out a shocked cry, and was cringing back!

In the split second when both Rena and I had looked away, Defoe had whipped out an automatic and was now covering us, his teeth exposed in a taut smile. “Never underestimate an opponent, Thomas,” he said. “And never believe what he says. You should have searched me, you know.”

The gun was centered on Rena, and he waited, as if expecting me to make some move. All I could do was stand there, cursing myself. I’d thought of everything—except the obvious!

Defoe backed toward the door and slipped around it, drawing its heavy weight slowly shut until only a crack showed. Then he laughed. “Give my love to Millen,” he said, and laughed softly.

I jumped for the door, but his feet were already moving out of the passage. The door began opening again, but I knew it was too late. Then, it was open. And amazingly, Defoe stood not ten feet away.

At the other end of the passage, a ragged bloody figure was standing, swaying slowly from side to side, holding a rifle. I took a second look to recognize Nikolas Slovetski. He was moving slowly toward Defoe. And now Defoe jerked back and began frantically digging for the automatic he must have pocketed.

Slovetski leaped, tossing the gun aside in a way that indicated it must have been empty. A bullet from Defoe’s automatic caught his shoulder in mid-leap, but it couldn’t stop him. He crashed squarely on Defoe, swinging a knife as the other went down. It missed, ringing against the hard floor.

I’d come unfrozen by then. I kicked the knife aside and grabbed the gun from Defoe’s hands. Slovetski lay limp on him, and I rolled the smaller man aside.

Defoe was out cold from the blow of his head hitting the floor. Gogarty had come out behind me and now began binding him up. He opened his eyes slowly, blinked, and tried to grin as he stared at the bonds. He swung his head to the figure on the floor beside him. “Shall we go quietly, Nikolas?” he asked, as Gogarty picked him up and carried him back to the private vault.

But his sarcasm was wasted on Slovetski. The man must have been dying as he stumbled and groped his way toward the place where he knew Defoe must be. And the bullet in the shoulder had finished him. Rena bent over him, a faint sob on her lips.

Surprisingly, he fought his way back to consciousness, staring up at her. “Rena,” he said weakly. “Benedetto! I loved him. I—” Then his head rolled toward me. “At least, I lived to die in a revolution, Thomas. Dirty business, revolution. When in the course of human events, it becomes—” He died before he could finish. I went looking for Lawton, to make sure Defoe was suspended at once. He’d be the last political suspendee, if I had anything to do with it, but there would be a certain pleasure in watching Lawton do the job.

CHAPTER XX

The doors of the reception hall were closed again, but there was no lock now. One of the two doctors whom Zorchi had trusted was there now, waiting for the stragglers who came in slowly as a result of our broadcast. We couldn’t reach them all, of course, but some could be saved. The men who had fought with us were treated and suspended. Even the boy and his dog had finally reached us and been put away.

In the main room of the executive vault, Carmody was waiting for Rena and me as we came in, haggard from lack of sleep, but somehow younger-looking than he had been since we had first revived him.

He stood up, managing a tired smile. “The first work’s done, Tom,” he said. “It wasn’t too hard, once they learned Defoe was suspended; a lot of the others were afraid of him, I guess. So far, I’ve only contacted the ones I can trust, but it’s a beginning. I’ve gotten tapes of their delegation of authority to you as acting assistant Chief Underwriter. I guess the factor that influenced them most was your willingness to give up all hopes of suspension for the emergency. And having Zorchi was a help, too—one man like him is worth an army now. I’ll introduce you tomorrow.”

He stumbled out, heading toward the sleeping quarters.

Well, I had the chance I’d wanted. And I had his promise to put off suspension until things were running properly. With time to develop a small staff, and with a chance to begin the work of locating the men to study the problems that had to be solved, I couldn’t ask for much more.

Zorchi grinned at me. “Emperor Weels!” he mocked.

I grinned back. “If you ever say that seriously, Luigi, I want you to say it with a bullet through my brain. I’ve seen enough cases of power corrupting.”

For a second, he studied me. “If that day should come, then there shall be the bullet. But now, even I must sleep,” he said.

Then he glanced at Rena. “I have left orders that a priest should be wakened.”

She colored faintly.

“You’ll be best man, I suppose?” I asked.

This time, even his beard couldn’t conceal his amusement. “Is Zorchi not always the best man?” he asked as he left us alone.

I stared at the vault that would be my home for the next twenty-five or fifty years—until I was an old man, and the rest of the world was ready to be awakened. “It’s a lousy place to spend a honeymoon,” I told Rena.

She leaned against me. “But perhaps a good place to bring up children,” she said. “A place to teach them that their children will have a good world, Tom. That’s all a woman ever wants, I guess.”

I drew her to me. It was a good way to think of the future, whatever happened. And it would be a better world, where the virtues of the Company could be used.

Probably it wouldn’t be perfect.

Even the best form of government all the experts could devise couldn’t offer a permanent solution. But it could give men a chance to fight their way to a still better world.

INTERVIEW: FREDERIK POHL, conducted by Darrell Schweitzer

Q: I’d like to start by talking about that allegedly forgotten subject in science fiction, the Sense of Wonder, which I find to be very much present in your recent books. They have enormous scope. Some of them, like The World at the End of Time are super-science epics which would have done F. Orlin Tremaine proud. Are you now consciously emulating, in a more sophisticated way, the science fiction you grew up reading?

Pohl: That may be so. What I think I am doing is writing the kind of science fiction I like to read, of which there is less and less being published. The sense of wonder, the excitement of the colorful, romantic trips to foreign planets, alien beings, and all that, are what I really loved about science fiction when I began to read it. I no longer find that as common as it used to be. Possibly I am as guilty as anybody else because so much of my science fiction has been devoted to what’s wrong with society and why it’s ludicrous, and so forth. But I do miss the excitement of alien creatures doing alien things. I am trying to write that sort of story in a way that does not seriously bother my conscience, by trying to invent some plausible way of getting to these planets, and describing these possibly inhabited planets in more or less scientifically believable terms. I like to think of it as Hard Space Opera.

Q: I should think that the recent huge advances in space exploration, in computers, in biology, and the possibility of nanotechnology on the horizon should inspire more big, Sense of Wonder type science fiction. It obviously hasn’t. Why? We’ve been finding extra-solar planets, and some of them very odd. That should excite science-fictional imaginations, but most people don’t seem to be going there.

A: I think most writers aren’t going there. Writers tend to be faddish, and the most recent and most pervasive fad is cyberpunk, so there’s a lot more concern with the future of interlocking human and machine negotiations, the synergy between humans and machines. This is itself interesting, but it does not get you out into the beauty of outer space. Some people still do it. Chip Delany does it once in a while. Vernor Vinge does it beautifully. But I think that most writers tend to write what they think is in vogue at the moment, and I think that interplanetary or interstellar expeditions are not in vogue. Most writers do their best to figure out what an editor will buy and write it.

Q: You being an editor, did you find that worked, or did you prefer that your writers surprise you?

A: It worked for me as an editor, but it also worked to surprise me. But a lot of editors were not very permissive. John Campbell and Horace Gold were wonderful editors, but both of them turned down stories because they weren’t the kinds of stories they wanted to do. I never turned down a story on that basis. There wasn’t any kind of story I didn’t want to do.

Q: Do you think it would be possible to find a new Doc Smith today, or was he only the product of a specific period?

A: Doc Smith was a product of the time when you could actually believe that a single human being could inadvertently discover something in his laboratory that would allow him to invent a spaceship. Nobody can believe that anymore today. Science isn’t done by individuals. It’s done by huge teams of people. If you look at the magazine Science and see anything really significant about a new advance in physics, for example, the article will be signed by upwards of sixty people, because they are all doing part of the research. The individual inventor, like Richard Ballinger Seaton, doesn’t have a shot anymore.

Q: I must confess that when I read The Skylark of Space at age 14, which would have been 1966, I didn’t find it very plausible even then. I should think it wasn’t very plausible in 1928 either. The story’s situation is the equivalent of one guy inventing a new airplane fuel, but he also knows how to engineer diving suits, is capable of building the entire airplane, and refine the fuel, and he happens to be a genius at astronomy and biology and mathematics, and so on.

A: Actually Doc Smith wrote The Skylark of Space in 1917, when it was possible for one person to know how to build an airplane, and know about fuel, and probably know about diving suits, because all of them were still pretty primitive. But you’re right, nobody knows all those things anymore. I can see why it seemed a little implausible to you in the 1960s. It seemed a little implausible to me in the 1930s too, but I didn’t care. I was willing to accept that it was at least possible. Nobody can believe that anymore. The real problem is that we now know too much about our nearby neighbors in space. There isn’t any real estate in the Solar System suitable for an advanced alien culture, so there can’t be any exciting aliens there. Maybe there might be some sort of lifeform on one of the moons of Jupiter or on Mars down in a crevasse, or even on the Moon, in one of the polar craters where there might still be some residual water. But they sure ain’t going to be the kind of people we go and make treaties with. They may be bacilli or something like that. So in order to get to a planet where you can interact with intelligent aliens, you’ve got to go to another star. For that you really need faster-than-light transportation—or people with a lot of time on their hands—and nobody’s going to invent a faster-than-light spaceship in his back yard.

Q: You’ve gotten around this in various stories.

A: I do have a little bit of a conscience, though. I do have people whizzing around the universe faster than light every day, but I try to tie it in with tachyons or the Einstein-Podolsky-Rosen Effect or wormholes. These are things that all have been proposed by respectable scientists as possibly affording some means of faster-than-light travel. They have not, it is true, been proposed by any respectable scientist as a way of transmitting human beings from one place to another. For instance, the wormhole effect may actually be real, but if it is, when you enter the black hole at one end, you are reduced to a thin soup of quarks. You are no longer anything resembling a human being and there is no way to reconstitute you at the other end. Tachyons may or may not exist. They’ve never been found. People have been looking for them for forty years. But even so, they aren’t ever considered to be a way of transmitting human beings. They’re just particles, like photons. You can transmit, possibly, messages, but not people. That’s it. All the things that do go faster than light are not suitable for carrying people.

Q: Unless one can believe teleportation is possible. I don’t see how it is...

A: I don’t see how it is even enough for me to be willing to use it in a story. But that’s a whole other thing. Tomorrow I am flying down to Ft. Lauderdale to give a lecture to a bunch of skeptics, about why such things as teleportation and telekinesis and telepathy and remote viewing and flying saucers and all those things really do not deserve to be believed in. Personally, I don’t believe in anything that I cannot see demonstrated, or that someone whose intelligence I respect proposes as being demonstrable.

Q: Isn’t the distinction we make in science fiction, as opposed to real life, that you pretend that someone can demonstrate it? As long as the characters in the story can do it scientifically, then you can get away with it. Thus when John Carter wished himself to Mars by magic, that won’t do, but if your character has mastered a whole new range of biology and physics, then it would. Would you agree with this distinction?

A: I would accept it in somebody else’s story as a necessary device to get the people to where he wants them to be, but I wouldn’t use it in a story of my own, because there are too many people who believe that such things are possible. I do not want to reinforce what I consider to be damaging faiths.

Q: I think this may be a problem that fantasy writers of conscience face more often than science fiction writers, that you may be encouraging socially harmful credulity.

A: It’s not just the harm to the society, it’s the harm to the individual who develops an antipathy toward reason because of the fact that these things are defined as beyond reason. So, I think that people who do not think rationally, in terms of reasoning from cause to effect, are likely to further deprave the state of society.

Q: I suppose the ultimate recent example would be the Heaven’s Gate people.

A: Fortunately, the Heaven’s Gate people hurt nobody but themselves, but there are a lot of people who believe in strange religions and enforce them on others. And there are a lot of people who are so convinced by the reality of such things as the six aliens who were said to be found by the Air Force in Roswell, New Mexico, that I am surprised that more of them don’t take out their guns and say, “This is true and if you don’t believe it I will kill you.”

Q: I could make a prediction that has almost happened a few times. Kate Wilhelm wrote a novel, Let the Fire Fall, which comes pretty close to it. Someone today, a standard Uri Geller type stage magician, could start a religion, not claiming to receive messages from aliens, but claiming to be the alien himself. He would announce himself to be an extraterrestrial messiah and draw all his imagery from science fiction, and he would do slight-of-hand tricks to provide miracles, and it would work.

A: I have no doubt that that’s possible, and I am a little surprised that some major cult figure has not chosen to call himself a person from the planet Clarion or something like that. But that’s the sort of thing that I don’t want to have on my conscience. I don’t want to endorse beliefs that I think are harmful.

Q: But at the same time there is something inherent in written science fiction—certainly not in science fiction movies—that discourages this kind of credulity. I think you will find in fandom—if we define fandom as the people who actually read science fiction, as opposed to those who show up at conventions in costumes derived from movies—the skeptical quotient is higher than among the general public. Flying saucer enthusiasts who come to science fiction conventions looking for converts never get very far. My guess is that it’s because we’re in the business of making stuff up, and therefore can recognize a second-rate job.

A: I think your argument is correct. I think that probably the percentage of science fiction fans who believe in flying saucers is lower than that of the human race in general. Even when John Campbell was pushing things like the Dean Drive and the Hieronymous Machine and all that other stuff that he was claiming was the wave of the future, he never believed in flying saucers. They were just too ridiculous.

It wasn’t that they were so marvellous. They weren’t marvellous enough. The stories were so simplistic and primitive. I think John might have been willing to believe in creatures from another planet coming to the Earth if they had some purpose for doing so. But to have them come and abduct somebody and mess around with their genitals for a while really wasn’t plausible even for John.

Q: It’s always seemed to me that UFOlogy gives a science-fiction writer an experience like that of an automobile engineer going through a junkyard. You see shabby and rusted pieces of things you’re already familiar with.

A: I think that’s true. A lot of science fiction tropes have turned up in the flying saucer bibles. But they were better in the original science fiction.

Q: Have you ever found anything recognizable from something you’ve written filtering into crankology texts?

A: No, and I hope I never will. Actually, I haven’t given much thought to UFOlogy in the past few years. I did spend some time with it years ago. I had been challenged to say whether I disbelieved in UFOs because of anything I’d investigated for myself, or if I was just taking the word of notorious skeptics like Lester del Rey and Donald Menzel and Willy Ley and people like that. So that made my conscience bother me, and accordingly I did do a lot of digging. I went to visit some of the most famous sites of sightings at the time. I talked to abductees and others. I attended their meetings. I read their literature. And there simply is nothing there. There is not one report that stands up as being supported by any kind of evidence. There is no physical evidence at all, and most of what is said to be fact is based on anecdotes by people who may be telling the truth or may think they are telling the truth, but are also equally likely are just making it up.

Q: Are you going to write a book about your researches?

A: No. For one thing, there have been good books on the subject of debunking flying saucers already, and I really have nothing to add. For another, nobody buys them. Nobody cares to have it proven to them that flying saucers don’t exist. That’s no fun. They’ll buy books about flying saucers, but not debunking books.

Q: What is the special characteristic of science fiction that makes it more fun than flying saucers?

A: Science fiction deals with aliens in more depth. It tries to show that maybe there are these creatures, and you may be able to fly around with them in space, but that they have lives and personalities and societies which are quite unlike our own. That’s interesting as speculation. It also gives you what Harlow Shapley once referred to as “the view from a distant star,” the ability to look at our own world from the outside, and see it objectively. It allows you to get insights into our own society that you can’t have if you don’t think of any others. How much of what you and I are is due to the accident of the way we evolved from the primordial slime? Do we think of a father god because we have two sexes? Do we believe in any of our beliefs because our personal heredity and evolution led us to it? Would a different race of creatures have entirely different beliefs? That’s a thing to speculate on and it allows us to think of the things we do believe in as being pretty much accidental.

Q: But somehow you avoid the sense of cosmic futility that H.P. Lovecraft fixated on.

A: Maybe that’s why I was never really fond of H.P. Lovecraft. I don’t think existence is futile. I don’t know if there is a purpose for life, human or any other kind. Someone once said that the purpose of life is to find out what the purpose of life is. But I think that the purpose of life, as I see it, is to learn something about the universe we live in. And the more we learn, the better off we are, whether it serves any fundamental practical purpose or not.

Q: Does science fiction teach the methods of reason, or at least encourage them?

A: I think that science fiction does teach a certain amount of rational thought. I’d be hard-put to prove that even to my own satisfaction, but I think that if you read science fiction, it does lead you to see a causality in human events, which may lead you to think of ways of changing the future to encourage the things you like and discourage the things you don’t.

I think that, above all, science fiction teaches us that the world we live in is subject to change. Science fiction is the literature of change; it talks about the ways in which things can be different. I think it is useful to be reminded, through science fiction or any other way, that nothing is permanent in the universe, and that everything we think of as permanent, the world around us, the sun that shines on us, our political institutions, our political habits, our religions, are all subject to change.

Q: Tom Disch has written a book, Such Dreams Our Stuff is Made of, in which he propounds that science fiction has become so much part of the general, mass culture that much of what passes for science fiction now, particularly on television or in media-related books, is antithetical to what we used to regard as the basic science-fiction virtues. That is, it exists, not to startle you into some new point of view, but to reassure you by being more of the same. What do you think of the impact on science fiction of this level of acceptance?

A: My wife makes a distinction between science fiction and sci fi. Sci fi is all over the TV networks and the movie theaters. But those places don’t have much in the way of true science fiction as I understand it, because what they are doing is basically the pornography of science fiction. They’re showing the excitement of it without showing the rationale behind the excitement. There’s nothing in any science fiction film series or television which excites the reasoning powers. It doesn’t stimulate you to do any constructive thinking on the subject. But science-fiction stories can in fact activate the forebrain, as well as the basic ganglia which go back to the days of the fishes.

Q: I heard a scary figure recently. Apparently for this past year (1998), 51 percent of all books published in the science fiction category were media tie-ins, which presumably preclude any essential science fiction elements. So I wonder if science fiction is becoming a minority within the science fiction field.

A: Absolutely. There’s an awful lot of sci fi around. All of the media tie-ins are sci fi. They’re exploiting the superficial and colorful stuff that science fiction makes possible, but they’re not contributing anything to thought about what make these things actually happen.

Q: Do you then think that this may be a dark age for science fiction? Will this perhaps be the era people look back on and say, “That’s when science fiction went into a little hole somewhere and sci fi took over”?

A: No. There is still a lot of real science fiction being written and published. There are, what? 1200 titles being published a year that are called science fiction—some grotesque number like that. If only one-twentieth of them are real science fiction, that’s still more than was being published most of the time in the last sixty years. So there is a good deal of good science fiction being written and published. True, there is also all this media crap. But I don’t write it and I don’t have to read it.

Q: But you may one day have a publisher who says, “TV tie-ins sell ten times better than a Fred Pohl book, so let’s just publish an extra TV tie-in instead.”

A: And I will say, “Go screw yourself, publisher.”

Q: Are you still optimistic for the future of science fiction?

A: I’m very optimistic for the future of science fiction. I just don’t have any idea what direction that future will take.

The thing is, science fiction isn’t a monolithic object, like a bowling ball, and it doesn’t have a fixed trajectory, like a cannon shot. Science Fiction is constantly moving, but it moves in several directions at once, like an amoeba. When it breaks new ground it isn’t because some central authority has ordered it to move on, it’s because some individual writer woke up one morning with a notion that hadn’t been explored before and once he showed the way, others began to explore it. And at the same time, some other writer has found a new direction of his own to explore.

Q: So what direction are you going in right now?

A: At the moment I’m going in the direction of some non-fiction and some fiction that isn’t SF. That doesn’t mean I’m abandoning Science Fiction. It just means that there are a couple of books I want to write for the fun of it.

Q: Can you describe them?

A: Well, I can describe one of them. That’s a non-fiction book called Chasing Science, which is a sort of travelogue, about the pleasures of science as a spectator sport—how to have fun visiting observatories, laboratories, places where science is happening. I can talk about that one because it’s basically finished and pretty nearly delivered. The others, the non-SF fiction, I’d rather not talk about for reasons of superstition. I don’t like to talk about any book until it’s far enough along that I can see how it’s going to wind up, and I haven’t reached that stage with these.

There is one science-fiction book that’s in the works, though. That’s another volume in the Heechee series, that began with Gateway twenty years ago. I had no intention of writing any more about them, but then along came Bob Silverberg, coaxing me for a novelet for an anthology he was preparing. Bob is a very persuasive man. I agreed to do it. But then, when I was writing the story, it developed a will of its own and finished up too long for Bob’s book. So I wrote a different one for him; it’s called “The Boy Who Would Live Forever” and it’s in his anthology. But then I realized that, with the two stories, I had a big chunk of an entire new book on hand, and once I get some of the other things out of the way, I propose to finish it up for publication sometime in the early 21st Century.

And beyond that ... well, we’ll just have to wait and see.

Q: Thanks, Fred.

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

S. J. BYRNE (1913-2011) was an American science fiction author whose first published story, “The Music of the Spheres,” appeared in Amazing Stories in 1935. He also wrote as John Bloodstone.

SIR ARTHUR CHARLES CLARKE, CBE, FRAS, Sri Lankabhimanya, (1917–2008) was a British science fiction author, inventor, and futurist, famous for his short stories and novels, among them 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968), and as a host and commentator in the British television series Mysterious World. For many years, Robert A. Heinlein, Isaac Asimov, and Clarke were known as the “Big Three” of science fiction.

MARK CLIFTON (1906–1963) was an American science fiction writer. About half of his work falls into two series: the “Bossy” series, about a computer with artificial intelligence, was written either alone or in collaboration with Alex Apostolides or Frank Riley; and the “Ralph Kennedy” series, which is more comical, and was written mostly solo, including the novel When They Come From Space. Clifton gained his greatest success with his novel They’d Rather Be Right (a.k.a. The Forever Machine), co-written with Riley, which was awarded the Hugo Award.

BRENDA W. CLOUGH (who also writes as B.W. Clough) is an American science fiction and fantasy writer. Her Novella “May Be Some Time” was nominated for a Hugo Award and a Nebula Award in 2002. She currently teaches writing workshops at the Writers Center in Bethesda, MD.

LESTER DEL REY was the fantasy editor for Del Rey Books (which was actually named for his wife, Judy-Lynn del Rey). Although probably most remembered as a science fiction writer for adults, he may have had the greatest influence as a Young Adult writer of such classics as The Runaway Robot, Marooned on Mars, Step to the Stars, Tunnel Through Time, and many more.

ALLEN GLASSER (1908-1971) was an American author and fan most active in the 1930s.

CARL JACOBI (1908- 1997) was an American author. He wrote short stories in the horror, fantasy, science fiction, and crime genres for the pulp magazine market. Most of his science fiction is space opera, but he delved into more thoughtful realms, as with his story in The Ninth Science Fiction Megapack.

JANET KAGAN (born Janet Megson, 1946-2008) was an author of two science fiction novels and one science fiction collection, plus numerous science fiction and fantasy short stories that appeared in publications such as Analog Science Fiction and Fact and Asimov’s Science Fiction. Her story “The Nutcracker Coup” was nominated for both the Hugo Award for Best Novelette and the Nebula Award for Best Novelette, winning the Hugo.

JAY LAKE was a quarterly first place winner in the Writers of the Future contest. In 2004 he won the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer in Science Fiction. His writings have appeared in numerous publications, including Postscripts, Realms of Fantasy, Interzone, Strange Horizons, Asimov’s Science Fiction, Nemonymous, and the Mammoth Book of Best New Horror.

RAY FARADAY NELSON became captivated with science fiction at the age of eight at the 1939 New York World’s Fair. “I was just there one day, but that was the most important day of my life because before that I was not a science fiction fan and after that day I was.” After that, he began reading science fiction and fantasy novels voraciously, and became a science fiction fan and cartoonist.

In the 1950s, he moved to Paris, where he met Allen Ginsberg, Gregory Corso, and William Burroughs among others of the Beat Generation, as well as existentialists Jean Paul Sartre, Boris Vian, and Simone de Beauvoir. He subsequently co-edited Miscellaneous Man, the first “Beatnik” little literary review. In Paris, he worked with Michael Moorcock smuggling Henry Miller books out of France. It was also in France where he met and married Kirsten Enge, a Norwegian girl, and where his son Walter was born.

After returning to the US with his new family in the early ’60s, he published his first work of fiction, the short story “Turn Off the Sky.” In 1967, he published his first novel, The Ganymede Takeover, in collaboration with Philip K. Dick. Numerous books and short stories have followed. His book Blake’s Progress, in which the poet William Blake and his wife are travelers in space and time, has been his greatest critical success. His short story “8 o’Clock in the Morning,” was turned into the comic book story Nada, and John Carpenter made Nada into the paranoid cult classic film They Live in 1988.

Wildside Press is working to reissue all of Ray’s novels and will be including more of his great short stories in future Megapacks.

KEVIN O’DONNELL, JR. (1950-2012) was an American science fiction writer. O’Donnell graduated from Yale University in 1972. His 70+ short works appeared in a broad range of periodicals ranging from Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine to Omni. He also published ten books in America, and has been reprinted in the United Kingdom, France, Israel, the Netherlands, Spain, and Germany. In February 1987, the French translation of his 1984 novel ORA:CLE received the 1987 Prix Litteraire Mannesmann Tally.

FREDERIK POHL (1919-2013) was an American science fiction writer, editor and fan, with a career spanning more than seventy-five years—from his first published work, the 1937 poem “Elegy to a Dead Satellite: Luna”, to the 2011 novel All the Lives He Led and articles and essays published in 2012.

DEAN WESLEY SMITH is a science fiction author, known primarily for his Star Trek novels, film novelizations, and other novels of licensed properties such as Smallville, Spider-Man, X-Men, Aliens, Roswell, Men in Black, and Quantum Leap. He is also known for a number of his original novels, such as The Tenth Planet series, on which he collaborated with his wife, author Kristine Kathryn Rusch.

EVELYN E. SMITH (1922-2000) was an American writer and crossword puzzle compiler. During the 1950s, she regularly published—under her real name—short stories and novelettes in magazines like Galaxy Science Fiction and Fantastic Universe.

CYNTHIA WARD was born in Oklahoma and lived in Maine, Spain, Germany, the San Francisco Bay Area, Seattle, and Tucson before moving to the Los Angeles area. A 1992 graduate of the Clarion West Writers Workshop, she has sold stories to Asimov’s Science Fiction, and other anthologies and magazines. Cynthia’s reviews appear regularly on Amazon.com and SciFiWire.com and irregularly in other websites and publications. She is working on her first novel, a futuristic mystery tentatively titled Stone Rain.

CLARENCE HOWARD “BUD” WEBSTER (born July 27, 1952) is a science fiction and fantasy writer who is also known for his essays on both the history of science fiction and sf/fantasy anthologies as well. He is perhaps best known for the Bubba Pritchert series, which have won two Analytical Laboratory readers’ awards from Analog Science Fiction and Fact magazine. Webster is also known for his survey of Groff Conklin’s contribution to science fiction in 41 Above the Rest: An Index and Checklist for the Anthologies of Groff Conklin.

DONALD E. WESTLAKE (1933-2008) was an American writer, with over a hundred novels and non-fiction books to his credit. He specialized in crime fiction, especially comic capers, with an occasional foray into science fiction or other genres.

GEORGE ZEBROWSKI is an award-winning novelist, story writer, essayist, editor, and lecturer. He is the author of the novel Empties (Golden Gryphon Press) and the editor, with Gregory Benford, of Sentinels in Honor of Arthur C. Clarke (Hadley Rille Books).

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFO

A NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER

The MEGAPACK™ Ebook Series

INTERVIEW: DAN SIMMONS, conducted by Darrell Schweitzer

THE SPIRES OF DENON, by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

OVER THE TOP, by Lester del Rey

AIN’T NOTHIN’ BUT A HOUND DOG, by Brenda W. Clough

FOR I AM A JEALOUS PEOPLE! by Lester del Rey

LUVVER, by Mack Reynolds

FROG LEVEL, by Bud Webster

CAPTAINS CONSPIRING AT THEIR MUTINIES, by Jay Lake

SHIFTING SEAS, by Stanley G. Weinbaum

THROUGH TIME AND SPACE WITH FERDINAND FEGHOOT: 8, by Grendel Briarton

ROCK GARDEN, by Kevin O’Donnell, Jr.

THE GENOA PASSAGE, by George Zebrowski

EIGHT O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING, by Ray Faraday Nelson

WHEN THEY COME FROM SPACE, by Mark Clifton

THE SEALED SKY, by Cynthia Ward

METEOR STRIKE! by Donald E. Westlake

WAITING FOR THE COIN TO DROP, by Dean Wesley Smith

BEYOND THE DARKNESS, by S. J. Byrne

THE SMALLEST GOD, by Lester del Rey

THE SCIENCE FICTION ALPHABET, by Allen Glasser

CANAL, by Carl Jacobi

THE LOCH MOOSE MONSTER, by Janet Kagan

MY FAIR PLANET, by Evelyn E. Smith

BEFORE EDEN, by Arthur C. Clarke

SEQUENCE, by Carl Jacobi

PREFERRED RISK, by Frederik Pohl and Lester del Rey

INTERVIEW: FREDERIK POHL, conducted by Darrell Schweitzer

ABOUT THE AUTHORS